I Hate Gnomes

CASE #3223 - Cat in the Hat

Part Two - I Hate Gnomes

Date: 04/11/2022

I hate gnomes. There, I said it. Call me prejudiced, or speciesist, or what have you, but I despise those little fucks with every fibre of my being and nothing will ever change my mind.

My negative disposition towards these short, muddy creatures doesn't eminate from their reputation for **** women, or swarming anyone unfortunate enough to pass by one of the shitty hovels they burrowed into a hill, or that one time one of them stole then ate my pet rabbit. While gnomes are malevolent bastards that are nothing but a nuissance to society, I will bregrudgingly admit that they create work for me with all their stupid crimes. No, the reason I loathe each and every one of them is very simple; I hate riddles.

I know, I know, what kind of detective hates riddles? One that has heard far too many. In one of the strangest aspects of any creature I have yet come across, and I have come across thousands, gnomes are physically incapable of vocalising their thoughts in anything except incredibly vague riddles. Interacting with those little men gave me insufferable headaches.

Unfortunately for me, my only lead was a gnome; an Italian gnome, at that.

I sighed inwardly as I stood outside The Old White Bear. London's eternal rain floundered against my clothes, the cold water biting at my flesh. The moon was out in full, its pale face illuminated the small river flowing down the cobbled streets and drenching my boots. Gazing into the pub's windows, I saw my drenched self staring back at me, his eyes sodden with fear and back hunched with exhaustion. I saw a dead man.

I am about seven-feet tall, with dark hair and chisselled facial features that most men would find enviable. My work has given me a muscular frame such that compared to an ordinary person, I am a goliath. Despite my obvious frailty from tiredness, I still count as a fearsome opponent, although I avoid combat wherever possible. The blue eyes that my mother adored were bloodshot, crimson surrounded the stagnant lakes.

My employers had given me one more week to find a girl, whom they claimed was a 'werecat'. The girl's name was Martha. That was all the information they gave me; there is a girl named Martha, who is a werecat.

How old is she?

They don't know.

Is she in London?

No idea.

What does she look like?

They never met her.

And yet, if my contract was not fulfilled, my demise was certain. I will not seek to describe the things (for they, in my view, are not people) that hired me at that time, just know that failure was not an option.

My life for the last three months had been much like this night, tracking down obscure leads with only the faintest of correlations in the vein hope that something would turn up. So far, nothing. Werecats, as far as I coud discern, simply do not exist, nor have they ever. The Monaciello, an Italian gnome of some repute, had been the latest in these helpless leads.

Having finished my contemplation, I strode forwards into the pub.