Once Upon a Crime

by P. J. Brackston

  “Do you think he had argued with his brother, perhaps?”

  “It is possible, but the pair had worked together for many years without apparent dispute. It is more likely they attempted to double-cross one of their own, and that person exacted their revenge.” He hiccupped quietly. “Rest assured, fraulein, we will not stop until we have got to the bottom of the matter.” He looked at her fuzzily, trying to regain his usual aloof and critical composure. “Of course, as Muller was known to you and died in your company with no witnesses present, I will have to take a formal statement from you.”

  “You surely do not consider me a suspect?”

  “I would be failing in my duty if I did otherwise.”

  “But, Herr Kapitan, we are on the same side, you and I. The side of justice. I had absolutely no reason to wish Peterson . . . Muller . . . any ill.”

  “There is the outstanding issue of Bechstein’s murder, which was, after all, committed in the hotel in which you and your brother were staying, and with your hunting knife.”

  “An unfortunate set of coincidences, I admit, but nothing more.”

  Hans returned with more brandy, but Strudel was starting to remember where he was and what he was supposed to be doing.

  “I regret to say, fraulein, that a kingsman does not believe in coincidence.” He signaled to his men to pick up the body and then turned back to Gretel. “You will attend our offices tomorrow to give your account of events. It goes without saying—”

  “But you feel the need to say it anyway.”

  “—that you must not leave Gesternstadt until our inquiries are completed.”

  “I have business that may demand my attention elsewhere.”

  “Then that business will have to wait. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Perfectly.”

  Gretel and Hans watched as the body was removed, and the kingsmen trailed out, Strudel all the while barking instructions to remind himself and everyone else of his own importance.

  That night, sleep eluded Gretel. The air was clammy, the temperature was unseasonably high, and her mind was awhirr with recent events. She had an uncomfortable sense that things were closing in on her. She had been accused, condemned, and even executed for a kidnapping that never happened. Her escape might be only temporary if she did not find proof of Princess Charlotte’s liaison with Roland, particularly if the princess ever found out that she had not, after all, had her head lopped off. Then there was Bechstein, rotting away in some mortuary in Bad am Zee, case unsolved, with her as the prime suspect, and Hans running, puffing, a close second. And now Peterson-Muller, unhelpfully putting her in the frame for a spot of fatal poisoning. None of any of it was her own doing, and yet every bit of it was severely impacting on her liberty, her peace of mind, and her ability to do her job. True, she had made some progress in the matter of Frau Hapsburg’s wretched cats, but how was she to resume her investigations and retrieve the felines if Strudel had confined her to Gesternstadt? The extra cash she had extracted from her client would not last long. She needed to get back to the troll, winkle the name of the cat stealer out of him, get an address for same, and pay the man a visit.

  Gretel fidgeted upon her feather mattress, shifting position for the umpteenth time in an hour, but still unable to settle. Vivid pictures of severed body parts flashed in front of her tightly closed eyes. It had not been easy, relieving Peterson-Muller of his fingers. With hindsight, and with the experience of having hacked away at tissue and knuckle with first a chisel and then an axe, she thanked whatever stars kept watch over her that she had not attempted to do the same to Hans. It had been far more difficult than she could ever have imagined. The idea of the scene of ghastliness, discovery, failure, and reprisals that would have followed such an attempt made her sweat anew. She threw the cotton cover from the bed, exposing her nakedness to the thick air. At least she now had the troll’s payment, nestled snugly in the icehouse.

  She recalled the moment of anxiety Hans had prompted by suggesting he fetch ice for their brandy. She could just imagine him returning, ashen-faced and appalled, Peterson-Muller’s index and middle fingers held aloft, the blood barely dry. Still, there was no point dwelling on a horror she had, by however narrow a margin, escaped. She must focus on the here and now, and on the what-might-be if she didn’t apply her mind to the problems that presented themselves.

  She needed to compose a plan and then carry out that plan. Method and fortitude were called for. Good sense. Determination. Gretel was certain she possessed these qualities in abundance; it was simply a matter of mustering them to the cause. She had to get back to Bad am Zee and to the troll. Strudel had not specified a time for her to turn up and give her statement. Tomorrow, he had said. That being the case, he would not, presumably, see her absence as significant until about teatime. That would allow her several hours’ head start, which could be enough. Provided she had a speedy conveyance. She couldn’t risk the stagecoach: too public and too slow. No, if she was to slip away she must do so as early as possible. She knew it was beyond her ability to ride such a distance, so a carriage of some sort would have to be found.

  Preferably with a driver. But whom to approach? It must be someone discreet, available, and happy to make some quick money. It occurred to Gretel that while she was in Bad am Zee she could do something to clear up the mysterious activities of Peterson-Muller. It would be sensible indeed to be able to return to Gesternstadt with evidence that would remove any suspicion from her own head, in regard to the con man’s murder. On top of which, it was becoming clear to her that, if the man in Hund’s yard was connected in some way to the missing cats—and she believed he was—and that man was a Muller, and so connected inextricably to Peterson-Muller, then the brothers were of more interest to her than she had at first realized. Was Peterson-Muller also involved with the catnapping?

  Gretel felt her head beginning to throb. She reminded herself that pointless conjecture did not constitute proper investigation. The most pressing question was, who would take her to Bad am Zee? Who needed money and had access to transportation? She sat up.

  “Roland!” she cried. Of course. He might not have a wagon of his own left, but he was bound to know a man who did. And he certainly needed the money. The cuckoo clock in the hallway announced the hour. In a little while it would be dawn.

  Abandoning all thoughts of sleep, Gretel left her bed and dressed, choosing clothes suitable for speedy travel, for mountain walking, and for repelling the advances of trolls.

  The new day had barely broken when she rapped urgently on Herr Hund’s front door. She had made her way through the town without being noticed, but still found herself frequently checking furtively over her shoulder. Footsteps inside heralded an answer to her knocking. The door was opened cautiously. Gretel was relieved to see that it was Roland who stood sleepily peering out at her.

  “Fraulein Gretel? It is very early.”

  “Yes, I’m sorry about that. The thing is this. I have a proposition to put to you, and time is of the essence.”

  “A proposition?”

  “I need someone with a carriage to drive me to Bad am Zee, and then on farther. Five days should see the job done. I’m willing to pay a fair price for your time.”

  “Fraulein, the fire . . . we have no carriages.”

  “Of your own, but I’m sure you could borrow something. You must know of every wagon, landau, gig, and cart hereabouts.”

  Roland pushed a hand through his hair and stifled a yawn. “Yes, it is possible, but when? When would you want to leave?”

  “Immediately?”

  “What?”

  “At least, as soon as possible. Let’s say before noon, definitely.” She watched him considering the idea. “Forgive me for saying so, Roland, but you cannot have more work than you can manage at present.”

  “Five days, you say?”

  “Not a minute more, I promise.”

  “And the money . . . How much will you pay me?”

  Thoug
h it pained Gretel to think of parting with any amount of money, she had already convinced herself that Frau Hapsburg would bear the cost, and this was not time to cut corners.

  “Sufficient to purchase a new wagon of your own, perhaps?”

  The deal was struck. Roland said he knew of a suitable conveyance and would set about securing its use at once. Gretel would return home, pack a small bag, and tell Hans what he needed to be told. Which would be as little as possible. Despite his loyal intentions, he could not be trusted with sensitive information concerning her whereabouts. Best that he did not know the full story, as Strudel would have it out of him in a very short time. She would meet Roland at the ford on the western edge of the town at ten o’clock. She felt energized by taking action, so that she sped back through the cobbled streets, barely noticing the aroma of freshly baked Snaggentorter wafting out from the Kaffee Haus, oblivious to the humidity already building to insufferable levels, heedless to the annoyingly cheerful good-mornings from early risers walking their dogs. Once home, she busied herself filling a case with essential clothing and toiletries. Hans, roused by the slamming of the new front door, drifted into her room to see what she was doing up at such an hour.

  “Oh, you’re packing,” he said.

  “Your powers of observation are razor sharp as ever, darling brother.”

  “Which means you must be going somewhere,” he said, lifting an arm to scratch a pajamaed pit.

  “Spot on. How do you do it? Mind, out, I need to get at the wardrobe.”

  Hans stood aside, watching her for a moment as she squeaked hangers along the rail in her search for some crucial item or other.

  Gretel glanced at him, never pausing in her task.

  “This is where you’re supposed to ask me where I’m going,” she told him.

  “What? Oh, yes. All right then, where are you going?”

  “To visit cousin Brunhilda.”

  “Oh. Do we even have a cousin Brunhilda?”

  “We do now.”

  “I see. I think.”

  “I doubt it.” She sat on the lid of her suitcase and looked levelly at him. “Listen, this is important. I’m going to visit cousin Brunhilda for a couple of days. My nerves have got the better of me, dead body in the garden and all that. Tell Strudel—”

  “Can’t you tell him?”

  “Tell Strudel I’ll be back by the end of the week and he can have my statement then. I’ll be much recovered after a few days’ peace and quiet away from the shocking memories, and so on, and so on. Yes?”

  “If you say so.”

  “Good.” She heaved at the straps and did up the buckles on the case. She already felt horribly hot and sweaty, despite having chosen a cool cotton dress that allowed a blissful circulation of air about her body. She secured a natty straw boater to her tightly pinned hair and met Hans’s puzzled gaze once more.

  “So, where have I gone?”

  “To stay with cousin Brunhilda.”

  “And why have I gone there?”

  “Peace and quiet. Absence of corpses. Home cooking, shouldn’t wonder. Good cook, is she, our cousin Brunhilda?”

  “One of the best.”

  “Really? Perhaps I should come, too.”

  “Next visit, certainly. Better you stay here this time, look after the house, convince Strudel I’ll be back very soon and all will be well.”

  “If you say so.”

  “I do.”

  She hurried downstairs, Hans trailing behind her in an irritating, lost-lamb fashion. She hesitated, then said, “Don’t suppose you could fix me a snack for the journey? Nothing complicated. A little bratwurst, some black bread would be nice. A jar of your sauerkraut, maybe . . . a pickled egg or two?”

  “Consider it done,” said Hans with renewed vigor, happy to be given something to do he understood.

  Gretel waited for him to become ensconced in the kitchen and then slipped out of the back door and into the icehouse. Mentally bracing herself, she pushed her hand down beside the large lump of ice, feeling for the wax-paper package she had deposited there the evening before. The tips of her fingers touched the wrapping, but it was encrusted with ice and slippery as could be, making it almost impossible to grasp. Grunting, she leaned farther, forcing her arm as far down the gap between the hefty block of ice and the stone wall of the little house as she was able.

  “Hell’s teeth,” she cursed, feeling the package slip away from her scrabbling fingers. She tried to extend her arm farther, her body pressed hard against the ice now, the front of her dress soaked. She consoled herself with the thought that she was at least cool for the first time in days. She cast about the gloomy space for something to use to get at the evasive bundle, and spotted the little pick they kept for chipping ice off the block. She wriggled free, took hold of it, and was just about to employ it when a violent hammering startled her so much she almost dropped the thing.

  “Open up!” a voice yelled from the front porch. “Kingsmen’s business. Open the door!”

  Gretel was confused. That wasn’t Kapitan Strudel’s voice, and anyway, it was barely nine o’clock. He surely wouldn’t be sending out furious search parties for her already?

  The hammering grew louder, the voice more insistent.

  “Open up! We are kingsmen from Bad am Zee and have orders to arrest Gretel of Gesternstadt for murder!”

  Bad am Zee! Now Gretel understood. Bechstein had come back to haunt her. She had to get away. But the door wasn’t locked, and in any case, Hans was sure to meekly let them in. There was no time to lose. Gretel rammed the pick down the crevice, snagged the package, and hauled it out. Stuffing it in her corset, gasping at the ice against her bosom, she swung around to find Hans standing before her holding out the front door key. She stared at him in amazement.

  “Thought you might not want them coming in,” he said calmly.

  “Hans, you are the best brother a person could have,” said Gretel.

  She dashed back into the house, threw a sturdy cape about her shoulders, and grabbed her case from the hall. The hammering had become battering and Roland’s fine workmanship was beginning to splinter under the onslaught.

  “Here!” Hans pressed a food parcel upon her. “You’ll need your snack.”

  She smiled, hesitating, for a moment worrying that she was leaving him to face unfair odds. As if reading her mind, Hans steered her through the French windows, giving her a little smile before he disappeared back toward the hall. As she clambered through the gap Peterson-Muller had left in his wake, she could dimly hear the final moments of her new front door, and Hans’s placatory tones as he stalled the kingsmen.

  Gretel tucked her provisions under one arm and her suitcase under the other, kept her head low, and scuttled down the alley, heading west toward the ford.

  NINE

  The leaden sky belched thunder as Gretel hurried toward her rendezvous. At last the sultry weather broke and long-overdue rain fell heavily onto the dusty streets of Gesternstadt. By the time she reached the ford, the water levels were high enough to give a timid traveler pause. But Gretel was not, had never been, and would never be, timid. She positioned herself beneath a sweet chestnut tree, which provided some modicum of shelter. The town clock could be heard striking ten. Where was Roland? For one dreadful moment she contemplated the thought that he might fail her. If he did not show up as promised, then things were looking very bad for Gretel. And for Hans, whom she had abandoned to give muddled excuses for her absence. It was becoming increasingly urgent she bring home not only Frau Hapsburg’s cats but proof that both she and Hans were blameless in the matter of any of the recent murders, both in Gesternstadt and Bad am Zee. Rainwater fought its way through the broad leaves of the tree and assaulted Gretel’s straw hat, quickly reducing it to a floppy mess. She considered removing it, but at that moment she heard hooves clattering along the stony lane. Reluctant to give herself away in the event that someone other than Roland was charging down the road, she flattened herself against
the tree as best she could, peering out through the relentless weather. Seconds later, a bright chestnut horse pulling a racing gig tore round the corner and came to a slithering halt at the ford. Roland struggled to restrain the restless animal. Gretel crept out from her hiding place, appalled at what she saw.

  “My apologies for being late, fraulein,” said Roland. “I had a little difficulty getting the gig hitched.”

  “Are you completely mad?” asked Gretel. “A wagon, I said. Some sort of sensible conveyance.”

  “This was all I could find at such short notice.”

  “A racing gig? And look at that animal—is it even broken in?”

  The young stallion, for such it was, foamed at the mouth, shaking its head in fury at the bit between its teeth. He pawed the ground restlessly.

  “Better climb aboard, fraulein. He doesn’t like standing still.”

  The gig was equipped with sufficient seating for driver and a slender, lightweight passenger. Gretel hauled herself onto the alarmingly flimsy contraption and forced her ample posterior into the inadequate space. The horse, spooked by Gretel’s clumsy struggles, attempted to turn in its traces for a better look at what was going on behind it. Roland was forced to urge the beast forward to avoid it getting entangled. With a “Yah!” and a flick of the reins, they were away, powering through the fast-flowing ford, and galloping out of Gesternstadt. Gretel clasped her suitcase and provisions to her bosom with one arm, the other instinctively hanging on to Roland. To begin with, she was reassured by the fact that she was so tightly wedged into her seat she could not easily be dislodged. After half an hour, however, a worrying numbness overtook her lower extremities. Her hat had long since blown off her head and into a field of goats that were no doubt now feasting upon it. Mud splashed up from beneath the frame of the gig with every stride the horse took, so that her skirts were coated with the stuff. Conversation was impossible, as was snacking. All she could do was cling on, close her mind to images of crashing, and focus on the tasks ahead. At least at this speed, she reasoned, none of the kingsmen would stand a chance of catching up to her.