Once Upon a Crime

by P. J. Brackston

  The wench threw back her head and laughed aloud, giving everyone who cared to look an uninterrupted view of her four fine teeth. “Dear me!” she cried. “You took a wrong turn somewhere and no mistake, for you’ll not find nothing good in this place, God knows!”

  “Fraulein.” Hans shook his head. “I am rather inclined to believe the evidence of my own eyes.” So saying, he took her hand, lifted it to his lips, and kissed it gently.

  Gretel didn’t know whether to vomit or applaud. This was a side of Hans that had remained hitherto hidden from her. His gift for mendacity stunned her. She leaned close to his ear.

  “How long is this going to go on?” she asked.

  Hans ignored her, his mind fully focused on the task at hand.

  “My traveling companions and I have come a long way,” he told the woman, “and are sorely in need of food and rest. Some soup, perhaps? A small beer? A room for the night?”

  “We’ve stew,” she told him, “and beer aplenty.”

  “Excellent!” said Hans.

  “But there’s only one room, and it’ll cost you dear. Him as owns this place”—she jerked her head toward a figure slumped on the settle by the fire—“he’s a hard man to bargain with. He’ll take five notes off you for the use of it for a single night, he will.” Gretel could remain silent no longer.

  “Five notes!” she cried. “In this place.”

  The barmaid narrowed her eyes. “This place is where you are, Frau Smell-under-yer-nose. Take it or leave it,” she added, snatching her hand away from Hans.

  “We’ll take the stew and the beer,” said Gretel. “And a place in your stables and hay for our horse. We’ll do without the room.”

  Hans opened his mouth to protest but was silenced by the look on his sister’s face. The barmaid shrugged. “There’s a boy in the barn will watch your horse if you pay him,” she said, turning her back and sloshing beer from the nearest barrel into grubby tankards.

  “Here.” Gretel handed Hans a coin. “Take this out to Roland and tell him to put the horse to bed, and then both of you come and eat.”

  There was room by the fire only for the privileged few, which did not include them. Instead they were forced to perch on a splintery bench positioned to take full advantage of the drafts that chased each other from front door to rear window. The three sat in glum silence, chewing their way through tasteless stew, washing it down with watery ale. The thought crossed Gretel’s mind that the troll might have learned his culinary skills here.

  She heard Roland curse under his breath and followed the direction of his gaze. In the far corner of the room four men sat at cards. Even through the filter of the foul smoky air the tension at the table was obvious. There was a sizeable pile of notes and coins in front of them, and the only words uttered were tersely delivered bids.

  “I say,” said Hans, spotting them, “a hand or two of poker might brighten things up a tad.”

  “I don’t think they are playing for the pleasure of it,” Gretel said.

  “Indeed.” Roland banged his empty tankard down beside his plate. “They are interested only in the thrill of risking their happiness, and no doubt that of their families, on the turn of the cards.”

  “But that’s my point,” Hans went on. “Don’t mean to blow my own horn, as it were, but, well, I am considered reliable at playing a fair hand or two myself when occasion demands.”

  Gretel found it hard to imagine how occasion could ever have demanded—until now.

  “I’ve very little money left, Hans. Exactly how certain are you of increasing, rather than decreasing, what stands between us and destitution?”

  “Dead certain.”

  “I’d be happier with a more optimistic assessment.”

  “Completely, absolutely certain. Really, Gretel, I could show these bumpkins a thing or two, I promise you.”

  “I suggest you start by not addressing them as bumpkins.”

  “How much have we got?”

  Gretel hesitated.

  “All right,” Hans tried again, “how much will you let me have?”

  “Five notes. It’s no good looking at me like that. Five notes is all I’m prepared to risk.” She didn’t think it prudent to let him or Roland know that five notes was all she possessed in the world.

  Hans was just pocketing the money and rising stiffly to his feet when a commotion broke out among the card players.

  “Cheat! Filthy cheat!” shouted the scrawny man seated nearest the fire.

  Chaos ensued. There was a deal of shouting and swearing. Two of the men leapt from their seats and set about beating the third with flailing fists. The fourth was tipped backward, the table upset, coins and notes scattering far and wide. A near riot broke out as several drinkers threw themselves upon the spilled money, while others tried to haul them off. In the midst of the kerfuffle, there came a scream. In a heartbeat the scrambling for loot ceased and people backed quickly away from the table. The man who had been accused staggered into the clearing, hands clasped to his stomach, blood gushing from between his fingers, his face registering shock and fear. He stood for an instant, suspended between life and death, before crashing to the dirty floor. Someone nudged him with a booted foot. Satisfied the victim was dead, he and two others dragged him from the inn. The card table was righted, tankards refilled, and everyone returned to the business of drinking, eating, or falling asleep in front of the fire.

  Gretel tugged at her brother’s sleeve. “Sit down, Hans.”

  “But the game . . .”

  “I cannot let you play with them!”

  “I am a child no longer, Gretel. I shall play with whom I choose.”

  “Do I have to remind you what a poor judge of character you are?”

  Hans said nothing for a moment. There passed between them a look that recalled many years of recriminations, debts owed, scales unbalanced. He straightened his jacket.

  “They are short a player,” he told her, his voice calm and firm. “I intend to take his place.”

  Gretel watched him stride over and introduce himself. The gamblers all too readily accepted him. He sat in the seat vacated but minutes before by the chancer whose body was now cooling rapidly in a ditch behind the inn. Gretel tried to recall how she had got them all into such a situation in the first place, and knew that she would never forgive herself if harm came to her brother. It was her actions that had brought them here. She was responsible.

  Two hours later Hans, Gretel, and Roland were seated comfortably in the best seats in the house, warming their toes by the fire, brandy chasers lined up next to their beers, fresh bread mopping up bowls of the superior stew that had miraculously appeared, Hans’s pockets bulging with his winnings, and a stout cigar clamped between his teeth. When he had at last stood up from the table and declared himself done for the evening, he had swiftly ordered a round of drinks for the entire company as a preventive measure against mugging or ill will.

  “A triumph, darling brother,” Gretel announced. “A triumph.”

  Hans beamed, blushed, and burped with pleasure. “I am not entirely without my uses, you know.”

  “So it would appear.”

  Even Roland had overcome his understandable loathing of gambling sufficiently to enjoy the benefits of Hans’s winnings, and was tucking into his third bowl of stew. Gretel felt a new optimism adjusting her view of their situation and the challenges that lay ahead. They had enough money for a room, which would give them much-needed proper rest. Even more important, the upturn in their circumstances had had a rejuvenating effect on Gretel’s mental faculties. So much so that she felt the beginnings of a Sensible Plan taking shape in her mind. They were within a day of the giant’s castle. No kingsman had as yet traced them. They had a reasonable means of transport, and by morning would be well fed and well rested. All she needed now was a method of gaining entry into the castle itself, preferably without the giant’s knowledge.

  “Time for bed, gentlemen,” she said. “We are all in n
eed of our sleep.”

  But Hans was not listening. He was staring, brow furrowed, at a woman who had just entered the inn with a group of particularly rough-looking men.

  “That woman,” he said, his words a little slurred, “damned if I don’t know her from somewhere.”

  Gretel peered at her, too. She was tall and thin, and when she took her cape off she revealed shabby, unflattering clothes and a scraggy physique. There was a dagger hanging from her belt. She leaned against the bar in a manner that suggested such a pose was familiar to her, and took out an old clay pipe, which she proceeded to tamp and light. One of her companions spoke to her and she answered with a raucous laugh and a stream of language so foul that both Hans and Roland gasped. Gretel, too, was shocked, but not by the vulgarity of the creature. It was her identity that caused Gretel to shake her head and rub her eyes before she was convinced whom it was she was looking at.

  “You do know her, Hans,” she said quietly. “Or at least, another version of her.”

  “Really? You don’t say. Can’t recall her name.”

  “Allow me to assist your memory,” she told him. “That,” she said slowly, “is none other than Inge Peterson.”

  ELEVEN

  As soon as she had satisfied herself that Inge Peterson was not about to disappear, but was at the inn for the night—a simple matter of listening to her demanding copious amounts of ale and food, berating the innkeeper for not having a room left for them, and then grudgingly accepting his offer of cots in the kitchen—Gretel hurried Hans and Roland up to their own cramped billet.

  “I need to think,” she told them. “There are questions to be answered and decisions to be made. Not the least of which being how best can we use the charming Frau Peterson now that she has so helpfully put herself within our reach.”

  Hans flopped onto one of the two beds on offer. “The woman certainly seems to have fallen on hard times. Decidedly the worse for wear, if you ask me. Must be losing her husband an’ all.” He tutted through his cigar. “Barely recognized her.”

  “That is because she did not wish to be recognized.”

  “What, you mean she’s in disguise?”

  “Again.”

  “Again? What does she really look like, for heaven’s sake?”

  “Who can say? Though I’ll wager this latest incarnation is not her look of choice. She must have used this place before and knows that to pass unremarked one needs to present a singularly down-market style of appearance.”

  Roland settled into a threadbare armchair. “I have encountered her before,” he said.

  “On the stagecoach?” Gretel asked.

  “Yes, there. But also in Gesternstadt.”

  “Oh?”

  “She came looking for Johanna.”

  “Who?” Hans asked.

  Gretel ignored him. “Whatever for?”

  “She would not say. She came to our workshop.”

  “Before or after it burned down?”

  “Before. A week or two before. She pressed me to tell her Johanna’s whereabouts, but of course I would not. I knew her to be acquainted with the Muller brothers.” He paused, shaking his head. “A bad lot. There is nothing they will not do for money.”

  “Would not have done,” Gretel corrected him. “You know that they are both dead?”

  “I did not.” The information clearly amazed him.

  “Oh, yes.” Hans nodded behind plumes of smoke. “Gesternstadt’s been ankle deep in dead Muller brothers of late. One of ’em in our garden, no less. Messy business.”

  “And the other,” Gretel added, “was the corpse in your workshop. Surely Strudel told you.”

  “The kingsmen tell us nothing. They poke around in our affairs, asking questions, questions, all the time, endless questions. But do they tell us anything? No.”

  Hans shifted on the bed, searching for a comfortable spot. Small clouds of dust added to the smoke as he fidgeted and bounced about. “What I don’t understand is,” he said, “why Inge Peterson is here, in this awful place, looking awful, drinking really very awful ale, eating awful food, with those awful men. She was such a quiet, well-spoken, elegant lady when we met her in Bad am Zee. Her being here seems so out of character.”

  “She’s not here for fun, that’s certain,” Gretel agreed. “She’s here looking like that because she hopes to gain by it. Roland, where does this road actually go, apart from east and to the giant? I mean, where could she be going? Come to think of it, why is this place so full? What are they all doing here?”

  Roland shrugged. “There’s the small town of Higgenbaum just this side of the giant’s cave, but there’s nothing special there, not even a proper market. The route leads farther up into the mountains—it’s high and difficult terrain, and at least two more days’ riding before Bunchen on the other side of the range. There’s nothing of interest there, either. An insignificant place.”

  “So”—Gretel began to pace the floor, which she found helped her organize her thoughts—“the facts as I see them in regard to Inge Peterson-Muller are these. First, she is not and never has been Frau Peterson, as that was a name taken by the late Dieter Muller to disguise his identity. Second, she was in Bad am Zee when Bechstein died, and quite possibly in Gesternstadt when the first Muller brother was burned to a crisp at Hund’s yard. Third, she knows of Johanna’s existence and wished to find her. Lastly, she is here, once again incognito, and the only place of any interest for leagues around in any direction one cares to look is the giant’s abode. What conclusions can we draw from all this?”

  “She gets about?” Hans offered.

  Gretel sighed. “What is the unifying factor? The thing that ties all these seemingly disparate facts together?”

  Roland looked puzzled. “The giant?” he asked.

  “Think smaller.” Gretel stopped pacing, placed her hands on her hips and announced with a flourish, “It is the cats, gentlemen.”

  “What?” Hans raised his head from his lumpy pillow. “Frau Hapsburg’s moggies?”

  “The same. And others, too, of course, but yes, crucially, Frau Hapsburg’s cats.”

  “You’re not trying to tell me,” said Hans, his head flopping back down, sending up more dust and a few escaped feathers, “that some people or other have been murdering some other people or other and charging hither and yon all over Bavaria for the sake of a few cats?”

  “Not for the cats per se, but for what they can get for the cats.”

  “Fetch a good price, do they? I hadn’t realized the pesky things were of such value,” Hans said.

  “They are to some people,” Gretel told him. “Isn’t that so, Roland?” He nodded, but would not meet her questioning stare.

  “Come, man.” Gretel was losing patience. “I think it best you tell us precisely why it is that the giant wants the cats. Wants them so much that he is prepared to pay ludicrous amounts of money for them.”

  When Roland spoke, his voice was weary. “It is because of Johanna,” he said.

  “Who?” asked Hans.

  “Be quiet, Hans. Go on, Roland.”

  “He liked to find unusual gifts for her. To impress her. To convince her that she was better off with him. He has, you know, an incredible horde of treasure.”

  “The stuff of legend,” Gretel agreed.

  “And he would give pieces to Johanna, wildly valuable things, some made of gold, some encrusted with jewels. If only she had been allowed to sell just one of these gifts, well, our financial difficulties would have been at an end. But he knew that to permit her to make money was to risk losing her. To equip her with the means for independence would almost certainly result in her leaving him. So he demanded that she display these gifts in her rooms, and that together they inspect them daily. They might have been priceless, but in these circumstances, to poor Johanna, they were worthless. They were merely reminders of how trapped she was. So she began to ask him for curious things. Odd things. Things that, she told him, took her fancy. The giant saw
it as a challenge to find whatever it was she asked for. He began to boast that there was nothing he could not find for her. Nothing beyond his reach and his wealth. Johanna was quick to spot a way she might persuade the giant to let her leave. She goaded him into making her a promise. If ever there was something she desired that he could not procure for her, he would allow her to go without recrimination, without rancor, and, most important, without him ever trying to bring her back. It wasn’t that she was an actual prisoner, you see, but the giant was infatuated with her. She knew if she simply left, he would send his minions after her to fetch her. She had to have his word that he would not do this.”

  Hans chuckled. “She must have had a high old time dreaming up impossible things for him to find. It surely cannot have taken long for her to stump him.”

  “You don’t know the giant,” said Roland. “He is wealthy beyond measure, terrifyingly strong and powerful, with a determination to match. Whatever she named, within the week it was at her feet. A necklace of fairy wings. A dragon’s-tooth letter opener. The eyelashes of a unicorn.”

  “A resourceful creature indeed,” said Gretel.

  “Johanna was at a loss to think of something he could not provide. She asked for the finest and rarest furs: white bear, silver fox, mink, black wolf. He found them all. In desperation she declared herself unsatisfied with the quality of the fur, saying that it was too coarse and itchy, and that she needed something softer. Not just a coat, but a whole room for her to sleep in with all its furnishings covered in this softest of soft, most beautiful of furs. One day he handed her a small fur cushion. The colors were exquisite, and the texture so delicate, so silky . . . it was impossible for Johanna to hide her delight. The giant saw at once that she loved the fur and he told her he would give her the special chamber she had requested, all furnished with fabulous skins like the one he had just given her.”

  “Cat skins,” said Gretel.

  “Yes,” said Roland quietly. “Once Johanna discovered what they were, she was mortified and begged the giant to stop, but he wouldn’t hear of it. That very night she ran away, thinking that the only way to prevent the cruel hunting and slaying of what would surely be hundreds, maybe thousands of adored pets, was to go. And she knew then also that there was, in fact, nothing she could ever ask for that the giant would not somehow find. She had no choice but to flee.”