Detective Strongoak and the Case of the Dead Elf. Terry Newman

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 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.

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