Free Detective Nicely Strongoak and the Case of the Dead Elf by Terry Newman Page A

could do with that statement sometime soon – very, very soon.’
    ‘How soon?’
    ‘Now soon.’ He stood up and stretched, stifling a yawn.
    ‘Sure thing,’ I said. ‘Now tomorrow soon enough?’ I asked. He nodded and gave in to the yawn before getting up to leave.
    ‘How’s the wife and kids, Ralph?’
    ‘Still need clothes and three square meals a day.’
    He paused at the door and turned back round. ‘Don’t spit in the eye of any dragons, Nicely. Hear me? It’s looking like it might be a bad time to be out there without a magic sword.’ And then with a last wave, and a last yawn, he was gone.
    I collected my over-stewed coffee and sat slowly back down, trying yet again to get my thoughts in order. Who exactly had axed Truetouch? Could it have been the hooded stranger and his goblin chums? Was Truetouch about to dish some dirt on Highbury or did he know the whereabouts of the missing Perry Goodfellow and the Gnada Trophy? Thelen had said Highbury wanted to regain the trophy pretty badly, but neither of these reasons seemed to warrant such a permanent sanction as Truetouch had received. And what light did any of this throw on Perry’s disappearance? Plus, where is The Lost Gold of Galliposs, how deep is The Bottomless Pit of Doom and if you’re being stalked by letters of the alphabet, do the ‘i’s follow you around the room? These and other such imponderables I would have to leave until the morning.
    I managed to catch a few hours’ sleep. I obviously needed them, because it was only after I rolled off the bed that I remembered the number written down for me by Truetouch. I rummaged through the damp pile of clothes – Gaspar was going to have a fit, he was very protective about his stitching – and finally I found the dead elf’s pipeleaf card. As I feared, the ink had run and the number was all but illegible. I reached for the horn and tried a few combinations of digits that might once have been inscribed on the card, but with no joy.
    The card itself, though, was interesting. I made a large coffee and examined it closer. It was indeed a pipeleaf card, the kind they give away free in a packet of pipeleaf 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