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It was Mayfield Westwood, of course. She had evidently inherited all of her classical beauty from her famous grandmother. She was wearing a long flowing robe in a silky green fabric which clung to her body artfully; her hips and bust and neck were proportioned in exactly the way a skilled artist would depict with loving exactitude - assuming they had the necessary talent in the first place. The iridescent beauty of her physical form was enhanced by considerable personal determination, which I could infer from the set of her shoulders. Her poise and musculature suggested she had long endured a high intensity of physical training. Her eyes were bright and penetrating, intelligent and insightful; the kind of eyes that could lead anybody astray. "Hello," she said in the Goblin tongue, sounding highly suspicious and slightly nervous, "Who are you?" I removed my hat. This was partially just as a near-instinctive mark of politeness, but it also served to reassure her that I was indeed a Goblin. "Findo Gask," I explained, "I'm a shamus, a private detective. Your grandmother engaged me to find you and ask you some questions." I pulled out my wallet and showed her the badge which confirmed, at least partially, my professional credentials. "My grandmother?" she echoed, sounding uncertain but taking the time to inspect the badge closely. "Lady Strowan Westwood," I replied carefully, "I had dinner with her last night. Served by Tibbermore. It was delicious." Her eyes moved from my badge to my face. "I guess you'd better come in." She held the door wide and I stepped inside. The front door of the farmhouse opened directly into a large living room which occupied the whole of the ground floor. The lights were down low, even by Goblin standards, and almost the only illumination in the room came from a solid-looking cast-iron stove which was set into a large fireplace on one wall. Its red flames cast flickering shadows around the room. Mayfield shut the door behind us, and locked and bolted it carefully. She reached over to operate a switch to turn on more of the lights. They were electric bulbs, in the human fashion, but set at levels of illumination which were attuned to Goblin sensitivities. The few pools of light just served to emphasise the shadows in the other parts of the room. I looked around. The walls were thick fieldstone, with windows shuttered firmly against the daylight, and the ceiling was punctuated by heavy oak beams set at a level which most men would find set uncomfortably at head height. No problem for me, of course. Or Mayfield. There was somebody else in the room. I was sure of it. Somebody lurking in the shadows. Somebody doing their best, nearly successfully, to breathe quietly and avoid involuntary movements. Then Mayfield operated another switch and the shadows were eliminated in a flood of light that made me happy I had retained my dark glasses. Sitting in an armchair in the far corner of the room was a man, a young human male. He had a bald head which looked as if he shaved it daily, and he wore a sleeveless T-shirt, jeans and training shoes. As I blinked in his direction, he stood up and moved towards me extending his hand in a friendly fashion. I smiled in his direction. Now that he was upright, I could see he was short of stature, by the standards of men, but extremely well muscled. Now, Goblins are very strong for their size and a big male like me was probably stronger than almost any man on the planet. But this one looked as if he could give me a tough time in a wrestling match. I hoped it wouldn't come to that. The man grasped my hand warmly and spoke in, I was astonished to hear, near-flawless Goblin. "Hello, Mister Gask," he said clearly, "Welcome to our humble abode." As I shook his hand, it also occurred to me that, to human eyes, this muscular young man would be regarded by many of his species as particularly handsome and good-looking, perhaps even beautiful.
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Part 10