Detective Nicely Strongoak and the Case of the Dead Elf (7 page)

My musings were rudely interrupted by a blast from the horn on the table behind my head. I picked it up: ‘Nicely Strongoak, Shield-for-Hire,’ I said, forgetting for the moment that I was not in the office.

‘I saw your race with Highbury. It was wonderful. I cannot remember the last time I laughed so much.’

Even in my sleep fug I recognised the voice at the end of the line as belonging to Thelen, the elfess from the beach. The thought of her laughing made my toes curl and the rest of me feel much better. ‘Thanks,’ I replied. ‘How did Golden Boy seem to take it?’

‘Livid, apoplectic. We have a very good word in elfish for it; unfortunately it does not translate.’

‘Shame, maybe you could teach me it, in case I run into him again.’

‘That’s why I was calling. Did you get the information about Perry Goodfellow that you required?’

‘Yes and no. Why?’

‘I was wondering if you would relish the opportunity for another go at Lord Highbury?’

‘Lady, I think you might have got the wrong idea about me. I’m always left foot forward when I dance.’

She laughed down the horn. ‘I meant keep him on the boil, as it were. And no, I don’t think I’ve got the wrong idea about you at all, Master Strongoak.’

‘Fine – sounds interesting then. What did you have in mind?’

‘A friend of mine has two tickets for a big Charity Ball; all the White and Wise will be there. Unfortunately my friend has been taken ill and I wondered how you would feel about accompanying me tonight. I have it on good authority that a certain other party will be there.’

‘And me without a thing to wear.’

‘I am sure you will think of something, Master Strongoak. You strike me as pretty resourceful.’ She rang off before I had a chance to ask how she had found my home number. I am not listed in the books and I do not print it on my business cards. Interesting.

I finished my coffee and went to the closet to see what outfit I could get ruined today. I chose a suit in tan buck leather, so light you wouldn’t raise a sweat at a troll’s barbecue, but suitably restrained for a visit to Citadel Central Archive.

The Citadel Central Archive entrance is on the Second Level, but the vaults themselves, dark labyrinths, delve deep into the mountainside. When I first came to the Citadel I would visit the archive if I felt homesick. Leaning on the revolving door, I entered and passed through the entrance hall into what has become known as the Widergard Gallery. This large round room is the hub from which the various tunnels that contain the Citadel records radiate. The Widergard Gallery – now only containing the information stall – still has on its walls the famous friezes. The whole history of Widergard carved in stone. Or rather the official history, with dwarfs featuring far too infrequently for my liking and the pix never getting a look-in. I do not blame the mason, though, as it is expertly hewn. You’ve got to love rock!

Unlike many of the Citadel buildings, the lighting here is excellent. Sconces line the tunnels and downlights mark the intersections. The whole effect is subdued, but studious. I am sure they must have had dwarf help. I found a tome on famous gems. I looked up the Hardwood Emerald and was surprised at the paucity of the entry. The ring was very old, that much was certain; made by men in some time lost in antiquity, when all such rings were said to be ‘magic’. The story went that it was given to the Ancestral Hardwood at the time of the Old Wars, for some forgotten act of valour. Strangely, there was not a single picture, so I went searching for the stacks concerned with the Great Citadel Families.

The entries chronicling the Hardwoods and the current Alderman Hardwood were not that much more extensive than those concerning the emerald of that name. Much was alluded to but little documented. I was surprised at his range of interests, and not just in the business world – not simply a financial wizard, it appeared. More fingers in more pies than a blind man in a bakehouse.

I carried on searching and found an interesting article in a low-circulation, once well-respected, but now defunct periodical called
The Green Book
. The scribe, one Renfield Crew, implied that Hardwood was the backer of more than one slightly suspect political figure, with ideas not exactly contrary to the interests of big business. No big surprise there, but these politicos were also often a few gods short of the full wolf pack. Some of their views made the Great Despot of Dangenheim look like an expert in man management.

Interestingly,
The Green Book
had ceased printing the month after this article was written. Coincidence, or something else?

I scribbled the scribe’s name down and kept searching.

There were no recent pictures of Mr Hardwood; he had made privacy into an art form. The one picture I could find, taken many, many years ago, showed a young man in sporting attire who obviously could not wait for middle age. From his youth Hardwood looked like he was longing for the air of wisdom and sagacity that only advancing years can give. The long Hardwood face was crying out for the first whiskers of a beard and the hairline was already waving its goodbyes. Even his knees looked uncomfortable without the comfort of a cover of good tailoring. How he had ended up with a woman as incendiary as his current wife was anybody’s guess.

I put the book back on the shelf and made my way to a very different section of the Archive. The stacks concerned with the bloodlines of racehorses outnumbered those concerned with the Citadel great families by about two to one. This just shows you where the Citadel’s priorities lie. There were lots of fact and figures concerning every race Rosebud had ever run; where he was placed, and whether the ground was fast or slow, or green or brown, or up or down, but it was all in some kind of specialised sports code that might as well have been Higher Elvish as far as I was concerned. It was the horse on the card, though. I was expecting to find some pictures of Rosebud galloping though the winning tape, but although there were some nice stills of him looking suitably handsome, in a very horsey way, there was nothing in the way of action shots, a disappointment I would just somehow have to live with.

I next took a street-train from there to the lock-up built into the fifth ring where Sceech, my grease goblin, plied his trade. He sympathised with my circumstance and loaned me a replacement wagon, a big old Helmington. Who would have thought, before the anti-discrimination laws and positive employment, that the goblins would have become such a vital component in the industrial life of the Citadel? I suppose all those generations spent taking folk apart had given them a natural inclination for engineering. It was just conversion from the living to the mechanical that was required. Whatever, there was little doubt that they were the best mechanics around now, and no self-respecting wagon stop was without its grease goblin. Old habits die hard, though, and there were still enough goblins around who preferred their more traditional forms of employment – that is thuggery, butchery and larceny. Damn good mechanics, though.

It was after midwatch when I made it out to the stud farm where the racing pedigree scrolls had informed me that Rosebud was currently domiciled. The stud stable was just off the Great East Road – on the very outskirts of the Greater Citadel where the Plain of Rhavona begins and the land prices allow for such activities. I parked, walked up to the open gates, and rang the small bell. The afternoon was hot and very still. In the stable yards even the flies were taking a break. I wandered in and hollered, but all I disturbed was the dust. There were a lot of horses (not a big surprise), but this did not put me at ease, as I have never been big on equine recreations.

To be honest, I loathe horse racing and all that is associated with the track. I have found it attracts all the bad sorts of every folk and race. It brings out the worst in all of them – everyone looking for the lucky break that will change their lives. Spitting into a gold mine, I call it. If it really is the sport of kings, I say they should have got rid of it too, at the same time as they dumped all the crowns and coronets.

Not that I blame the horses themselves; they just make me nervous. Today they seemed to be immune to the post-midwatch heat and several were pacing restlessly in their stalls. Pride of place seemed to be given to a pure black stallion in a fancy stall covered with rosettes. I headed towards him, but he didn’t exactly seem to welcome the company and reared up suddenly. I backed off quickly from the kicking animal and reversed into a mountain. At least it felt like a mountain; it certainly was the size of a mountain and the shadow it threw could have been cast from one. I turned and found, instead of the igneous stuff with the snow on top, simply the tallest man I have ever set my eyes upon. Axes and Blood, he was almost the size of one of the Tree Friends!

‘Clubbin,’ he said by way of introduction. ‘And you are?’

‘Strongoak, Nicely Strongoak.’

‘And that is The Dark Lancer,’ he said, in a low singsong voice, pointing with a staff the size of the trunk of an oak. ‘He was the winner of every classic in the book and the sire of a half dozen other winners, and you had better have a good reason for being this close. A very good reason.’

He planted the staff down expressly into the ground.

‘Because if you do not have a good reason, and if the boss finds out I let anyone in here, I’ll be out on my arse before sundown. And as I am very fond of this job, I would not take that too well.’ He now twirled the staff effortlessly in one hand, looking like a deregulated windmill.

‘Just trying to find some help,’ I said nervously, missing my axe. ‘I rang the bell, and called out, hardly the act of a sneak thief.’

‘That is true.’ He relaxed slightly. ‘So, here is the help.’

‘I am actually interested in a horse named Rosebud.’

‘Rosebud!’ He sounded genuinely surprised. ‘I had no idea that dwarfs took much interest in the track.’

‘To be honest, all I know about horses could be engraved on a pixie’s tiepin. It’s for a client,’ I explained, showing him my shield. This seemed to satisfy.

‘Well, well, old Rosebud, eh? He is currently stabled out this way. Come have a look, he enjoys having visitors.’

He led on. I followed, failing to match his long stride and trying not to break into a run. The stud farm was large, and in an obviously less-favoured spot we found the horse with the distinctive marking, taking his ease in the shade. ‘Go on then, introduce yourself,’ said the tall stable man.

I edged forward nervously, not sure if this was some sort of test, and was delighted to find the horse soon nuzzling my outstretched hand, big brown eyes staring in mine. ‘Hey, he likes me!’

‘Yup, old Rosebud likes a bit of male company.’

‘Not like The Dark Lancer?’

‘The Lancer’s a good sort in his own way, but there’s a mare in heat around, one he’s booked for later. Makes him kind of frisky.’

‘I noticed!’

‘And the mare’s owners have put down a king’s ransom in corn for the pleasure, which is why I am a bit cautious.’

‘I guess Rosebud must pay his way, him being a big winner too.’

A low chuckle escaped from somewhere deep in the chest of the stable man and he passed me some sugar for the horse. ‘Well you’re right, he did win a few. I never saw him run myself, but I gather he was something in his day. He, though, was what we call a “chancer”, a one-off, no pedigree. Not like The Lancer; he’s from a line of winners as long as your arm, or my arm, even. This makes any investment in Rosebud’s bloodline very chancey as well. Still, he should have been worth something for stud, if it wasn’t for the other couple of problems.’

‘Which were?’

‘Well, for a first, in his last outing Rosebud is said to have run out of legs. Happens to horses sometimes, they just lose form. Big race too: The Helm Handicap, with him favourite. Quite a stink it made at the time, as I recall. A lot of money on him. I remember I lost a few crowns myself.’

‘Hmm, and the other problem?’

Again the chuckle. ‘You still not caught on? I just told you there’s a mare in heat, and every other stallion in the stable is straining fit to burst, and here’s Rosebud gently nuzzling sugar from your hand.’ I began to feel some sympathy for the horse. ‘You mean, he paid a little visit to the physic with the scissors when he was a lad.’

‘Oh, no. The equipment’s all there. It’s more a matter of what he wants to do with it.’

Daylight, rather belatedly, began to break.

‘He’s just not one for the ladies.’

‘Really!’ I said, pulling back a bit too quick; the big horsey brown eyes looked down at me accusingly.

‘Yup, happens with horses, same as most other flesh. Does not command the highest fee, though!’ He strode forward and rubbed the horse’s head and ears. ‘He’s a good lad, though, no trouble at all, but if your clients are interested in any little Rosebuds, I’m afraid they won’t be blooming.’

Rather taken aback by this lesson in equine behaviour, I failed to notice the implication, so he put it to me straight. ‘So, now that I’ve cleared that up, does your client have some other interest?’ A question that deserved a straight answer; shame I could not deliver. Delivering straight answers is not exactly a number-one detective priority, unless they’re along the lines of ‘Black, no sugar’, ‘A little to the right’ and ‘Just give me ten minutes.’

‘It’s rather involved, Clubbin. I’m looking for someone who may have owned the horse at one time, or been associated with him.’

We walked away from Rosebud’s stall and headed to the gate. ‘We’ve got the stud record, but really you want to talk to Leo.’

‘Leo?’

‘Leo Courtkey, he was always Rosebud’s rider.’

‘Is he around?’

‘No, he left about the same time Rosebud went out to stud.’ He let out one of his big chuckles at his choice of expression. ‘I think his heart wasn’t in it any more.’

‘A man, was he?’

A snort of derision greeted this comment. ‘Of course he was, all the best riders are. I was rather good myself as a lad, until I sprang up somewhat.’ He stretched and took a piece of the sky.

‘What about elves? I thought they were great riders?’

‘Oh, sure, the elves are good. They do not take to using a saddle, though, always ride bareback. But, more to the point, they aren’t happy dirtying their hands at the track. This, of course, makes them next to useless as far as the racing business is concerned.’

‘Did Rosebud ever have an elfin owner?’

‘No, like I said, they don’t touch the track; that goes for owning race horses, as well as riding them.’

‘Could we check the stud record, anyway?’

The big man shrugged; it was all the same to him. He led me to a small office, full of pictures of winning horses and proud owners. The stable man pulled down the studbook. Rosebud’s owner went by the name of Merrymead. The man said I had better get the address through the Owners’ Stock Book, as it was not really done to give out that sort of information. He was able to get me an address and number for Leo Courtkey, him just being the hired help.

‘I don’t suppose you would have a picture of young Leo around here anywhere, would you?’

‘I should imagine so.’ He went back into the office. ‘We always keep a scrapbook of photographs taken at race wins. He wasn’t a bad rider, very good with the horses, although he was inclined to be light with the whip, which meant he didn’t win as many races as he might. Him and Rosebud were quite a pairing, as I recall.’

Books and scrolls got moved around but with no success.

‘That’s typical. I swear I had it just the other day.’ He even went round the pictures on the office walls, but again no luck. He gave me a description of the rider, though. A particularly lucid physical portrait: small and light. Well, that was clearly not going to help me find any buried treasure. A visit to Master Courtkey was going to be required. Maybe he could tell me why an elf was carrying round a pipeleaf card with Rosebud on the front.

I left the stable man my card, and he promised to do what he could to help. I thanked him and left the stable, waving a goodbye to Rosebud.

I drove slowly back to the Two Fingers, getting caught up in the traffic. The walls of the Citadel came into view. Walls around the city, which were really just rings. Rings around the Hill. Rings, rings, rings; rings within rings, and what about the Hardwood Emerald? The children’s rhyme came back into my head:

Walls of the Citadel,

One to Ten,

One for the elves,

And one for the men,

One for the wizards,

And the Keeper of the trees,

One for the dwarfs,

But none for the pixie.

Round and round the hillside,

Round and round the town,

Keep them hid,

Or the walls come down.

Even in New Iron Town we had played the game that went with this song. All the children in Widergard probably did, except maybe the gnomes, who did not seem to get a look-in, as per normal. A lot of nonsense it seemed at first, like most children’s rhymes. Sure, there were walls around the Citadel, and they were more than just decorative. There were only five, though, not the ten that the song mentioned. I dragged my mind back to thoughts concerning rings, and magic rings came to mind. I suddenly felt the need to know a lot more about them. And when you wanted the low-down on that sort of jewellery, you needed a wizard, and fortunately I knew just where to find one. First, though, I needed to get hold of somebody even more important than a wizard: my tailor.

I took the wagon round the Hill to where my tailor Gaspar Halftoken has his new premises. He was coming up in the world, in all senses. I made it there just before closing time.

I have had a fixed account with Gaspar ever since he left the Craft School – potential spotted early – I am glad to say, as I could not afford his prices now. Gaspar had a fit when I told him where I was going – and my pressing need for some new, appropriately styled, threads. How could I not give him at least six moons’ notice? I explained the situation and he quietened down. I didn’t have the heart to tell him about his previous creation that was still waiting, soaked, in a laundry trunk in my bathroom. Nothing like the threat of decapitation from the authorities to make you forget about personal grooming. But I needed something special for tonight.

Gaspar was working on two suits for me at that time, both practically ready for me to pick up. One of them, with a few alterations, he was sure would be ideal for my evening with the elfess Thelen. I waited while he worked his usual miracles with a needle.

‘Hey Gaspar, where do you keep your fashion scrolls?’

The young gnome popped his clean-shaven, curly brown head out from the store cupboard where he was currently searching for some small black opal buttons, cut as sleeping dragons, which I simply had to have.

‘My dear boy,’ he said, round a mouthful of pins. ‘I hope you’re not going all elf queen on me; my opinion is usually good enough! But if you just want something to keep your eyes busy, you are practically sitting on them!’

I lifted the cover of the daybed that Gaspar keeps for his special clients, and did indeed see half a dozen stuffed unceremoniously underneath. After a quick search I hit upon exactly what I was after and read the front page out loud: ‘Mrs Hardwood seen at the opening of the Grassmere Gallery in a stunningly simple one-piece silver dress.’

An interested Gaspar came out of the storeroom carrying my suit and the buttons. He was small, even for a gnome, barely one head higher than my hairy belly button. However, every inch of his characteristically slight frame was dressed to perfection. Applying his precept that a tailor has to be his own best display, he wore buckle-bottom trousers with matching boots and a multicoloured weskit beautifully embroidered with woodland animals. Unlike some men who wear loud waistcoats because they lack a personality, Gaspar wore his like a ceremonial robe – he had earned it.

‘Ah yes, dear boy! I remember the occasion well; more White and Wise than you could wave a wand at. And only “stunningly simple” if you happen to have a dragon’s hoard of dwarf silver thread at hand.’

I looked at the dress again with extra respect. My aged great-father used to tell me stories about the famous dwarf-silver thread when I was small; I had never heard of that much thread going into one outfit. Dwarf silver was the only metal ductile enough to produce twine suitable for making into cloth. Kingdoms have been bought and sold for less than that dress must have cost.

‘I would never have thought she was your type, dear boy,’ Gaspar said, staring down at the photograph, before reconsidering. ‘Mind you, she’s fully ambulatory and has still got the use of all her limbs, so I suppose she qualifies.’

He cleverly leapt over the cushion I threw at him with a standing jump that took him to the top of a chest that was taller than he was. With equal agility, and the nimbleness displayed by his entire race, he did a front summersault in the air and headed back to the storeroom, leaving me to my scrollwork. And inspired work it was. Detective Strongoak, some days you almost earn your fee. There inside the scroll, in a small insert picture was ‘The famous Hardwood Emerald.’ My first glimpse of what all the fuss was about. I whistled silently. Even with that much dwarf-silver around, the Hardwood Emerald looked anything but outclassed. I checked the date on the scroll – recent. Interesting.