Once Upon a Crime

by P. J. Brackston

  “Johanna, please do not excite yourself.”

  “And why would I not! Am I to allow myself to be so cruelly cast aside and say nothing? I think not!”

  “What can I say to you to make you understand? Things have changed. They are not the way they once were. Our lives are different now. I have . . . obligations.”

  The girl spoke through gritted teeth, her eyes dark and furious. She spat her words at him. “You have Charlotte!”

  Gretel almost snapped the nib of her pencil as she scribbled down notes. Charlotte! Could she mean Princess Charlotte?

  “Your precious princess.” It seemed she could.

  “Hush.” Roland glanced anxiously about him. “Please, Johanna, I beg of you, do not speak of her.”

  “Why should I care if your sordid secret gets out? What matters it to me what becomes of you? Either of you!”

  “If we were to be discovered . . .” But he was talking to an empty space. Johanna was running, her handkerchief discarded on the sooty ground, her sobs fading like the call of some passing bird as she hastened away. Roland made as if to go after her, but thought better of it. He reached down and picked up the small square of lace, held it tenderly to his lips, before putting it in his pocket and trudging glumly in the direction of home.

  Two hours later Gretel lay in a deep bath, bubbles maintaining her modesty as Hans poured in yet another top-up of hot water. Earlier, she had fallen hungrily upon the fine casserole of pork and bottled plums he had prepared. The pair had feasted in contented silence, savoring the tasty meal and reveling in the peace and safety of their own house. Gretel’s mind was whirring, and she knew she needed to still it before attempting to make sense of what she had learned. And the best way she knew of to still her mind was to feed it well, to rest it, and, if possible, to pamper it. Or rather, to pamper her body. She was still suffering from her exertions on the mountain and the unforgiving seating of the wool wagon. A fragrant, foamy soak was called for. She had nagged Hans into dragging the iron bath into the sitting room in front of the freshly lit fire. Now, at last, as she lay wreathed in the scent of orange blossom and lavender, her muscles finally relaxing, her joints moving more freely, she felt able to tackle the puzzle before her. Or almost ready.

  “Hans, don’t sit down yet.”

  “For heaven’s sake, Gretel, what now? I’m beat.”

  “You’ll like this idea, I know you will.”

  “Go on, then, before I fall over with exhaustion. Because when I do, I give you fair warning, I will not be getting up again until the notion of breakfast stirs me.”

  “Martinis. Perfectly chilled—there’s plenty of ice in the ice house—and two plump olives per glass, if you please.”

  Hans brightened.

  “The best idea you’ve had all day by a country mile,” he said.

  Gretel listened to him moving about the house, assembling the necessary items and ingredients for preparing the cocktails, muttering happily to himself as he did so. She experienced a momentary stab of guilt at what she had nearly succeeded in doing to him. She could still feel the weight of his pudgy paw in hers. Would she have been able to bring herself to do it, she wondered. With a sigh she realized that she probably would. And, had she done so, her brother would not at this moment be expertly assembling martinis. It had indeed been a lucky escape for both of them. But the fact remained that she was still only in possession of her own fingers. Another had to be found from somewhere. From someone. She slid deeper into the bath, her tummy and knees emerging through the suds like atolls. It could not be a coincidence, she decided, that the corpse at Hund’s yard had been minus a digit. One of the things on her list of Things That Might Actually Lead Somewhere was to tackle the dreaded Kapitan Strudel and find out the identity of the cadaver. At some point in its life, the hapless soul must have encountered the troll, or someone acting on the troll’s behalf. And the troll knew who wanted the cats. It all knitted together somehow, though at present Gretel was aware the misshapen garment her theories amounted to was in danger of unraveling under scrutiny.

  Hans reappeared with the martinis.

  “Here you are.” He handed her one. “Try that and tell me it isn’t the best you’ve ever had. Go on, I dare you,” he said, whipping out a fresh cigar from his pocket and biting off the end.

  Gretel sipped, eyes closed.

  “Heaven,” she confirmed. “Absolute heaven. Though how you can appreciate it through the taste of that noxious cigar I can’t imagine.”

  “Years of training the palate,” Hans explained. “Now, is that it? Can I safely sit down, or does Queen Cleopatra have any further commands?”

  “She was an empress. And no, just leave the cocktail shaker within reach and park your posterior. I’m going to test out my theories on you.”

  “I’m flattered,” said Hans, subsiding into the armchair nearest the fire.

  “Don’t be; there is no one else.” She savored a little more of her drink, licking her lips, feeling her mind opening up like the doors to a well-stocked larder. “Now, certain facts present themselves as concrete and indisputable.”

  “How very helpful of ’em.”

  “One: the troll knows who has the cats. Two: he’s not telling unless he gets”—she hesitated—“his payment for the information.”

  “Huh, would expect nothing less from a troll. Loathsome creatures.”

  “Quite. Moving on, the corpse in Hund’s yard also knew something about the missing felines.”

  “Ah, the brass bell. I’d forgotten about that.”

  So had Gretel, until that moment. “Exactly,” she said, happy to be steering clear of fingers just now, “so we might surmise—”

  “Ooh, risky, surmising.”

  “I’m doing it anyway, so be quiet.”

  “I thought you wanted my opinion.”

  “When I ask for it. I haven’t got that far yet. As I said, we might surmise that the dead person and the troll and whoever wants the cats all know each other at the very least, and have more than likely had dealings with one another.”

  “What about that chubby little businessman, what was his name?”

  “Bechstein.”

  “Yes. Didn’t strike me as a cat person.”

  “Who says he’s anything to do with it?”

  “Isn’t he?”

  “Is he?”

  “Oh, am I supposed to answer? Are you asking my opinion now?”

  There was a note of sarcasm in Hans’s voice Gretel did not care for one bit. She drained her glass and leaned over to grasp the cocktail shaker, causing flopping waves to travel up and down the bathtub. Only when she had refilled her glass did she trust herself to continue civilly.

  “So far, the only thing connecting Bechstein to Frau Hapsburg is me.”

  “I’d be rather rattled by that thought, if I were you.” Hans slurped his drink noisily, managing to do so without removing his cigar from his mouth.

  “Well, you’re not. Point is, we have no reason to suppose there is any connection at all. Bechstein was murdered by we know not who for we know not what reason. For what it’s worth, though, I don’t believe he was a businessman.”

  “No?”

  “No. Remember he said he had a meeting the evening we arrived at Bad am Zee?”

  “I do. He made a point of telling us about it, going on about not wanting to be late.”

  “Exactly, so why was he in the restaurant the same time as me, feeding his face for well over two hours when he was supposed to be in his oh-so-important meeting?”

  “Perhaps he was stood up.”

  “Perhaps he wasn’t.”

  “Is that surmising or deducing?”

  “I can very quickly find you more jobs to do, Hans.”

  “Just trying to get the hang of this whole detecting business, that’s all.”

  “Anyway, there was something shifty about him. I could feel it.”

  “Not very scientific, your methods, I must say.” Hans prodded
a log on the fire with his foot, sending up sparks. “Pity he managed to get himself killed just then, so that we had to find him. Sight of him . . . I’ll have nightmares, I’m sure I will.”

  Gretel brushed aside another assault by guilt. Hans must never know how close he had come to suffering something rather more nightmare-inducing. Just as she was taking comfort from the fact that he didn’t know the hunting knife was hers, he said: “That kingsman, the idiot one who questioned us, he told me the knife sticking out of poor Bechstein’s chest was yours. I told him that was rubbish, it couldn’t have been. You barely know what to do with a vegetable knife, let alone a whopping great hunting knife. Then he told me the man in the hunting shop across the square had sold it to you that very day. And I said he couldn’t have done. What could you possibly want with such a thing? Eh, answer me that?”

  Gretel was too busy choking on an olive to respond.

  “Oh, hell’s bells, Gretel, am I going to have to get up and beat you on the back? It really is too bad.”

  Gretel succeeded in ejecting the thing, one mighty cough sending it flying across the room and ricocheting off a pewter tankard on the mantelpiece.

  “You could have pitted them,” she complained.

  “Too tired,” said Hans, yawning to underline the point, his eyelids drooping. Gretel waited. She knew that if he drifted off to sleep, chances were he would never again think to question her about the hunting knife. Complicated thoughts visited Hans’s brain rarely, and seldom the same one twice.

  Her own brain seemed to be shutting down for the night. Clearly she had underestimated the toll the week’s events had taken on her. The seductive qualities of the cocktail combined with the soporific effects of a full stomach and the soothing caress of the bathwater had rendered her relaxed to the point of uselessness. Better, she decided, to give up the unequal struggle for the day. Tomorrow she would begin her deliberations anew. A good night’s sleep often produced amazing moments of lucidity that would certainly elude her now.

  She was just summoning the strength to haul herself out of the bath when there came a cacophonous pounding on the door.

  “In the name of the king,” bellowed a familiar voice, “open up! We are here on King Julian’s business and will not be turned away!”

  Hans, far too cozily wrapped in the arms of Morpheus to hear anything, slumbered on. Gretel opened her mouth to shout out a reply but was too slow.

  “Right, that’s it. We’re breaking down the door!” yelled the sergeant. “Stand back!”

  “Wait!” Gretel wailed, but her pleas were drowned out by the battering, splintering, and thudding, followed by tramping feet, that told the story of the disintegration of her front door. Within seconds the sitting room was full of soldiers.

  “Well, really!” said Gretel, folding her arms over her breasts. The bubbles had subsided unhelpfully, so that there were insufficient left to completely cover her embarrassment. The soldiers jostled for position, some fighting for a better view, others recoiling at what they saw. “Hans!” Gretel barked. “Hans, for pity’s sake, wake up!” Where the combined might of a regiment of King’s Troops had failed to rouse Hans, his sister’s voice won through.

  “What? What’s that?” His cigar, still lit, fell into his lap, causing a deal of wriggling and frantic snatching at his trousers. “What’s going on?” he demanded.

  The sergeant stepped forward, sword drawn.

  “You can put that away for a start,” Gretel told him.

  “In the name of the king—”

  “Oh, please.”

  “—we are here to recapture the escaped necromancer and abductor of children—”

  “Now you go too far!” Gretel was so incensed she began to clamber out of the bath. At least two of the soldiers screamed. She paid them no heed but climbed out, making no effort to cover her nakedness. “Gentlemen would avert their eyes,” she pointed out.

  “Watch her closely!” commanded the sergeant. “It may be a trick!”

  “Hans, hand me my robe.”

  Hans moved to do what seemed undoubtedly the decent thing, but quickly found a half-dozen sword points at his throat.

  “Stay where you are!” screamed the sergeant.

  “You are the most excitable fellow I have ever encountered,” said Gretel. “You might want to rethink your coffee intake.”

  “Silence, in the name of the king!”

  “This is ridiculous. I’m not putting up a fight, I merely wish to put on some clothes.”

  There was a movement at the back of the room followed by a soft, deep voice.

  “Sergeant, be so good as to allow the fraulein to get dressed.”

  The soldiers stepped aside to reveal the handsome aide who had caught Gretel’s eye at the Schloss. She hadn’t forgotten how appealing he had looked in his dress uniform at the Starkbierfest, either. She felt a girlish blush color her cheeks. Whereas before, with only the irksome soldiers to contend with, she had been more irritated than shamed by her own nakedness, now, standing soapy and unadorned in front of this unfairly handsome fellow, she felt more humiliated than she had ever before in her life. Words, for once, deserted her. She opened her mouth, hoping something dignified would come out, but nothing did. She was painfully aware that she was still clutching an empty martini glass, which somehow made her feel even more ridiculous, if that were possible.

  The king’s aide took the robe from Hans, stepped forward, and handed it to Gretel with a devastating smile. She took it from him, whereupon he made a tiny but respectful bow, and turned his back.

  “As soon as you are clothed, Fraulein Gretel, the sergeant and I would be most grateful if you would accompany us back to the Summer Schloss,” he said, and then walked slowly from the room.

  SIX

  It had taken Gretel all her considerable stubbornness and powers of reasoning to convince the soldiers that she be allowed to dress in something more suitable than her immodest house robe. They had agreed on the condition that she should not leave the room but send Hans to select clothes from her wardrobe. Despite detailed and careful instructions, the resulting ensemble was a mismatched muddle. Still, Gretel consoled herself, it was better than being draped in fraying and food-stained candlewick.

  Tutting loudly at the madness of teaming a cream linen blouse with a black silk evening skirt and finishing the nonsense off with a pair of summer sandals, it occurred to her that on each occasion she had been in sight of the good-looking man she had been far from at her best. That this bothered her at all bothered her. Hans had not the wit to select a hat, and her hair was still wet from the bath. With a sinking heart she realized that, left to dry untamed, it would soon be a vast frizzy mass, and her humiliation would be complete. What hope had she of persuading anyone of her innocence and trustworthiness when she looked like a madwoman who possessed neither dress sense nor comb?

  The entourage arrived at the Schloss under a starless black sky, low thundery clouds threatening rain. It was a sticky night now, the gentle spring heat having been replaced by a burst of early summer, providing an uncomfortable clamminess in the atmosphere.

  Gretel was bundled from the cage on the wagon in which she had been so unceremoniously transported. Two soldiers were detailed to take her to the dungeons. “Herr Schmerz is waiting!” the sergeant told them.

  Gretel was fairly certain she wasn’t going to like Herr Schmerz if he inhabited the dungeons. She noticed the good-looking man watching her as she was taken away. Strange as it seemed, she was ever more convinced that there was some spark of interest there, some tingling little connection. She shook the idea from her head, causing her by-now wild hair to fluff out further. If she was right and he was really interested in her, she told herself, he would stop gawping and do something to get her out of this mess. Nevertheless, she couldn’t stop herself quizzing the quieter soldier about the man’s identity.

  “That is Uber General Ferdinand von Ferdinand,” he told her, the admiration clear in his voice. “He is
our most successful general, and first cousin to Queen Beatrix.”

  Gretel quite liked the name Ferdinand, though she thought it showed lack of imagination on his mother’s part. Ferdinand, she said to herself. Then, Ferdie. Then, Stop it, you ridiculous woman.

  Her mind was dragged back to more unpleasant matters when she found herself in a large, extremely well-equipped, and altogether terrifying torture chamber.

  A burly man in leather vest and trousers, his arms a wealth of tattoos, stepped from the shadows, hand outstretched.

  “Schmerz is the name,” he said, “pain is the game! Very pleased to meet you.” Gretel found herself shaking his hand. The soldiers looked uneasy.

  “Don’t worry, nothing to fear. I’m sure our latest accused here has always been told not to bite the hand that bleeds you. Ha, ha!” He laughed uproariously at his own joke. Gretel was dumbfounded. There was no doubt about where she was, just as there was no question as to this man’s purpose in life. She was standing in a torture chamber and she was shaking hands with the man whose job it would be to torture her. The physique fitted—the slick muscles, the menacingly shaven head, the violent body art—but the demeanor of Herr Schmerz seemed to belong to someone else altogether. Even his laugh was genuinely cheerful, so that one felt the desire to join in, to laugh along with him. Gretel thought this might be some sort of new psychological tactic for weakening a victim’s resolve. It hardly seemed necessary. Looking at the terrible instruments of agony that filled the room, she felt all her resolve dissolve instantly.

  “Let me show you around, fraulein, give you the guided tour. No extra charge. Let’s face it, the charge against you is bad enough already, ha, ha! Right, let’s start with good old Sally Stretch here. A bit outdated, some might say, a little last century. But reliable.” He patted the rack affectionately. “Always gives good results, does old Sally. Now here”—he moved on a pace or two—“here is something special. Oh yes. Took delivery of this only last month. Quite looking forward to trying it out, don’t mind telling you.” He paused to frown at Gretel, as if sizing up her suitability for the machine.