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

I was sitting in a skin joint named the Gally-trot-a-Go-Go keeping a pot of muddled ale company. The owner of this establishment dedicated to the disrobing arts, one Snatchpole Sidling, owed me a favour. I had sorted out some trouble for him, a little problem with under-age gnomes, fresh from Little Hundred, trying to improve their knowledge of other-race anatomy. I hoped that he might be able to clear the debt tonight. He always kept one finger on the Citadel’s pulse, but it was not yet payback time. Snatchpole had not heard a single whisper from his various sources about the illicit marketing of an expensive piece of pre-loved treasure trove.

Some bored-looking ‘Jane the Wad’ was taking her clothes off on the platform, with all the enthusiasm of a patient about to undergo an unwanted internal examination from a physic with cold hands. She was billed as Elsie the Enchanted Elfess, but with a wig like that she was not fooling anyone. Certainly elfin clothing is not renowned for quite so many frills, garters, bows and inspection vents.

The music came courtesy of a three-piece band that probably thought they were a four-piece band, judging by all the gaps they were leaving in the tunes. Still, the drink was good, although I would not be willing to guess what the paying guests were consuming, and how much it was costing. I had seen and heard enough, and certainly drunk enough, when I noticed a halfway familiar elfin face enter, scanning the stalls. I was on my way out, but I put my hat down again. The young elf saw me at about the same time and came over in a hurry. He was wearing a lightweight linen summer coat with pearl buttons over a raw silk scoop-neck top and ankle-hugging five-pleat trousers. Very natty; he had certainly not been dressed by his mother! But the confidence displayed in his dress was not matched in his manner. The normal elfin air of self-possession had been replaced by something approaching nervousness.

‘You are hard to track down, Master Dwarf.’

I finally placed him, one of the Surf Elves; Highbury’s young towel guardian. ‘I get around,’ I ventured, not at all sure what he might want from me.

‘Can we go somewhere to talk?’ he continued, glancing around, fingers playing with loose change in his trouser pocket and his foot tapping impatiently; as worried as an elf is ever capable of getting. I looked around too; was there something else agitating him? Something other than Elsie the Enchanted Elfess, now down to her silks and satins?

‘What’s wrong, don’t you like the surroundings? Snatchpole spent a small fortune getting exactly that right combination of glamour and grime.’

‘It is not the sort of place an elf should really be seen in,’ he said, obviously not fooled by Elsie the Enchanted Elfess’s ample charms, finally being revealed in all their glory. I thought of mentioning this fine example of elf femininity, but my essential good nature got the better of me. After all, this could be the break I had been waiting for.

‘I take it that this is more than a social call, elf?’

‘Perhaps we can leave that conversation until later, somewhere else?’

I nodded and followed the young elf out, missing Elsie’s finale and what in the business I believe is called a ‘bowstring’. The things women will put on to attract a mate, when really just a smile is all they need to wear. Elsie certainly wasn’t wearing one of those as she slipped behind the curtain.

At the door I threw a salute to Snatchpole and then together the elf and I went to collect my wagon. It was parked nearby and it was only a short walk. The elf seemed to relax as soon as we were out in the open air and when he saw my wagon he got positively animated.

‘Dragonette ’57? That’s the last model they made with the wings and the air trimming, isn’t it?’

I nodded an affirmative.

‘They should never have gone over to foils, big mistake. Dragonettes were never the same after that.’

So, the elf knew his way round a wagon and also dressed with dash. I was beginning to warm to him, but would never put something like that in writing.

I opened the door for him and he ran one hand appreciatively over the milkwood trim with a contented sigh. Yes, definitively warming to him. We drove off together into the clammy, clinging, high-summer Citadel night.

Now he had started to talk it was hard to shut the elf up. After a few more comments on the current sorry state of wagon production and some observations on how badly traffic was handled in the Citadel, I got a detailed elf-centric analysis of the economic woes of Widergard in general, and then, finally, an introduction.

‘My name is Truetouch.’

‘Nicely Strongoak, but you probably caught that on the beach when you were with your Surf Elf buddies.’

‘Yes, Strongoak – a good name.’

‘Didn’t elves ever consider that, maybe now, they should, just perhaps, consider investing in some last names as well?’

This earned me a somewhat restrained laugh.

‘My dear, Detective Strongoak, it is the duty of an elf to give names to things, not to be named ourselves.’

I had to laugh. ‘Hardly an attitude to endear yourselves to the postal service?’

‘Perhaps not. But have you ever seen an elf post a letter?’

I tapped the steering wheel, more than slightly irritated. ‘Well, didn’t elves ever consider that, maybe now, they should, just perhaps, stop being such almighty, self-important, pains in the posterior?’

Truetouch didn’t have an answer for this one. It shut him up for a while, though.

I had kept the ragtop up, as discretion seemed the better part of not attracting attention. It was still warm and the air that climbed into the half-opened windows from the narrow streets and back alleys spoke of the heat of spicy food, over-worked machinery and sweating bodies. I followed the elf’s directions and he navigated us by a tortuous route to the Fifth Level. Truetouch certainly knew his way around the Citadel and we passed some interesting places where one might while away the odd lifetime or two. That’s one thing you can say about the Citadel: around every corner is a new way of endangering your health. I do not know if Truetouch thought we were being shadowed, but he had done a very good job of losing anyone who might have been trying to follow.

We finally pulled up at a place just outside the Fifth Level, some distance from my quarters in the armoury on the other side of the Citadel. It was an undistinguished building in an area I was not familiar with. I looked out of the driver’s window; if this was the Inn Truetouch was recommending. I could not see the attraction of the establishment. There was no sign and no modern cold-light tubes. I suppose in its own way the building was actually quite remarkable, one of those rare places in the Citadel that looked as if history had passed it by. Solid stonework, in need of some mortar, and good ironwood shingles, all with no signs of the damage that combat and canon fire can impart. Nothing special had ever happened here, nobody important had been born here, no one important had died here either, and in a place like the Citadel, believe me, that is remarkable.

The elf stepped nimbly from my Dragonette, as they have a tendency to do. He beckoned, but I paused before following.

‘Is there a problem, Master Strongoak?’

‘No, I always follow strange elves into places unknown where their disaffected brethren might be waiting to welcome me with a stout staff made from the wood they value so much.’

Truetouch seemed genuinely surprised by the comment. I know elves are supposed to have difficulty lying, but that is another part of their self-promotion I have trouble believing. That and the whole five-day sex business.

‘Well, Truetouch, is it the sort of invitation you always accept?’