The next few moments were painful and undignified. He lifted and shoved me, the window frame creaking, as if on the point of collapse. There was a tearing sound, a handful of buttons clattered across the tiles and I slithered backwards, feet scrabbling, landing heavily on my back in the garden. By the time I'd recovered my breath and got to my feet, Rex was lumbering away, swaying like an elephant, my bag twisting in his hand. I banged on the door but he was oblivious.
My skin, apart from the odd, additional scrape, had survived intact, yet most of the buttons from my coat, jacket and shirt were gone and my clothes were flapping in the breeze. After a few moments to recover, I had what I considered a great idea. Stripping my top half down to my vest, I made another attempt on the window. Though it was still a squeeze, after grunting and groaning and sweating like a wrestler, I began to slide through.
Then I stopped. The knob thing had snagged me again and my entire weight was suspended on my trouser waistband. I writhed and wriggled until, with a long, slow, zip-rending rip, I slid forwards, shedding my trousers as a snake sheds its skin. Gently, sedately even, I slithered onto the kitchen floor, looking back to where the tattered remnants of a once fine piece of tailoring fluttered in the breeze.
At such times it's important to count your blessings. I could count one: my underwear had survived. Apart from that, my situation was desperate. I glanced down at my muddy shoes, tartan socks and the long white underpants and realised I could count two blessings: they were clean on that morning. Still, if anyone caught me, how could I explain skulking in my ex-boss's house in my underwear? Besides, I still had to get home somehow. My face glowed as I imagined the photos in the Bugle and the sarcastic comments PC Wilkes would throw at me in the cell. Why did these things keep happening to me? All I'd ever wanted was a quiet life and I didn't deserve this. At least, though, I was in a place where I could wash my filthy hands and have a glass of water, both of which I did.
Then, with a lump of fear in my stomach and a cringe in my walk, I began to prowl through the house.
I found Rex in the next room, lying flat on his back on the deep, soft cream carpet, an empty gin bottle clutched to his heart, looking as peaceful as a sleeping baby, though no infant could fill the room with the noises he was producing. He snored, gurgling and farting like a flatulent hippopotamus and I doubted he'd regain consciousness for many hours. Retrieving my carrier bag, I left him to sleep it off, though, before going, I made free with his drinks cabinet. Opening a bottle of whisky, pouring a considerable measure into a crystal tumbler, I gulped it down. The liquid fire, searing its way towards my stomach, felt good.
I carried out a rapid search downstairs, where everything, apart from Rex, was quiet. Then, finding myself in the hall at the bottom of the stairs, I began to climb into the darkness, my footsteps muffled by the deep pale-yellow carpet, an admirable aid to sneaking, or so I thought until, reaching a landing where the stairs turned at a right angle, I glanced back. I'd left a muddy trail and there was nothing I could do about it, so wiping my feet, I carried on to the first floor, where a brass candelabra with three flickering candles rested on a small wooden table, providing the only illumination. I picked it up, surprised by its weight, and took it with me, since I feared turning on a light would draw attention to me. Candlelit exploration of an old unfamiliar house where I had no right to be was not a soothing occupation, every movement of the flickering shadows, every creak of a floorboard, making my heart race.
I looked into three empty bedrooms before finding the one in which I'd seen Narcisa and Tony. A flowery scent, overly sweet and cloying, seemed strongest by a small bottle on the dressing table. When I removed the stopper, I sneezed. It was a powerful scent, yet familiar. Averting my eyes from the crumpled white sheets on the four-poster bed, I noticed an ancient leather-bound book on a small table at its side. Putting down the candelabra, I opened it, a sheet of paper fluttering to the carpet.
It was a letter, written on Sorenchester Museum paper. Picking it up, I read:
Dear Mrs Witcherley,
I have acquired this volume, which I believe to be the one detailing the ritual in which you expressed an interest. My asking price for this exceedingly fine and rare copy is £10,000 in cash. In addition, I have knowledge of a fine bracelet with an established provenance to the Order of the Dragon. I am confident I can put it your way, for the right price. I must once again emphasise the importance of treating any such transactions in strict confidence.
Yours sincerely,
Ray Biggs, Curator.
Hobbes's suspicion about Mr Biggs appeared to have been justified. Replacing the letter, I examined the book. It was made of parchment or something, with heavy, black gothic printing and a smell of dust and age. On the first page was a woodcut of a castle, familiar to me from the label on the Romanian beer bottle and, a couple of pages further on, I came across an illustration of a dragon with its tail in its mouth. The text was incomprehensible, in a foreign language, yet, on seeing the word 'Dracul' several times, the hairs on the back of my neck rose and stiffened.
My worry and fear levels rising to critical, the animal part of my brain tried to convince me that Narcisa was a vampire and that I should run away. Though a more rational part tried to point out that vampires were fictional, I couldn't stop myself wondering if I'd ever seen her in full daylight. My teeth were chattering, my mouth was as dry as chalk and I was trembling all over. In fairness, I was in a weird Romanian woman's bedroom, lit by only by flickering candlelight and I'd just discovered a book, apparently about vampires. Furthermore, convinced she was a thief, I hoped that was the worst of it, though I had a terrible fear she'd done something dreadful to Hobbes. Finally, I was dressed only in my underwear, which always puts one at a disadvantage.
In the circumstances, I think my nerves were entirely justified. Sitting down on the chair by the dressing table, I glanced in the mirror, shocked by how scared I looked, unable to suppress a paralysing horror that something was creeping up behind, yet, when I forced myself to turn and face it, there was nothing.
I heard a click and a stair creaked. Someone was coming. Or was it something? Wanting to scream and run, I made do with diving under the bed and cowering like a coward.
'Where did you say you put it?' shouted Tony.
'On the table on the landing,' Narcisa replied from downstairs, 'and bring the book too – it's in the bedroom.'
'The candelabra's not here. Anyway, haven't we got enough already?'
'Don't be stupid. Just fetch it.'
'I'm not being stupid.' Cursing softly, he entered the bedroom and shouted, 'it was in your room all the time.'
His footsteps drawing close, I held my breath. When they moved away, the candlelight faded, leaving me in utter darkness and confusion. Tony had come from downstairs and Narcisa was downstairs, though I was certain only Rex had been down there. Where had they been hiding?
'There's mud on the stairs,' said Tony. 'Someone's in the house.'
My whole body going into an ecstasy of terror, I thought I was going to be sick. I wanted a wee; I wanted a crucifix; I wanted garlic; I wanted Buffy the Vampire slayer; most of all, I wanted to be out of there.
'It'll just be Fatso staggering around drunk,' said Narcisa. 'Now, hurry up. It's nearly time.'
I lay still until I regained control of my limbs. What was it nearly time for?
I crawled out, creeping towards the staircase, my legs wobbling as I stood up and tiptoed downstairs, which was now in darkness, apart from the glimmer of a distant street lamp lighting up the porch and hall. The mystery of Narcisa and Tony's whereabouts held no interest for me just then. I wanted out. Slipping into the porch, fumbling with the latch, almost sobbing with relief, I opened the front door, shivering as my body was exposed to the night air. I was about to run when, hearing muffled sounds from below, I realised they were coming from the cellars. I could have kicked myself; of course a house of this age would have cellars. I just hadn't seen the door.
> The revelation didn't stop me fleeing. What did stop me was the chanting of deep male voices from below ground, making my legs all wobbly again. How many people were down there? Had I stumbled into some sort of Satanic Mass? Then, to my surprise, I chuckled, recognising the chanting as the same recording I'd heard the ghouls playing. Somehow, I found it soothing, because the ghouls, though terrifying, had as Hobbes pointed out, not been so bad. Not really. In fact, other than trying to bury me alive, they'd been pretty harmless. With any luck vampires, or Satanists, were similar.
Forcing myself back inside, fortifying my courage with another raid on the whisky bottle, I searched for the cellar door, finding it under the stairs, in plain view, if only I'd been looking.
As I put my ear against it to listen, it clicked open and I stumbled through onto a creaky wooden staircase, cool, damp air and an earthy odour surrounding me. There was light down there, candlelight, to judge from the flickering. I swallowed, tiptoeing down, as the chanting grew louder. A familiar scent struck me, the same cloying, flowery scent as in Narcisa's room, though heavier, if it were possible.
On reaching the bottom, I saw I'd entered a vaulted cellar, similar to, though even larger than Hobbes's. To start with, I was amazed at the quantity of wine down there. Hundreds, possibly thousands, of bottles were laid to rest in racks on the smooth limestone floor.
The light emanated from an archway at the far end. Creeping towards it, my footsteps echoing treacherously, I hoped the chanting would drown them out.
Flattening myself against the wall by the arch, taking a vast breath, I poked my head round the corner, jerking back, dazzled and shaking, as if I'd gone down with malaria. On the other side was a cavernous chamber packed with burning candles, where a forest of sturdy limestone buttresses supported a low ceiling. In the middle, in a space like a clearing, stood a stone altar. Next to it, on a wooden table, the Roman cup reflected red in the candlelight. What had scared me most, though, was the long, naked, glinting dagger, lying with its point to the cup. Though I'd not seen or heard Narcisa or Tony down there, in my imagination they were lurking in every shadow, waiting to do me harm. An incongruous thought occurred: I'd always enjoyed watching this sort of thing in films and on telly. It wasn't the same in real life.
Curiosity, wrestling with cowardice, got it, rather to my astonishment, in an arm-lock, yet without quite gaining total submission. The chanting rang even louder, muffling my clumsy footsteps, which was good, reducing my chances of hearing movement, which wasn't. As I slipped into the chamber and cringed behind the nearest pillar, I heard a cry of despair from a man, though not from Hobbes. It turned into a scream, taking all my strength, even as it blew the fog of trivia from my mind.
The cry echoed above the chanting. 'Water! Please! Oh Christ, it burns.'
Though pain and fear had distorted it, I knew the voice and any remaining animosity washed away in a flood of sympathy. It was Phil Waring and he was in big trouble. Fighting an impulse to rush blindly to the rescue, I told myself that getting both of us into a mess would not help. Despite my innate cowardice suggesting immediate flight, I steadied myself, acknowledging the importance of finding out precisely what I was up against, and where he was, since his cries, echoing round the smooth curved walls, confused my senses. As I became aware of other voices, quieter and indistinct, I wished I had Hobbes with me.
I sneaked a glance round the pillar, seeing no one, although a dark painting of a mediaeval king, hanging in an alcove behind the altar, made me start. Recalling Mrs Tomkins, the cook, telling Hobbes that Mr Roman had sold a creepy painting, I could easily believe it was this one, for there was nothing but malice in the King's eyes, nothing but threat in the way he held the long, naked, glinting dagger over a golden chalice. Dagger and chalice looked identical to the ones on the altar.
I shuddered as the chanting faded away. In the ensuing stillness, footsteps approached.
'Move!' yelled Tony.
My heart leapt and, for a moment, I thought I'd been discovered but he was shouting at Phil, whom he was goading into a stumbling walk with a spiked pole. His strange gait seemed to be more because he couldn't see than because of the chains weighing down his wrists and ankles. It was almost as strange to see him unshaven, tie-less and dirty, with sweat stains around his armpits, as to see him in a dungeon. He flinched as the chanting started again.
I shivered, wishing I'd been more careful with my clothes, that I'd had the sense to bring the whisky bottle, something far more useful than the leg of lamb I was still carting around like an idiot.
Tony, enveloped in a long, heavy, grey robe, with a deep hood, and only his beaky nose jutting out, reminded me of a vulture. Narcisa was close behind, wrapped in the deep folds of the purple gown I'd seen earlier, walking slowly, majestically, with bowed head, her arms folded across her chest, holding the book I'd seen in the bedroom.
Tony forced Phil to lie on the altar. Staying in the shadows, sneaking a little closer, praying they wouldn't see me, I slipped behind another pillar. When I risked a look, Phil was stretched on his back as Tony secured his chains. Narcisa stood over him, facing me. I jerked back, amazed she hadn't noticed me. Taking a moment for a better look around the chamber, I noted the small barred cell at the far end, presumably where they'd been holding Phil, but saw no sign of Hobbes. I couldn't grasp why they'd made Phil a prisoner, though it was not difficult to surmise that whatever they were planning would not be to his benefit. Only one person could put a stop to whatever was going to happen. Me.
I risked another glance. Narcisa was in the same position, Tony at her side. A few candles flickered close to where Phil was writhing uselessly against his chains yet, otherwise, the air was still. Narcisa raised her skinny arms, the heavy ring on her finger and the dragon bracelet on her wrist glinted; the chanting stopped.
She spoke into the sudden silence, reading from the book, her voice tremulous at first, as if she, too, was nervous. I couldn't understand the foreign words.
'What are you going to do?' Phil's voice cracked into a squeak.
She ignored him. Tony sniggered, glanced at her and went quiet.
'You can't do this.' Anger and fear competed in Phil's voice.
'Shut it,' said Tony.
Narcisa's incantation grew more confident, powerful, drowning out Phil's protestations, as I cursed myself, wishing I'd thought to pick up some sort of weapon in my search round the house. I didn't like the look of things one little bit, and the glittering dagger was never far from my mind. There was something in the way it sliced the light to suggest its blade was razor sharp: not something you'd choose for cleaning your nails but ideal for a human sacrifice.
'Hand me the sanguinary chalice,' said Narcisa.
'The what?' asked Tony from the darkness of his hood.
'The sanguinary chalice.'
'Uh … you mean this old cup thing?'
'Just give me the bloody cup.'
'OK, keep your hair on.' He handed it to her.
'What do you mean by that?' Her voice was sharp.
'Nothing, just be cool. Can I open a bottle of plonk now?'
'If you must.' Narcisa, raising the cup in both hands, continued speaking in the strange, droning language. I saw she was wearing the gleaming dragon ring on her middle finger.
Holding my breath, I squeezed deeper into the shadows, as Tony walked past towards the wine cellar, returning with a bottle, opening it with the corkscrew on his penknife. She lowered the cup, placing it on the altar by Phil's head.
'Hand me the Dagger of Tepes,' she said.
'Uh … the big knife?' asked Tony.
'Of course.'
Picking it up by the blade, presenting the hilt to her, he yelped as she grasped it.
'Ow! You nearly had my bloody finger off. You'd better be careful or you might really hurt someone.' He groped inside his robe and wrapped a handkerchief round his hand. The grubby cloth darkened.
'What are you doing?' Phil blinked at the dagger through re
d-rimmed eyes.
My eyes watered in sympathy.
'Shut up!' shouted Tony.
'It's all right,' said Narcisa. 'There's no reason why he shouldn't know. Not now. Mr Waring, I must apologise for detaining you like this, but you did poke your nose into my affairs at an awkward time. Yet, in its way, your arrival has proved most opportune. The ritual demands blood and your sacrifice will give me new life, so I must thank you.'
'Mrs Witcherley, what are you talking about?'
'Simply, you will die for me. Greater love has no man than to lay down his life.'
'You're going to murder me?' Unsurprisingly, Phil sounded terrified.
'No, not murder, sacrifice. Don't worry, the blade is razor sharp, as Igor has discovered to his cost. You'll not feel much and the expenditure of your blood will not be in vain. Think of it as an honour.'
Phil said nothing, shaking even more than I was.
'What d'you mean, calling me Igor?' asked Tony, whining. 'That's an insult that is. It's adding insult to injury. My finger's bloody sore.'
'Just a joke,' she said.
'But you're not really going to kill him are you? You're just going to frighten him? Make sure he shuts up?'
'Oh, wake up, you idiot. Do you really imagine I'd go to these lengths to frighten a journalist? If I'd only wanted to shut him up, I'd have got Rex to have a word with him. My husband is a fat old goat but he has his uses.'
'You told me no one was going to get hurt. You said red wine would do as well as blood.'
'You heard what you wanted to hear. Now, be quiet, I need to concentrate.' She resumed her chanting.
'No.' Tony faced up to her, pointing his finger. 'You called me an idiot and that's not nice. I thought we had something together, you and me.'
'Think what you want and be quiet.'
'I won't. You lied to me.'
'You were useful. That's enough.'
'You used me.'
'If I did, you had your fun and were handsomely paid. Rex's bank account is another of his good features.'
I wish I could claim I was planning a brave and intelligent intervention but, the truth is, I was cowering in the darkness, too terrified to move, yet holding a faint hope that Tony would somehow prevail.
Inspector Hobbes and the Blood: A Fast-paced Comedy Crime Fantasy (unhuman) Page 27