Inspector Hobbes and the Common People: Comedy Crime Fantasy (Unhuman Book 5)

by Wilkie Martin

  ‘Language, dear,’ said Mrs G, giving me her cross look.

  ‘Sorry,’ I said, ‘but I didn’t know what else to say. The editor has completely changed the meaning of what I wrote.’

  ‘Then, I’ll forgive you. My husband only swore if it slipped out. A change of tailor solved the problem.’

  I wondered what she was rabbiting on about, but didn’t care—it stunned me that Ralph would do such a reckless thing. A sparkling review like that would draw my readers to Papa’s Piri-Piri Palace, where they’d all get sick or die and my reputation would be ruined! And what if they sued me? Would a judge believe I hadn’t written it when my name was at the top, next to that excruciating photo from when I’d been more than a little tubby?

  Getting up in a seething daze, I wandered through to the sitting room and slumped beside Daphne on the sofa. Hobbes was in his armchair, his slippered feet resting on the coffee table, alongside the latest edition of Sorenchester Life. I groaned, because my reviews were syndicated in that esteemed publication. Swarms of my readers would drop like flies, and any survivors would sue me en masse.

  ‘What’s up?’ asked Daphne.

  I showed her.

  ‘I thought you’d given that place a rotten review?’

  ‘I had!’

  Hobbes held out his hand for my mobile and looked. ‘Papa’s Piri-Piri Palace—that’s the new place on Rampart Street. Isn’t that where you got food poisoning?’

  ‘Yes. The editor’s changed what I wrote—it’s my words but in a different order with some bits added and all the criticism removed.’

  ‘Why would he do that?’ asked Hobbes.

  ‘He says he wants positive articles, but what’s positive about poisoning people?’

  ‘Depends on the people,’ said Hobbes with a grin. ‘However, if the restaurant is dangerous, it needs immediate improvement or to be shut down. Adequate hygiene and proper cooking is not difficult—even Featherlight can manage it sometimes.’

  Daphne nodded. ‘If we stayed healthy in the Himalayas without even basic facilities, anyone should be able to do it.’

  ‘But the point is,’ I said, ‘if anyone gets sick now, they’ll blame me. It’s going to be the end of my career!’

  Hobbes shook his head. ‘Poisoning people is the real point, but I understand what you mean. Do you still have your original version of the article?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then don’t lose it. I doubt there’ll be a legal problem, but it’s best to err on the side of caution and that will prove you weren’t to blame.’

  I felt a little better. ‘But people will flock to the restaurant and blame me when it’s no good.’

  ‘Calm down,’ said Daphne. ‘Reviews don’t come with a guarantee.’

  Hobbes’s mobile rang. ‘Inspector Hobbes. How may I help you? I see … where? In what direction? Okay, I’ll be there as soon as I can.’

  ‘A call out?’ asked Daphne.

  ‘I’m afraid so,’ said Hobbes. ‘The rhea has turned up near Hedbury and caused a flock of sheep to stampede. They broke through a hedge in their panic and ran into the town where they are now creating mayhem.’

  He stood up. ‘This should be interesting. I’d better go—you’re both welcome to come along if you fancy a bit of air.’

  Daphne shook her head. ‘I need a little time on my own to think about what you told me. You go if you want, Andy.’

  ‘You don’t mind?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  Hobbes strode towards the door and pulled his old raincoat from the coat stand. ‘Come along, Andy. And quickly. Dregs!’

  ‘Umm … aren’t you going to put your boots on first?’

  ‘Good idea.’ He ran upstairs.

  Dregs, still smacking his lips from dinner, bounded from the kitchen, alert and ready for anything. He hurtled around, tail wagging, until Hobbes clumped downstairs wearing his usual big, shiny boots. ‘Let’s go,’ he said and opened the door.

  I kissed Daphne and followed them out, adrenaline flowing—there was nothing like the rush of a good hunt with Hobbes, despite the chances of terror and pain. However, this time would be easy—we were only dealing with a runaway bird, albeit a big one with a lethal kick, and one that could outrun a racehorse.

  Dusk was settling in.

  Hobbes’s little car wasn’t parked in Blackdog Street, and he was jogging away with Dregs, leaving me to gallop after them. I was panting and wishing I hadn’t eaten quite so much when, at the end of the road, we turned into Pound Street. We crossed over and approached a small gate set in the old stone wall along the edge of Church Fields. Hobbes opened it with a small key, and led us into a courtyard, almost enclosed by garages. Dregs cocked his leg against a door.

  ‘Where’s your car?’ I asked between gasps.

  ‘In pieces,’ he said, pulling the gate behind me. ‘It got in the way of a Pigton drug pusher’s attempt to escape. Billy reckons he can put it back together—possibly even in the right order.’

  ‘But how are we going to get to Hedbury?’

  He pulled another key from his pocket and opened a garage door. ‘Sid said I could borrow this.’

  ‘Gosh!’ I hadn’t known Sid Sharples owned a small collection of vintage vehicles.

  Hobbes tugged a dusty tarpaulin from a gleaming black motorbike and sidecar combination.

  ‘Wouldn’t a car be better?’ I asked.

  He shook his head. ‘All of his are too big for present purposes—I might need something I can manoeuvre and use off-road.’

  ‘Do you know how to ride a motorbike?’

  ‘I expect so.’ Hobbes’s big, yellow teeth gleamed in a broad grin as the streetlights came on. He rolled the bike from the garage and locked the door behind him. ‘It’s all to do with controlling the throttle.’

  Butterflies massed in my stomach and started fluttering. I wasn’t so sure this was a good idea. I was even less sure when he reached into the sidecar, pulled out an old-fashioned peaked helmet, and jammed it onto my head. Although I’d never been one to fear confined spaces as such, the smell of old leather, the muffled hearing and the restricted vision gave me a sense of massive claustrophobia. I could have said something, remembered an urgent imaginary appointment, or something, but it was too late. He picked me up and dropped me onto the pillion. Dregs leapt into the side car. After checking we were secure, Hobbes straddled the seat, turned a key and stomped hard on the starter. The engine throbbed into life, the front wheel lifted, and we were off.

  In a heap.

  On our backs.

  ‘A little too much throttle,’ said Hobbes, picking himself up. ‘Are you okay?’

  I nodded—I was only a little winded. He pulled me back on board and we tried again. Despite a wild lurch at the start, he controlled it this time and, keeping to a moderate speed, steered us out of the courtyard, along a narrow lane and back onto Pound Street. We kept to a slow pace as we proceeded along Rampart Street, but as soon as we reached Hedbury Road it was time for me to shut my eyes, cling to the grab rail as if super-glued, and pray.

  Motorbiking with Hobbes was not for the faint-hearted, so what on earth was I doing there? Dregs, on the other hand, was sitting up in the side car, his ears flapping in the wind, his mouth open as if grinning. There was nothing faint about his heart.

  I clung on and tried to stay positive—I was positive death was imminent.

  16

  We roared down the main road. When at last I sensed we might be slowing down, I risked opening an eye. Then the other. Streetlights shone all around, and although I couldn’t see much beyond Hobbes’s broad back, I craned my neck and caught glimpses of the modern housing estates encircling the ancient centre of Hedbury. He brought the bike to a standstill, stopped the engine, and stepped off. Disgruntled householders and passers-by had gathered in small groups to argue and gesticulate at the woolly animals that were flocking in gardens and ignoring everything except tasty flowers.

  ‘Hey, ewe,’ said Hobbes
as he approached the nearest sheep, ‘what’s going on here then?’

  In response, the sheep, who had just finished decimating a flower bed, gave a peevish ‘baa!’ and turned her back on him. Clearly affronted by this display of insolence, Dregs sprang from the sidecar, barking and bristling.

  ‘Remember what I said about sheep?’ said Hobbes.

  Still growling under his breath, the dog sat and stared until the sheep grew uncomfortable and rejoined her friends.

  ‘Is anyone in charge of this lot?’ asked Hobbes, turning to the people.

  ‘Well, sir,’ a short man with dark, curly whiskers around a pink face loafed towards us, ‘I reckon that’d be me—in a manner of speaking.’

  The man, whose features reminded me of a very intelligent monkey, looked familiar. I prised the helmet from my head for a better look.

  It all came back. ‘Charlie Brick! It was your pig that made Violet crash!’

  My mind took me back to that night when the ambulance had carted Violet off to the hospital, leaving me to face the wrath of the furious man whose hedge she’d driven through. That and memories of the long trek home afterward caused a shiver—I’d walked through a storm with a werewolf on my trail.

  Charlie stared at me for a moment and grinned. ‘And how is your young lady?’ he asked.

  ‘She’s probably fine,’ I said, ‘but we … umm … split up soon after. I’m married now.’

  ‘I congratulate you on your nuptials, sir,’ said Charlie.

  ‘Enough,’ said Hobbes. ‘Are you responsible for these sheep or not?’

  Charlie scratched his chin with a long, hairy hand. ‘Yes, sir … in a manner of speaking I am, though they’re not mine, except insofar as I’m looking after them for Mr Foulkes.’

  ‘And Mr Foulkes is?’ asked Hobbes.

  ‘The owner of the flock, sir.’

  ‘So, he’s responsible?’

  ‘Normally, sir, he would be. Only he’s had to go to the hospital. You would scarcely credit it, sir, but he got hurt by the bird that was scaring the flock.’

  Hobbes, who was staring at a sheep as if ravenous, pricked up his ears. ‘Can you describe the culprit?’

  ‘It was a bloody big bird, sir,’ said Charlie, ‘if you’ll pardon my French. Some sort of ostrich, I’d say, with huge, clawed feet and a beak that’d make you think twice about wrestling it. Well, sir, it made me think twice, but not Mr Foulkes. He tried to tackle it and got a good stomping.’

  ‘Are you Mr Foulkes’s shepherd?’ asked Hobbes.

  ‘No, sir. I’m a pig man, myself. Always have been, always will be. My mam foretold it when I was knee high to a piglet. “Charlie,” she said, “you’re only a little fellow now, but you’ll be a pig man someday” and, sir, she was right.’

  ‘Then, how come you’re looking after the sheep?’ I asked.

  ‘Because, sir, I was taking Cuthbert for his evening constitutional when we saw what was happening.’

  ‘Cuthbert?’ asked Hobbes.

  ‘My prize boar, sir. He likes a walk of an evening after a hard day’s eating and … doing what prize boars do.’

  ‘Enough chitchat,’ said Hobbes. ‘I have two questions. First, do you require help to get the sheep back into Mr Foulkes’s field?’

  ‘I would appreciate a hand, sir. Whereas sheep may not be as wilful as pigs, they will insist on snacking and spreading out as they go.’

  Hobbes nodded. ‘And second, where did that bird go?’

  ‘There you have me, sir. I last saw it zigzagging through town.’

  ‘Thank you for your help,’ said Hobbes. ‘Let’s get the flock out of here while there’s still a little light.’

  ‘Thank you kindly, sir,’ said Charlie, pressing a grubby knuckle to his forehead. ‘Their field is along Darkling Lane.’ He pointed to a narrow entrance between high stone walls.

  Hobbes nodded. ‘Dregs!’

  The dog ran towards him. Hobbes dropped to one knee, pointed, and muttered something. Dregs, tail wagging, darted behind the sheep, drove them into a single flock and, with Hobbes and Charlie blocking the main road, hurried them along the lane into the gathering darkness. Within ten minutes, they were all back in their field.

  ‘I didn’t know Dregs knew how to be a sheepdog,’ I said, impressed.

  ‘He didn’t,’ said Hobbes, ‘but he’s a quick learner.’

  Charlie made running repairs to the damaged hedge. ‘That ought to hold the woolly buggers—excuse my language,’ he said. ‘Now, where on earth did Cuthbert go?’ He looked around, but there was no sign of a pig. He shrugged. ‘I expect he’s found his own way home. I’d best have a look. Thank you for your assistance, sirs.’

  I smiled and nodded, though all I’d done was follow the flock at a safe distance.

  ‘Where do you live?’ asked Hobbes.

  ‘Mr Brick’s cottage is a couple of miles away on the road to the arboretum,’ I said.

  ‘That it is,’ Charlie confirmed.

  ‘In which case,’ said Hobbes, ‘may I offer you a lift?’

  ‘Umm … ’ I said, ‘don’t forget we came here on Sid’s motorbike. There won’t be room for another.’

  ‘I’m sure we’ll manage—you’ll just have to share the sidecar with Dregs.’

  ‘Will I?’

  Hobbes nodded. ‘Let’s get going.’

  Dregs lead the way back to the motorbike combination and bounded into the sidecar.

  ‘I thought so,’ said Hobbes, taking a close look. ‘There’s plenty of room.’ He picked me up, folded me in half, and wedged me into the space in front of Dregs, so I was facing backwards. ‘You’ll be fine there—just as long as you don’t both breathe in at the same time.’

  Unable to see, I awaited my fate with as much dignity as I could, which was not much. A thought occurred. ‘Is this safe?’

  ‘We’ll be fine,’ said Hobbes. ‘I have no intention of crashing.’

  The sidecar dipped and rocked. I guessed it was Hobbes and Charlie getting on.

  ‘Hold tight,’ said Hobbes.

  ‘There’s nothing to hold on to, tight or otherwise!’ The throb of the engine drowned out my moans.

  Squatting on the floor while wedged inside a sidecar with a large dog is not as much fun as it’s cracked up to be. Still, the journey to Charlie’s was not too terrifying since my only view was Dregs’s undercarriage, and all I could hear was the thrum of the engine and the rumble of the tyres on the road. It was only a few minutes before the engine stopped. Dregs bounded out, and wriggling forward on hands and buttocks, I hauled myself to freedom. I’d been hoping for fresh air, but the pungent aroma of pig dung overwhelmed everything. Hobbes had parked the motorbike on the grass verge outside Charlie’s little stone cottage. They were walking towards the front door.

  ‘Wait for me!’ I said, attempting to leap out and follow, only for my cramped legs to let me down. My leading foot snagged the rim. For a moment, I fought for balance before surrendering to gravity.

  The ditch was not full of cold water, but it was full of glutinous mud that soaked through my clothes and chilled my skin. I struggled to get free, dragged myself out, and was getting to my feet when the headlights of a passing coach lit me up. The coach stopped, and the amplified voice of a guide rang out into the gathering darkness. ‘Ladies and Gentlemen, before we reach Haunted Hedbury and begin our ghost tour, I’m delighted to bring you this bonus sighting of the legendary Dirty Dunderhead of the Dismal Ditch.’ A powerful torch dazzled me, laughter erupted, and all I could do was stand there, drip and look gormless. After a few seconds, the coach drove away.

  I couldn’t see the others, but heard Dregs bark from round the back. Dropping gobbets of mud, I followed the bark as the stink of pigs grew stronger. ‘What’s happening? Has Charlie’s pig come back?’

  I squelched around the side of the cottage into the backyard, where an electric bulb dangling from an upstairs window lit up a row of concrete pens. Tail wagging, Dregs ran towards me, stopped, sneezed
, and retreated. The stench was overpowering.

  An enormous snoring boar dozed by the back door.

  ‘That’s my Cuthbert, sir,’ said Charlie with pride in his voice. ‘He won best of breed in the Sorenchester Old Spot category at last year’s Sorenchester Show. He’s a good lad.’

  ‘Well done, him,’ I said.

  I looked at Hobbes. ‘So, all’s well that ends well. Can we go home now? I’m covered in mud.’

  Charlie scratched his head. ‘Begging your pardon, sir, but that’s not mud.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I asked, foreboding rising.

  ‘Well, sir, did you happen to fall in the ditch?’

  ‘What of it?’

  ‘Well, sir, it might’ve been mud … it would’ve been mud, only I had a bit of an overflow the other week and … ’

  I knew what he was going to say. ‘It was pig faeces that overflowed, wasn’t it?’

  Charlie looked mournful. ‘No, sir—it was pig shit what overflowed. I had it all nicely rotting in a lagoon, only that rain we had made the wall fail. Well, sir, I was going to clean it up but never got round to it. I’m very sorry.’ He turned to Hobbes. ‘You ain’t going to report me, are you, sir?’

  Hobbes thought for a moment. ‘It’s not my department, but I will have to inform the authorities—unless you clear it up as soon as possible. We can’t allow that sort of stuff into the waterways.’ He contemplated me and rasped his big, hairy thumb over the stubble on his chin. ‘And we can’t allow you on Sid’s bike like that—it wouldn’t be fair.’

  I shivered as the liquid dung began to dry in the light breeze. ‘I’m cold and I stink and I want to go home.’

  ‘Let me think,’ said Hobbes. ‘Do you have a bath, Mr Brick?’

  ‘Of course, sir.’

  ‘Good,’ said Hobbes. ‘And do you have any spare clothes that might fit him?’