Detective Nicely Strongoak and the Case of the Dead Elf (10 page)

The problem came back into focus too: why would his kind of goblin be concerned about my investigation of a missing barkeep and the death of a surfing elf? Something wasn’t adding up here.

I took a clean shirt out of the trunk that I keep for these occasions and put on the spare hat that usually hangs on the back of the door. I winced slightly as I pushed the hat on; even with the Tree-friend’s drink safely inside of me I could still feel the soft spot where I had been maced at
The Old Inn
. It takes a lot to dent a dwarf skull; whoever had wielded the blow knew what they were doing. And as they had been dragging sand around with them, I guessed it must have been Highbury, or one of his minions. I also suspected that they had found what they were after: the golden Gnada Trophy, hidden safely away by Perry Goodfellow. If he had made himself scarce, why had he not taken his famous trophy with him?

I needed some hot food and a nice smile to look at.

I needed to call Liza Springwater.

I picked up the horn and rang her office number: ‘Hi, Liza. Nicely, here.’

‘Good morning, Sir. What can I do to help you?’

‘Well, how about you drop the formalities?’

‘I am not sure. My supervisor is here. Shall I see if she can help?’ Liza responded in her best official manner.

‘I get the idea, sorry to put you out. How about you come round my office an hour after midwatch? That is, if you get time off for good behaviour.’

‘I’m sure that can be arranged.’

‘I’ll put some coffee on and we’ll call it lunch.’

‘I’m sure that will be satisfactory. Thank you very much for your enquiry, good Sir.’

I hung the horn up and headed on out to buy a few provisions. I found myself whistling. The head was feeling better and, despite the assaults upon my person, I was in a frame of mind I could only describe as cheerful. I made a mental note to check with my physic and see if this was likely to be detrimental to my normal state of being. Or was I just developing a worrying exotic gravy dependency? Another bad habit, just what I needed.

I picked up the goodies and made it back to the Two Fingers in record time, my purchases still warm in their brown bag beds, the smell of baking going before me like an advance guard of goodness. I found Liza waiting on the office doorstep, clutching consumables as well.

‘Great minds,’ we said in unison and both laughed. ‘Sorry about the problem with the supervisor,’ said Liza, as I opened the door. ‘The boss is a bit of a dragon, not too keen on the personal calls.’

‘Never mind. How long a break does the Old Worm give you, then?’

‘Oh, don’t worry about that. The Old Worm is out for the rest of the day and I have someone covering for me.’

‘Good, then we’ll take our provisions to the Secret Garden.’

‘Secret Garden. I’ve never heard of that!’

‘Which is why,’ I said, looking smug, ‘it is a secret.’

We collected our coffee, I locked the office, put the ‘BACK MUCH LATER’ sign up, and we headed to the lift. Instead of going down to the lobby I pressed ‘roof’. When we debarked, I took Liza to a little-used staircase, which led up to a stout wooden door.

‘It’s locked,’ said Liza, who was in front.

‘I know, which is why I have the key.’ I passed it to her and she unlocked the door and swung it wide open. The effect was rather as I hoped.

‘Oh Nicely, it’s wonderful!’ And indeed it was.

The door opened onto a grotto that would not have been out of place in an elf’s summer garden, if elves actually put gardens on roofs of buildings and not just up trees. Delicately leafed willows rose from hidden containers beside a small stream that was in fact the recycling overspill of the building’s water tower. A wealth of flowers covered every available surface, except a small gravel path that wandered in and out of the greenery, becoming small stepping stones at the stream edge.

We stepped out; the trees provided some welcome shade on what was yet another sweltering Citadel High-Summer day.

‘Who would have guessed that this was here? How in Widergard did you get it up here? Is it all yours?’

Liza was like a small child in her enthusiasm.

‘One question at a time please,’ I insisted. We followed the gravel path to the stepping stones. A pleasant breeze curled around the willows, shaking them gently.

‘Now, to take your last question first. Sadly, I cannot claim ownership of this delightful spot, or even take credit for it. To take you into a confidence, the instigator was Jakes the watchman. Although I should get you to swear an oath of secrecy on that.’

‘Honestly,’ she said, bending down to admire some delicate light-blue elfin lights, ‘my lips are sewn. But Jakes, how did he manage all this?’

‘As Jakes tells the story, it all started in a small way. He began to rescue all the office plants that people threw away, usually after public holiday neglect, and discovered he had one green finger, if not yet a complete handful. When his back room became a little crowded he moved some out onto the roof. Then he began to need more soil, so he began separating out the rubbish and started a compost heap up here. People were always throwing out furniture, so he began to add a few bits and pieces, here and there. One day, after a particularly heavy winter storm, the water butt overran and he found that the drainage channels made rather a pleasant stream, so he just added a small wind-powered pump. Then seeds started blowing in and so on.’

‘So where did you come into the picture?’

‘About the time the roof started bowing! Jakes needed a bit of structural support, as it were. So, together we shored up the roof, and I am pleased to say that you could probably land a squadron of dragons on the top of the old Two Fingers now without so much as a creak. After that, we both took over the upkeep, and I got a key to the door. And here we are now at the picnic spot: Look-out Leap.’

We had in fact arrived at the edge of the building. A park bench and a solid guardrail made for a great spot to share a pipe or lunch. We leant on it and took the air. ‘What a view, Nicely.’ Indeed, to the west the sea was an unbroken blue blanket tucked up neatly to the green hills of Tall Trees in the south. Even the Bay area did not look too bad from this distance.

‘Do you like it then?’

‘Oh yes. One of the things I enjoy most about living in the Citadel is the views. I always think that it must be like living on a mountain.’

‘And that appeals?’

‘Very much so. All that clean air and sunlight, then huddling up for the winter.’

‘Just like the dwarfs.’

‘I suppose so, but I always think of dwarfs as living underground.’

‘We do live underground, but in mountains. It’s the obvious answer. Combines all our interests: mining, scenery, and terrific illumination possibilities. Not to mention the convenient summer pastures for our grazing animals.’

‘Animals? What, sheep and goats?’

‘Yes. You didn’t think we lived on coal, did you?’

She blushed rather fetchingly. ‘I’m sorry. I guess I don’t know much about dwarfs.’

‘You and the rest of the Citadel.’ I smiled to show no offence had been taken. ‘I think I must have spent half of my childhood leaping around the hillsides after some irascible goat – if I wasn’t too busy rescuing sheep from briar patches.’

She laughed. ‘I can’t quite picture you as a lonely goatherd. Did you have a pipe to play?’

‘Err, no. To be honest, I took a small wireless with me. A crystal set. I spent most of my day listening to strange music from far-off places.’

‘So, even then you wanted to travel?’

‘Oh, yes. Even then I had the dwarfs’ wanderlust. The desire to travel to foreign places, to find great riches, get drunk a lot and sing interminable songs about how much we miss home, and how great it was and why did we ever leave?’

I was doing well; she laughed again. ‘I always wanted to travel as well. My mother was the same, always telling stories about far-off lands and old times. But she has never left the Citadel. Never even as far as Gnada. At least I’ve managed that.’ She got all wistful.

‘It’s not exactly too late, you know,’ I chided gently.

‘No, I suppose not.’ She picked herself up. ‘Did you know,’ she said, pointing south, ‘did you know that they say that way over there, where Tall Trees is now, there once was another Citadel? As large as this.’

‘No,’ I answered, ‘I did not. If that was the case, where is it now?’

‘Well, the story goes that it became a place of great evil; full of goblins and trolls and worse. And then there was a great battle between the two Citadels, and the men and elves pulled the evil Citadel down, so not even a stone remained. The elves then planted their tall trees there so that evil would never threaten this Citadel again.’

‘Good story.’

‘Yes.’

‘No dwarfs, though.’

We both laughed at this one, then set about divvying up the provisions. Liza had only been able to find a couple of watchman’s lunches. As she said, how the watchman managed to walk all day on a bit of hard sausage and a pickle was beyond her. But, with my breakbread as well, we managed all right. A few cheeky birds, the common spaggers, landed to keep us company. ‘The spaggers are coming,’ I said softly to myself, but still broke off some crumbs and encouraged them onto the seat next to me.

‘That’s a pretty one,’ said Liza, pitching a bit of sausage to a new arrival.

‘What, the one with the big beak? Back home we call that a “bald griff”, and those little ones are “men of cleat”.’

‘How about that one?’ she said, pointing again.

‘Well, I don’t know what it is in the common tongue, but we call them “candied tuffs”.’

‘I must confess, I don’t know any of the names in any tongue! The only birds I ever recognise are the spaggers and the seagulls. There were always lots of gulls out at the Gnada Peninsula.’ She was waxing wistful again and it didn’t take a wizard to work out what was on her mind.

I didn’t know if this was the right time to tell her of my suspicions, that the Gnada Trophy had still been in Perry’s rooms at
The Old Inn
and it was unlikely that he would have left town without it; voluntarily, at least.

‘Thinking about Perry?’ I said finally.

‘Sorry, am I that easy to read?’

‘Well, you do have reason to be concerned, after all.’

‘It’s just that every time I begin to feel normal, or have a good time, or even laugh, I remember Perry and I feel terrible. I am sure something awful has happened.’

I threw a last few crumbs to the birds. This was getting difficult, to say the least. ‘That’s just guilt, Liza. People always get that when their life, especially after bad news, seems to be going on as normal. Not …’ I added quickly, ‘… that we have had bad news, nothing for certain. It’s early days yet, after all. But whatever, you’ve been hurt and that takes time to recover from – another old story, I know, but it just happens to be true.’

‘I suppose so, but as they always say in those old stories, I just wish there was something I could do.’

‘Maybe there is. Tell me everything you know about the elf, Highbury.’

It was pretty much as Thelen had suggested; although Perry and Highbury had been big buddies, they’d had a falling out. Liza thought it was probably over surfing, although she suggested something else may also have been going on. When I wondered out loud whether another woman could have been involved, the temperature fell rapidly. I changed the subject and by the time we went back to work she had warmed up again. I hadn’t managed to mention the Gnada Trophy.

The office felt cramped after the great outdoors, or the roof-garden version of it. I contacted my answering service, but there were no messages. I threw open the windows to get some air in, and tried to do a few bits of routine business to fill in the time before my appointment at Hardwood House. The scrollwork proved too much and I ended up playing ‘pitch and toss’ with the crumpled pages. Then I tried to balance my books, but they fell off the edge of the desk. Eventually I gave up and headed on out. First I gave Liza another call, just to leave my home number in case anything cropped up later. No other reason, of course.

I took the lift downstairs, hoping to see Jakes and thank him for hauling my butt upstairs the previous evening, and tell him his work had another admirer as well. Unfortunately he was not on duty and I didn’t know the new man well, so I just waved and stepped out to keep my appointment with the flamboyant and always superbly packaged Mrs Hardwood.

Hardwood House is on the north side of the Bay area: Cliff Tops, as it is known. This area was one of the first settled Off-Hill. Before the introduction of motorised transport it must have seemed far removed from the noise and bustle of the Citadel, and hence it became the exclusive domain of the old families; men, that is. When the elves returned they chose to live in the wooded area, now known as High Trees, way to the south. Cliff Tops was still exclusive, but the advent of the motorised wagon brought it within easy commuting distance.

I tried for the suspension bridge and caught the start of the early evening rush for my trouble. It looked like I might be late for the cocktail hour, but as I had no idea of its precise timing for the smart set, I was not too sure. All I do know is when I pulled up in front of Hardwood House, the reception was not what I had been anticipating.

The Hardwood House estate was all right, if you like that sort of thing. You know, guard lodges, ice houses, stables, orangeries, greeneries – more outbuildings than you could find a function for anyway. The gardens had all the trappings of wealth: arched avenues, immaculate lawns – the only difference between the lake and the pool was that the latter had a diving board. But nobody walked on the lawns and nobody swam in the pool.

The house wasn’t a castle, because castles usually have fewer towers and a lot less battlements. Castles only have to keep out the ravening hordes. Hardwood House was designed to keep out busybodies and members of the newsgathering professions. It looked about as cosy as chainmail underwear and a great place to live, as long as you remembered to carry a map to get from the library to the ballroom. Not that the occupants of Hardwood House would do anything as crass as walking from one room to another. Good lord, they had staff to do that sort of thing!

One of the Hardwood stewards met me at the front door. He was dressed in a heavy tabard with the Hardwood family crest on it (white horse rampart and a rising star on a sable background), stood straighter than a load-bearing timber and looked like he might have been fabricated along with the building. With hair now all salt and no pepper, ashcup eyes and matching skin, he was a conspiracy of grey. Obviously perspiring freely in all his regalia, he looked hot, but not at all bothered. I don’t think much bothered him at all. From his expression I could tell he was not sure if I was even at the right door. I felt his gaze slide past me to the courtyard and the hire wagon. I’m sure it did nothing to add to my social standing. I put on the award-winning smile, gave him a card and said I was expected. He ushered me into a small side room, then returned quickly to ask if I had brought the contract. He carried a tray, probably designed for this very purpose: the silver contract tray from the contract tray cupboard. I put my contract on the tray, and then had to kick my heels for what seemed like an age. Just as I was about to go find the lady of the house for myself, the steward returned, with a signed contract and, just as I had requested, the staff lists – enough people to run a small kingdom out east. I mentioned that I was expecting to see Mrs Hardwood and was told that the family were at dinner with guests and could not be disturbed.

I took a good look at the steward’s face, but it was unreadable. I asked his name.

‘Goodenough,’ he replied.

‘Goodenough,’ said I. He did not move a perfectly turned-out eyebrow. I kind of suspected he had heard them all before.

‘Well, Goodenough, may I ask what duties you have with regard to Mrs Hardwood, and to what degree you share in her confidence?’

He replied, without a trace of smugness, that as Steward of the House he was both Mrs Hardwood’s aide and chief executor of her desires. Hmmm … he should be so lucky.

‘So you know why I am here?’

‘Mrs Hardwood has just informed me of your involvement in the matter at hand.’

‘To which you are privy?’

‘Indeed, I was the first to know.’

‘But of which Mr Hardwood is still unaware?’

‘That I could not say, Master Detective.’

‘However, if he does know, it’s not from your lips?’

‘As you say, not from these lips.’

It was a bit like trying to interrogate a statue. ‘If I am to carry out these duties to which we allude, Goodenough, I am going to need to have a little look around, and in the absence of the lady of the house, I’m going to have to request your help. Any problem with that?’

Goodenough had obviously been given instructions along those lines, even if he was not sure exactly how much leeway this gave him – and me. He eventually made up his mind.

‘I will endeavour to assist in what small way I can.’

‘What more can a Master Detective ask for? So, Goodenough, how about we tippy-toe like we’re sporting our best invisibility caps and make our way to your lady’s chamber, while it’s all quiet and peaceful, like.’

‘Is that strictly necessary, sir?’

‘Does a firbolg throw boulders?’

‘I really wouldn’t know, sir. Is it important to find out?’

‘Not necessary, Goodenough, it’s just something I throw in for no extra charge. However, I really do need to see where the article in question was kept, prior to its loss.’

We went by the back ways. Through a maze of servants’ tunnels, connected by tiny stairs. Considering the size of the staff list, it was all very quiet. At one point we could hear the sounds of laughter and chinking glasses. It was eerie, like a ride through someone else’s dream. Even with my highly developed dwarfish sense of direction, I soon realised I would be hard put to find the way back again. We came out into corridors resplendent with walls of burnished elm panels. They were adorned with huge tapestries of goblins and men, locked in mortal struggle. Both the combatants and the colours had bled over the ages and I couldn’t tell who was winning; probably time, I reckoned – it usually does. Still, the tapestries were fine works and probably worth their weight in gold. Closer examination made me realise, with shock, that they were probably originals, dating from the actual Goblin Wars.

Goodenough led me further down this remarkable gallery. Mrs Hardwood’s bedroom and dressing rooms were off the corridor, which I found rather surprising. It was not my idea of an appropriate setting for sleeping quarters; however, the rooms were suitably opulent. They were decorated in the style one would expect from any great lady. Silks and flowers dominated, in the colours of an early fall, lifted wholesale from one of the Great Forests of the far north. Discreet lighting gave it a timeless feel. It was as phoney as a Citadel treasure map. Mrs Hardwood may sleep here but I would put good money on the rest of her recreational activities being carried out in some other, more fitting, environs.

‘And where was the emerald kept?’ I asked Goodenough, tired of any pretence.

‘In here,’ he said, leading me into a small curtained alcove. My heart missed a beat when faced with the gem-work therein – hey, I may have gone into detective work, but heredity still counts for something. It was quite a collection, too much to take in at a glance and all open to public view. Goodenough must have been reading my mind.

‘Do not be taken in by the apparent lack of security. There are watchers, both seen and unseen, and you would have been apprehended long ago, if you were not with me and the correct procedures had not been carried out.’

The alcove was windowless. I went back into the main bedroom. Large drop-glass doors led onto a balcony, overlooking further outbuildings. I opened them and walked out. Ivy grew right up to the roofing, an easy enough route for any nimble thief. Superficial examination did not reveal any broken branches and the floor of the surround appeared unscuffed. Still, it all seemed very easy work for a professional.

‘You will have to take my word for it, Master Detective, no outside agent could get this far.’

‘But someone on the inside?’

‘A different matter.’

‘What are those?’ I said, pointing to the nearby outbuildings.

‘Stables,’ replied Goodenough. ‘We keep some horses here, just for hacking on the estate.’

I took out my pipe, but when I caught Goodenough’s expression I did not light it. ‘So, what do you think, Goodenough?’

‘Sir, it is not my place to think.’

‘
No,
’ I thought, ‘
it probably isn’t, but I bet that doesn’t stop you.
’ Still, if there is some serious thinking to be done, why not hire someone to do it. ‘All right, Goodenough. Where are Mr Hardwood’s rooms?’

‘Is it important to know?’

‘Vital, Goodenough, vital.’

He paused before saying: ‘In the next wing.’

Vital? Maybe not, but interesting it was, Goodenough. Very interesting, oh yes.

I decided to take his word on the security side of things for now and get on with the possibility that it was an inside job. I was not happy doing that but I was happy to earn their money. We went back to the courtyard by a different route, one that did not involve the front door. Goodenough then walked me to my wagon.

‘Ah yes, the Helmington – a good … well, solid choice of ride, sir.’

I grunted without enthusiasm.

‘So much more reliable than those speedy soft tops.’

I grumpily put my hat on, wincing slightly courtesy of the bump that yesterday’s macing had left me with, a reaction not missed by Goodenough.

‘Has the Master Detective been in an accident?’ he unwound enough to ask.

‘No,’ I replied, ‘I’ve been in an on-purpose.’

‘I see. Those are indeed the difficult ones. And it seems they can happen anywhere, any time. I did once read that nine out of ten “on-purposes” happen in the home – which I do find food for thought.’

I chewed that over too as I reversed out of the courtyard. Something else Goodenough had just said was important and I was on the verge of striking gold when a face at an upstairs tower window, viewed in my rear mirror, distracted me. I recognised the face as belonging to Mr Hardwood. He had a book in his hand and I somehow guessed he wasn’t sharing starters with any family guests. He looked just like the photograph from the Citadel Archive had prophesied. The beard and polished bald pate had arrived on schedule, even if the remaining hair was somewhat longer at the back than I might have expected. For that brief moment I knew I had his full attention. The eyes in the wagon mirror seemed to take me in, weigh me, catalogue me and then discard me as not being worthy of any more regard. The work of a moment such as that was all a busy man like him could be expected to spare me.

Hardwood turned away and me and the Helmington drove off, spitting drive gravel all over his lawns on the way out. Take that expensive, immaculately mown and cultivated grassland. Ha. I could not say I exactly felt cheated of my cocktail and the chance of someone soft sitting on my lap, but I had been looking forward to those cheesy little biscuits.

I made my way back to the Hill by the scenic route to give myself some essential thinking time. The road curved its way around the cliffs with precipitous drops at every bend. Round and round I drove but my destination never looked like it was getting any closer.

Back in the office, my feet up on the desk and a large meditation juice in my hand, I took stock. It was all well and good to have top-of-the-tree clients, but a full purse was not going to do me much good if I was languishing in one of the newly renovated dungeons that were now the alternative to beheading if leniency was considered appropriate. How lenient they might feel about elf splitting I didn’t like to consider. I needed to have another look at the
Twilight Alehouse
as quickly as possible. Truetouch might well have been a regular there. The more I could find out about him, without alerting the elf establishment, the better. I owed the poor elf that much at least. It was time for some serious detecting, and failing that, to cash in some favours.

Not that Doroty, at Criminal Records, owed me any favours. I knew her from my time in the Citadel Guards. She had taken a shine to me, and although I must have been twice her age, she cast a maternal eye over my activities. I guess she never did altogether approve of me going private, but she was astute enough to know that in the Citadel there were some things that the Cits were not best qualified to deal with. She therefore saw it as part of her civic duty to give me the same access to records offered to other detectives. I, in turn, promised to brush my teeth, change my socks and try not to leave my axe-head anywhere it should not be found. Oops, not my fault, Doroty.

After swapping the usual pleasantries with her I got onto the business of the Hardwood list. It was made up of two parts: present staff and those that had moved on over the last few years. Given the recent picture I had seen of Mrs Hardwood in the fashion press, in which she was still wearing the famous gem, I decided, initially, to rule out all ex-staff and get cracking on with those still indentured. I read the list through for Doroty and she promised to see what she could find.

Josh Corncrack was a man who did owe me a few favours, but we had such a frequent exchange of this currency that it was hard to keep a score. I also knew him from my time at the Cits. A police photographer by trade, holed up in a small dark room in the depths of the Guard Watchtower, he had a certain magic with an image caught in glass that made him invaluable. He consequently also had a semi-legit trade as a freelance for a number of major Citadel news scrolls. I had helped him out with many a good story, and with his connections at the Citadel Press, he was an excellent source of information for me from that direction.

Some of his seniors reckoned Josh had a discipline problem. As he pointed out to them, how could he have a discipline problem when he had no discipline? Yep, me and Josh got on just fine.

I had his direct number at Guard Central. I spun it and got an immediate reply.

‘You’ve reached the number of Josh Corncrack. I am currently doing something much more important than talking to you. Leave a message and I’ll scrub it along with all the others, so quit bothering me.’

‘Josh Corncrack, I am delighted to inform you that you have won 1,000 thousand crowns this instant if you can answer this simple question. What was …’