Under Gornstock Page 6

  ‘Why were you attacked?’ asked Tiffany, deciding to change tack.

  The dwarf shook himself and then looked up at her. ‘The Pipe: that’s why they attacked me. Warned me that if we carried on with The Pipe, then things could get very bad for us dwarfs: close it down, they said, or else.’

  Chapter 7

  The peculiarity of the material allowed it to be folded, then folded again, and then folded yet again until it fitted into a cupped hand, and when released and shaken out, instantly taking the exact shape, without any creases whatsoever, as the design originally intended.

  An elven maker’s mark explained a lot.

  Rose possessed several dresses made by the elves which she proceeded to try on in front of the full-length mirror, preparing for the grand opening of The Pipe. Gossamer thin, the tight ones moulded to the body with an air of seduction and sensuality. The loose ones, flouncy and airy, made the wearer feel fun and frivolous.

  Cornwallis watched through the open door as she tried on dress after dress to see which one might be suitable. Even after all this time, he still couldn’t believe his luck: out of all the men in Gornstock, she had chosen him. Only he, unlike anyone else, could see, look, touch and kiss…

  ‘What do you think, Jack? Am I putting on weight?’ she asked lightly, twisting her head and casting a look into the mirror. ‘Now, be honest.’

  The warning bell clanged violently in his head as the question forced him out of his reverie.

  ‘I don’t think you’ve put on an ounce since we met,’ he replied truthfully, without missing a beat.

  ‘Not an ounce?’

  ‘No, a couple of stone, maybe, but an ounce? Never.’

  She hesitated, but only slightly. ‘You, Jack, are a bastard.’

  ‘Ooh, I like it when you talk dirty.’

  Rose smiled and peeled off the dress that clung to everything. ‘You’d better get yourself ready, buster, because a big lump of lard is heading your way.’

  A knock at the door disturbed them.

  ‘Jack? We need you downstairs,’ yelled Frankie.

  ‘Oh gods, not now,’ murmured Cornwallis quietly, and then he called out. ‘I’ll be down in a minute.’

  Rose giggled.

  ‘There could be a problem,’ shouted Frankie.

  ‘You’re telling me,’ said Cornwallis quietly.

  Rose giggled again.

  ‘It’s about The Pipe,’ added Frankie.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ yelled Cornwallis.

  ‘There’s some news,’ tried Frankie again.

  ‘I’ll be as quick as I can,’ replied Cornwallis.

  ‘No you bloody won’t be,’ said Rose, chuckling.

  Another bang on the door.

  ‘You coming, Jack?’ asked Frankie.

  ‘You took your time,’ said Frankie as Cornwallis and Rose came through the door. ‘Coffee’s on the table but it might be cold by now.’

  ‘We’ll take that risk, Frankie,’ said Cornwallis, ignoring his opening sentence. ‘Now, what’s all the fuss about?’

  Tiffany Trumpington-Smyth rose from her chair, thankful at the interruption as it spared her from listening to Frankie’s description of Tulip’s latest developments. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Cornwallis, Sergeant Morant,’ she said, casting an apologetic look towards them. ‘But I thought I’d better tell you what happened last night.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Rose, grimacing at the touch of the cold coffee on her lips.

  Tiffany took a deep breath. ‘I don’t know if it means anything; Sergeant Boen thought that it wasn’t worth pursuing, but I do, I’m afraid.’

  ‘You’re going against your sergeant?’ enquired Rose.

  Tiffany nodded. ‘It’s about The Pipe. A dwarf got warned about it; he got beaten up down the docks.’

  Cornwallis was making a fresh pot of coffee and the pot clanged on the stove as he spun around quickly. ‘He what? Who?’

  Tiffany nodded and smiled grimly. ‘Poor fellow was battered black and blue. They shoved a sack over his head, took his clothes and then knocked seven colours of the brown stuff out of him. He was on his way back from a pub.’

  ‘Who is it?’

  Tiffany consulted her notebook. ‘His name is Sigiladizi Grouphonatchlyl,’ she said, pronouncing his name very slowly.

  ‘Ah, Sigi,’ said Cornwallis, chucking his cold coffee out of the window. ‘Lead Trolley-Pumper, muscles like concrete, built like a brick outhouse, albeit a small one; I’ve seen him take on half a dozen men on his own.’

  ‘Hence the sack,’ suggested Rose.

  Cornwallis nodded. ‘Probably. It’d be the only way the attackers could walk away. What was said?’

  ‘I’ve got the sack and the rope tie here,’ said Tiffany rummaging in the bag by her feet. ‘The Sergeant didn’t want them either.’ She consulted her book again. ‘They told him to tell the dwarfs to close down The Pipe or worse would happen. Tell the king that this is just the start,’ she said, reading.

  ‘Nice, but threats like that will just make the dwarfs more determined.’

  ‘And then some,’ added Rose. ‘Was Sigi badly hurt?’

  Tiffany shook her head. ‘Just bumps and bruises mostly. Very angry, never stopped swearing, but that’s not surprising as they stripped him too. I don’t fancy picking up the pieces if he ever finds out who did it.’

  Cornwallis and Rose shared a rueful grin; a dwarf could hold a grudge for a very long time and could be especially vengeful for anything other than a minor slight.

  ‘Thank you, Tiffany,’ said Cornwallis thoughtfully. ‘This may change a few things, and you were right to tell us.’ He stepped over and picked up the sack and the rope. ‘Looks like the sort of bag that carries coal but that rope you can pick up anywhere.’

  ‘Does that mean we get to bang a few heads?’ asked Frankie hopefully.

  ‘First, we have to find out whose head to bang,’ said Cornwallis, turning back to the coffee pot which now started to steam. ‘It might be just someone with a chip on their shoulder about dwarfs making money or it could be something a bit more serious.’

  Rose’s cold coffee went the same way as Cornwallis’, out of the window, but a shout of outrage came up from below. ‘Sorry,’ she yelled down, putting a hand up to her mouth to hide the grin.

  ‘He’s probably had worse,’ remarked Frankie, grinning too.

  ‘I’m sure he has,’ replied Cornwallis, lifting the lid of the pot in the hope of hurrying it along. ‘Especially if he’s walked under your window.’

  ‘Been a long time since I dun that,’ chuckled Frankie, reminiscing. ‘I remember when I were still living at mum’s and we had no end of those religious nutters knock on the door. Mum went and stored up the contents of the piss-pots into a big bucket, it had big lumps in it as well, stunk like shit, practically and metaphorically, if you know what I mean. Anyway, we stored it outside so that it could ferment in the heat, marinated beautifully, it did. Then the time of day came when they’d been calling, so when they knocked, mum sends me out to get the bucket. They go and knock again and by this time, we’re at the window above the door. Window opens and I fling the whole lot out, bucket and all. Scored a direct hit, I did. Best shot ever. We peeked out and there were two of them puking in the gutter.’

  ‘I don’t suppose they knocked again,’ reasoned Rose.

  Frankie shook his head. ‘No, they didn’t, but we had to move house.’

  ‘Move house? Why?’

  ‘It weren’t the nutters, it were the rent men come to collect.’

  Tiffany burst out laughing, a great horsey laugh, baying and snorting as she rocked on the chair.

  Chapter 8

  Cornwallis emerged from the tunnels via a ladder into a warehouse, which stirred a memory and he recalled the last time he came up through here: the dwarfs had agreed to let some men hold someone down in an unused bit of the tunnels for a time before bringing him up to put on a ship. Cornwallis remembered how they had found out about it then foll
owed them all. Things had definitely improved with the dwarfs since then and Cornwallis doubted that that sort of thing would happen now, unless an awful lot of money changed hands, that is. He bought the warehouse from the agents looking after it with the idea of using it for an import, export business, but that idea had yet to bear fruit. There were only a few crates and a couple of bibs and bobs there, most of it empty.

  He came out of the warehouse through the side door and walked down and onto the wharf. After a few deep breaths of fresh air, he looked up at the leaden sky and contemplated the downpour that appeared imminent. He turned and looked up at the front of his warehouse, to which, an advertising hoarding had recently been nailed: a group of excited, smiling, happy people stared out of the window of an underground carriage. “The Pipe,” it proclaimed. “Tomorrow’s future today.” He smiled; the agency had got to work at last.

  Ships, lined up alongside the wharves, disgorged both people and goods. Newcomers to the city would get off the ships and the first thing that they would see would be the hoarding advertising The Pipe. All the workers, and there were hundreds of them, would see it too, all day long. Cornwallis felt pleased at this beginning.

  Tiffany told him where she had found Sigi, so while he went to see Goodhalgan, she showed Rose and Frankie the scene of the attack, before getting off home herself to get some sleep before the next night shift started.

  Rose and Frankie waited at the agreed place, next to a crane. They chatted to the polar bear who worked it as he pulled the levers that shifted the weights that lifted the arm that picked up the cargo. Frankie took advantage, when he noticed Chalkie’s distraction, by delving into the bear’s lunch box.

  Cornwallis threw out a wave as he approached and Rose replied with a warm smile. Frankie replied by gagging on a slimy raw fish sandwich that he had just shoved into his mouth.

  ‘Euuughh,’ groaned Frankie, spitting out the offending article.

  Chalkie turned around at the noise. ‘You got a problem there, Mr Kandalwick?’

  ‘You could have warned me.’

  ‘You could have kept your thieving hands out o’ my lunch box.’

  He has a point there, Frankie,’ observed Rose.

  ‘True enough; remind me never to eat something meant for a polar bear ever again. Ye-uk!’

  ‘I see you’re up to your normal tricks, Frankie,’ said Cornwallis just before he kissed Rose on the cheek.

  Chalkie climbed down from his crane and grabbed hold of his sandwiches, taking a great big bite out of the one Frankie discarded, the whole time fixing his eyes on the thieving detective. ‘Lovely,’ he said with relish.

  ‘Just a normal everyday occurrence in the rich tapestry of life which is Cornwallis Investigations,’ said Cornwallis with a grin. ‘Now, let’s get to business.’

  And down to business they got, starting from where Tiffany and Pooney found Sigi, just a bit further along the wharf. They studied the area, close to the edge, where Sigi nearly had a permanent dunking and found a bit of scraping on the ground, where the dwarf tried to get up, but nothing else.

  They began to retrace Sigi’s journey.

  There wasn’t much to see along the route, apart from the normal dog turds; fast-food wrappers; the occasional pile of vomit; the odd cast-off boot; old newspapers; battered chairs; a bed with the mattress spewing its insides out; a rusty bucket; some personal preventatives, which did bring a bit of wondering as to the comfort of the experience at the time, or perhaps, desperation; a cartwheel with the spokes broken; a coil of rope; a sack; a manky blanket; a few dead rats, a piss-pot with a hole in it.

  ‘Hang on,’ said Cornwallis, holding up his hand. ‘Let’s reverse up a bit.’

  They turned around and walked back to the coil of rope and the sack, lying next to the manky blanket. They were in the lane behind the warehouses, lined with derelict workshops and sheds, emanating a nice whiff of wee and rotting meat.

  ‘They look familiar.’

  Rose nodded. ‘Yes, the sack that they threw over Sigi, and the rope—’

  ‘Which they used to tie him up,’ added Frankie, interrupting. ‘Look, someone’s cut it,’ he said, reaching down and picking up the end.

  ‘It’s not proof, but it’s likely,’ said Cornwallis. ‘Sigi said he got jumped on somewhere down this lane. He may have been a bit the worse for wear, but he had enough about him to know where he was going.’

  ‘Which was where?’ asked Frankie.

  ‘My warehouse. He thought I wouldn’t mind if he used it as a shortcut.’

  ‘And do you?’ asked Frankie.

  ‘No, but I don’t use it at the moment.’

  ‘That’s beside the point,’ said Rose. ‘He used it, and he got jumped. Someone must have been keeping an eye on him.’

  Cornwallis nodded. ‘Probably from the pub, The Long Man, which is somewhat ironic, considering he’s a dwarf.’

  Frankie poked around the detritus with the toe-end of his boot, disturbing a pungent whiff that rose up to assail his nostrils. He recoiled a little then settled back into looking once more. ‘The sack is the same as the one used on Sigi and it seems to have been lying here for a while, cacked with muck, but the rope and blanket aren’t.’

  ‘Perhaps they were brought here,’ said Rose. ‘That’s perceptive, Frankie, even for you.’

  ‘Oh, thanks, Rose, demeaning my intellectuals like that.’

  Cornwallis looked wryly at them in turn. ‘Will you two behave, it’s like working with a pair of five-year-olds. Just put the blanket and the rope into a bag and we’ll take them with us,’ said Cornwallis focussing on the task at hand.

  ‘Didn’t bring one,’ said Frankie.

  Cornwallis rolled his eyes. ‘Bloody amateurs. Use that old sack then,’ he suggested. ‘It’ll be apt if nothing else.’

  Frankie took a deep breath then let it out slowly as he looked around for an alternative — he didn’t find one. ‘Bugger,’ he said to himself, as he resigned himself to the task.

  He tentatively pulled the sack out from under the rubbish and gave it a shake to dislodge anything still sticking to it. He looked inside and found it remarkably empty. Rose decided to give him a hand so she picked up the blanket and rope and stuffed it inside as Frankie held the neck open.

  ‘Come on you two, get a move on,’ said Cornwallis impatiently.

  ‘Bloody slave driver,’ remarked Frankie.

  ‘Yes, he likes that game,’ said Rose with a giggle.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘You heard that?’ she said, eyes wide. ‘I thought I thought it.’

  ‘No, you definitely said it.’

  ‘Oh, shit.’

  ‘Still, gives me an idea of what you pair do when the door’s closed,’ he said with a big smile.

  ‘You two coming?’ said Cornwallis turning and moving away.

  ‘Yes,’ said Frankie and Rose together, Frankie giving a wink with Rose pinking slightly in her cheeks before chasing after.

  The Long Man had seen better days, a grubby pub decorated with a grey austere outer shell which didn’t improve once inside. The bar mirrored the decoration of the outside, basic, with no adornment and frequented mainly by the dockworkers. Despite its closeness to the tunnel, it seemed strange that Sigi had cause to visit it.

  ‘Sigi the dwarf?’ replied the landlord to Cornwallis’ question. ‘Yeah, he were ‘ere; playing dominoes.’

  ‘Dominoes?’ said Cornwallis. ‘Sigi plays dominoes?’

  ‘And what’s wrong wiv that?’ asked the landlord looking a bit miffed. ‘It’s a game of skill. Takes a real man to play dominoes.’

  ‘Or dwarf,’ remarked Rose quietly.

  ‘Does he play here often?’ asked Cornwallis, shooting Rose a quick look.

  The landlord nodded. ‘We play in a league. Sigi’s one of our best players. We was home last night against the Shovel and Bucket, a bit of a grudge match, but we won in the end, thanks to Sigi.’

  ‘The Shovel? Isn’t that where the cab dr
ivers drink?’ asked Rose.

  Frankie nodded. ‘Yeah, they do, mind, I ‘aven’t… Hang on…’ a bit of light entered his mind.

  Cornwallis felt a smile come to his lips as he looked at Frankie and then Rose. ‘Possibly a couple of disgruntled cabbies? Coincidence that The Pipe is about to open and here’s Sigi, with a bunch of them — and winning too.’

  When certain circumstances dictated, Cornwallis and Co used a cab. They had their own coach, of course, two of them in fact, but with Rose’s driving invariably resulting in a trip to the repair yard, an alternative came in helpful. In that case, the detectives frequently turned to their cabbie of choice, Coggs, and if he wasn’t on the rank or taking a fare, he would invariably be found propping up the bar in the Shovel, supping pints and passing the time of day with his cronies.

  The cabbies were a tight-knit group and each driver knew what another would be doing. Cornwallis spied a lone cabman and walked straight up to him.

  ‘Know where Coggs is?’ asked Cornwallis, looking up at the driver as he sat on his bench, reins held loosely in his hands.

  ‘Aye, I do. Want me to take you there?’

  ‘He’s in the Shovel then,’ replied Frankie, seeing the obvious.

  ‘Didn’t say that, did I?’

  ‘No, but you said you’d take us there. If he were on the rank or with a fare, you’d have said that he were working, so by implication, he’s either at home or in the Shovel, and it’s too early fer him to be asleep.’

  ‘Well worked out,’ said Rose.

  Frankie grinned.

  The cab driver sighed and dropped his shoulders.

  ‘Never mind,’ said Cornwallis. ‘We still need to get there.’

  The driver’s face brightened at the prospect of a fare and he eagerly jumped down to open the door. ‘Where to?’ he asked out of habit.

  ‘The Shovel,’ replied Cornwallis, shaking his head ever so slightly. ‘Via Hupplemere Mews; need to drop this sack off.’