3 Inspector Hobbes and the Gold Diggers (19 page)

At least I was awake when the curate, Kevin Godley, known as Kev the Rev because of his motor bike obsession, got up to do a reading from the Bible. Since he was a far better speaker than the vicar, it wasn’t difficult to pay attention and a phrase struck me as apposite: ‘And having food and raiment let us be therewith content.’ I did, I reflected, have food and raiment and was quite content, or would have been had I a little money to call my own.

As if reading my mind, Kev continued: ‘For the love of money is the root of all evil’. I shrugged off the attack, for I neither loved, nor needed money, getting on pretty well without it. A warm glow of self-righteousness spread through me, a most welcome sensation in the draughty old church.

‘They that will be rich,’ said Kev, ‘fall into temptation and a snare, and into many foolish and hurtful lusts, which drown men in destruction and perdition.’

Not being rich, or ever likely to be, it was unlikely I’d succumb to that particular temptation and I enjoyed a sudden feeling of righteous superiority over my less fortunate, if much richer, neighbours.

My happy complacency lasted until the vicar resumed control and announced it was time to present harvest gifts. Mrs Goodfellow sent me to the front with the bag of aubergines. As I stood up, I realised I was the only adult, a giant among the children. I was thinking I should sit down again when Mrs Goodfellow gave me the look. Realising the futility of trying to be inconspicuous, aiming for nonchalant good humour, I stepped into the aisle, swinging my bag casually, as a little girl with a wicker basket full of shiny apples rushed past, eager to reach the front. I was on the down swing and my bag smacked her full in the face. She fell, emitting a wail of distress, and my bag split, spilling its bounty in a wide arc. A tubby boy with freckles, the next in line, stepped on a very ripe aubergine, skidded and crashed into a pew, causing his magnificent marrow to explode. He burst into tears and the vicar, hands raised, looking aghast, rushed to help.

‘I’m … umm … ever so sorry,’ I said and bent down to help the child.

It was simply bad timing that the girl’s mother was already rushing to the rescue. As her knees hit my back, she went right over the top, crashing down and felling the onrushing vicar, whose sprawling demise caused a domino effect among the children, and a shower of tomatoes and freshly laid eggs.

‘I didn’t mean it,’ I said, standing up, rubbing my back, stunned by the carnage I’d caused.

‘It’s that man again!’ cried a lady with blue-rinsed hair and a face that looked like it could chop through logs. ‘He’s always trouble.’

‘Not always,’ I said, ‘and it was an accident.’

‘What have you done to my wife and my little girl?’ asked a burly, balding man, striding forward, his face as red as the squashed tomato beneath his foot. As he slid past, arms flailing like a novice ice skater, he demolished the poor vicar, who was just getting back to his feet, his once pristine surplice horribly egged and slimed.

A firm hand grabbed my shoulder. It was shaking with indignation and I was fully expecting painful retribution from an outraged parent, but it turned out to be Mrs Goodfellow’s. People were sniggering, trying to look suitably outraged, except for the young werewolves who were howling with laughter.

‘I think,’ she said, ‘it’s time to go.’

My cheeks aflame, hanging my head in shame, muttering apologies to anyone who caught my eye, I allowed myself to be frogmarched through the church and evicted into The Shambles.

‘I am so sorry,’ I said, hoping to calm her anger with a show of penitence, although it really hadn’t been my fault. ‘I didn’t mean any harm. It was just an unfortunate accident.’

‘What are you, dear,’ she said, looking me right in the eye, ‘some kind of Doomsday machine?’ She exploded into laughter, leaning against me, her eyes streaming. ‘That was the best service I’ve been to in years, and I don’t know about the rest of them, but I feel thoroughly invigorated. Thank you.’

Wiping her eyes, she patted me on the back, as I stood before her, nonplussed and still horrified by what I’d done. From inside came the singing of ‘We Plough the Fields and Scatter’. My antics had not held things up for long.

‘Anyway,’ she said, her hysterics subsiding, ‘let’s go home and see to the dinner.’

‘Great,’ I said, feeling immediately better. ‘What is it?’

‘Nothing special. It’s slow roasted belly pork with mashed potatoes, glazed carrots, peas and a nice apple sauce, using some of the windfalls.’

‘That sounds delicious, but is that all?’ I said, joking.

‘No, dear,’ she said, seriously. ‘I’ve also made a blackberry and apple pie.’

‘I saw it,’ I said, wishing dinnertime would hurry up, ‘and it looked absolutely marvellous. Let’s hope Kathy will be alright with it.’

Mrs Goodfellow shrugged. ‘I hope she’ll like it.’

‘And another thing,’ I said, feeling a little sorry for her, ‘what will she do when she wakes up and finds no one’s home?’

‘She’ll be fine. I left a note, telling her to help herself to whatever she wanted for breakfast.’

I grimaced, recalling the first time I’d had to make my own breakfast at Hobbes’s. Things had not quite gone according to plan and I’d come perilously close to torching the kitchen while trying to make a cup of tea.

‘Let’s hope she’s better at it than you were,’ said Hobbes.

I must have leapt a good foot skyward. ‘Where did you come from?’ I asked on landing.

‘From across the road, I’ve done what I had to at the bank and was just leaving when I saw you two having a laugh.’ He glanced at the clock on the church tower. ‘You’re out early.’

‘Yes,’ said Mrs Goodfellow, regaling him with my misadventures as we strolled home.

His guffaw resonated off the church walls like the sound of a great bell. ‘How do you manage it?’ he asked.

‘I only wish I knew.’

‘How many did you actually bring down?’

‘Only two directly, I think, though a few more came down in the aftermath.’

‘It reminds me,’ said Hobbes, ‘of when Bob Nibblet went to church.’

‘Skeleton’ Bob Nibblet, the skinniest man in the county, was its most unsuccessful petty criminal and a notorious drinker. The two were not unconnected. I wouldn’t have reckoned him a churchgoer.

‘Bob was experiencing a run of bad luck,’ said Hobbes, ‘having been caught red-handed five times in a week. On the sixth evening, he decided to forego poaching and to drown his sorrows. At throwing out time, having taken on board a gallon of Old Bootsplasher Ale, some joker bet him ten pounds that he couldn’t vault the car park wall. Eager for easy money, Bob accepted the bet and successfully cleared the wall.’

‘Good for him,’ I said, as we crossed into Blackdog Street, ‘but what’s this got to do with church?’

‘I was coming to that. Although he got over, he had quite failed to look before he leapt. He landed in a parked car.’

‘Don’t you mean on it?’

‘No, it was parked parallel to the wall and he crashed straight through the driver’s window.’

‘Was he hurt?’

‘He broke his leg. Worse for Bob was that the car belonged to Colonel Squire, the magistrate who’d just fined him one hundred pounds for poaching.’

‘That was bad luck.’

‘It was, and more so for the colonel, who had just enjoyed a pleasant meal with Mrs Squire. Fortunately, Bob is not the burliest fellow in the world, but it is still not pleasant to have a fully grown man wearing hobnail boots land on your face.’

‘I expect not. But what has this got to do with church?’

‘I was coming to that.’ He paused at the bottom of the steps outside the house. ‘Next morning, after a night of being plastered, and having learned that he’d been summonsed, charged with being drunk and disorderly, he realised Colonel Squire’s fiery temper would not have been improved by a broken nose and several loose teeth. Therefore, he decided to seek comfort in the church.

‘It turned out that a visiting evangelist was leading the service and the vicar, disapproving of the young man’s style, had taken refuge in his office.’

‘I remember,’ said Mrs Goodfellow. ‘The evangelist’s name was Gordon Cursitt.’

‘That’s right,’ said Hobbes. ‘He preached about the healing power of the Lord and, Bob, carried away by the power of his words, struggled to the front of the church, threw aside his crutches and cried “Alleluia!”’

‘That’s amazing.’

‘Gordon Cursitt rushed to tell the vicar of the miracle and the vicar, remorseful for his scepticism, hurried out to see what had happened, but there was no sign of Bob.’

‘Where was he?’

‘Behind the font, groaning and clutching his leg.’

He chuckled, bounded up the steps and opened the door. I hoped the story was true, though I had to admit I sometimes doubted Hobbes’s veracity. The savour of roasting pork drove lesser considerations from my mind as I followed Mrs Goodfellow into the house.

Kathy was sitting at the kitchen table, an empty plate and a glass of water in front of her.

‘Good morning,’ said Hobbes, as Mrs Goodfellow let Dregs into the garden, ‘did you sleep well?’

‘Not really. That pesky dog was under my bed. He snores.’

‘You should keep the door closed,’ said Mrs Goodfellow.

‘I did. He must have snuck in when I went to the bathroom.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Hobbes. ‘You should have pushed him out.’

‘He growled.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ said Hobbes. ‘I’ll tell him not to do it again.’

‘Did you find everything for breakfast?’ asked Mrs Goodfellow with a friendly smile, displaying her false teeth.

‘Not really. The bread wasn’t sliced and you don’t appear to have a toaster, I couldn’t find the coffee machine and there were no sodas in the ice box.’

‘Sorry,’ said Hobbes, ‘but the lass bakes her own bread and slices it with a bread knife. There’s a grill on the cooker and she makes coffee on the hob. Would you like one now?’

‘Yes, please. I’ve only drunk water from the faucet and I can’t face the day without my coffee.’

‘I’ll make you some,’ said Mrs Goodfellow. ‘Did you find anything to eat?’

‘Only a pie,’ said Kathy. ‘I made do with that.’

‘I see,’ said Mrs Goodfellow.

‘I hope that’s alright,’ said Kathy.

‘I’m sure it is,’ said Hobbes. ‘If you’re hungry, you must eat.’

I couldn’t believe she’d guzzled the whole pie, for, unlike Hobbes, I looked forward to my puddings. A slice of that pie would have been the perfect finale to the roast pork and she had deprived me of a real treat. I would have liked to have said something fine, biting and sarcastic, at least, if I’d been able to think of anything, but instead, still trying to be on my best behaviour, I was reduced to a sort of mental spluttering. The whole pie? The old girl was a generous cook and there were always seconds and leftovers and, though Kathy was a large lady (I was still on my best behaviour), I couldn’t get my head around it. The whole pie? Succulent with apples and ripe with blackberries? I could have wept and it wasn’t because I was obsessed with food, for although I had a healthy appetite, I enjoyed a wide range of interests; anyone fortunate enough to have eaten one of the old girl’s pies would have understood my point of view.

Except for Kathy.

‘I didn’t much like it,’ she said. ‘It was too fruity.’

‘It was a fruit pie,’ I said, gritting my teeth.

‘Yeah, well,’ she said, ‘I guess it was at that.’

Hobbes smiled. ‘We’d best get out of here and give the lass some space. Shall we all go through to the sitting room?’

‘Yes, Daddy.’

I went upstairs, changed out of my suit and into more normal wear, olive chinos and a crisply ironed white shirt. Going back down, I had to squeeze myself in beside Kathy on the sofa. I thought Hobbes looked a little ill at ease on the oak chair, but I approved that he’d got her away from Mrs Goodfellow. I’d have hated the cooking to be disrupted.

‘What are we doing this afternoon?’ asked Kathy with a smile for Hobbes. ‘After luncheon, that is.’

‘I really must get back to work.’ said Hobbes. ‘There was a break in at the bank last night.’

‘Wow, I didn’t realise how crime-ridden this quaint little town is.’

‘Perhaps Andy can look after you? Until I’m free.’

‘Do I have to?’ I said, wondering about kicking him; I might have had he not been so hard and had I not reminded myself that I was on my best behaviour. ‘That is … umm … I don’t want to interfere with Kathy’s plans.’

‘I have no plans … I was just hoping to spend a few hours with my daddy.’

‘Unfortunately, I have a job to do, and will probably be busy all afternoon. Andy will show you the sights. Won’t you?’

‘I guess so,’ I said, unable to see why she couldn’t go with him. He had, after all, taken me to numerous crime scenes without any problem. Perhaps he thought she would eat the evidence. I smiled, putting on a brave face. ‘Actually, I’ll be glad to.’

‘Thanks,’ said Hobbes.

‘In the meantime,’ I said, ‘tell us what happened at the bank.’

‘Person or persons unknown drilled into the vault from the cellar of the shop next door.’