Findo Gask - Goblin Detective, Part 26: Novel by Trevor Hopkins

Urquhart Garrick was old, very old, even for a Goblin - at least four hundred years - and had lived for the last century or so on the surface, here in this forgotten corner of the planet. Age and experience had turned the polished mahogany skin of the younger generation into something that resembled the cracked and sea-worn tree-trunk found beachcombing which had then been treated to several coats of old-fashioned Creosote. Deeply seamed lines criss-crossed his face, although his eyes retained a look of penetratingly clarity which would not have seemed out of place on a Goblin half his age. Although he was stooped and bent, he still managed to look spry and was certainly agile enough to catch me from behind, even if he did have the advantage of knowing the lay of the land.

"You're looking well," I said.

"Ha!" he replied, "No need to try buttering me up, youngster. I know exactly how ancient I look, thank you very much."

He held an old-fashioned revolver loosely in one hand. When I glanced in its direction, he stuffed it in the pocket of the waxed green jacket he was wearing. The coat was in a human size, and it hung in folds to below his knees. He stepped back a pace and looked me up and down warily.

"Long time, no see, son. No doubt you want something from me," he said steadily, a wry grin twisting his leathery face, "Why not come inside and tell me about it."

Without waiting for an answer, Garrick turned on his heel and strode off towards the darkened and abandoned-looking farmhouse at the end of the short path that led away from the gate. I followed, shaking my head at the old one's perspicacity. The building in front of us showed no lights, and boarded-up windows and missing roof-tiles sent a clear message of advanced decay. The house was flanked on either side by buildings even more tumble-down in appearance; the barn to the right appeared to have no roof remaining at all.

He ignored the human-sized front door and skirted the farmhouse, weaving between mouldering piles of metalwork that were once probably farm machinery. Either that or he had bought up a scrap-metal merchant's entire stock sometime in the last fifty years. At the back of the tractor's graveyard, a cellar door was just visible at the bottom of a short flight of steps. I followed him down the steps and through the incongruously heavy and well-fitted door.

Inside, well, it was a different world entirely.

Garrick had once been a Professor in one of the more recondite Schools at my old University, which was where I had first met him. It from his tutorials that I first really picked up the ability to look at a problem from all sides, to question everything, and to not accept untested assumptions, my own or those of others. Ultimately, I had heard, it was his own testing of assumptions, way beyond breaking-point, that had led to his current exile.

We had entered a large basement, larger by far than the entire house above it; it looked as if extended far underneath the outhouses on either side. This part of the expanse of the cellars had been converted into a close facsimile of the Professor's old office, all lined with dark wooden panelling and floor to ceiling bookshelves. The space was set around a large desk at one side and a pair of comfortable overstuffed leather armchairs in front of a welcoming fire on the other. I could just glimpse other sections of the accommodation through open archways to either side. These appeared to be fitted out as laboratories, although for what obscure branch of the sciences or arts I could not immediately tell.

Garrick stripped off his waxed jacket and tossed it casually at a coat stand by the door. He wandered over to the fireplace and stretched out his hands, warming himself by the fire for a few seconds. He turned to look at me, still standing by the entrance.

"Well, dear boy," he said affably, "Come take a seat and tell me what great and mysterious errand has compelled you to seek out your old teacher."

Part 25

Part 27