‘What … umm … sort of proof?’
‘Legal documentation.’
‘And where will you find that? The Land Registry?’
‘I’m sure the SODs have already checked there,’ said Hobbes, ‘but not all land is registered, and old records of ownership could be anywhere.’
‘You could … umm … check Colonel Squire’s family records—these old families invariably keep them.’
‘I doubt he would allow me access,’ said Hobbes.
‘You could break in—you’ve done it before,’ I pointed out.
‘I could, but where would I start looking in such a large house?’
Dregs returned bearing a new trophy, one of the socks I’d worn in the mountains. In retrospect, I wouldn’t have missed that experience for anything, though I had one major regret—I should have been kinder to poor old Piers Twilly in his final hours.
Something stirred in the depths of my memory.
‘You look unusually thoughtful,’ Hobbes remarked.
‘Yes … I’m trying to think.’
‘Careful not to strain anything!’ He chuckled.
The memory surfaced. ‘When I was in hospital after I’d hurt my leg, there was an old man called Mr Twilley in the bed next to me. I did something I shouldn’t have, and he died.’
‘Are you confessing to murder?’ asked Hobbes, looking severe, though he was joking. Probably.
‘No, I said something that upset him and he died.’
‘You’ll probably get off with a plea of manslaughter then.’
‘He had a heart condition and could have gone anytime. But the thing is, before he died, he told me something.’
‘It would be more remarkable if he’d told you after he’d died,’ said Hobbes, ‘but carry on.’
‘Well … umm … the old man had been a mountaineer. He said he’d met Colonel Squire’s uncle on an expedition.’
Hobbes nodded. ‘That would have been Clarence Squire, who used to own the Squire estates. As I recall, he was a kindly, if somewhat eccentric man.’
‘Yes, that was him,’ I said, nodding. ‘I’d heard Colonel Squire inherited everything from his uncle who died in a climbing accident, but Mr Twilley said he’d survived and was getting better before he was air-lifted home.’
‘Very interesting,’ said Hobbes. ‘But what’s your point?’
‘What if Clarence is still alive? Might he have some information?’
‘If he’s alive,’ said Hobbes with a nod. ‘Of course, he might have died on the way home or since. If he is still alive, he’ll be old now. Nevertheless, I agree, it might be worth pursuing. In the meantime, I intend to visit Mr Brick to see if he has any further information.’
‘Good idea,’ I said. ‘I can’t go with you—I said I’d make supper tonight, and I need to get to the shops first.’
‘I never said you could come with me anyway,’ said Hobbes, looking stern, though there was a twinkle in his eye.
‘No … umm … of course not. But as you are going to Charlie’s, would you mind bringing my stuff back? It’s all in a bin bag. And could you take Charlie’s things back with my thanks?’
Hobbes nodded. I fetched the freshly cleaned, dried, and ironed garments and handed them over.
I made a move for the shops as soon as Hobbes and Dregs left, but an idle thought crossed my mind as I reached for the door. Returning to my laptop, I searched for Sorenchester plus rifle plus Cracknell. After some time, a link looked promising. I clicked and brought up a forty-year-old story in Sorenchester Life about Major Lionel ‘Crackshot’ Cracknell, who was stationed at the Army camp just south of Sorington, and who had won a national all-comers sharp-shooting contest. The accompanying photograph showed the beaming major holding his rifle, and despite the poor resolution of the picture, it was clearly a younger version of the man who’d been with Rosemary at Le Sacré Bleu. My hands trembled with excitement as I searched for more details of the major and it wasn’t long before I came across a reference to his family: wife, Lucinda; sons, Roderick and Victor; daughter, Rosemary.
Although I’d enjoyed the occasional scoop as a reporter, this struck me as massive—it might be the breakthrough in the murder case, and I wished Hobbes were there to see how clever I’d been. On reflection, though, my discovery proved nothing—a crack shot father didn’t mean a daughter could shoot. After all, my father had been a dentist, and I never had any interest in that black art, despite the propaganda campaign he’d inflicted on me from the time I could speak. And yet, I knew many who’d taken after their parents. Perhaps I really was onto something.
I called Hobbes’s mobile.
‘Inspector Hobbes,’ he answered.
‘Hi, it’s … umm … Andy,’ I said. ‘I’ve found something out.’
‘So have I,’ said Hobbes above the whine of his tortured engine. ‘You go first.’
I told him.
‘Very interesting,’ he said, as I heard a key turn in the front door.
Daphne was home.
‘You’re early,’ I said, covering the phone with my hand. ‘Is everything okay?’
She frowned. ‘It’s my usual time.’
My few minutes of research had grown into two hours, and I still hadn’t done the shopping.
Remembering Hobbes was still on the line, I gestured at the phone and made a ‘I’ve got a very important call’ face. Daphne nodded and headed upstairs.
‘What did you discover?’ I asked Hobbes.
‘Mr Brick offered me a lot more information on the development—he’s still trying to create a good impression so I don’t report his pig pollution. He was clearing all that up when I got there, and the stink around his cottage is thick enough to slice. Even Dregs found it hard going, never mind his poor neighbours. When I got there, an angry man was screaming abuse at Mr Brick. Only my intervention prevented a violent altercation.’
I remembered Charlie’s neighbours—even though I’d only been an innocent passenger when Violet had crashed through their hedge, I’d feared I would be the one to get a taste of the owner’s knuckle sandwich.
‘What did Charlie say?’ I asked.
‘That Clarence Squire is still alive. He is now in his eighties, and lives in a secluded cottage at Edgecliff—he couldn’t cope with normality after his accident. That’s why he handed over the Squire estates to his nephew.’
‘Are you going to talk to Clarence?’ I asked.
‘Yes, but not today, or I’ll be late for my supper. I’ll drop your things off tomorrow, if that’s alright.’
I thanked him and he hung up.
Daphne came downstairs. ‘I’m starving, I hope tea won’t be too long.’
I gave her a guilty look. ‘Sorry but … umm … I got distracted.’
She shrugged. ‘I thought I couldn’t smell anything. What are we going to do?’
‘Fish and chips?’ I suggested.
She smiled and nodded. I might have been a little paranoid, but was there a hint of relief in her expression? If so, it wasn’t fair because my cooking was improving, and I hadn’t killed anybody yet.
‘I’ll fetch it,’ I said, attempting to make amends.
‘Good idea,’ she said and slumped, onto the sofa. ‘I’ll have plaice … and a portion of mushy peas, please.’
I headed for the chippy, feeling unreasonably disgruntled that she hadn’t offered to accompany me. Halfway there, my brain clicked into gear and reminded me that I was still without my wallet. I wished I’d thought to use that as my excuse for failing to cook as I hurried home. After borrowing Daphne’s credit card, I set out again, and had reached Mosse Lane when a bellow made me glance towards The Feathers, a short way to my left. As I turned, its front door flew open, and a hefty man flew out backwards and landed on the pavement, his head in the gutter.
A larger, fatter, rougher-looking figure in a stained vest appeared in the doorway, scowling. Seeing me, he grinned and raised two fingers in salute. ‘What are you staring at, Caplet?�
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‘Good evening, Featherlight,’ I said. ‘A bit of trouble tonight?’
The first man, groggy and dishevelled, turned over and tried to get back to his feet.
Featherlight stepped out, booted him up the backside and left him to groan in the road. ‘No trouble, just an exercise in customer relations. This bastard was offensive to a young lady.’
‘That’s bad,’ I said.
He glared at me. ‘And you—where’ve you been? I haven’t seen your ugly face in a while.’
‘I was away and got injured and then I was busy and then … ’
‘Spare us the life story, Caplet. Are you going to come in or are you going to stand there looking gormless?’
‘I’m going to get fish and chips,’ I said.
‘They’ll keep. Come on in … I’d like to catch up with the contents of your wallet.’
I hesitated. On the one hand, a nice cool glass of lager would go down well. On the other hand, the chances of getting one that was nice or cool were remote in The Feathers—I could never work out why I had such a perverse fondness for the place. On the third hand, Daphne was hungry after a hard day’s work and I’d already cocked up the catering.
But a quick drink wouldn’t hurt.
I walked towards The Feathers. Featherlight had already gone back inside, and a furious roar suggested he was playing the part of genial host with his usual finesse. The man in the gutter, his nose bloodied, pulled himself upright with the help of a lamppost, and spat out a tooth. It was a bicuspid—I had learned something from my father.
‘Are you alright?’ I asked.
‘Do I bloody look alright? Piss off and leave me alone.’ He staggered away, dripping blood.
Taking a tissue from my pocket, I retrieved the tooth—Mrs Goodfellow would welcome it to her collection, and might reward me with a treat from the oven.
Taking a deep breath, I entered The Feathers. It was quiet now, and Featherlight was out of sight. The disreputable faces of the locals glowered across pints of bad beer. Several nodded at me.
‘Watcha, Andy,’ said little Billy Shawcroft, still wearing the steel helmet he donned when trouble was in the air in the shape of flying glasses or customers.
‘Evening, Billy. I’ll have a pint of lager, please.’
‘Right you are.’
‘What was the trouble about?’ I asked, as he filled a greasy glass.
‘Some lout insulted a young lady.’
My eyes widened. ‘There was a lady here?’
Billy grinned and nodded, but, though remarkable, it was not unheard of, and Featherlight always behaved impeccably towards women. It was his one redeeming feature. I took my pint and sipped with great trepidation, but it was drinkable, despite a faint tang of vinegar. I looked around. All the faces were male.
‘Featherlight took her out back to comfort her,’ said Billy.
‘First time I’ve heard it called that, hur hur!’ Monty ‘Bloater’ Black smirked from behind his Guinness. (I guessed it was Guinness because it looked black, though it might just have been a dirty glass.) The back door opened and a look of fear usurped the smirk as Featherlight entered with a young blonde-haired woman. Since Bloater remained in one piece, I assumed Featherlight had not heard his reckless remark.
The young woman was Olivia. The redness around her eyes suggested she’d been crying, and she was grasping Featherlight’s hairy hand, looking more like a lost child than the monster who’d usurped my job.
‘Bloater,’ said Featherlight in a quiet voice, ‘I have a job for you.’
‘What?’ asked Bloater, his eyes wide.
‘You are to escort Miss Squire to her home.’
‘Me?’
Featherlight nodded. ‘You … and you’d better be on your best Sunday School behaviour, and no smutty remarks. Or else … ’
Bloater gulped and nodded. ‘This way, miss,’ he said.
‘Mr Black will look after you,’ said Featherlight gently.
Just before Bloater led her away, Olivia smiled and, much to my surprise, stretched up to plant a kiss on Featherlight’s stubbly cheek. She didn’t notice me.
I took another sip of lager and realised Billy was waiting—I hadn’t paid yet. Without a thought, I reached for my wallet, which, of course, wasn’t there. In a panic, I took out Daphne’s card, but Billy shook his head—Featherlight had never invested in a card reader, which I knew full well.
‘It’s all I’ve got,’ I said, feeling through my pockets in the futile hope of finding some loose change, ‘but I’ll have my wallet back tomorrow—I can pay for it then.’
‘Oh, no you can’t,’ Featherlight thundered as he pointed to the scrawled notice above the bar: ‘Don’t ask for credit unless you want a punch in the gob.’
Amazingly fast for such a bulky man, he seized me by the seat of my trousers and the scruff of the neck.
‘Don’t trouble yourself,’ I said, hoping to avoid pain. ‘I can throw myself out.’
He must have been in one of his better moods, because he snorted with laughter and put me down. ‘Go on then,’ he said. ‘But don’t be too rough on yourself.’
I took myself by the collar, lugged myself through the pub and dived out onto the pavement, much to the astonishment of a passing cat.
‘You’re barred,’ said Featherlight, looking out to make sure I’d done a good job. He grinned, which was not a pretty sight, and stomped back inside.
After picking myself up, I dusted myself down and felt grateful I’d got away with it, but beating up a customer often mellowed Featherlight for a time. Although I regretted the premature removal of lager, it was probably for the best—Daphne would not be impressed if I turned up later than expected, smelling of The Feathers. I hurried to The Fat Fryer.
There was an itch at the back of my mind, as if I’d missed something. But what?
I bought fish and chips and walked home.
‘You took your time,’ said Daphne as I walked in.
I blamed an imaginary queue and put the fish and chips onto plates. I’d just handed one to Daphne when I recalled that Featherlight had called Olivia ‘Miss Squire’.
I swore under my breath.
‘What’s up?’ asked Daphne, a chip halfway to her mouth.
‘I’ve just thought of something.’ I put my plate down, opened my laptop and did a quick search.
I found many photos of Miss Olivia Squire winning local gymkhanas. She was, indeed, Colonel Squire’s daughter.
I told Daphne.
‘So what?’ she said. ‘She probably wanted a job.’ She speared a morsel of fried plaice and put it in her mouth.
‘Yes, but why at the Bugle? And why wasn’t the job advertised anywhere?’
Daphne finished chewing before replying. ‘Ralph was doing the Colonel a favour—they probably know each other and talked at that soiree.’
‘They did,’ I said. ‘And … ’
Daphne shook her head. ‘I’m starving—let me eat first!’
It was a reasonable request.
I picked up my plate and joined her at the table. The tang of fried fish and malt vinegar set my mouth to watering and I savoured every succulent mouthful, though my mind seethed.
After we’d finished, I indulged myself in a good, long rant, starting with Ralph firing me, and moving on to the evils of nepotism and ‘jobs for the girls’. It was so unfair, I raged, that someone with the right connections could replace a hard-working, real reporter like me.
And then I laughed. Me, a hard-working, real reporter? Who was I kidding?
Yet, I was not the old Andy—I’d come a long way since those days of inept, lazy floundering, and had produced plenty of good, solid reporting, regularly filling my allotted pages. Admittedly, I should have reached this point years earlier, but I’d got there in the end and was still improving—at least I had been until Ralph fired me.
Daphne sympathised for a few minutes and then, as I returned to my rant, suggested that I should shut up a
nd get things in perspective. Peeved, I sulked on the sofa. She sighed. ‘Did you say there was another young woman in the office?’
‘Yes … umm … Arabella.’
She nodded. ‘I’m going to do a check on Colonel Squire’s family.’
I sat and watched her.
‘Aha!’ she said after a few minutes. ‘Arabella is his niece on his wife’s side.’
‘But why is Ralph doing favours for Squire?’
She shrugged. ‘I’m not sure, but something smells rotten. Colonel Squire and Ralph may be too close for press impartiality.’
I nodded. ‘It explains Ralph’s support for Squire’s development.’
Daphne was still tapping at her laptop. She gasped.
‘What’s up?’ I asked.
‘You said you didn’t know who owns the Bugle?’
‘Yes, it’s just some faceless corporation.’
She smiled. ‘Well, I’ve just put a face to it.’
‘Whose face?’
She pointed at the screen where she’d pulled up a government website.
‘Grubbe!’ I yelled.
She nodded. ‘Yes, Valentine is the new owner.’
‘That stinks!’ I said. ‘It’s corruption! It’s cronyism! It’s diabolical! It’s … not fair.’
‘There’s certainly a conflict of interest here,’ said Daphne.
‘I’ll tell,’ I said.
‘Who?’
‘Hobbes.’
22
I tossed and turned that night. It rankled that I’d lost my job to someone with no experience but the right connections.
I knew I would never drop off.
The doorbell rang.
‘Someone’s at the door,’ I murmured.
Daphne did not respond.
I sat up, bleary and semi-conscious. She wasn’t there.
Forcing myself from bed, I grabbed my dressing gown. It felt softer than usual. I headed downstairs, struggling to get my arms into the armholes.
It was too tight.
It was inside out.
And upside down.
And too pink.
The doorbell rang again. I tied the gown as securely as I could and hurried to the front door.
Hobbes chuckled as I opened it. ‘Very fetching.’
Inspector Hobbes and the Common People: Comedy Crime Fantasy (Unhuman Book 5) Page 22