Читать книгу Detective Strongoak and the Case of the Dead Elf - Terry Newman, Терри Ньюман - Страница 6

My wagon was in the smiths, having its shoes changed. There was also a small steam leak that I just couldn’t locate. The condenser was struggling but she was losing power on hills, so I just had to bite the bullet and lay out the big buckskin to get her fixed. In the end, and in the vain hope that some exercise might burn off the caffeine and use up some surplus energy, I decided to exercise the beggar’s nag and walk down the Hill to Old Town.

Tidying the desk by sweeping the contents into a drawer, I picked up my jacket, hung the ‘Back Much Later’ sign on the doorknob and shut up the store. I took the lift to the lobby. Old Jakes was on reception and we had a quick word, concerning the optimal watering of geraniums and the pros and cons of mulching, before I headed out into the late-afternoon heat.

If I was to get to the bottom of Perry Goodfellow’s disappearance, his last place of employment sounded like a good place to start. I wasn’t sure what I was looking for but hopefully it would be big and obvious and preferably have ‘clue’ written on it in large letters.

The walk gave me some time to review the facts regarding the life and career of Perry Goodfellow, as Liza Springwater had just related them to me. Liza and Perry had met on the beach at the Gnada Peninsula the summer of the previous year. They had been strolling-out ever since. Perry worked at an inn as an odd-job man and runner. The duties could not have been too onerous as he seemed to spend most of the time surfing. The picture Liza had brought with her, now sitting in the top pocket of my suit, showed a tanned, relaxed individual with curly black hair. It was taken on the beach. Under one arm he carried a surfboard, in his other hand he held a gold chalice. This, I was reliably informed, was the Gnada Trophy, the big prize of the surfing season, and he’d beaten an elf called Highbury to win it. The Gnada Trophy had disappeared along with Perry and this was upsetting various surfing folk. To be frank, it could have been a giant’s eggcup for all I knew, but a job’s a job.

Passing through Black Guard Bar – the unofficial entrance to Old Town – after a quick word with a helpful local, I soon found Perry’s inn. Although Fourth-Level, it was on the right side of the Hill. It also had all the right timbers in all the right places, and anywhere else it would have been called The Dragon and Ring, or something equally folksy. Here, with admirable constraint, the sign declared it to be simply The Old Inn.

At the tail end of a hot day the lobby was a cool drink of water. A large ceiling fan irritated little piles of dust with each slow pass, but they lacked the energy to commit and settled happily after every sweep. Large wooden pillars supported massive wooden beams that could in turn have supported the odd army or two on the upper floors. Small, densely stained glass windows leaked in the evening sun; the light concealing as much as it illuminated. Although the place had obviously seen better days, it had escaped the rampant modernisation that had ravaged higher-level inns more effectively than the goblin hordes had ever managed.

The reception was empty. I hit a bell to no avail, whistled for a short while, then wandered through to find the bar. Empty tables greeted me but I noticed an aproned figure, bent over, stacking shelves with fresh bottles. I shouted a well-pitched hello. On hearing me, he straightened up, and up again, and even when he reached the rafters he did not so much stop, as throw a curve down the rest of his body. To say I was surprised to see one of the Tree Folk working in a Fourth-Level inn was something of an understatement. I had occasionally seen one of the tall, unmistakable figures striding around the Citadel, but mostly only visiting on business. They still lived in their northern forests, or what the logging industry had left of them. With their unbelievably long nut-brown limbs, craggy weather-beaten faces and huge bushy heads of hair, the colour of copper beeches, it was easy to see why many superstitious folk took them to be real live talking trees. Not the dwarfs of course, they never would have fallen for something so stupid – well, not recently anyway. The Tree Folk remain one of the strangest of the many different Citadel inhabitants.

‘Ho hum,’ he said slowly, that being the only way that Tree folk do things. ‘I must tender you an apology, there is no receptionist to assist you at the moment. The manager enjoys a … ah … lie down in the afternoon and portions of the evening. Are you after a room for the night? If it is light refreshment or a drink that you require, then I should be able to be of some service.’

His voice was polished ebony, dark and smooth, but with incredible weight. To listen to him was to hear the wind blowing on and on through the branches of a forest that covered half the world. He continued, ‘I am afraid you have caught us … somewhat distant from our best. We are … ho hum … as you might have realised, somewhat short-handed.’

‘Well,’ I said, climbing onto a barstool, ‘as getting caught short is something we dwarfs generally get accused of, I’ll just go with the drink for now.’

‘Excellent notion, I must say. Very good, very good indeed. What would be your fancy, Master Dwarf?’

‘Let me have a look here,’ I responded, picking up the drink roster. This had not escaped the more depressing aspects of modernity. The list was depressingly hearty, playing on the fashion for all things pastoral. It contained more types of foaming flagons than any sensible drinker could ever require, all harking back to an earlier age that probably never existed, and the endnotes were punctuated by more ‘thees’ and ‘thous’ than you would hear at a village idiots’ convention. I put it down with a sigh, and did my best to look the barkeep in the eye. ‘And what would you recommend, Tree-friend?’

‘Tree-friend, eh?’ he said, his sad green eyes the colour of sunlight on a fading forest glade, looked around the supporting timbers. ‘These are all the woodland folk I have for company now, and a sorry lot they are for conversation. Sad, very sad.’ As if by way of confirmation, the silence settled in on us like a weight. ‘At least, Master Dwarf, they have left you your mountains and mines.’

I knew just what he meant. We paused for a moment: a moment that might have been caught in amber, and buried beneath a mountain for half the lifetime of the planet, only to be excavated by dwarfs and looked at in awe on winter nights beneath cold stars. Then, he shook himself like an oak in a fall storm, and laughed; the sound rolled around the rafters and the moment was gone in a pixie’s smile.

‘A drink, you said, Master Dwarf. Ho hum. Well, let me tell you, the ale is no better than the barrel it is kept in, and that I would not burn for kindling. The wines have not travelled well, or very far for that matter, and the manager waters the distillates at night when he thinks I am sleeping. However, the good news is that I have another little speciality of the house. One that is not advertised on the roster, but is kept tucked away behind the bar for those occasions that require it.’

He pulled out an old-fashioned stone crock that wasn’t bigger than an ale truck, but not that much smaller either. ‘Now, this the manager knows nothing about and so I can give it my wholehearted approval.’ He decanted a modest measure into a highball glass. ‘I find it is best to take these things a little at a time, Master Dwarf.’

As if to put a lie to his own advice he crooked it over one elbow in the time-honoured fashion and took a draught that seemed to go on forever.

I approached my drink with a little more caution. I had heard of the gravy the Tree-friends made. Some sort of fancy water, I imagined. At first sip it did indeed seem like the purest, coolest water that had ever bubbled up from a woodland spring. I took a large mouthful and it felt like standing under a mountain waterfall. I finished the glass and it felt like getting hit by a whole damn ocean.

‘What do you call this?’ I gasped like a drowning man. ‘I thought it was supposed to be some sort of Woodland cordial?’

‘Not unless they come with fifty per cent alcohol,’ he said, a smile spreading across his face like sunshine in a forest glade.

He refilled my glass. ‘I can see that there is some other matter that you wish to unburden yourself of.’

I briefly wondered whether to play it cute or clever, before concluding I had left it one drink too late to be clever and, despite my mother’s protestations, I suspect I may never have been what you might call conventionally cute. I put on my serious face and played it straight down the line. Well, that was what I was aiming for anyway.

I flashed my badge: ‘Nicely Strongoak, Master Detective and shield-for-hire. I am looking for a body by the name of Perry Goodfellow.’

‘Strongoak,’ he said, with extra weight. ‘A good name, but hardly dwarfish.’

‘No, it was a given name.’

‘Elfish, then?’ He looked a bit surprised, if I am any judge of these things, which I am not, and if emotion can be read from a visage as implacable as a roof joist.

‘Yes, the family were elf-friends.’

‘Good, very good. I have been to Tall Trees, where the elves have now settled. I liked it well enough, but I think perhaps the elves now care less for the trees than the homes that they have built in them. However, that is as maybe. Time always sprints ahead and leaves us stranded in its wake. I am Grove. I have had other names … but Grove will do for now.’

I let him continue at his own pace until he arrived back at where I wanted. ‘This Perry Goodfellow, would he be in any trouble?’ he rumbled.

‘No, but a young lady of his acquaintance was rather concerned at the speed of his departure.’

‘And this lady, she is who exactly?’

‘One Liza Springwater.’

‘Good, very good,’ he said again, making up his mind. ‘I thought I might have misjudged you there for a moment, got you confused with some form of snark. However, I met Liza a few times, oh yes, took to her quicker than many a woman of these later years. There was something very … unmanly … about her, if you follow?’

‘Yes,’ I admitted, ‘something about the eyes.’

He nodded agreement, like an oak tree moving in the breeze. ‘And Perry, he is as decent as they come. A bit wild, but he is young, and good wood often grows on the most wayward bough. I was … hurt when he did not say farewell.’

‘You too?’

Grove gave this simple remark ample consideration; summers came and went and whole mountain ranges wore down. He scratched a twiggy chin. ‘I take it he did not say goodbye to young Liza Springwater either?’

I murmured my affirmative.

‘Not good, not good,’ Grove continued. ‘I did not know that.’ He took another long pull on the crock. ‘If I had known, I would have been more concerned. I would have searched for him myself, not that I would have much idea where to start looking these days. Still, there are a few friends I could perhaps have contacted, to whom the name of old Grove might still mean something. Yes, I still have a few names that I can call upon if assistance is ever required. As it is, I am very glad that Liza has the sap to organise the hunt.’

‘You didn’t know that Liza had called here?’

‘No, she must have spoken with the manager and he has failed to pass on the intelligence – a petty revenge, probably – I do not think he took too kindly to my questioning him about Perry’s departure. Seemed to think it was not my affair. Hurhm! He was almost … curt. Finally he admitted that Perry had collected his wage, cleared his room and left very quickly. I should not have trusted the man, but I was sure, if he was in any real trouble, Perry would have come to me for help. He always knew he could come to me for help.’

‘And since then, no letters, no messages?’ I began.

‘Not a word.’ Grove’s concern began to be evident. ‘I think I have perhaps been guilty of letting myself go a bit to rot. It is easy to stop thinking when you get out of the habit.’

Who was I to argue? ‘Not thinking’ – at times I’d nearly made a career out of it.

‘Did Perry ever bring any elves back here, for a drink maybe?’

Now Grove certainly did look surprised as he replied: ‘Elves? No, never. I’m not sure he had any particularly close friends amongst the elf kind.’

‘Did he ever happen to mention any? Does the name Highbury mean anything?’

Grove slowly nodded his large shaggy head. I half expected to see a warbler or two pop out to see what all the commotion was about. ‘Yes, the only elf I ever remember him mentioning at any length, the young lord called Highbury who obviously thought far too highly of himself.’

Time was moving on and I tried not to appear too hasty or, the ultimate sin, too curt.

‘Would it be possible to give his old quarters the once over, if they’re not occupied, of course?’

Grove gave a slow nod. ‘We have not employed a new runner yet, so I do not think that will be any problem. The manager may think otherwise, but as he is not here and I am busy stacking shelves and the master key is lying on the bar, I cannot think what there is to stop you. However, I did clean out his sleeping quarters rather thoroughly, and I did not find any traces of any goods Perry may have forgotten, but then again I was not really looking for any. It is room 4-15, top floor.’

It was a lot of steps, but I felt my legs growing to meet them; marvellous stuff, that gravy the Tree-friends make.

The room itself was small, but bright and airy, and sparsely furnished. A large rug in that whirling pattern the gnomes do so well dominated the floor, with two large chests serving for storage, and a smaller chest of drawers by the bed for personal items. The large bed was wedged tightly to the wall. It stood on iron claws that barely lifted it from the floor. It all looked depressingly spotless. Grove clearly, somewhat unfortunately, took his work very seriously. I searched around anyway. The chests were as empty as Grove had promised, the drawers likewise. Nothing obvious under the mattress or the rug either. Grove, however, was not the most flexible of individuals, so I bent down to check under the bedstead as well. It was of a sturdy wooden slat-box construction and attached to the wall along one length rather than freestanding. At first sight there appeared to be a whole lot of nothing of interest underneath, but a dwarf has more refined senses at his disposal than just sight. A dwarf’s nose is an appendage of great sophistication, having evolved through generations of applied excavation to recognise precious metals and gems. You don’t believe it’s true, then try passing off phoney coinage to a dwarf and you’ll soon need to be looking for a new place to put your hat. People marvel at the vision of an elf but can they find an uncut diamond underground in the dark?

Now, with my head stuck under Perry’s recently vacated bed, I was getting a very clear signal of ‘gold’ coming in from the nose outpost. It didn’t take me long to realise that a false wall under the bed had been crudely added and behind that must be the source of the gold. This had ‘clue’ written all over it, just as I hoped.

I do not know if I was simply distracted by the smell of treasure trove, or maybe it was the drink, or perhaps I was guilty of not yet giving the case the attention it deserved … either way, I didn’t hear the swish of the mace until the briefest of moments before it took me with it into the dark that has no name. It’s like the dark that has got a name, but it was rotten to its parents and they disowned it completely, which has made it a whole lot meaner.

A rhythm section began playing on my skull’s back door – a good solid bass thump with fast persistent beating timpani. Nothing too refined involving brushes or sticks with tapered shoulders and fancy tips, just good solid mallets that displaced thinking with a pulsing cavalcade of agony.

Carefully I opened my eyes. I was lying on my front on the rug. I tried to focus on it, but the gnomes’ handiwork just made my head spin, so I tried my sleeve instead. When that didn’t work I compromised and concentrated on my hand. As I raised it into view, a few tiny grains of sand caught the last of the evening light and fell onto the patterned flooring.

The different percussive elements at play in my noggin became identifiable: the beating was the blood returning to the pulpy spot on my head and the thumping turned into Grove’s footsteps coming up the stairs four at a time. He burst into the room.

‘Axes and blood, I thought you were gone too long!’

Grove helped me carefully to my feet. Whatever had been under the bed was long gone, as was my attacker. Grove then picked me up and carried me down the stairs, which would have been embarrassing if I could have got there any other way. As it was I didn’t complain. He put another large glass of his special gravy inside me. This made me feel, not so much better, as just rather less. A third, however, had me wanting to go hunting dragons with a fruit knife. Instead we opted to go looking for managers, as they were now suspiciously overdue.

We found him unceremoniously dumped, tied up in a storeroom, assailant unseen and unknown. A busy officious man, he wanted someone to blame. He decided I would do, which I didn’t need, so I quickly helped myself to what passes for fresh air at that time of year in the Citadel. Before I departed I pledged to keep Grove informed of my findings. Grove, in turn, said he would pull in a few favours and see if there had been any word concerning young Goodfellow’s departure. He would also try to get more information from the manager, when he was in a better mood. Grove slipped a small bottle of his special gravy into my pocket, in case the pain returned. We shook on it. He had the kind of grip that reminds you of how tree roots are supposed to be able to split stone, given the time and the inclination, but he held my calloused mitt as carefully as a first-time mother holds a baby. I felt so secure I almost burst into tears. Then again, three of those drinks will do that to anybody.

Things were beginning to buzz and the nightworms were moving when I left The Old Inn and hit the cobbles. Lights appeared on everything that wasn’t moving and quite a few things that were; blue elf lights of iris-popping purity, yellow dwarf lights, homely and welcoming, and red wizard lamps, glowing with hidden power and slightly sinister, like a prophet with a hard-on. And everywhere multicoloured gnome lights – instant party-time for Hill folk. Evening vendors were out early to catch those homeward bound. Spice sausage and burnt-blood pudding, cold taffies and the prince of pickles, a heady cocktail for the nose and instant indigestion for the over-stressed Citadel shuttle worker. And all mixed together with the smoke and choke of too many folks, in too little space, driving too many wagons. Representatives from every corner of Widergard: men and elves, dwarfs and gnomes, goblins and trolls, most minding their own business, some minding other people’s business and no small number looking for business.

The night-time Citadel clocking on for the summer evening shift.

The roads to Old Town were as packed as I had ever seen them. Citadel guards, in warm-weather outfits of short-sleeved tabards and dark visors, were directing traffic with the air of tired magicians, to the music of a thousand overworked steam-powered fans. I was making far better time than anyone stuck in a wagon, boilers and tempers overheating. Old Town is not actually any older than anywhere else in the Citadel, the Hill being built all of a period, as it were. It just so happens that the High Council thinks it’s a good idea to corral all the visitors and tourists into one particular area – makes it easier to get at their bulging purses. I pushed my way through rubber dragons, battle-axe keyrings and various other tasteful knick-knacks until I ended up by a small pavement inn at the corner of Twelve Trees and Mine, and it was there that I ran into the march and the reason why traffic was backing up.

Demonstrations were the big thing of that year’s election campaigns. All the major parties had been out and about, airing their views and bad haircuts. Near riots had accompanied some of the more volatile pairings as rival supporters met and clashed. This march, however, was not of that ilk. This was forged from a different metal. In front of me a new force in Citadel politics was flexing its muscles.

My progress interrupted, I got myself a glass of something dark and sticky from a roadside vendor and sat and watched the free entertainment. I could see the placards above the heads of the watching crowd, carried by members of the newly convened Citadel Alliance Party. The placards were all very neatly written, on good parchment, stretched over well-constructed frames. The message seemed to be one of co-operation and ‘getting folk together’. The majority of demonstrators, though, were men, although the leaders seemed to be Lower Elves. They’re the elves that don’t get invited to all the very best elf parties, but they still look down their collective perfectly shaped noses at the rest of the population. There were even a few dwarf brothers who should have known better. They all walked neatly by, two by two. Everyone wore the shirts of the party’s sky blue, all neatly ironed. There was no ranting and no raving and indeed an unnatural silence fell upon the normally vocal bystanders as they passed. Nobody shouted, nobody even heckled from the sidelines. The few children that cried out of turn were hushed by their mothers. The whole march passed by without an incident. This worried me more than anything else. I immediately finished my drink, and left, feeling distinctly uneasy.

The crowds began to thin and I soon found myself walking through the Wizard’s Gate, one of the huge sets of ironclad doors built into the walls that separate the different levels of the Hill. The imposing blackness of the gate and the impressive strength of the cladding had been somewhat spoilt by a scribbled legend in faded white paint informing us that ‘Bertold loves Lucer.’ I hoped that Bertold’s intrepidity had been rewarded all those years ago and that Lucer had succumbed to his charms (and climbing ability) and they were now happily living in domestic bliss in the Bay suburbs. Well, that’s assuming the wizards had not found him first and made something far less appealing out of him, of course.

I started humming the children’s skipping song:

Walls of the Citadel,

One to Ten,

One for the elves,

And one for the men,

One for the wizards,

And the Keepers of the Trees,

One for the dwarfs,

But none for the pixies.

Round and round the Hillside,

Round and round the town,

Keep them hid,

Or the walls come down.

It was a surprisingly subtle little rhyme piece, with a built-in offbeat on the pixie line deliberately contrived to lure the unwary into the twirling rope. I had never worked out why, when there were only five walls to the Citadel, the children’s song said one to ten. Still, you’re on a hiding to nothing if you go looking for the truth in children’s nursery rhymes.

My rooms are in a converted armoury on lower fifth; not particularly fashionable, not particularly smart, but very secure. In my line of business you do not wish to encourage home visits.

I waved at Bes, the watchman at the desk, and made for the lift; the effect of the Tree Friend’s gravy was wearing off. My quarters are at the very top of the building, not handy if the lift is out of action, but giving excellent access to outside space.

Being an ex-armoury, at least the place is basically of extremely sound construction with good thick walls and strong foundations. Taken together with my very own battlements, it has a lot going for it. The front door I had added myself. It is made from ironwood with riveted brass banding, to discourage those more adventurous callers. The locks are of the best dwarf construction and guaranteed to three thousand feet. Still, as I pushed the great door back, I promised myself one day I really would do something to make the place just a little more homely.

I moved one pile of papers and introduced it to another matching pile, and carried a tray of dead dishes through to the scullery. With trepidation I approached the cold box. It didn’t look great, but at least it contained something that was green in all the right places and still had enough nutrients for a body that had, after all, developed in a world largely lacking in sunlight. Sometimes this works to a dwarf’s advantage – we synthesise many of our own vital factors, which means we only have to drink fruit juice through choice (usually fermented and then distilled) and as an added bonus we don’t get many colds. Our make-up also means that we grow body hair at a rate that requires we shave at least twice a day, especially when in female company, lest you risk complaint. Furthermore, we need to take in a lot of iron. This explains some of the more, well, bloodthirsty stories you may have heard about our eating and drinking habits. Many are exaggerated, of course. Many are not.

There was also a large stash of coffee beans in the cold box, which was a relief. Coffee has an important, if not pivotal role in Nicely Strongoak’s life. In the morning I drink it white and frothy and in copious quantities. At midwatch in the day I tend to take it filtered. As the shadows lengthen I take it black and percolated. Come night it’s as dark as the pit, measured in thimbles and would stir a petrified troll. I made a double and poured out an apple brandy to accompany it.

A bit of a breeze had now picked up and, despite recent temperature extremes, out on the battlements it was about as perfect as it can be without being taxed. Feet up on a crenel, I took in the view. I watched the molten silver of the river Everflow run across the plain of Rhavona and join with the opal iridescence of the bay. Small boats struggled upstream against the tide, engines chugging and smoking, their paddle wheels making spray that caught the sun, throwing up prismatic jewels. I lit a pipe and sat musing for a while about the missing boy and his most attractive lady and must have nodded off … wakening to find a night sky and a sudden chill in the air.

I went inside to put my head down and do the sleep business properly.