Detective Nicely Strongoak and the Case of the Dead Elf (20 page)

‘Genealogy.’

‘Yes, a fascinating subject. But be specific. What in particular? Come on, come on, out with it!’ The gnome was getting interested, I could tell.

‘Well, for a start, what would you call a typical elf?’

He drew on his pipe. ‘Now that’s an interesting question. Interesting, interesting. Elves really are as alike as, or rather, as unlike as a …’ He held a lungful of smoke while searching to find his simile.

‘As beans in a gnome stew?’ I added helpfully for him.

His laughter set him coughing, with tears rolling down his rosy red cheeks. ‘Very good, Master Dwarf, as beans in a gnome stew. I can see you must be an expert on good cooking.’

Indeed, I had to admit that I had eaten my way halfway around Widergard. I was also a patron of and had shares in
The Burrowers
. I mentioned this to Arito.

‘Ah, yes,’ he said. ‘Many the happy evening I have spent over a bowl of broth and ale at
The Burrowers
.’ This surprised me.
The Burrowers
was the Hill’s only dwarf restaurant, and was kept pretty much secret from the rest of the population. The reason for this is simply that, contrary to popular belief, dwarfs are excellent cooks. Most people tend to think we must munch on anthracite with lignite desserts. The truth is that our rich meat dishes with numerous pungent and dark spices make dwarf cooking one of the greatest in Widergard, and
The Burrowers
was certainly the best restaurant this side of New Iron Town. The reason we do not tell everyone about it, is simply so we can keep the best seats for ourselves. For Arito to know, it showed a great degree of acceptance on the part of the dwarf community and some taste on the part of Arito. Not too surprising; gnomes are also very good cooks on the whole, doing excellent things with vegetables, as befits their agricultural origins. They can make potatoes so light they seem to fairly float off the plate and their bean stews are legendary.

‘I must admit,’ sighed Arito, ‘it seems an age since I have been to
The Burrowers
.’

‘Maybe I’ll stand you a meal there then.’

‘Now that’s an incentive! So, it’s beans we were talking about. Beans in a stew. Ah, the humble bean, each so different, yet each so alike.’

‘And how to pick one out of the stew?’

‘Well, Master Dwarf, first describe your bean.’

‘He was short, for an elf, I mean.’

‘Good.’ Arito adopted a serious air. Gone were the affectations; this was an expert speaking about his specialisation. ‘We can probably rule out the Higher Elves then; as you are indubitably aware, they are tall; although many of the Sea Elves are short, and yet, because they never settled in Widergard, they are considered High. Complexion?’

‘Fair.’

‘Come, Master Detective. Next you will be telling me his eyes were blue.’

‘No, what I meant was, he was fair, even though he spent a lot of time on the beach, and a lot of the other elves had really golden tans.’

‘I see. How about his hands?’

I thought hard, trying to picture the dead elf. I remembered Truetouch carrying the drinks, his hands holding the tray. ‘I think his fingers were quite short.’

‘We are building an interesting profile here. With the height and fair skin, which is usually a melanin adaptation to the weak sunlight of the far north, I would have thought one of the Woodland Elves of the Long Pines. But they are very nimble and they have slender hands and very long fingers. Perhaps what we have here is a Stone Elf from the Eastern Hold.’

‘Oh yes, I’ve heard tell of them from my childhood.’

‘I’m sure you would have, for of all the elves they have had the closest dealings with dwarfs. They are said to have loved the tall mountains of the east and built many fine halls there. Did your elf have particularly pointed ears?’

‘Yes, I think they were!’

‘Sorry, that was by nature of a trick question. The Stone Elves had very small, almost rounded ears, better for the higher altitudes at which they lived.’ He pondered for a while and then we got into very fine detail: shape of eyes, arch of brow, fullness of lips. I tried to magic up the dead elf’s face, but all I could get was the image of Truetouch sitting in the front seat of my wagon and the horror of the axe work. Working hard, I dragged back a less gruesome memory.

‘He had what you might call a winning smile.’

‘Good, good, interesting – very interesting. Anything else that comes to your mind, please? Every detail helps, no matter how trivial it might seem.’

After addressing what seemed to be every permutation of body shape, speech and mannerism, Arito asked if there was anything else I could add about his general bearing. I thought for a while and said, rather weakly: ‘He seemed to sweat a lot.’

That one had the expert chewing at his pipe. Nothing he could think of seemed to quite fit the bill. Arito said he needed some time to look up some references and check some scrolls. We could, however, be looking at some mixture which, given the elves’ conservatism when it came to marrying out of their clans, would be unusual, but not unheard of – except amongst the Wise and White of course.

The lamps were coming on all over Little Hundred as I left Arito – one IOU for a top ‘blow-out’ safely in his pocket. The bric-a-brac that lined the alleyways and tunnels took on a different identity in this light. Garish packaging became colourful street decorations and polished chrome reflected a thousand different colours, so that an instant party atmosphere was created. I could hear one or two early songs coming out of the inns that had popped up, almost out of nowhere, along what passed for a thoroughfare. These were drinking songs, but not the songs of drunks, sung just for the pleasure of having lungs and the energy to fill them, even if it was with the Citadel’s steamy, polluted atmosphere.

Old fathers sat on improvised doorsteps, passing the time with whoever wandered by. And other gnomes did stop and time was passed, and generally what a good time it was. Other busy gnomes were still making their way home, to family and friends; but even they had time for a quick word or pleasantry. Cooking smells were in the warm summer air and all seemed right with this bit of Widergard. I did not know how wrong I was.

The talk and smell of food had made me hungry. I wanted something a bit more substantial than the ‘new style’ cooking of the elves. First though, I needed to collect the Helmington from the Two Fingers. Whilst there I decided to check my answering service. I took the lift up to my floor; it was still too warm to consider scaling the stairs. As I made my way down the corridor, I could see the light shining in my reception room. Although this was not the obvious action of a would-be assassin or more burglars, I played it careful and crept down the corridor, axe at the ready.

The sign writer who had written, ‘Nicely Strongoak, Master Detective’, on the reception door had very cleverly left the centre of the ‘o’ as a spy hole. It is a little high for me, but by standing on tiptoe, with my hands on the door, I can just see through. I was just putting my weight on the door when it was opened by a surprised Liza Springwater. Caught off guard and off balance, I tumbled forward, knocking her to the floor and ending up on top of her in a compromising position.

‘Is this the way you treat all your clients now?’

‘Only those bigger than me.’

‘I don’t think that’s strictly true. In fact, I would say you are probably the only dwarf I have ever seen eye-to-eye with.’

We both laughed and I helped her up. The lucky accident had helped defuse what could have been an awkward situation.

‘I’m sorry about bursting in on you like that the other day,’ she said. ‘And I was probably rather huffy on the street.’

‘That’s all right, honestly.’

‘I mean, your personal life really is none of my business.’

‘That was business,’ I reassured her.

‘It did look a bit like funny business, you have to admit.’

‘Liza,’ I said looking at her straight, ‘sometimes my business is a very funny business.’ She blushed slightly.

‘My best outfit as well,’ she replied, changing the subject and brushing off the dust from her raiment. I said it looked splendid. It did. I had never seen her dressed like this. A brown leather tunic top and skirt were hung with heavy metal ornaments. They were not gold, but they were well crafted. Knee-length boots were turned over, dwarf fashion, and small beads were braided into her hair. I wondered if she also knew that this was the way dwarf maids wore their hair.

‘How was your trip?’ asked Liza, as we made our way through the connecting door into the office.

‘Informative.’

‘Mixing with royalty now. You’ll be spoilt.’ Liza sat on the desk as I checked my mail. ‘Don’t worry,’ I replied. ‘Dwarfs are guaranteed unspoilable, or your money back.’

‘Well, I suppose it never did Perry any harm.’

‘Pardon?’

‘Working for royalty, I mean.’

‘You never mentioned this before.’

‘No, but wasn’t that why you went?’

I pointed her to a chair. ‘I think you had better tell me all about this.’

‘It was just something he mentioned in passing one time,’ she said, pulling out a chair and perching at the edge. ‘Somebody he worked for, before he was at
The
Old Inn
, they had something to do with royalty. He thought it was a bit of a joke.’

‘Do you know any details?’

‘No, sorry. He never said any more about it. Is it important?’

‘It just might be.’ I stared out the window, trying to fit this new piece of the jigsaw into the picture, then went to my file trunk. I soon found the list of employees that Mrs Hardwood had prepared for me, and I looked at the neglected part, the names of those who had moved on. Yes, sure enough, there was the name ‘Perry Goodfellow’, right along with ‘Leo Courtkey’. Should have done your homework properly, detective. I mentally kicked myself half way round the Citadel.

Liza spotted the look on my face.

‘What is it, Nicely?’

‘I don’t know, Liza,’ I said, truthfully enough – because I was certainly not about to tell her my true suspicions. Could Perry be sitting on that beach alongside Leo sipping cocktails after checking out the surf?

Liza continued: ‘When I came to see you before, it was to say that the Gnada Trophy had turned up again, just in case you had not heard. Do you think it might be Perry that brought it back?’

She looked disappointed when I said I had already heard. She looked even sadder when I told her that it did not look like it was Perry who had brought it back.

‘But don’t despair, he might have had a friend drop it off.’ Liza did not look convinced and I wasn’t either.

We stood for a minute, and then I broke what was threatening to be an awkward silence. ‘Look, I’ve still to check my calls, but then, if you’ve not eaten, how about we both go get ourselves something solid inside. I could eat the back end of a dragon.’

‘Yes, thank you, Nicely, that would be nice. Some friends were taking me for a meal, trying to cheer me, but I thought you might be back, so I wanted to give you the news about Perry. I must admit, I’m pretty hungry too now – but I’ll pass on the dragon.’

I took my messages from Doroty and Josh Corncrack first. Together they painted an interesting picture of our absent rider. It seems that young Leo Courtkey had form over and beyond his athletic ability; nothing major, but it looked like he may have developed one or two habits as a racer that his subsequent salary could not support. He had even made two lines in the news scrolls when his employer, Mrs Hardwood, had been forced to post bail for him. Doroty also added that the sheriffs would be grateful for information concerning his whereabouts, as he had skipped from his bondsman. I left a message with Josh asking him to scour the picture archives at the Citadel Press for anything to do with Leo Courtkey.

‘Is that to do with Perry?’ asked Liza.

‘I only wish I knew,’ I sighed. ‘Does that name, Leo Courtkey, mean anything to you?’ She shook her head.

‘Should it?’ Liza asked, quite reasonably, but I didn’t have a clue on that score either.

It was time for some food that was going to stick to the ribs and some ale that was as black as the pit, and there was only one place that provided this. So, swearing Liza to secrecy, I set the Helmington in the right direction. The conversation with Arito had got my juices flowing
. The Burrowers
was going to be busy, it always was, but being a secret shareholder, and thus on very good terms with the proprietor, had its advantages.

‘Ginger’ Oliver Groundstroke was everybody’s idea of a dwarf. His red beard was long, tucked into his belt, and he wore his plait coiled. We were both of the same height, which as I have said, was not very short, even by man’s measure. His wide shoulders tapered down elegantly to the slim hips and legs of a natural dancer, and feet made for standing on. As you will gather, this is of course a very attractive combination, which explains the great attraction of dwarfs to the more discerning sections of the community. This was not lost on Master Groundstroke and I had to admit that Ginger Oliver was a bit of a rogue. Two large gold earrings added to his bandit appearance, and the fact that he spoke only an obscure dwarf dialect in the restaurant stoked the fire of his reputation. I was one of the few people in the Citadel who knew that by training ‘Ginger’ was in fact a linguist; I have lost count of the languages he can speak, but they must cover most of Widergard. He had spent most of his time on the Hill at the Citadel College – until his other appetites got the better of him. This academic connection was still celebrated at
The Burrowers
by the annual meal of the Citadel Conservation Group, the infamous Endangered Species Barbecue.

‘A fine-looking maid that, Nicely,’ said Ginger Oliver, from the bar, as I fetched the ale. ‘She must be new in from Iron Town for me to have missed her.’

‘Oliver, either it’s the heat in here, or age has finally dimmed your lights, but that lady is not a dwarf.’

‘Well, hack me off at the knees and use me as a doorstop, if you’re not right. Maybe it’s me age. I must come and join you both later for a better gander.’

‘Much later,’ I said, carrying the crocks back to the corner table. I had managed to get a relatively quiet table away from the stage. The noise, though, was still great. The heat seemed to be making everyone just that little bit more on edge, the music a little louder and the drink a little stronger. It was well into suppertime and the atmosphere was, shall we say, lively.

‘I like it here,’ said Liza, and indeed, she certainly seemed to. She tucked into the ‘four day beef’ with a gusto I have rarely seen in a woman. Hog Roll went the way of all flesh and the cinnamon spice cakes and port barely touched the sides. I think it was what she needed, given her current worries, and I too found myself relaxing for the first time in days. I ordered a couple of ‘Cave-Specials’ and we sat with Flaming Dragons, and watched the floor show, the main attraction being a drunk juggler, which was really wild, but you really had to be there.

Ginger Oliver did come over for a few words. Liza thought he was swell, but his beard was a bit too long. I scratched reflectively at the stubble that had grown since this morning. It was well after midwatch when we both stumbled, slightly the worse for wear, into the wagon. I made it back to her place without any mishap, and was helping her with the seat belt when, with no malice aforethought, she was in my arms. For a minute that went on for an age, all was right with the world; then we suddenly found ourselves back on Widergard and opposite sides of the wagon. She was as flustered as I was.

‘Nicely, I’m sorry, it’s just that with all this business about Perry, at the moment I don’t think I can – you know.’

‘Hey, don’t even mention it. I’ve got policies about this sort of thing too. Still, we had ourselves a fine evening, right?’

‘It was just about perfect, Nicely. I really want to thank you.’

‘Come on. Get yourself inside will you, before the guard gets us for vagrancy.’

We said our goodnights and I watched her go lightly up the steps to her rooms. I then drove slowly back home. Peat, the night watchman, gave me a wink on my way upstairs. This did not really register until I saw a faint light from my rooms shining under the main door. Slowly I eased it open, wishing I had thought to bring my axe. Peat was not in the habit of letting would-be assailants in, but things had been getting strange recently. I was not sure who was wearing white these days. The hall was empty and unlit, what light there was was coming from the bedroom. I made my way to the open door; a supine figure was sprawled upon the bed, back to me, unnaturally still. I walked round to get a better look at the occupant.

‘Mrs Hardwood.’

At the sound of her name she stirred, and a voice thick with drink or powders said: ‘You’re late, I must have fallen asleep.’ Her pupils were too dilated even for this half-light. I threw her a wrap from the storage chest and then let it take my weight.

‘Mind telling me how you got up here?’

She fluttered her lashes. ‘That was easy, your watchman didn’t even need bribing.’

‘I’m not exactly in the book.’

‘Ways and means, Nicely. Ways and means.’ She stretched like some large cat. She was wearing a dinner dress that was cut by a master. It must have been magic that held it together, because there was little enough material. She filled it to perfection, more curves than a dragon’s tail. I just sat and filled my pipe.

‘Well Nicely, you don’t seem very pleased to see me.’

I made fire and drew heavily. ‘How about you tell me what you are doing here?’ She propped herself up against the headboard. It was a family heirloom, carved by Woodland Elves in some half-forgotten age; it would never look the same again. Long fingers traced the engraved design.

‘I got lonely. Don’t you ever get lonely, Nicely?’

‘Go tell it to the gnomes, lady.’

‘I would, but I didn’t have their number.’ I was too tired for these games. ‘So how come we missed out on cocktails?’

‘It’s not my fault you turned up late; we had people for dinner, important people.’

‘And lunch?’

A look of petulance crossed her face. ‘That was my husband’s fault; he doesn’t let me have any fun.’ She punched a pillow with imperious arms, then coyly looked up. ‘I’m here now though, so come on.’ She could almost carry it off; if it hadn’t been for the slur in her speech and the way her hair had gone after she had passed out. She pumped the pillow; I ignored it.

‘I have a couple of questions for you. Why didn’t you tell me that Leo Courtkey had a record?’

‘Leo who?’

‘Leo Courtkey. On your staff list. Ex-staff list.’

She was still playing the spoilt kid. ‘You can’t expect me to remember everyone who has worked for me. A lot of people work for me, Master Detective.’

‘Yes, but you don’t play bondsman for everyone.’

‘Oh, I don’t remember.’

‘And how about Moondust?’

‘Moondust. I don’t know anything about Moondust.’ She tried indifference, but her eyes betrayed her. ‘Look, why all these questions? This isn’t going to get my ring back. Anyway, I can think of better things we could be doing.’ Her fingers did some magic and the dress fell apart. I caught the front of it before it hit the bed. Up close, behind her expensive perfume, I could just make out that smell of Winter Ice.

‘So, you don’t know anything about Moondust, eh? Well, I wonder who supplies your little habit.’ She took off like a dragon. I just caught both her hands before she had a chance to take my eyes out, but she still struggled. ‘And these friendly suppliers of yours, I don’t suppose they ever ask for any favours, do they? Just set up this dwarf, will you? Should be easy, cook up some story, flutter those long lashes, we all know what dwarfs are like.’ This got me a knee in the chest and then she came up close again. ‘You want me,’ she hissed. ‘I could tell that the moment I met you in the office.’

‘Well, I’ve got news for you, I do not make a habit of sleeping with my clients.’

She relaxed for a moment, then spat out: ‘Not even little secretaries?’ before continuing her futile struggle.

‘Naughty, naughty, my lady. And when did we see her then? Have we been playing detective too?’