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

He thought a moment and a genuinely winning smile came to his lips. ‘Master Detective, I have seen from your suits and hats that you are indeed an expert of matters sartorial. Do you really think that if I had intended you harm tonight I would have worn a linen summer coat with pearl buttons?’

‘That,’ I said, with a matching grin, ‘was the best answer you could have given. Lead on!’ No doubt about it, I was most definitely warming.

We went down some badly lit steps that had seen some traffic over the years. At the bottom there was a crude board with the legend The Twilight Alehouse written in chalk. The elf knocked twice on the door and we were let in by a greybeard who had seen it all before, and hadn’t enjoyed it the first time.

Nobody looked up as we walked in, and nobody said anything as we sat down. The customers were a strange mix. The lighting was low enough for most men to be sent stumbling, and even my mine-adapted vision found it oppressive. Two Brothers got up as I entered and left without a sign – which was strange; obviously they were on some business which was not necessarily all ‘above ground’. A couple of characters, boasting hairlines that had moved south to invade their eyebrows, looked like men from way out of town. They carried themselves with the swagger of pathfinders. A couple of others, pumping some goblin blood by their eyes and dentition, might be the local muscle. They were sharing a table with a straight-backed individual who could have given a pillar lessons in posture. Something about him was familiar but a large hood hid any features. I even thought I saw a couple more elves in one corner. No gnomes, but what’s new?

The elf went to fetch the drinks. I studied him at the bar. He certainly looked like one of the Lower Elves; those left behind when the Higher Elves disappeared off in a sulk back to the Hidden Lands all those years ago. There was something a little different about him though, maybe the sense of humour. Elves are as renowned for their sense of humour as they are for their humility and big bushy beards. Truetouch returned with two full glasses and an extra bottle. My sort of round. He almost dropped the tray as he sat down. Nerves, surely not? Where was that famous elf composure now?

I knocked my wine back quickly. I’d drunk worse, but I can say that most places I go. Truetouch sat, toying awkwardly with his glass. At last he spoke. ‘Master Strongoak, I saw the way you handled Highbury at the Gnada, and it was very impressive.’ He gave that winning smile another airing. It suited him. ‘You would not believe the uproar on the beach after you drove off.’

‘Oh, I think I could! I’ve seen a five year old throw a tantrum before.’

‘One might be half inclined to believe, Master Dwarf, that you do not hold my brethren and myself in very high regard?’

‘Not at all! Some of my best friends are elves … oh no they’re not.’

This got the winning smile a final outing before he grew serious again.

‘So Master Detective Strongoak … to the point … I would like to hire you.’

‘Suppose I’m not for hire.’ This was a turn of events that obviously had not occurred to him.

‘But you must be!’ he blurted.

‘No “must” about it, Truetouch,’ I replied. ‘I have two clients at this moment and I like to give customer satisfaction; unless you can give me a good reason why I should think otherwise.’

‘I can pay you.’

‘Generally a sound first move; however, in this case, not good enough.’

Truetouch finished his drink, and hurriedly poured another. That soon went the way of the first, and he collected another one to keep them both company. I followed on at a more sedate pace now.

‘But I need … I need protection,’ he finally admitted.

‘And whom might you need protection from?’ Was there disharmony amongst the Surf Elves? Could he have seen something in connection with Perry, perhaps? This might be even better than a clue. This just might be a lead.

Truetouch drummed his fingers on the table and tried a change of tack. ‘I could provide you with something, something of value, that I think you might find very interesting.’

It felt like he was playing me here, so I proceeded with some caution. ‘“Something of value”? That’s a rather vague term, Truetouch – sort of politician’s words. You running for office this year?’

Truetouch found this a pretty funny idea and it raised a snort of derision. ‘That is a pretty spiteful thing to say to an elf that just bought you a drink.’

‘You’re right, I take it back, but the sentiment still remains.’

‘Shall we say “material germane to your investigation” instead?’ he continued.

‘You can, Truetouch. Me, I don’t use gold-coin words when I can be straight with a body.’ I poured myself another large helping of gravy and soaked some of it up while the elf considered his options.

‘Look,’ I said finally, feigning disinterest, ‘as the old Da use to say: if it’s getting too hot, get off the dragon.’ And, indeed, it was actually hot in the bar. We were both sweating like goblins. I glanced around. The place had pretty much emptied.

‘Maybe I can help you take me seriously. Have you a quill?’ I passed him my pen, wondering when everyone with blond hair and pointy ears would finally learn to speak the common tongue like the rest of us. He fished out a scrap of card from the inside pocket of his rather lovely linen coat. He scribbled something rapidly and passed it over to me. It was a picture giveaway from a pipeleaf packet, a horse of all things. On the script side, in one corner, he had written an outer Citadel number. ‘Give me a blast on the horn at this number tomorrow at midwatch and I assure you that you will not be disappointed.’

‘Why wait until tomorrow? What’s the game, Truetouch?’

‘The game is bigger than you can imagine, Master Detective. Much bigger! Tomorrow I will have something in my possession that I think you will be very pleased to see. It will more than recompense you for your services and should warrant a bonus too. Just as long as you can keep me safe!’

Truetouch was looking around him, his sky-blue eyes darting back and forth. The remaining customers were not paying us the slightest attention. I wondered who he was looking for: friend or foe? Beads of perspiration were gathering on his brow, like spray from the sea. He was not looking at all well. Mind you, I wasn’t feeling too great either. Something was not as it should be.

I looked Truetouch in his clear elfin eyes. The eyes were big, blue and round. The biggest bluest eyes I had ever seen. They got bigger and rounder, as large and inviting as two swimming pools shimmering on a hot summer’s day. It was so warm I almost felt like going for a dip. I was trying to remember why this might be a bad idea, but it was too late and I could already feel myself diving, down, down and down. The swimming-pool eyes opened even wider with surprise and slowly, slowly … I went under.

I was drowning. I was seated behind the steering wheel of my wagon, seatbelt tied, and I was drowning. There was salt water in my mouth and I was sinking fast.

The plan would probably have worked with any other race, but there is not anything you can put in a dwarf’s drink that he will not recover from after that initial splash of cold water. I grabbed a last lungful of air as the water reached the roof and the drowning-clock started running. I tried the door, but the weight of water was too much. Then a little voice from inside reminded me: I drove a convertible. The catch on the roof would not work, though, and even dwarf-muscled hands could not get the material to part.