Читать книгу Detective Strongoak and the Case of the Dead Elf - Terry Newman, Терри Ньюман - Страница 7

I collected my wagon early the next day. It’s a racing-green Dragonette ’57 convertible; the last model with the little wings and the air-trimmed front end. Daddy’s pride and joy, with marble interior finish and leather ragtop. It did my heart good just to touch her. Sceech the grease goblin had done a good job on the shoes, and I took off in a reasonable frame of mind. I had slept pretty well and though I didn’t feel like a million crowns, well at least I didn’t look like buried treasure. Silver linings and all that.

The morning rush had yet to start and I made it round the Hill in record time. I decided to cross the Everflow at the Troll’s End Bridge. Normally I would avoid this like the plague, as it is one of the worst bottlenecks in the Greater Citadel, but as the roads were still reasonably clear I gave it a go.

The suspension bridge looked like a web spun by one of the monster spiders of legend, dew still shining on the mighty struts and wires. Traffic was building up in the other lane as I drove across the bridge that spanned the Everflow Chasm. Down below I could see the rapids where the Great Troll was said to have met his end and the massive rocks that legend dictates are his remains. As tradition requires, I spat for good luck and sailed right through without any problems. Maybe tradition has something going for it after all.

It’s always a relief to be out of the summer Citadel and the air tastes better with the ragtop down. There are still small pockets of greenery to be found and these get more common the farther from the Hill that you travel. By the time you hit the Gnada Peninsula things look pretty good. Of course, it is no coincidence that the holiday homes of the White and Wise are all found in this region; the White and Wise, and the Surf Elves too, of course. I spotted an attractive-looking provisioner’s called Dolores and, hungry after having missed a meal, stopped off for some warm breakbread to go with the flask of coffee I had safely stowed in the glove compartment. There was a black Battledore ’83 pulled up in the wagon-park gently letting off some steam. That was a serious beast: expensive, big, and fast enough to give my Dragonette serious competition on the straight. I’d take him on the corners, though.

I opened the door and the smell of fresh baking hit my nose in a tidal wave of scrummy. I breathed deeply and tried not to dribble – never an attractive feature in a dwarf, dribbling, even without a full beard. There was only one other customer ahead of me – a man – and, well, he did not look like the sort to be out for an early morning drive in his Battledore ’83. I nodded politely and he ignored me impolitely, refusing to make eye contact. Force of habit made me give him the once over, but between the pulled-down brim of his hat and the turned-up collar of his coat there wasn’t much to see. His posture spoke volumes, however. I don’t think I’d ever seen anybody stand that straight without artificial aids. He certainly looked like an ex-foot soldier to me. Throwing some coin onto the counter, he snatched up his purchases and left, not waiting for change. My eyes followed him as he exited, jumped into the Batttledore, gave it some steam, and headed back to the Citadel with an unpleasant squeal of tyres.

The girl serving, dressed in a fetching white apron, smiled at me and shook her head. ‘Not a local,’ she explained.

‘As long as he’s left plenty of that wonderful-smelling breakbread!’

She assured me there was plenty and I stocked up for the duration. ‘You can’t be over-provided for’, has become my motto. I paid up and, resisting the urge to nibble, got back into my wagon and carried on to the north coast.

The sun was well risen over the hills before I heard the sound of breaking surf. I drove on down a well-maintained side road and soon got my first view of the sea. This was not the South Side with its oil refineries and petrochemical works that make the Bay area unfit for bathing; this was the real thing.

Large rollers tumbled in from the Big Sea onto a shoreline that mixed large sandy beaches and small hidden coves in the most tasteful manner. Wooded slopes ran down to the shoreline from the summer homes of the councillors and other High Folk. No tent sites or holiday camps here or any of those nasty work-related activities.

Well, at least it keeps the sea clean.

I followed the directions that Liza Springwater had given to me, found the beach road and drove down it carefully, mindful of the Dragonette’s springs. I spotted some buildings with a flagpole and pulled up nearby. It was busy on the strand, even at this early hour. Plenty of boards and riders were out taking advantage of the morning swell – both elves and men, and their ladies.

I carried on driving to a less-crowded part of the beach, where one lone surfer, garbed in a canary-yellow wetsuit with a matching surf cap, was slowly paddling out past the breakwater. I parked and walked across the sand dunes. At this moment I did not want an audience; even in my lightweight linen attire I felt conspicuously overdressed.

I sat on some driftwood and admired the surfer’s dexterity. A slim figure, obviously elf, with that deceptively tough, almost impossibly willowy frame that gives them a grace many other folk envy. I’m no elf expert but from the height, around the size of a tall man, I’d guess the surfer was a Higher Elf: the Lords and Ladies of the Hidden Lands. The Lower Elves tend to fetch up a smidgen shorter, are more compact, and have much more humble origins. I’ve heard it said that somewhere there are Middle Elves, but they’re far too embarrassed about the name and don’t get out much.

The elf was dancing the full length of the board, poised between the wind and water. Despite myself, I couldn’t help but be impressed. If only the whole exercise wasn’t so, well, wet.

Suddenly the surfer was knocked off the board and didn’t appear to get up. I ran across the wet sand to the water’s edge, though I wasn’t sure what help I could offer. Fortunately I was saved any difficult decision. A yellow surf-capped head bobbed up close to the shore, further down the beach, and swam the last few strokes in to retrieve the errant board. I guess those light elfin bones make drowning almost an impossibility.

‘You all right?’ I hollered across the roar of the surf. I got a nod as the wetsuited figure picked up the board and headed in my direction.

‘Mind if I have a word, son?’

‘I can think of a few, Master Dwarf,’ replied the young elfess, taking off her surf-cap and letting her long blonde hair flow before I had a chance to correct my error.

‘Sorry, lady – my pardon. It’s a bit difficult to make such distinctions with all the surf gear on.’

This got me a stony glance from those fierce sky-blue elfin eyes. Clearly I hadn’t really clocked the way she filled the suit either. I went on anyway.

‘I was just hoping that you could help me with an enquiry concerning Surf Elves.’

The sky-blue eyes turned stormy and the knuckles of the hand holding the board turned white. It appeared I had compounded my error. This was not going well.

‘If you are another quill-stiff from the press, then the words you are looking for have existed in the common tongue since the earliest ages.’

I took a deep ozone-filled breath and sighed. ‘Look, lady, I’m no scribe, just a dwarf detective with a job to do, and a bruise on his head bigger than a troll’s wart. Now, I have said my apologies, and if you accept them gracefully, I have fresh breakbread and a flask of coffee in the wagon. So if you have not yet broken your fast, I would be delighted if you could join me.’

It was quite a speech for that time of the day, and the young elfess looked at me closely before her face broke into a grin. ‘All right, Master Dwarf Detective, glad to see you are not too big to admit your shortcomings.’

I let her have that one, it seemed only fair, and matched her grin. Together we walked back up the beach to where my Dragonette was perched like some strange mutated dune insect. I laid out a rug and she threw herself down on it.

‘So, apology accepted, Master Detective. I admit these wetsuits are not exactly flattering to the figure.’ She unzipped the front of her suit, and released the more than adequate form constrained within. I was glad she had on another bathing top underneath. Axes and blood, of course I wasn’t really.

‘I am rather hungry,’ she continued, shaking loose her hair and sending my blood singing. ‘So I will join you and your provisions. However, I am not sure whether I can be of any assistance. Contrary to appearances, I am not a subscriber to the Surf Elf philosophy.’

I mused over that one while I fetched the provisions from the wagon’s trunk. We set up breakfast on her board and for a while just munched on the light, fluffy rolls and sipped coffee, whilst we took in the ocean. I had to admit it was some sight. Sky and sea of a blue they just cannot quite replicate in house-paint colours, sand like dusted gold and gulls soaring like spirits freed from the Necromancer’s Pits, crying out thanks for their liberation … or, more precisely, just their desire for some breakfast.

‘Good breakbread,’ I said finally.

‘Yes, from Delores, if I’m not mistaken. Best breakbread on the Peninsula.’

‘Know the region well, do you?’

She wasn’t fooled by my mock innocence. ‘Back to work already, Master Detective?’ she said, her eyes still fixed on the ocean. ‘Don’t I even get a chance to finish breakfast?’

I looked her over surreptitiously. My work did not lead me to mix with elf folk much. My clientele was mainly at the opposite end of the social spectrum. One thing I had noticed, though, was how different, and yet how very much the same they were – especially the ladies. Some had curves that would make a tree blush, but others, well, here was this tall, fair, blue-eyed lass with pipe-cleaner arms, every bit as elf-like as some twilight enchantress. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve not got a fey fixation like so many of my kin, but neither am I made of stone. I’ve read all about those tricky scents they give off, but we’re all mortal. Or, rather, only some of us are, I reminded myself.

‘Right, sorry, your ladyship.’ I knocked the ball back into her half. ‘Let’s just finish breakfast, then I’ll go drown myself. It should be easy. We dwarfs swim almost as well as some elves surf.’

‘That last wave was just bad fortune,’ she cried, defensively. ‘If I had not been distracted by the sight of an overdressed dwarf, in a cheap linen suit, walking down the sands, I would never have lost my balance.’

‘Now that I object to,’ I said, butting in. ‘This suit is by Gaspar Halftoken, and was hand-cut by at least a dozen gnomes!’

She gave me the full-beam elf smile for the first time, and I felt something go fluttery inside. ‘Gaspar Halftoken! In that case, Master Dwarf, I am very sorry. It is a fine suit.’

‘And the name is Nicely,’ I said, handing her a card, ‘Nicely Strongoak.’ She took the card and examined it closely. Satisfied, she replied:

‘Well, I am Thelen, and I will answer your questions if you answer me one first.’

‘Fire away,’ I said.

‘Who are you working for?’

‘A young lady who has lost a boyfriend; I thought at first he had just ditched her, but now I am not so sure.’

She picked up a handful of sand and let it slip through her long graceful fingers. ‘This boyfriend, not Perry Goodfellow by any chance?’

‘The same. Did you know him?’

‘By sight and reputation. One of the best surfers around – had to be to win the Gnada Trophy.’

‘So it’s that prestigious?’

‘Sure.’ She shrugged. ‘Mind you, not everyone feels the need to enter competitions.’

‘Like you?’

She regarded me solemnly. ‘I know you have never surfed, Master Strongoak, so it is difficult to explain. Out there it’s just you and the big blue ocean. Total communion, total involvement. When I am on the board I feel free, like I imagine they felt in our ancestors’ times, when the world was still wide and the sky unbounded. That’s what it’s about, not trinkets.’

‘But Perry thought differently?’

‘I suppose he thought he had something to prove. He was very aware of the gulf that many say exists between the elves and the men of the Citadel.’

‘Go tell it to the gnomes, lady.’

‘Sure, but gnomes do not go surfing.’

‘Did anyone bother to invite them?’

‘Yes, an interesting point. That would really upset Highbury. Gnomes on his precious beach.’

‘And who is this Highbury?’

‘He is the self-appointed leader of the Surf Elves faction.’

‘Faction? I thought the Surf Elves were really just something invented by the tabard-shirt manufacturers.’

Thelen began picking up small pebbles and throwing them at a piece of driftwood, punctuating her speech with each direct hit. ‘Oh no, Master Dwarf, it’s about more than T-shirts. I would not grace it with the name of philosophy, let us just call it an attitude. An attitude of elfin elitism calculated to annoy most right-thinking members of the community.’

‘And it annoyed Perry?’

‘I am not really sure; as I said, I did not actually know him well. When he came to the Gnada and started surfing, I think at first perhaps he was flattered by the attention of the elves. It was obvious that he was a natural on the board. Later, when he started getting rather too accomplished for the likes of Highbury and his friends, he may have felt their displeasure.’

‘Would it have been enough for him to have quit the beach and run out on Liza, perhaps to prove himself elsewhere?’

‘See this board, Master Strongoak,’ she said, knocking our breakfast table and appearing to change the subject. ‘It is made of myrtle, a superb wood. It is wonderfully light, but extremely hard. It can be worked, but only by a craftsman, and in consequence it is very expensive and only the elves can afford them. Perry Goodfellow might have done a lot of things for one of these, but he would not have left his lady for a goldmine full of them. It was just not in his nature. And remember, he wasn’t the only one with something to prove.’

‘What, Highbury and the Surf Elves?’

‘Yes. The relationship soured on both sides. He had, after all, won the Gnada Trophy, and was, incidentally, the first man to do so. The Surf Elves like having followers, but they are not so keen on being on equal terms with mortals. And Highbury, well, let us say he has ambitions which encompass more than simply the sporting arena.’

‘You sound as if you do not altogether approve?’

She scored another direct hit on the driftwood. ‘No, I do not approve. I do not like elites, elfin or any other variety. The Surf Elves strut around with their air of superiority, and their silly blue shirts and badges, as if the whole of Widergard was arranged for their convenience. It annoys me considerably, as well as giving the rest of us a bad name. We are all in this place together, there’s no Never-Neverland left over the Big Sea, and so we had all better get on with each other. The last thing we need is a group of blue-eyed, blond egoists running around, causing racial tension and getting up people’s noses.’

I had to agree with her. I would feel the same if it was young dwarfs. Mind you, half the population of the Citadel don’t want to look like young dwarfs, but that’s their problem.

‘But this Highbury body, elf or not, he is, after all, just some kind of dune drifter, isn’t he? I don’t know what these ambitions of his may be, but at best he is just a half-baked athlete.’

‘Do not underestimate the appeal of the Surf Elves,’ Thelen responded. ‘These half-baked athletes, as you call them, have a considerable following among the younger men and women of the Citadel. They are, after all, the modern heroes in a world where heroes are thin on the ground, and have been since the times that men dismiss as myths.’

I thought about this for a bit. The elfess had a point. Since the voting age had been lowered, the Citadel youth seemed to have had an inordinate effect upon the proceedings of the place.

‘How did this Highbury take Perry’s victory?’

She laughed beautifully. It made me want to run off and become a comedian, just to perform for her and hear it every day.

‘Lord Highbury Evergleaming was absolutely furious. He had won the Gnada Trophy the previous three years and was beginning to consider it his own property. He went into the Surf Elves’ beach dwelling and did not come out for a week. It was wonderful.’

Her laughter was replaced by a look of concern. ‘And now Perry is missing and presumably the Gnada trophy with him?’

I nodded to her: ‘It seems that way.’

‘I know which one will concern the Surf Elves the most! Highbury wants that cup back on his trophy shelf. ’

Thelen got up with an ease I wish I could match. She turned to face me. ‘So, Master Detective, as you can probably gather, I will be delighted to help you in any way I can, especially if it adds to Highbury’s discomfiture.’

I got out one of the little leather-bound notebooks I use for this sort of business – a hangover from my days in the Citadel Guards, but good practices are best not forgotten. I soon had all the background on the Surf Elves that I needed. I left the lady with my business card and drove down the beach. She offered to teach me to surf. I said I would keep that in the cold store.