Free Inspector Hobbes and the Curse - a fast-paced comedy crime fantasy (unhuman) by Wilkie Martin

special, or even to a Mrs Goodfellow ordinary, if such a thing
existed.
    I
needed to get out; the skull had unsettled me. Something didn’t look right
about it; it wasn’t just the horrible, discoloured canines, though they were
bad enough, but the shape was all wrong. It looked nearly human, in some way
reminding me of Hobbes and yet it was almost completely unlike him. I wondered
if it might have belonged to another ‘unhuman’ being, though, I guessed it was
more likely to have come from an unfortunate human with a nasty dental
condition.
    Leaving
the house, I walked towards the centre of Sorenchester, trying not to think
about the skull, happy for it to remain a mystery, insoluble and forgotten,
except by Mrs G and possibly the dentists. One more mystery wouldn’t make much
difference to me.
    The
sun was dazzling as I left the shade of Blackdog Street for the broad stretch
of road known as The Shambles, where it occurred to me that I had no idea why
it was called The Shambles; there was nothing shambolic about the neat rows of
Cotswold-stone shops or the hulking tower of the parish church. Turning down
Vermin Street, I headed for the bookshop, hoping to find a local history book –
not that I could buy it, of course, but a little browsing wouldn’t hurt.
    Going into the smart, modern, airy interior,
it only took a couple of minutes to find A Concise History of Sorenchester by local historian, Spiridion Konstantinopoulos. According to this, Shambles was
an ancient term for the meat market or slaughterhouse which had occupied an
area in the centre of town until the early nineteenth century. I nodded, appreciating
Spiridion’s scholarship, flicking through a few more pages until chancing on a
selection of black and white photos. In one, dated 1902, I spotted Hobbes,
lurking behind a luxuriant moustache. He was in uniform, standing as stiff as a
fence post, his hand resting on the shoulder of a wide-eyed, grubby-faced
schoolboy in a too-small blazer and a too-big cap. In the background, a
building, the ‘derelict Firkin public house,’ said the caption, lay in ruins. The
boy, Frederick Godley, had been playing inside when it had started to collapse
and only the timely arrival of Constable Hobbes had saved him from being
crushed.
    ‘Do
you intend to buy that book?’ asked a severe man, in a rainbow bow tie and a
brown woollen cardigan.
    ‘Umm
… no. I was just browsing.’
    ‘Well,
this is a bookshop, not a public library. Either buy it or get out.’
    ‘I’m
sorry. I was only looking.’
    Grabbing
the book, he thrust it back onto the shelf. The cover, catching against another
book, creased.
    ‘Vandal!’
cried the man, pulling the book back out, shaking it in front of me, its cover
flapping like a broken wing. ‘Look at the damage you’ve caused. You’ll have to
pay for it.’
    ‘But
…’
    ‘It’ll
cost you fourteen pounds and ninety-five pence.’
    ‘But
I didn’t do it and, anyway … umm … I haven’t any money.’
    The
small group of bibliophiles who had gathered to watch the fun stared at me with
deep loathing.
    ‘I
didn’t do anything,’ I insisted.
    ‘Just
look at it,’ cried the man, holding up the book like exhibit A.
    There
was a collective intake of breath and much shaking of heads among the jury.
    ‘It
wasn’t my fault.’
    ‘I’m
going to call the police.’
    The
man’s hand gripped my shoulder and the jury murmured with intent. As far as
they were concerned, I’d been caught red-handed, though I could feel my face
was even redder. The injustice was horrible.
    I
evaluated my options: I could run for it, though a couple of blokes in the
crowd looked big and fit, like rugby players, I could feign a sudden, severe
illness, or I could await my fate with equanimity and contempt for the mob. In
the end, I dithered and gibbered, letting myself get hauled towards a side
office.
    A
deep, authoritative voice rang out from the back of the crowd. ‘Release that
man at