Detective Strongoak and the Case of the Dead Elf. Terry Newman
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‘What time would this be?’
‘Can’t say exactly. I was scouting various drinking holes last night, must have got in a shade after midwatch. I tried to sleep, tossed around for a while – hot and bothered – and then decided a shower and some coffee might help. When I got up, I glanced out of the window and noticed the wagon was missing. That’s when I first tried to reach you. I tried again after my shower and when you still weren’t there I left a message––’
‘We weren’t there,’ the scout interrupted, ‘because we were busy pulling your wagon out of the Bay!’ He seemed to think this had earned him a point or two.
‘Oh dear,’ I said, concerned. ‘Barrel-riders, I suppose, probably kids. I hope it’s not in too bad a condition.’
‘It’s in better condition than the occupant!’
Ralph smoked his pipe. He smoked with a determined air, giving it his full concentration. It must have been taking all his attention, because in the meantime he was letting the new boy give me the whole story. But Ralph just sat there, impassively, while the scout made every mistake in the book. Maybe even funny handshakes were not going to make this man’s career after all.
‘Well, it is quite a difficult wagon to drive, the Dragonette,’ I remarked, matter-of-factly. ‘Very fast.’
‘Fast, nothing!’ The scout stopped and glowered down at me. ‘This particular barrel-rider was the passenger and he did not get injured going into the Bay, not unless an axe fell onto his head from the vanity mirror! A dwarf axe, from the looks of it, rammed into an elf head.’
‘And you have the axe?’ I asked.
‘No we don’t, as you very well know, which is why you’re still sitting there and not sucking in air in the Citadel slammer!’
Yes, this one was a real charmer. I caught Ralph’s eye and lifted one brow. The scout was stomping around now like a hobgoblin on heat.
‘Do you know what happens when an elf dies on the Hill, dwarf? What happens is we get more shit coming down on our heads than you would if you lived on a dragon’s flight path. So don’t you get cute with me! We’ve got a dead elf, and he was seen earlier leaving the Gally-trot-a-Go-Go, talking with a dwarf, so you look like a pretty good fix for his murder. What happened? You two argue, so you axed him, lost control of the wagon and ended up in the Bay? I think maybe we should just take a little look round here.’ He headed for the bathroom and the incriminating suit with my wet axe on top.
‘I think that is probably enough, Scout Telfine,’ said Ralph, in the nick of time. ‘You cannot go searching the rooms of law-abiding folk without a warrant, and as for the accusation, I think you will be very lucky if Master Strongoak here does not post charges,’ Ralph added as he arose from the settle, intercepting Telfine and firmly shutting the bathroom door. ‘He is a licensed detective and an ex-member of the Citadel Guards himself. I think the best thing we can do now, scout, is offer an apology and ask Master Strongoak, politely, if he would kindly give us details of his whereabouts last night, so we can do some checking before we go around wielding accusations like irate pikemen.’
The scout, stopped in his tracks, looked at us both. ‘I get it, some kind of old boys’ act, is it? I’ve been warned about you, Fieldfull. Well, I’m telling you, I wasn’t just shat from no fellhound. I’m not going to end up stuck at Sergeant-at-arms!’ With that he charged from my rooms, slamming the door behind him.
‘Talented lad, should go far,’ I remarked.
‘Can’t be far enough.’ He sat and sucked at his pipe again. ‘It’s the quality of applicant we get these days. I blame the rolling pictures, they make the job look glamorous, instead of what it is: an exercise in hobyah herding.’
‘Was ever that way.’
‘All the same, Nicely, I am going to need that statement from you.’
‘Sure,’ I said. ‘You check with Snatchpole, the keeper at the Gally-trot-a-Go-Go, he’ll be able to tell you it wasn’t me.’ Ralph eyed me up slowly, picking up his cap from the sofa.
‘I guess you know what you’re doing, but Telfine, my much-esteemed junior colleague, is giving it straight from the bow. There is going to be some real heat about this from the elves, so you had better stick around the Hill for a while – and I could do with that statement sometime soon – very, very soon.’
‘How soon?’
‘Now soon.’ He stood up and stretched, stifling a yawn.
‘Sure thing,’ I said. ‘Now tomorrow soon enough?’ I asked. He nodded and gave in to the yawn before getting up to leave.
‘How’s the wife and kids, Ralph?’
‘Still need clothes and three square meals a day.’
He paused at the door and turned back round. ‘Don’t spit in the eye of any dragons, Nicely. Hear me? It’s looking like it might be a bad time to be out there without a magic sword.’ And then with a last wave, and a last yawn, he was gone.
I collected my over-stewed coffee and sat slowly back down, trying yet again to get my thoughts in order. Who exactly had axed Truetouch? Could it have been the hooded stranger and his goblin chums? Was Truetouch about to dish some dirt on Highbury or did he know the whereabouts of the missing Perry Goodfellow and the Gnada Trophy? Thelen had said Highbury wanted to regain the trophy pretty badly, but neither of these reasons seemed to warrant such a permanent sanction as Truetouch had received. And what light did any of this throw on Perry’s disappearance? Plus, where is The Lost Gold of Galliposs, how deep is The Bottomless Pit of Doom and if you’re being stalked by letters of the alphabet, do the ‘i’s follow you around the room? These and other such imponderables I would have to leave until the morning.
I managed to catch a few hours’ sleep. I obviously needed them, because it was only after I rolled off the bed that I remembered the number written down for me by Truetouch. I rummaged through the damp pile of clothes – Gaspar was going to have a fit, he was very protective about his stitching – and finally I found the dead elf’s pipeleaf card. As I feared, the ink had run and the number was all but illegible. I reached for the horn and tried a few combinations of digits that might once have been inscribed on the card, but with no joy.
The card itself, though, was interesting. I made a large coffee and examined it closer. It was indeed a pipeleaf card, the kind they give away free in a packet of pipeleaf and children then trade. It had obviously been carted around for some time, and had seen better days, even before its trip to the Bay. Number 16 in a series of Famous Track Winners. It portrayed a large black horse with a distinctive white mark on its muzzle. The legend read: ‘Rosebud’. I suppose the mark could have passed for a rosebud, with a little imagination. I waved it dry and pocketed it thoughtfully. It was not much to go on, but, by Hograx the Uneven’s hairy one, it was at least a clue and that’s what us detectives love most of all. Give us a clue and we’re as happy as a pixie in a poppy field. Unless, of course, it turns out to only be a bit of waste paper lurking in an elf’s favourite coat.
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