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The day after the funeral I eventually gathered the force of will to attend my own office, ostensibly to catch up with the paperwork. Not that there was much to do, really. Just my own notes and recollections, carefully and obscurely encoded in case they fell into the wrong hands, and a few receipts and invoices to keep my accountant and the tax authorities off my back. The important documentation was produced elsewhere. After Trinity's death, there would be any amount of official documents: a police report and one from the coroner's office; a few column-inches in the tabloid press and an even briefer entry in the obituary pages of the heavyweight papers. And there would be a will which no doubt the legal processes would grind through probate in due course and without any particular input from me. Trinity had died a pauper; any funds that she had spare would probably have been sunk into keeping her undercapitalised businesses afloat. She would have had debts a-plenty, all of which would now be called in. It was probably her need for a few ready dollars that had caused her to accept Garrick's offer of business, even against her better judgement. I doubted there would be any money to distribute after the vultures had circled a few times. In any case, I would rather her be alive and well and enjoy her rather spiky company than profit by a few dollars from her death. There was a diffident knock at the door. I glanced up from my seat behind the desk. It was Luncardy. I guess I should have expected her to put in an appearance at some point. She had probably come to gloat at my stupidity. I waved her inside. The Captain usually liked to travel accompanied by a squad of uniformed types ready to do her bidding at a moment's notice. On this occasion, she appeared to be alone, although I did peer carefully in the direction of the office door for a long moment just to make sure. "Just me, Gask," she said gently, seeing the direction of my gaze, "Just me." "Captain," I acknowledged softly. Luncardy closed the office door and moved swiftly to sit in the better of my guest chairs. She leaned across the desk and took my hand in her own. "You once said something about being friends," she said urgently, "But friends don't need to be distant from one another. We could be close, very close." I let out a sigh. I just couldn't help myself. "You've suffered a terrible loss, another terrible loss," she went on, "I feel for you, I really do. You could be a better person, a stronger person. Let me help you, if only for a while. Or maybe longer." There was something inside her which wanted a big strong Goblin to look after her, some child-like part which would invert the desire to be supported into a need to support: part mothering, part wifely advice and guidance. A relationship like that would smother me. Sure enough, the physical intimacy would be wonderful - she sure was a wonderfully sexy creature - but I could get that anywhere. Besides, that kind of thing rarely lasts more than a few decades. "Harriett," I said, squeezing her hand, "I really appreciate the offer. I like you, respect you; and that like and respect won't change any time soon. But ..." I let the words hang in the air. She could see, without my actually saying so, what my answer would be. Still, and true to form, she did not completely give up hope. Abruptly, she stood up and moved to the door. "Think about it, Findo," she said softly, "The offer stands. You need somebody. Somebody who will be good for you. Somebody to help you. Somebody who understands what you've been through. Call me, soon." She turned and left, closing the door gently behind her. I never did accept Luncardy's offer. Sometimes I wonder if things would have been better if I had.
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Part 105