Free 3 Inspector Hobbes and the Gold Diggers by Wilkie Martin

I’d witnessed some incredible feats from him, this one took some beating, for the boulder was as tall as him and even broader, but, as he retrieved his coat, he frowned and dropped to his knees. I had a sudden fear he’d suffered a heart attack and jumped out to help, but he was crawling forward like a monstrous toad, sniffing the grass, and examining the track. He stood up, brushing dust from his knees, and looking puzzled.
    ‘It appears,’ he said, ‘that a heavy vehicle passed this way, sometime after last week’s rain. I can’t tell which way it was heading, but, whichever way, someone would have had to roll the boulders aside and then put them back. Why would anyone want to drive up here?’
    ‘I don’t know,’ I said, ‘but we’re going to.’
    ‘Very true,’ he said, as we got back into the car.
    The next couple of hundred metres took us over rutted, bumpy land but, just as I feared my brains would be shaken out, the going became much easier, the lane smooth and covered with short grass. I suspected the abundance of rabbits kept the vegetation down. They certainly kept Dregs interested. He made several frantic attempts to squeeze out of the window as white bobtails bounded away.
    The track ended at the manor, a long, single-storey building of grey rock, still showing traces of whitewash, though the roof had long since fallen in.
    ‘This is the end of the road,’ said Hobbes, as we stopped. ‘Thanks for the lift. Do you fancy a coffee or anything before you go? I can have the kettle on in no time.’
    ‘No,’ said Billy. ‘I’d better get back. I’m working this evening and Featherlight doesn’t like me being late.’
    We unpacked our gear and piled it by a wall. Billy turned the hearse about.
    ‘Have a great time, guys,’ he said, ‘and, when you need picking up, you’ve got my number. See you.’
    He drove away, leaving me with feelings of abandonment and panic. I wasn’t used to the wild and the mountains and moors seemed to be gathering around, threatening me with their vastness.
    ‘This old house belonged to the dowager Lady Payne,’ said Hobbes, chewing on a blade of grass. ‘I knew her well.’
    ‘What was she like?’
    ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I never met her.’
    ‘Then how did you know her well?’
    ‘I used to draw water from it. I could do with a nice hot cup of tea and this dog will need a drink before we set off, so I’d better find it. It was over there, I think. The kettle and the mugs are in the black rucksack and the stove is in the grey one, if you wouldn’t mind getting them out.’
    Taking a jerry can and a length of rope from the pile, he strolled towards the old barn, shoved a heap of rusting, crumbling, corrugated iron out of the way and uncovered a round, flat stone, about the size of a dustbin lid. As I dug through the rucksacks, he slid the stone aside, peered into the hole, gave me a thumbs up and returned with the can full of water. Within a few minutes, we had tea to drink. Afterwards, while I rinsed the tin mugs and Dregs’s bowl, Hobbes sorted out the gear.
    ‘Right,’ he said, picking up the larger rucksack, ‘let’s get into the mountains.’

6
    Within minutes, with the straps of the smaller rucksack digging into my shoulders that were still tender from the previous day’s hike, I was struggling to keep up as Hobbes led me into a pathless waste of rank grass, bracken and heather. The odd sparse, stunted gorse bush appeared to cower in the occasional dips and hollows, though what they were hiding from I couldn’t imagine. The sun was bright and I might even have been too warm, were it not for a gentle breeze whispering through the grass. Hobbes, striding along, was almost hidden beneath his massive grey rucksack and our supplies. He either didn’t believe in modern, lightweight tents, or hadn’t heard of them, for, bundled on top of his rucksack was a great, folded sheet of faded green canvas, a couple of heavy wooden poles, and a