Once Upon a Crime

by P. J. Brackston

  A shop was duly recommended, and later that day Gretel purchased a fearsome weapon, which she insisted be wrapped well so that she could take it to her room without arousing curiosity. She sat on her bed, took the thing out of its paper, and held it up to the light. It had a bone handle (an unnecessary expense, but Gretel had been keen to get the knife bought and escape any questioning from the overeager salesman) and a long blade, which was smooth on one side and jagged on the other. It felt heavy in her hand. She tried a little swiping motion, then a jab or two, and then, with more purpose, chopping and sawing actions. Her stomach began to turn over.

  She checked the clock on the mantel. Five thirty. It would be several hours before Hans would be suitably drunk. She knew her nerve must not fail her. Where else was she to obtain a finger, for heaven’s sake? Hans would be much too full of ale and schnapps to feel any pain, she reasoned. She had even given him extra drinking money, which he had been very happy about indeed. It wasn’t as if he couldn’t manage without a finger, after all. He would still be able to lift a Toby jug or liqueur glass without difficulty. The little finger of his left hand, she had decided, was the one to go for. And of course, he need never know who it was who had denuded him of his digit. Gretel would invent a story of a shadowy intruder and insist some of her money had been stolen. The fuss would soon die down. With a bit of luck, the hotel might even waive their bill. Yes, it was the best solution all round, there was no doubt in her mind about it.

  FIVE

  Gretel decided to wait for Hans in his room. Since finding him asleep in the hallway, she had persuaded him to allow her to look after his key, so was able to let herself in and get comfortable while she waited for him to return from the inn. She was so comfortable, in fact, that she slept soundly, not waking until the clock in the square struck midnight. She came to groggily, cursing Hans for keeping such hours. But this was late even for him. The thought crossed her mind that, once again, he might have keeled over before reaching his bed. Muttering oaths, she stepped into her shoes, secreted the knife about her person, and made her way out of the hotel in search of her brother. On the doorstep of the hotel she collided with a small stout fellow whom she recognized as her traveling companion of a few days earlier.

  “Good evening, Herr Bechstein,” she said in as normal and casual a voice as she could muster.

  The businessman stared at her, clearly at a loss.

  Gretel tried to help him out. “The stagecoach from Gesternstadt?”

  Bechstein nodded, seemingly reassured by this information. He muttered a greeting, glanced nervously over his shoulder, and scuttled inside. Gretel recalled the bombastic man who had bored everybody so loudly on their journey. He was barely recognizable as the anxious creature she had just encountered. No, she decided, not anxious—scared. Very scared, in fact.

  The night was clear and still but chilly, and she quickly regretted not pausing to fetch a warm cloak. The square was deserted, save for an elderly waiter taking in chairs from outside the Kaffee Haus. There was a good moon, and the glow from the windows of the buildings around the plaza threw down small patches of light. Gretel paced around the square, trying not to look furtive. A movement in one of the flowerbeds caught her eye. She went closer. The raised stone bed was thickly planted with spring bulbs, which were now waving and twitching as if an army of moles were on the move beneath them. Stepping nearer, she found Hans flailing among the blooms.

  “Hans?” she hissed at him, testing his level of inebriation.

  He did not answer. “Hans!” she tried again.

  Hans’s only reply was a tuneful fart.

  Gretel scanned the area. She and Hans were quite alone now. She pulled out the knife. Moonlight glinted on the blade. A cold wave of nausea washed over her. She reached down and took hold of Hans’s flabby paw. She first arranged it this way, and then that, searching for the ideal position for chopping. It must be a clean cut. She found a large, flat stone and slid it under the hand. Her breathing was ragged and irregular. She reminded herself why she was taking such drastic action. There was no other way to obtain the vital information she required to solve the case. And without a solution, no further funds would be forthcoming from Frau Hapsburg. And, what with the cost of staying at the spa and the various bribes and expenses she had been forced to pay out, they were utterly skint. Hans had to understand, drinking was an expensive pastime, and he did nothing whatsoever to bring any money into the household. She was doing what she had to do for both of them. She must act. She must!

  “Fraulein! Good evening to you.”

  The sound of Herr Peterson’s voice forced a small scream from Gretel. Startled, she dropped the knife among the tulips, straightening up to give what she prayed was a nonchalant and cheery wave.

  “Ah. Herr Peterson, Frau Peterson. Lovely night, is it not?”

  “Indeed it is. Inge and I were just enjoying a stroll before turning in.”

  “What a coincidence!” Gretel laughed, a little too loudly. “My brother and I were doing the very same. Come along now, Hans. You’ll get a much better look at the flowers in the morning.” She heaved on the hand she had, until seconds ago, been planning to fillet. Hans snorted and opened his eyes.

  “Gretel? I was having such a pleasant nap. So comfortable.” With her assistance he hauled himself to his feet. “Now I know why they’re called flower beds.” He chuckled. “Quite. One more lap of the square is in order, I think.”

  She gave the Petersons a shrug and a what-can-you-do-with-’em sort of smile. The couple nodded and smiled back. She wheeled Hans about and steered him onto the cobbles.

  “Come along now, Hans. A little more fresh air for you,” she said as she struggled under his great weight, determined to put as much distance between herself, the knife, and her unwanted audience as she could. Her brother was a horribly unstable partner so that they performed a lopsided waltz across the square, veering into a side alley. It took Gretel a full fifteen minutes to get them back on course. Once she was certain the Petersons had gone, she pivoted Hans on his heel and aimed him at the hotel. There was no way she could let go of him to retrieve the knife. It would have to wait until morning.

  They made their lumbering progress up the stairs and at last, both wheezing like old bellows, turned into the corridor that led to their rooms. Hans, who had until this point been fully occupied with the businesses of breathing and staying upright, suddenly found it in him to produce a nerve-shredding shriek. Gretel followed the direction of the trembling hand he extended before him. There, slumped against the wall, beneath a picture of two Grecian maids with an oversize urn, was Herr Bechstein, his staring eyes devoid of life, his pale skin indicating severe desanguination, and, sunk deep into his chest, an expensive, bone-handled hunting knife.

  The painfully hard wooden bench that passed for seating in the front of the wool wagon made Gretel think wistfully of the stagecoach. Every stone, every rut, every hole jolted and jarred her until she feared permanent damage might be done. Hans had opted for a recumbent position in the back, and was dozing happily among the woolsacks. She had been thankful no one was about to witness their undignified departure, so early was the hour. After a grueling interview with three zealous kingsmen, followed by a restless hour in her bed, she had decided they should leave at first light. A waiter had been employed to find someone heading in the right direction, and Gretel had parted with yet more money to secure two seats to Gesternstadt on the rickety cart. The first two hours staring at the rear ends of two flatulent mules had been a trial; the remainder of the journey had at least been improved by the addition of the wool merchant’s wife, who joined them farther down the valley, and brought with her plentiful supplies of fresh bread, wurst, and cheeses. Gretel snacked glumly and tried to organize events, and their possible consequences, in her head.

  Bechstein was very, very dead, and the very knife that killed him had been her very own. These facts had been enough to bring an excited flush to the cheeks of the kingsman char
ged with the task of investigating the case, and only Gretel’s ability to wear people down with her self-assurance and quick wits had prevented him charging both her and Hans with murder. While the weapon was indeed damning evidence, and opportunity was arguable, the kingsman lacked the vital element of motive. He had reluctantly accepted that he had no grounds on which to hold his prime suspects, and had not had the sense to obtain an order preventing them from leaving the hotel.

  Gretel knew it could only be a matter of time before he rectified this error, hence her keenness to quit Bad am Zee by the first conveyance that presented itself. She was at a loss as to why anyone should actually bother to kill the bumptious businessman.

  True, he had been irritating, but so were a lot of people, and, unfair as it might seem, this was not a good enough reason to do them in. He must have done something to seriously upset someone, and whoever that someone was, they had got hold of Gretel’s knife and used it. But who? The square had been empty that night, save for the Petersons, neither of whom Gretel could see as murderers. And why had Bechstein been, apparently, heading for her room? How could it be that a law-abiding subject such as herself should have been accused of capital offenses twice in as many weeks? And where, in the name of all that was sensible, was she now going to find a finger? On top of which, the very last coin and note had been spent, and as yet she had no real progress to take to Frau Hapsburg. Still, Gretel reasoned, she could legitimately claim for some of the expenses she had incurred. Perhaps the silly woman would appreciate her efforts. After all, she had visited the Old Crone, escaped from a dungeon, wrestled a lion, traveled several leagues’ distance, dealt with an amorous troll, and become a fugitive from justice—surely all that meant she was due some sort of recompense?

  She had the wool merchant drop her off in Kirschbaum Avenue. Matters, in the form of Gretel’s finances, were urgent. Frau Hapsburg would just have to take her as she was, the dust of the journey still upon her. She found her client busy tending roses in her front garden, and felt her spirits lift at the thought that she might conduct the entire interview outside, and not have to enter the cat-ridden, flea-infested house itself. She let herself through the picket gate and made her way along the narrow stone path. Slinky shapes darted in front of her or slipped among the shrubbery as she went. Here and there a cat basked in the sunshine of the fading day. Further felines lay in window boxes or on the iron bench across the lawn.

  “Good afternoon to you, Frau Hapsburg,” she called out.

  “Oh! Fraulein Gretel. Are they found? My poor tiny ones—have you recovered them?” She sprang to her feet, trowel held high, a look of hope on her face so heartbreaking even Gretel felt its impact.

  “Alas, not yet. But,” she hurried on, anxious to prevent one of the bouts of weeping the elderly woman seemed prone to, “I have news. We must take heart, Frau Hapsburg.”

  “You know who has them?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “But you know where they are?”

  “Not precisely.”

  “Then you have at least heard that they are safe?”

  “Not specifically.”

  The poor woman wobbled, lowering her trowel, her eyes brimming.

  “In that case, I fail to see,” she said, “how any news you may have could be of significance.”

  Gretel stepped forward, eager to give reassurance, but as she was separated from Frau Hapsburg by a particularly floriferous specimen of a Himalayan tea rose, she had to deliver her speech through a screen of leaves and blooms.

  “I have made an excellent contact.” She quelled a shudder at the memory of the troll and prayed she would not be questioned in detail about her source. “He lives near the resort of Bad am Zee. He has, it transpires, some important local knowledge on the matter, and he is willing, for a price, to reveal the name of the person who has taken not just your cats, but others besides.”

  “Oh! Others have been stolen? There are more poor folk who suffer as I do? What monstrous fiend would be so cruel, would inflict such suffering?”

  The eyes were still filled with tears, but none fell. Gretel felt she was winning, so pressed on.

  “Indeed. But do not distress yourself unnecessarily. I have given the situation a great deal of my time and attention,” she said pointedly. “I have mulled over the specifics, and cogitated upon the facts, and what strikes me is this: a person, however wrong, however misguided in his actions, a person who will go to great expense and effort to acquire something must surely do so because it is of value to him. Because he covets that thing, and, once in his possession, will treasure it and treat it with the utmost kindness and care. That’s what I think.”

  “Yes.” Frau Hapsburg nodded uncertainly, her head bobbing up and down like a bluebell in a breeze. “It would seem to signify. It may be that my little darlings are lost to me, for now, but at least they have come to no harm, but are loved and looked after well. Oh, fraulein, do you truly believe that to be the case?”

  “I am certain of it,” said Gretel, crossing her fingers behind her back. The truth was, her informant had given no hint of the purpose behind the catnapper’s actions. She thought it best not to share the unasked-for insight she had gained into the feeding habits of trolls regarding small domestic animals. She studied the furry pets surrounding her and, while she felt no desire to touch the things, she found she didn’t care for the idea of them being eaten. This puzzled her a little. Was there a danger she was growing accustomed to the creatures after all? She attempted to hold the gaze of a coal-black tom sitting beneath a laburnum. No, it was no good, she concluded—stare at a cat long enough and you start to think of witches. She cleared her throat. “Naturally, I have formulated a plan,” she said.

  “You have?”

  “A complex and thorough course of action that will, I can confidently state, bring about the results we desire.”

  “Oh, I do so hope you are right. I remain in fear that all my darlings are in danger. I hardly dare let them out of my sight.”

  “Rest assured, Frau Hapsburg, excellent progress in the case is being made. Of course, such dedication has already made considerable demands on my time and resources. And will continue to do so.” She waited. Her client looked blank. Gretel went on. “Expenses are rising daily, and I anticipate them doubling very soon.” Still no response.

  “I will shortly have to make another trip to Bad am Zee, and indeed travel farther, to follow up the promising leads I have already unearthed. See what I can see.”

  One or two of the cats had clearly decided it was teatime and began to wind themselves about any legs they could find, starting up a wailing and singing that set Gretel’s teeth on edge. It was all the provocation she needed to cut to the chase.

  “I will need a deal more money to enable me to continue my investigations,” she declared.

  “Oh, but of course.” Frau Hapsburg all but dropped her trowel. “Forgive me for not raising the matter myself. How much will you require?”

  Gretel thought of a number, doubled it, added a smidge more for discomfort and personal humiliation already suffered, toyed with the idea of listing all the expenses accrued thus far, tossed the idea aside as too much effort, added a further sum for unforeseen circumstances that might very well arise, and delivered the figure in confident tones. Her client scurried off without a word of complaint or resistance—making Gretel wish she had asked for more—returning mere minutes later with a fat bundle of notes.

  As she headed for home, Gretel found her travel-weariness considerably alleviated by the comforting bolster of money now nestled snugly in her corset. She was looking forward to the gentle pleasures of home: Hans’s cooking; her daybed; an uplifting martini or two. The twilight was settling prettily on Gesternstadt, and in her current mood even she found it appealing. She turned out of Kirschbaum Avenue, her stomach growling in anticipation of one of Hans’s feasts, and was just drawing level with the still-smoldering cartwright’s workshop when she saw a young couple stand
ing among the remnants of the buildings. Something in the tone of their exchange caused her to pause. She knew the young man to be Roland, the elder of Hund’s sons, and, squinting through the dwindling light, she recognized Johanna, the new girl from Madame Renoir’s parlor. It still bothered Gretel that she could not place the girl. Secreting herself behind a handy lilac bush, her detective antennae twitching, she tuned in to their conversation.

  “It doesn’t do any good you coming here,” the boy was saying. “Things are the way they are and that’s that.”

  “I don’t believe this is really what you want. I can’t accept it.” The girl tugged a lace handkerchief from her sleeve and sniffed into it delicately. Roland softened immediately. Gretel made a note to employ this feminine tactic herself sometime. She retrieved her notebook from her jacket pocket and wrote down “Kerchiefs—preferably laundered.”

  “Johanna, please don’t.” The young man placed a hand lightly on the girl’s shaking shoulder. “You know I could never bear to see you cry.”

  “It is torture for me, knowing that you are so near, and yet . . .”

  “We’ve talked of this, many times.”

  “After all the years I have been true to you. After all I have endured!”

  “I know . . .”

  “All the waiting, the hoping. All that time spent with . . . Oh! I cannot bring myself to speak of him.” She blew her nose gently, a fragile, tuneful blow. Gretel thought she herself might not be able to successfully pull that bit off.

  Roland let his hand drop.

  “Perhaps it would be better if you moved away. It was a mistake after all, your coming to live here.”

  “You would send me away!” Johanna stopped sniveling and glared at him. The change in her demeanor was so swift and extreme the young man took a step backward. “Has our love meant so little to you that you could so easily banish me from your life? Oh, Roland, you are not the man I believed you to be! Where is the steadfast boy who risked so much, time and again, to be with me? Where is the gallant young man who never let me down, who traveled and travailed so that we might share moments of love and beauty, whenever and wherever we could? Are you now become so weak-willed?”