3 Inspector Hobbes and the Gold Diggers (14 page)

After a while, the heat my efforts had generated leaking away, my teeth began chattering, reminding me of the wind-up ones sold in joke shops, and making me laugh like a madman. As the hysteria subsided and I pulled myself together, congratulating myself on a lucky escape, I got wearily to my feet and tried to get my bearings.

A sudden, huge blast of wind caught me off guard, blowing me over the edge.

Too surprised to react, even to scream, I plummeted, fearing and expecting a bone-shattering encounter with sharp rocks, but, instead, I squelched into soft mud up to the waist. Although for a few moments, despite the bad-egg stink I’d let loose, I considered myself fortunate, it wasn’t long before I had to reconsider. I was stuck and struggling to get free only seemed to drive me deeper into the mire. The storm showed no signs of abating and I was getting colder. The only good thing was that I didn’t sink any further if I stayed still. It wasn’t much of a good thing.

‘Help!’ I yelled as loudly as I’d ever shouted, realising my chances of being heard in that wilderness, in that wind, were infinitesimal.

Nevertheless, I wasn’t going anywhere, so, every few minutes, I unleashed a lung-busting bellow in the hope that Hobbes, or anybody, might hear me, pull me out and take me somewhere warm and dry, somewhere I could have a hot drink and something to eat. I still hadn’t had my lunch. At the back of my mind a terrifying thought was growing; no one was going to hear me. I was going to die of hypothermia, unless I struggled and drowned first.

As time passed, my cries became weaker and less frequent, while the invading cold overcame all resistance. My throat was sore, even though, by tilting my head, I could swallow rain, and I was exhausted and hopeless. Although I desperately wanted to lie down and rest, I was stuck in a standing position, but even so, my head lolled, my chin rested on my chest, and I fell into an odd sort of semi-conscious doze.

‘Hello, dear.’

I raised my head. A small, yellow wigwam was addressing me, in Mrs Goodfellow’s voice. Could hypothermia cause hallucinations, I wondered?

‘Are you having a nice paddle?’

‘No,’ I said, wondering why I was in conversation with a wigwam, ‘I’m stuck.’

‘Then I suppose we ought to pull you out.’

At least the hallucination was talking sense, but I could see a problem: ‘I’m stuck fast,’ I said, ‘and you’re too small a wigwam to do much good.’

‘Nonsense, dear. Billy will help me.’

‘He’s a good man, that Billy, but he’s in Sorenchester.’

‘No, mate. I’m here.’ The wigwam had swapped to Billy’s voice.

‘Clever wigwam,’ I murmured, which was difficult as my teeth were chattering again and my eyelids were too heavy to keep open.

Both of the wigwam’s voices spoke, there was a racking pain in my shoulders, a pop, and a sudden sense of release.

‘It is very strange,’ I said to myself, ‘that I feel warm and the rain has stopped.’

I still couldn’t move and thought the bog still had me until, realising I was lying down, I opened my eyes. For reasons I was unable to fathom, I was on my back, swaddled in blankets, as immobile as an Egyptian mummy. The rock ceiling above me was flickering red. Something smelt good, making my mouth water.

‘Where am I?’ I asked of no one in particular.

‘In one of the old mine workings,’ said Mrs Goodfellow. ‘How are you feeling?’

‘Stiff … and hungry,’ I said, turning my head to see her. ‘What happened?’

‘Billy and I pulled you out. You were stuck fast and getting dozy.’

‘Thank you. I … umm … seem to remember a yellow wigwam talking to me in your voice.’

She laughed. ‘I was wearing Mr Goodfellow’s old cycle cape. It came in very handy on such a wild night. It kept the rain off both of us.’

‘Both of you? Oh, yes, I remember, Billy was there. That’s why the wigwam had two voices.’

‘That’s right, dear. He drove me here.’

‘But why? I mean … what are you doing here?’

‘We came to let the old fellow know the press has moved on and that he can come home when he wishes.’

‘How did you know where to find us?’

‘You’d better have something to eat and drink before we talk any more. Sit up.’

‘I can’t. The blankets are too tight.’

Leaning across, she tugged a corner, freeing me. I sat up, dislodging a hot water bottle in the shape of a deformed hippopotamus, and looked around. A brisk fire was burning in the entrance and there was a pile of twisted, dark logs by the far wall. Outside it was pitch black, the wind still blustering and howling, the rain still pounding the rocks. There was no sign of Hobbes, or Billy, or Dregs, but I was far more interested in the pot bubbling on the fire, which was sending out tendrils of steam and, more to the point, enticing, savoury, warm smells.

Mrs Goodfellow ladled out a bowl of what turned out to be stew, stuck a spoon in it and handed it to me. I stuffed myself until there was nowhere left to be stuffed, almost crying with delight, and it was only when I was on to my second bowl that I could really appreciate the flavours: vegetables, stock and a variety of meats expertly blended into one delightful whole. My ordeal almost began to feel worth enduring for such a reward. It was another of the old girl’s masterpieces.

When I finished, she took the bowl away and handed me a mug of tea and, by the time I’d drained it, my spirits were quite restored, though my arms and legs were heavy and aching.

‘That was wonderful. Thank you … and thanks for getting me out of that horrible bog.’

‘You’re welcome, though I might have struggled without Billy’s help. He crawled over the top and prised you out with an old pit prop, while I pulled on a rope. You came out with a slurp and a cloud of stinky marsh gas. At least that’s what he said it was.’

‘Well,’ I said, ‘I’ll thank him when I see him. Where is he?’

‘He’s with the old fellow and Dregs. They’ve gone for a walk.’

‘Out there?’ I said, with a glance at the storm. ‘But, it’s horrible.’

‘No, in here.’

‘I don’t understand’

‘They’ve gone into the mine.’

‘Isn’t that dangerous?’

‘That’s how the old fellow likes it.’

‘I suppose, but … umm … why does he want to go for a walk in a mine?’

‘He’s interested in mining.’

‘Is he? He’s never mentioned it.’

‘He’s interested in many things that he never mentions, unless he has a reason.’

‘I thought he was only interested in crime and art … and music … and films … and … and aubergines.’

‘Oh, no, dear. He likes zoology and astronomy and gastronomy and history and politics and economics and geology and rheology and theology and agriculture and oceanography and sport and …’

‘Enough!’ I said. ‘I get the point.’

‘That’s why he’s so interesting.’

‘I’m not sure that’s why. But, tell me, how did you find me?’

‘We were looking for your campsite when we heard shouting.’

‘I was lucky. These hills are huge and you might not have come anywhere near.’

‘Well, dear,’ she said, ‘I expected he’d stay somewhere around Stradlingate, because that’s what he usually did when he came up here. I think it comforts him.’

‘I’m not comfortable,’ I said, shivering as a blast of wind howled outside and made the fire spark.

‘Shall I adjust your blanket, dear?’

‘No, I don’t mean that. I mean this place … this whole area … there’s something wrong with it. It spooks me, if you know what I mean.’

‘Not really, dear. It is wild and lonely, but it’s beautiful in its own way.’

‘Perhaps,’ I said, doubtfully, ‘but Blackcastle is the pits.’

‘It was quite prosperous long ago, but it’s fallen on hard times since the Paynes stole the land.’

‘The Paynes? I saw a bloke called Payne today … Sir Gerald. I didn’t like him.’

‘There aren’t many round here have a good word for the Paynes, especially the current crop.’

‘I guess,’ I said, ‘it’s the old story of the aristocracy trampling the peasants underfoot.’

‘Not really. It’s odder than that, according to Roger Jolly’s Pirate Miscellany.’

‘What’s that? I’ve never heard of it.’

‘It’s a very old book and very rare, because the Paynes tried to destroy all the copies. A few have survived and the old fellow has one. I imagine it’s valuable.’

‘I’ve never seen it.’

‘No, dear, he keeps it in a strongbox in the attic.’

‘Tell me about the Paynes,’ I said, stretching out my legs.

‘Once upon a time,’ said Mrs Goodfellow, ‘late in the seventeenth century, a child was born to a small farmer who scratched a bare living on Blacker Beacon. Such a life was not for Greville, who ran away when he was twelve and joined the navy. Being a bright, active lad, he did well, until he was wounded during the Wars of the Spanish Succession.’

I nodded wisely, pretending I was familiar with the history.

‘He lost an eye,’ she continued, ‘and while recuperating met Edward Teach.’

I must have looked blank, because she explained.

‘Better known as Blackbeard the pirate?’

‘I’ve heard of him,’ I said.

‘When Greville met him, he was still a privateer, but, when the war ended, he took up piracy. Greville became mate of his ship, the
Queen Anne’s Revenge,
and prospered, until Blackbeard shot him during a dispute about dried peas. Greville, however, was made of tough stuff and survived.

‘He came home with enough wealth to buy a small farm, but was not a success, until he discovered gold and began mining.’

‘So, the Paynes’ money came from piracy and gold mining.’

‘In part, dear, but his fortune bought power and influence and after he performed some small service for King George the Second, he was made a baronet. He was generally well liked, or at least tolerated, by local folk.’

‘When did people turn against the Paynes?’

‘His son, Sir Rodney, was a greedy and devious man, who inherited the estate and made use of the Inclosure Act to acquire land over which he had no rights. Ever since, the Paynes have been a blight on local people, although Gerald’s father did try to make some sort of amends. Unfortunately, Sir Gerald reversed most of his father’s improvements.’

‘A bad family.’

‘On the whole, dear.’

‘I wonder,’ I said, ‘how long the others will be.’

Mrs Goodfellow shrugged. ‘I doubt they’ll be long. I’ll put the kettle on again.’

As the wind outside howled with increased volume, I snuggled into my blankets and looked forward to a fresh cup of tea. It had been a long and trying day and I’d been incredibly lucky to survive. I wondered whether Sergeant Beer might have been correct about Hugh Duckworth’s death; a storm such as the one raging outside could kill a man so easily, and perhaps he had just been caught out by its suddenness. It could have been that he’d just run out of luck, and I couldn’t help feeling he must have used up a fair amount in attracting such a fine woman as Mrs Duckworth. Though she’d, perhaps unsurprisingly, been cool and distant, she’d still displayed flashes of compassion and passion that made her very appealing. Besides, she wasn’t at all bad looking and her soft brown eyes were lovely. I couldn’t deny having been attracted to her, which was a bit off in the circumstances. Not that it mattered, for I wouldn’t see her again.

Something, beside the wind, was howling, something becoming louder, something coming from inside. It was an echoing, confusing, almost musical sound, rising and falling, with voices in it.

‘What’s that?’ I asked, trying not to sound too nervous.

Mrs Goodfellow poured steaming water into a teapot and stood upright. ‘It’s the lads coming back.’

As the eerie noise drew nearer, it became apparent that Dregs was making the howling as he backed up the rich, if raucous, baritone of Hobbes and Billy’s reedy treble. The echoes distorted everything, producing a weird, twisted, pulsing beat and it was a long time before I could make out the words: ‘Heigh-ho, heigh ho’.

Standing up to greet them, discovering I was naked, I clutched at the blankets and wrapped them around me like a toga. Yet I was deceived by the acoustics, for it must have been five minutes before they appeared round a bend.

Dregs, abandoning his backing vocals, charged, nearly knocking me down in his eagerness to say ‘hello’. I could only think that he was trying to make amends for his earlier desertion, though I had to admit, he’d shown far more sense than I had.

‘Hiya,’ said Billy.

Hobbes nodded. ‘How are you feeling?’

‘I’m fine, now,’ I said. ‘Thank you.’

‘I expect you boys will be wanting a cup of tea and a bite to eat,’ said Mrs Goodfellow.

About half an hour later, Hobbes wiped his lips and rose from the rock on which he’d been sitting down to eat. ‘That was delicious, thanks, lass,’ he said, throwing another log on the fire and staring out into the dripping darkness. ‘This weather is set for the night, so we’d better make the most of it and get some sleep. It’ll be better in the morning.’