Inspector Hobbes and the Blood: A Fast-paced Comedy Crime Fantasy (unhuman) (43 page)

Phil,
guessing the reason for my sudden dejection, pointed out that Ingrid had been
engaged for a year and that I'd attended her engagement party. I could vaguely
remember an evening at the Bear with the Sore Head when I hadn't had to pay for
my lager, when some affable Scottish guy had been hanging around Ingrid, buying
drinks for everybody. I'd not paid him much attention, being focussed, so far
as I could focus, on preventing Phil getting too close. I could have wept, yet
couldn't help feeling she'd found a far better man than me and, though I wished
them both well, it felt like I'd been punched in the gut – except the ache
lasted far longer.

Hobbes
didn't speak about what had happened until, a day of winter sunshine cheering
him up, he got out of bed, dressed in a shapeless brown dressing gown and
strolled with me around the back garden. After a few minutes he sat on a bench,
which was cunningly situated where it would capture any warmth from the pale
sun. I sat beside him as he breathed deeply for a few moments.

'Well,'
he said at last, 'I expect you'd like to know what happened?'

'I
would. The suspense has been killing me.'

He
chuckled, deep and soft as distant thunder. 'I'll start from when I got back to
the station. I had a short, if informative, chat with Tony before releasing
him. I couldn't detain him any longer. After all, he had come in voluntarily.'

I
said nothing.

A
faint grin twitched on his lips. 'At the time, I entertained suspicions that
Rex Witcherley had used the noisy party to cover the museum break-in and it
hadn't occurred to me that Mrs Witcherley might be the villain. She seemed such
a nice lady, though I'm no expert. I was planning to get my car and go straight
round to see Mr Witcherley when I had a thought. Do you remember the scent of
flowers on the glove fibres?'

I
nodded.

'I
knew I'd smelt it somewhere before and, finally, it came to me. It had been in
Mr Witcherley's office and it was her perfume, only the cigarette smoke had
masked it. I made sketches of Tony and Mrs Witcherley together and fell to
speculating whether one of Mr Barrington-Oddy's assailants might have been a
woman. His description of the taller one, vague though it was, fitted Mrs
Witcherley and the other assailant could easily have been Tony.'

'Who
you'd just released.'

He
shrugged. 'I thought he might lead me to Mr Waring.'

'You
were going to see Rex. How could he lead you if you weren't following him?'

He
tapped the side of his nose. 'Tony's trail's is not difficult to pick up when
you know where he started and I did go round to the Witcherley's eventually.
Their house is smart, isn't it?'

I
nodded. 'Too smart.'

'Mrs
Witcherley came to the door and must have known why I was there, because she
confused me by bursting into tears, confessing and begging for forgiveness. She
said her husband had made her do it and offered to take me to see Mr Waring.
Something about a woman in tears makes me soft-hearted, and it seems to have
made me soft-headed as well. I believed her. She asked me to follow her to the
garage, where she would show me something. She did.'

'What?'

'That
I was a fool to trust her. Telling me to stand aside, she unlocked the garage doors
and next thing I knew she'd squirted pepper spray into my face. I took a step
back and I guess she must have opened a trap-door because I dropped through
into the pit.'

'Why
would she have a pit?'

'It
was an ice store. There used to be a millpond in Lower Fenderton, down by the
river, from where they'd cut ice blocks in winter, storing them underground to
keep things cool before we had fridges. She must have adapted it. I don't know
why, though I'm certain it wasn't done for my benefit. Anyway, it was a long
drop and, though some old leaves broke my fall, it knocked me out, I think.'

'Phil
said you'd dropped in.'

'Yes,
and I felt he was there, though he wasn't making much sense. They'd doped him
and, when he came to and complained, she sprayed him.'

I
grimaced in sympathy.

Hobbes
continued. 'Being stuck in the pit with no way out, unable to get a signal on
my mobile, all I could do was wait and see what she had in store for me. At
least it gave me time to listen, to think and to piece together the story. It
was clear she was the villain and Mr Witcherley was not involved at all. I grew
hungry, thirsty, furious and desperate until you dropped in with the leg of
lamb, which was most welcome. How did you do get there?'

I
related my own sorry exploits and, despite skipping the most embarrassing bits,
still felt like a bumbling incompetent. He didn't see it that way.

'You
did well,' he said.

Though
I don't know if he meant it, it cheered me up.

'You
know,' I said, 'I really thought you were going to attack me when I fell in.'

'Well,'
he said, 'I didn't.'

Something
in his eyes stopped any further questioning along that line.

'Thank
you,' I said. 'So, what was Narcisa trying to achieve?'

'Ah,
now that is interesting. You know her family comes from Romania? Well, she
seems to have got it into her head that she was descended from Vlad Tepes …'

'It
was his dagger?'

'Possibly.
It certainly looks like the one in his portrait. You saw it?'

I
nodded.

'Vlad's
father, being a member of the Order of the Dragon, Vlad was known as Dracula,
which translates as 'son of the dragon'.'

'What's
that got to do with Narcisa?'

 'I'm
afraid Mrs Witcherley, driven mad by increasing signs of her own mortality,
became convinced a blood ritual would help her regain her youth.'

'Why
Phil's blood?'

'His
investigations were becoming a danger to her and his blood was as good as
anyone's.'

'Tony
thought they were only going to frighten him,' I said, 'and tried to stop her.'

Hobbes
nodded. 'I'm not surprised. Though he is nasty, vindictive and greedy, he's not
a killer.

From
what I heard, Mrs Witcherley had an old book detailing a blood-ritual, which seems
to have put the idea into her head and began collecting specific artefacts that
were, on the face of it, connected with Vlad Tepes. They were certainly
Romanian and date from roughly the right period and, although it's anyone's
guess how authentic they are, they undeniably match items shown in the
portrait, which Mr Roman had sold her. I believe he elevated the value of his
dagger by modifying the painting – he was good at copying and pastiche.'

'I
saw the book,' I said. 'Biggs from the museum sold it to her and offered her
the bracelet.'

'So
the superintendent informed me,' said Hobbes. 'Mr Biggs and Mr Roman were in
cahoots but failed to realise how dangerous she was. Anyway, as you know, Mrs
Witcherley eventually got her hands on the Roman Cup, the ring and the
bracelet. She picked up the altar at a church jumble, though it wasn't for
sale.'

'What
about Jimmy? Who killed him? And buried him? And then dug him up?' I shook my
head, still baffled.

'I
never believed Mr Roman's account of the break-in,' said Hobbes, 'and we proved
he'd lied when we found the violin in his car boot. As I see it, Mr Roman
refused to listen to Jimmy when he demanded money and threatened to call the
police. Jimmy left in a fury, ending up getting drunk at the Feathers, where he
had the misfortune to fall in with Tony, who'd been working for Mrs Witcherley
since she caught him breaking into their house.

Jimmy
made some wild threats about what he'd like to do with Mr Roman's dagger,
though I doubt he meant them, and let slip that he knew the combination to Mr
Roman's safe. Tony told Mrs Witcherley, who was desperate to get hold of the
dagger and promised Jimmy money to steal it, which must have sounded like the
answer to his problems. For her, it was considerably cheaper than paying what
Mr Roman was demanding. Sadly, he caught Jimmy in the act and there was a
struggle. I suspect the fatal injury occurred on the lawn outside the French
windows. Do you remember I draw your attention to that soggy patch?'

'Yes,'
I nodded. 'Oh, I get it! It was soggy because Roman had swilled all the blood
away.'

'I
fear so, and I believe he did it immediately after killing Jimmy.'

'With
the Dagger of Tepes?'

'Indeed.'
Hobbes looked grave. 'Poor, silly Jimmy.'

'And
poor Anna.' I still felt sorry for the sweet-faced little woman.

A
thin film of cloud dimming the sun, I shivered. A murder story is no longer a
mere shock-horror entertainment when you know someone involved in it.

Hobbes
sighed. 'Mr Roman, panicking, buried the body in the grave, which I suspect he'd
previously used as a hiding place for smuggled antiques. He was not as
respectable as he made out.'

'But
why that particular grave?'

'Simply,
it was hidden from the road, yet Mondragon is a Romanian name and there may
have been a deeper reason. The secret probably died with Mr Roman. Tony, who
had been keeping an eye on things, witnessed the killing and the disposal of
the body and tried to blackmail him into handing over the dagger.'

'Which
was still in Jimmy's back.'

'Right.'
Hobbes nodded. 'Tony didn't know that at first. He had, however made a note of
the safe's combination and broke in himself when Mr Roman refused to hand it
over.'

'Ah,'
I said, 'so, there were two break-ins and Tony was the one who left the piece
of paper behind. It was clever to spot the clue on the back.'

'Thank
you.' He looked pleased. 'Carelessness has always been Tony's downfall. Anyway,
Mr Roman must have felt the pressure building, what with the killing and the
blackmail and a second break-in. It was the final straw when the violin section
came to his house and called the police.

It
was obvious where the dagger was hidden, so Tony dug it up – on the very night
we happened to be in the same graveyard.'

'That
was a lucky break,' I said.

'Lucky?'
He winked and his smile broadened. 'Yes, it could have been luck.'

The
cloud passing, a haze of gnats took the opportunity to dance in the sun's
spotlight and, for some obscure doggy reason, Dregs began digging a patch of
garden, a cone of mud balanced on his nose. Mrs Goodfellow called us for lunch
and, since she regarded Hobbes as an invalid, fed us the world's tastiest,
creamiest, chicken soup. Speaking was out of the question, for it demanded
total dedication. Dregs was far too muddy to be allowed inside and his dismal
howls were the only sounds, apart from those of eating. He howled even more
when Mrs Goodfellow pounced, hauling him upstairs for a bath. By then, he'd
learned the futility of trying to escape.

On
ending our meal, we adjourned to the sofa, where Hobbes continued his summing
up.

'We
come now,' he said, 'to the museum break-in.'

'It
still seems ludicrous,' I said, 'to go to all that trouble for one bracelet.'

'But
not to Mrs Witcherley who had lost all sense of proportion. In fact, it was
only after learning about the Order of the Dragon that I began to get an
inkling of what was really going on and felt old Romanian superstitions might
be at the bottom of it.'

'Why
did Biggs tell us the bracelet was from the Order of St George? Didn't he
know?'

'Of
course he knew. He was trying to mislead me. He'd learned of Mrs Witcherley's
obsession from Mr Roman, acquired the bracelet with museum funds and was attempting
to sell it to her. He was too greedy, so she stole it, which explains why he
knew only one particular article out of all the thousands in the boxes had been
stolen. Knowing he'd lose his position and reputation if the truth came out, he
tried to throw me off the scent.'

'Where
is he now?'

'Lying
low and hoping everything will blow over. He'll have some awkward questions to
answer when he returns.'

Mrs
Goodfellow brought us tea. Hobbes's injuries had scared her and she was still
subdued, which, at least, meant she didn't keep materialising by my ear with a
shrill, 'Hello, dear.' I was grateful.

Hobbes,
thanking her, took a huge swig and sighed. 'The lass makes superb tea. I really
missed it when I was down the hole.'

I
nodded and took a sip. 'What about the Roman cup?'

'That
puzzled me,' he said, 'until Augustus explained its origins. I came across an
old tale about Vlad Tepes ordering a gold cup to be left next to a fountain in
his kingdom. Anyone was free to use it, but anyone foolish enough to steal it
would be impaled, which must have been an excellent deterrent. In addition,
there were rumours that Vlad drank the blood of his enemies to keep young. The
cup vanished after his death and Mrs Witcherley got it into her head that the
Roman cup and Vlad's cup were one and the same. I wouldn't be at all surprised
if Mr Roman had led her to the conclusion.