Inspector Hobbes and the Curse - a fast-paced comedy crime fantasy (unhuman)

by Martin, Wilkie

  ‘I guess so. But what about the dead sheep?’

  ‘There’s really no more information than appeared in the Bugle. By the time I got to the last killing, the rest of the flock had trampled the area, leaving no scent or trail. It’s bad enough that sheep have been killed, and that some of the farmers are getting angry, but what if it attacked a member of the public? It’s worrying.’

  We went through to the sitting room, where Mrs Goodfellow brought us tea. I’d just taken my first sip when I noticed Hobbes stare at something and frown. I couldn’t see why, the room looking the same as always, if possibly a little shinier. Then I noticed she’d placed her new skull on the mantelpiece as a rather gruesome centrepiece.

  ‘What is that?’ asked Hobbes, bounding over the coffee table to take a look.

  ‘It’s a skull.’

  ‘I can see that. Where did it come from?’

  ‘Mrs Goodfellow.’

  Picking it up, he examined it, his frown appearing to be one of concern, rather than anger. ‘Would you mind stepping in here, lass?’ he shouted.

  She came in from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her pinafore. ‘Yes?’

  ‘This skull,’ he said, ‘do you know what it is?’

  ‘According to the dentists, it’s from a man with an unfortunate dental condition. His teeth aren’t pretty but they are most unusual.’ She smiled, patting the dome.

  ‘Most unusual,’ he agreed. ‘It’s not from a man, though.’

  ‘A woman’s?’ I asked.

  ‘I don’t believe it’s human at all: not exactly.’

  ‘Umm … What do you mean by not exactly?’ I asked.

  ‘I’m not quite sure,’ said Hobbes, ‘but it reminds me of something from years ago.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘A werewolf.’

  7

  Whereas Mrs Goodfellow merely nodded, I, my mouth dropping open, stared at Hobbes, dumbstruck for a few moments, thinking that he’d played cruel jokes on me before. I wasn’t inclined to fall for this one, at least not without a fight.

  ‘A werewolf?’ I said at last. ‘Come off it!’

  ‘It’s unusual, I admit,’ said Hobbes, ‘and I’m not absolutely certain, because it’s so many years since I’ve seen one wolfifesting and, of course, he had his skin on at the time.’

  ‘What the hell do you mean wolfifesting?’ I asked.

  ‘Language, Andy. Wolfifesting is the process whereby a werewolf transforms into wolf form; it’s the opposite of manifesting.’

  ‘No it isn’t, you’ll not get me this time,’ I said, well aware that he’d proved himself adept at making me fall for ludicrous tall stories. The trouble was, some of the tallest had proved to be true.

  ‘I’m not trying to.’ Turning the skull round, he sniffed it. ‘This one doesn’t look quite right. I wonder if maybe he was killed mid-transformation.’

  ‘Are you telling me that there really are werewolves?’

  ‘Oh yes, dear,’ said Mrs Goodfellow, ‘of course there are, but I haven’t seen any since old Wolfie Tredgrove passed away, and that must be over thirty years ago.’

  ‘More like forty years,’ said Hobbes. ‘Poor old Wolfie. He grew very deaf in his final months, becoming more of a “what? wolf”. Still, he was getting on, being well over ninety – I’m not sure what that would be in dog years – and it was the mange that got him in the end, an uncomfortable place to get it. Unfortunately, werewolves have grown scarce and increasingly shy since the invention of the gun. Many people are so intolerant of anything different and, in fact, this poor fellow was shot. See this?’ He pointed to a small round hole towards the base of the skull.

  I almost believed him. ‘Umm … would you use silver bullets on a werewolf?’

  He frowned. ‘Of course not. Bullets can be very dangerous, even silver ones. You might hurt somebody.’

  ‘I mean, would you use them if you wanted to kill one?’

  ‘Why would I want to kill one?’

  ‘Well, it if attacked you.’

  ‘It’d hardly be likely to do that; wolves are shy creatures, werewolves doubly so. If one ever did get a little frisky, then a short, sharp rap on the nose with a rolled-up newspaper would do the trick.’

  ‘But aren’t they really dangerous?’ I asked. ‘I mean to say, I don’t know much about them, only what I’ve seen in films, where they’re usually portrayed as bloodthirsty monsters …’ I paused, realising suddenly how completely I’d swallowed his story. Nearly completely, anyway.

  ‘I’m afraid most people only see what they want to,’ said Hobbes, shaking his head. ‘They have a regrettable tendency to justify themselves when they’ve acted shamefully, such as trying to portray the wanton killing of a harmless creature as somehow heroic. I’ve never understood how using a high-powered rifle to kill an unsuspecting animal from a safe distance makes some feel courageous and manly. People can be very strange, but, getting back to your point, you are partly right, in that werewolves can be fierce when cornered.’

  ‘So what would you advise then?’

  ‘I’d advise not cornering them.’

  I made a decision: should an opportunity arise, I would not, under any circumstances, attempt to corner one.

  ‘You should see the pups,’ said Mrs Goodfellow with a smile. ‘They are adorable.’

  Hobbes nodded. ‘Though they can give you a playful nip if you get careless.’

  ‘Would you turn into a werewolf then?’ I asked, fascinated, despite the occasional twinge of scepticism.

  ‘No.’ He chuckled. ‘You’re confusing them with the silly old tales. With werewolves and I believe with vampires, it’s genetic. However, should you chance to get bitten, I would recommend a course of antibiotics; they’ve never been keen on baths and you don’t know what they might have been eating, or where they might have been. I wouldn’t worry; there haven’t been any round here since Wolfie.’

  ‘That’s a pity,’ I said, though really I was glad. Whatever Hobbes said, I hoped never to meet one.

  ‘Right,’ he said, replacing the skull, ‘I ought to get back to work. I intervened in an attempted mugging on the way home and the bad lad’s probably had enough of hanging from a lamppost.’

  I looked at him, shocked. ‘You shouldn’t have hung him from a lamppost,’ I said.

  He grinned. ‘I didn’t put him up it. He bolted up while attempting to evade arrest and refused to come down. Since I didn’t want to be late for my dinner, I left him there.’

  ‘I expect he’s run off by now.’

  ‘I doubt it. I left Dregs on guard. He knows his stuff.’

  ‘Can I come with you?’ It was always fascinating to watch Hobbes dealing with law breakers.

  ‘No, you’re still under doctor’s orders and need rest.’

  ‘Yeah, right. But I am going out tomorrow. I’m much better now.’

  I went upstairs for a nap and fell asleep immediately; werewolves and panthers, red in tooth and claw, pursued me through dreams. Awaking, hot and sweaty, soft breathing tickling the back of my neck, I leaped up with a bellow of alarm.

  Sleeping dogs, I discovered, can perform vertical take-offs. Dregs, rocketing from the bed, crashed to the floor, giving me such a reproachful look I was embarrassed, though my heart was going like the clappers.

  ‘Sorry,’ I said, patting his head.

  The house shook as Hobbes, pounding upstairs, burst through the door. ‘What’s going on in here?’

  ‘Umm …’

  ‘Have you been teasing the dog?’

  ‘No. It’s just that, when I woke up, there was something breathing on my neck. I … umm … didn’t know it was him. I thought it was a werewolf.’

  Hobbes snorted with laughter. ‘I suppose we need to make allowances for that bang on the head. Never mind, it’ll soon be supper time.’

  ‘I’ve slept right through the afternoon?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Was the mugger still up the lamp post?’

  ‘Of c
ourse and he’d drawn quite a crowd. He wouldn’t come down and became quite obnoxious. In the end, I was forced to borrow a tin of pink salmon from an onlooker and knock him from his perch.’

  ‘Was he hurt?’

  ‘Apart from a small bump on his noggin, he was fine, but he didn’t enjoy going to the station for a little chat.’

  Having been present at a number of his little chats, chats that, even though they’d been directed at the suspect, had reduced me to gibbering terror, I understood. In fact, suspect was the wrong word. When Hobbes decided to arrest someone, he was never a mere suspect; he was a definite.

  ‘When I was sure he’d seen the error of his ways,’ Hobbes continued, ‘I took him home and made him a cup of tea. I had to go out and buy him tea and milk because everything in his fridge was green.’

  ‘Was he a vegetarian?’

  ‘No. It was mainly sausages.’

  ‘That’s horrible,’ I said, screwing up my face, trying to ignore the fact that the fridge in my flat had sometimes contained similar pestilential relics. I’d since grown accustomed to a more gracious standard of living.

  Supper, a simple macaroni cheese, confirmed my opinion that Mrs Goodfellow possessed astounding alchemical skills, being able to transmute the basest ingredients into pure gold; I wished I knew the secret.

  Afterwards, I washed up, since the old girl had gone to her Kung Fu class. I’d once considered joining, getting as far as listening outside the church hall, the sounds of screaming and thumping turning me into a quivering jelly, making me chicken out. Next day, I discovered I’d got the wrong part of the hall and that I’d been listening to the philately group’s AGM: passions could evidently run high in stamp collecting. Since then, I’d never summoned sufficient courage to go back and, besides, I didn’t need to know self-defence if Hobbes was around.

  He was sitting at the kitchen table, finishing the crossword, as I scrubbed the last pan. ‘Featherlight’s in the cells again,’ he said, putting down his pencil with a satisfied smile.

  ‘What’s he done this time?’ I asked, turning the pan upside down to drain, reaching for a tea towel.

  ‘He assaulted an assistant at the garden centre.’

  ‘What was he doing in the garden centre?’

  ‘He works there.’

  ‘No, I mean, what was Featherlight doing there?’

  ‘He said he’d decided to carry out some improvements to the pub.’

  ‘Really? Well, I suppose it’s about time,’ I said, suspecting little had been changed, or cleaned, in the last fifty years.

  ‘He’s thinking of turning the back yard into a beer garden. At the moment it’s full of cracked slabs, weeds and rubbish. He went to the garden centre looking for ideas.’

  ‘But why assault the assistant?’

  ‘I was coming to that,’ said Hobbes, his mouth twitching. ‘He says he was wandering innocently round the store when, in his words, a “spotty herbert” approached asking if he could be of assistance. Featherlight explained why he was there and the youth apparently said, “you need decking, mate”. Featherlight decked him first, claiming self-defence, although he’s twice the assistant’s size.’

  ‘If,’ I said, ‘anyone else had come up with such a lame reason, I wouldn’t have believed it. In his case it could be possible.’

  Hobbes nodded. ‘I believe him, though it doesn’t excuse him.’

  ‘Is the spotty herbert alright?’

  ‘Apart from a black eye, a thick lip and a mild concussion. I had to arrest Featherlight, though.’

  ‘Did he come quietly?’

  He shook his head. ‘He never does anything quietly. He cursed and swore all the way to the station.’

  I could believe it for Featherlight, as far as I could tell, was unique in lacking fear when confronting Hobbes. I had an idea this did not attest so much to his courage as to his stupidity.

  ‘What’ll happen to him?’

  He shrugged. ‘He’ll go to court tomorrow and probably get off with a fine, as usual. I fear that one day he’ll really get himself into trouble – and he’ll deserve it, though he’ll not have set out to cause any harm. He never does. I’ll have to have a long chat with him sometime, when he’s sober.’ He sighed and stretched, ‘Ah, well, sitting here and wagging chins won’t get the dog walked.’

  He took Dregs out and I, having Violet to consider, forgot about Featherlight’s misfortunes. My main problem was where to suggest she might take me. While it couldn’t be anywhere too expensive, in case she thought me a freeloader, it couldn’t be anywhere too tatty, in case she thought me a low-life. The trouble was I didn’t know many eating places not on the tatty side of the register; besides pubs, and the Greasy Pole, I hadn’t a clue about dining out. There was the Black Dog Café, of course, but I feared I was still persona non grata there.

  Resorting to careful study of the Yellow Pages, finding loads of restaurants but no inspiration about their suitability for dining with a sophisticated lady, a millionaire’s sister, I was, after an hour, no nearer to a decision. Taking out my frustration on an innocent cushion, I punched it with great zeal, until it exploded, a soft cloud of feathers encircling my head, getting into my mouth and nose. I was spluttering and choking when Hobbes and Dregs returned.

  Hobbes stared at the carnage and frowned. ‘What’s wrong?’

  Fearing I was in trouble again, I tried to explain but only spat feathers.

  ‘A little down in the mouth, eh?’ he said with a chuckle.

  Dregs bounded through the mess in great excitement, a white plume plastered to the black tip of his nose, sneezing.

  ‘I had an accident,’ I said and coughed.

  ‘I’d never have guessed. What were you doing?’

  ‘Looking for a suitable restaurant for Violet.’

  ‘And why does that require a room full of feathers?’

  ‘Umm … Sorry. I got fed up and punched a cushion and it burst.’

  ‘I see,’ said Hobbes. ‘So did that give you any hints? Presumably, you’re not going to take her to the Feathers?’

  I shook my head. ‘I don’t know anywhere that’s good. Do you have any ideas?’

  ‘That depends on what you fancy. If it’s a bit of curried Irish stew, why not try Bombay Mick’s? Some people like it. Or Pavarotti’s is excellent if you prefer spaghetti.’

  ‘I want something a little more sophisticated – not overly expensive but still up-market.’

  ‘In that case, Le Sacré Bleu might be your best bet. It’s French and it’s highly recommended by the Fat Man.’

  ‘The Fat Man? Who’s he?’

  ‘The Bugle’s food writer. Don’t you know him?’

  ‘Oh, yeah, but I’ve never read any of his stuff,’ I said, remembering his occasional appearances at the Bugle’s office. He was a tall, bearded man, a little doughy around the middle perhaps but not fat as such. With his battered leather coat and hunter look, he ought to have been a crime writer.

  ‘You should, he’s very good. He has a most inventive and ludicrous turn of phrase but, once you cut through that, he’s a reliable and honest critic. He’s brave too. About five years ago, having lunched at the Feathers, he wrote a scathing, though truthful, review of Featherlight’s cooking, refusing to recant even when Featherlight dangled him from the church tower.’

  It says something about Featherlight that I was more surprised to hear he’d squeezed his great bulk up the narrow, twisting staircase of the tower than that he’d dangled a man off it.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Featherlight dropped him onto the slabs below, where he made a splendid splash of colour on what would otherwise have been a rather grey winter’s morning.’

  ‘Did he?’

  ‘Of course not. I managed to convince the lump that passes for Featherlight’s brain that dropping the Fat Man would result in even worse publicity, so he put him down and went back to the kitchen. Of course, when the Bugle printed the story, people queued up for hours
to enjoy the Feathers’ experience.’ He shook his head.

  ‘So,’ I said, trying to get back on track, ‘you’d recommend Le Sacré Bleu? Have you ever eaten there?’

  ‘Twice, when I’ve had work to do around there.’

  ‘Where is it, exactly?’

  ‘Out on Monkshood Lane at the bottom of Helmet Hill.’

  ‘Oh right. That’s near Loop Woods isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘D’you think it’ll be safe? I mean with this panther about?’

  He sucked his teeth. ‘I shouldn’t think so. Panthers are notorious for attacking customers in smart restaurants.’

  ‘You’re joking … aren’t you?’

  He sighed. ‘Look, panthers are shy beasts and, though it’s possible one might lurk in the woods, it’s hardly likely to lurk in a restaurant. Now, I think you ought to clean up your mess before the lass gets home.’

  I nodded, reassured and pleased now I had somewhere suitable to take Violet. Strangely, I quite enjoyed picking up the feathers and stuffing them into a bin liner, since it seemed an age since I’d felt able to do anything. I still went to bed early and slept until late.

  I awoke, refreshed, to a bright, warm morning. As consciousness returned, I grinned the smug grin of a man who, in a few hours, was to be taken out by a beautiful woman and wined and dined and … I didn’t dare consider any further possibilities. I knew so little about her, other than that her voice had a lovely, silky purr, that she was beautiful and sophisticated and that her brother was a millionaire. It wasn’t long before my stomach contracted, for a nasty little voice in my head kept niggling, saying I didn’t deserve her, I was nowhere near good-looking enough, I was pathetically lacking in dynamism and success. Nothing about me could possibly attract a woman like her: it was obvious she had other motives. Another voice, not so nasty, but equally insidious, suggested she only wanted me for my body and that, having used me, she’d discard me, broken-hearted. Although, for a moment, I wished I could call the whole thing off, hanging around with Hobbes had awakened my sense of adventure and I was determined to see it through, to accept whatever fate had prepared for me. Besides, I didn’t know her phone number.