The Case of the Fickle Mermaid

by P. J. Brackston

  Before Gretel had time to process this information, he ducked into a cupboard and gestured that she should pass.

  “Everyone else is aboard and has taken their cabins. There is one left for you at the end of the passage.”

  A glance showed her a stack of luggage filling the corridor and she recognized it as her own.

  “Thank you,” she said to the boy, pressing a coin into his palm. “Give me your name, in case I have need of you again.”

  “It is Will, fraulein. Thank you very much, fraulein!” So saying, he darted back the way he had come, carried swiftly up the stairs by his springy young legs and boyish enthusiasm for life.

  Gretel squeezed herself onward until she was forced to stop by her own trunks.

  “Hans!” she called out. “Where the devil are you?”

  The narrow door opened. Hans’s bulk entirely filled the frame. “You took your time. Thirsty work being an unpaid porter, you know.”

  “Why is the luggage still out here?”

  He raised his arms as far as space would allow—which is to say barely at all—in a gesture of helplessness.

  “It’s it or us. We won’t all fit.”

  “What? Nonsense. Let me see. Stand aside.”

  “There is no side.”

  “Hans, for pity’s sake, don’t be so difficult. Let me in!”

  There followed a moment of squeezing and squashing during which Gretel was forced into a proximity with her sibling she had never been compelled to endure before, and would walk a very long way to avoid having to do ever again. At last, with a gasp and a popping sound, she gained entry into the cabin. “Small” was too big a word for it. She tried thinking of it as bijou in the hope that it might sound a little bigger and a little more sophisticated. It didn’t work. She realized now that what she had taken for a cupboard when Will had stepped out of her path must have been another berth of similarly skimpy dimensions. There were two bunk beds, which ran the length of the space. The gap between the lower and the upper looked generous only when compared to the gap between the upper and the ceiling, which had evidently been designed to accommodate a person with neither bosom nor belly. Which ruled both her and Hans out. A tiny table was fixed into one corner, and beneath it sat a tiny stool, its silk cushion fooling no one as to its rustic provenance. On the far wall—where “far” is taken to mean the distance a person could easily spit should they feel so inclined (which Gretel did)—was the promised porthole. Its brass fitments were pleasant enough, and daylight did fall through it onto the threadbare rug. Sadly, the fact that it was at ankle height rendered it useless for viewing the outside world. Which was already beginning to feel like a distant memory. The cabin was, naturally, constructed entirely of wood, worn and polished by use over many years, so that Gretel had the impression she was standing inside a much-traveled packing crate. Or possibly a coffin. She gave a shiver. All thoughts of languishing on her bed while sipping a little brandy vanished.

  Hans put a cigar in his mouth and took from his pocket his new silver lighter. He had purchased the modern device especially for the voyage, reasoning that sea breezes might extinguish a match too easily. He flicked at the flint striker with his thumb.

  “Hans, if you start puffing cigar smoke about the place, the air in here will be used up entirely in a matter of moments.”

  “Oh? Now I am to be denied the smallest of pleasures?”

  Gretel pushed him through the door. “Come along,” she said, following him out. “We are in urgent need of three things. Air, ale, and an upgrade!”

  TWO

  The saloon bar on board the Arabella was a low-ceilinged room that had all the charm and appeal of a forgotten roadside tavern.

  “Ah!” declared Hans. “This is more like it. Just what a fellow needs. My good man,” he addressed the barman, “some of your finest ale, if you please.” He slid onto a barstool with a nimbleness that belied his size. Gretel cautiously took up her perch opposite. The stools were sufficiently high that, once mounted, they raised the sitter uncomfortably close to the ceiling. Gretel decided this was not a room in which she would be wearing her fabulous new wig. The glorious object, a present to herself after her recent testing work in Nuremberg, sat snugly in its box in her cabin, awaiting its moment to debut. It demanded altogether more glamorous surroundings than the ship had so far revealed, such that Gretel began to fear that she might not have the opportunity to wear it, nor some of the more elaborate new gowns she had purchased for the cruise.

  “Here you are, sir, and for you, madam.” The barman placed two tall glasses of beer in front of them. He was a slender man, presentable, well groomed, and attentive. The perfect combination for a barman.

  Gretel raised her glass to him. “Your good health,” she said before downing half her drink in thirsty swallows. She dabbed foam from her lips with a lace handkerchief. “Your accent . . . I could not help but notice . . . is it English, perhaps?”

  “Madam has a keen ear! I hail from a small coastal town named Brighton, though I have not seen the shores of old England for many years now.”

  Hans drained his glass and banged it down on the bar. “Ah! Most acceptable. Another, barkeep!” he demanded, adding a loud belch as punctuation.

  Gretel frowned. “Forgive my brother. We have had a long and dusty journey. His manners are a little frayed.”

  “Madam, think nothing of it. My sensibilities have gained a hardy veneer, I assure you.” He leaned close, glancing around the half-empty room before confiding, “When first I took up my post as steward on the Arabella, I confess I was shocked. Oh!” He rolled his eyes heavenward. “You would not believe the uncouthness and obscenities I endured!”

  “Ah, from the crew, no doubt.”

  “Crew, passengers, captain.” He flicked his bar towel expressively. “I had never heard the like. I swear it is as if being on a ship puts it into a person’s head that he may let slip the observance of the niceties and refinements that make this rough and ready life through which we must pass tolerable. Ooh, my word, my goodness, I cannot begin to tell you,” he said, shaking his head and picking up a glass to polish it with vigor.

  “Indeed.” Gretel nodded. “I have heard it said that those traveling abroad for recreational purposes often omit to pack among their luggage their Usual Standards and Dignity.”

  “Madam, it is true! Or if they bring them with them, I see no evidence of it. Dignity? Upon my word!”

  Gretel and Hans both stole a glance at the company in the bar. All seemed entirely respectable and subdued.

  Guessing their thoughts, the barman added, “Oh, they can all show a little restraint in port. You wait till we set sail.” He polished on, the glass in his hand gleaming. “Ooh, yes. Once we are at sea, that’s when people show their true colors.”

  “How interesting.” She leaned forward, hoping to draw him into further confidences. “Tell me, Steward, are there any better cabins than the ones on the lower deck? We seem to have been allocated somewhat inadequate accommodation.”

  “Ooh, well, madam, there is only the captain’s cabin. Far as I know there’s nothing more. We crew must make do with hammocks in the hold.” Here he tutted and rolled his eyes again. “Such bedfellows!”

  Gretel nodded sympathetically. “You seem to me like a man who knows what’s what, knows what’s going on. I heard that the ship’s company is reduced by two. Did you know the crewmembers who are . . . no longer here?”

  The steward’s eyes flashed. “I did not, madam, as I am recently come to this ship, but I heard tell. One was a fine steward of many years’ experience, the other a lookout boy of tender age. No explanation was given for their leaving. It is as if they simply vanished!”

  “That must have been most distressing for the rest of the crew.”

  “There is unrest among them, madam, I would not be truthful if I told you otherwise.”

  “There must have been rumors . . .” She sipped more of her ale, allowing the barman time to consider how
much to tell her. In her years as a detective, she had learned to spot those who lived to talk; who thrived on gossip; who never forgot an overheard word or a glimpse of odd behavior. Such a man could prove most useful in her investigations. At that moment, however, a stout figure entered the bar. He had about him an unmissable air of authority and a stern visage, the full force of which he turned upon the steward, silencing him instantly. Gretel did not allow irritation to take hold. There would be time enough to visit the bar again.

  “Gentlemen, ladies,” the imposing man addressed the small gathering. His clothes were particularly fine, Gretel noted, boasting excellent tailoring and expensive cloth. He wore a large watch on a heavy gold chain, which he took from his pocket, checking the time before snapping it shut again. “I am pleased to inform you that the Arabella is about to set sail.” He looked around the room, his gaze taking in every person present, as if he were committing their faces to memory. Gretel felt a shiver as his eyes studied her, albeit briefly. He gave a stiff bow and continued on his way.

  This information was greeted by a murmur of excitement. People got up to leave, heading for the upper decks from which they could view the casting-off and wave farewell to any who had come to see them off on their voyage.

  “Come along, Hans, we must join the fray, show willing, play the part of enthusiastic cruisers.”

  “Must we? I rather like it here,” he said, leaning happily against the bar, reaching for his freshly filled glass. Gretel had not the energy to cajole him.

  “Have it your way. Once we are at sea I shall take myself back down to the priest hole that passes for our cabin and dress for dinner. I would appreciate your absence while I do so.”

  “If it means I can remain ensconced where I sit, I am happy to oblige.”

  Up on the main deck Gretel took a position at the railings overlooking the quayside. The gathering of well-wishers was pitifully small, and there were no streamers nor any band to send them on their way. Farther along the quay she noticed an altogether more colorful and elegant crowd amassing next the splendid Fair Fortune. With a sigh she turned and refocused her attention onto the activity on deck. She caught sight of the cabin boy.

  “Will!”

  He scampered over when beckoned.

  “Tell me, who is that strutting fellow in the smart waistc’t?”

  “That is Herr Hoffman, the quartermaster, fraulein.”

  “He is an important person?”

  “Oh, yes, fraulein. He is second only to the captain himself.”

  “Thank you, Will.” She let him scurry off about his business, which was much and hectic, as setting sail appeared to involve just about every man aboard. Men swung about in the rigging overhead, or hauled on this rope or that lever. She watched Captain Ziegler, still resplendent in red, standing at the wheel issuing orders, while Herr Hoffman strode about, hands clasped behind his back, doling out an admonishment here and a rebuke there. Where one was swagger and show, the other was quiet determination and an ever-watchful eye. Where the first was glamor and charm, the second was stealth and sharpness. It struck her that the two men were each powerful in their own ways, and that such large personalities rarely sat comfortably at the same table. She wondered there was room enough for them both on board the Arabella.

  Ropes and jiggers were untied from the quayside and thrown on deck to be swiftly coiled and stashed away. The anchor was weighed. A sail or two unfurled. Throughout it all, Captain Ziegler’s voice sang out clear as the ship’s bell, though similarly showing signs of weather. The quartermaster moved among the crew, prodding and berating where necessary. Lesser men issued orders that were, to Gretel’s landlubbing ear, composed of incomprehensible sailor-speak, but which resulted in one vital seafaring action or another. In no time at all, she felt the ship give a single mighty lurch before settling into a more stately movement away from the quayside, past the harbor wall, and swiftly and silently, without so much as a whistle blown, out to the open sea. She could not help feeling a smidgen of disappointment. A bit of bunting. A cheer or two. Maybe the odd handful of colored rice thrown. Any of the above would have been welcome. Would have gone some way to making her believe that she was actually setting sail on a cruise ship for the journey of a lifetime. Instead she had the feeling she might be on a vessel loaded to the gunwales, slinking out of port stealthily in the hope of avoiding the customs officers.

  Still, she reminded herself, she was not a paying passenger. She was here to work. And work she would. She would find out what had befallen the two missing crewmembers. She would ascertain whether or not a mermaid did indeed live in these dark, icy waters. She would give her flamboyant and outlandish client answers, and he would give her money. That was the way of things. This thought made her feel altogether more cheerful, so that she found herself ready to face the cramped confines of her cabin in order to wash off the dust of the journey and dress for dinner.

  Given the constraints of space, it took a good deal of puffing and struggling to extract a gown from her trunk, extract herself from her traveling clothes, bathe in the three inches of tepid water provided, and then fight her way into her chosen garment. By the end of it, her hair, according to the looking glass she had had the good sense to bring with her, was a fright. Muttering curses along the lines of how much easier it would have been had the occasion been sufficiently grand to warrant wearing her beloved, as-yet-untried, wig, Gretel battled her increasingly frizzing locks into some semblance of order. She applied powder liberally, followed by an extravagant spritzing of perfume, and then went out along the passage. Sideways, as the cut of her gown was too full for forward movement. A person less enamored of fashion, less wedded to the challenge of keeping up with the very newest of new when it came to haute couture, might have opted for one or two simpler garments for daytime sailing. But Gretel was not such a person. So it was that she made crablike progress the length of the ship. During this ungainly journey, she had the curious sense that she was being followed, and yet whenever she looked behind her, the passageway was empty. She squeezed on, her path involving strenuous effort when ascending the near-vertical stairs, so that she arrived in the dining room more than a little short of breath, temper, and love of her fellow mankind.

  The room itself offered nothing likely to restore her to good humor. It was capacious, but this was to its detriment, as the quantity of diners was small. Each party sat at some remove from the next, so that the tables appeared as life rafts adrift on some unknown sea. An attempt had been made with the decor—to wit, swags of silk at the windows, silk cushions on the hardwood chairs, and no shortage of lamps—but the overall effect remained somewhat desultory. And brown. Very brown. The same brown as the wood that was both skin and skeleton of the ship herself. As if everything had received a coat of treacly varnish. Even the scruffy assortment of waiting staff, some of whom she recognized as crewmembers who not many hours past had been occupied in the business of sailing the ship. They had cleaner clothes on, but nothing could hide their salt-weathered skin and callused hands as they held chairs for the ladies and fetched drinks hither and thither. She was pleased to see the steward from the bar among them. At least he had the look of someone who could be trusted to serve food.

  As was the case in the bar, the ceiling was unpleasantly low. In such a large room this had the effect of suggesting it was actually, if imperceptibly, pressing downward. Gretel saw at least three passengers stooping or crouching as they walked. She was baffled by this curious construction. The Arabella seemed to have been designed with no thought as to the appeal of its interior spaces—or comfort thereof—in regard to its clientele. She recalled Will telling her that the ship had been converted for cruising, leading her to ponder exactly what its previous incarnation had been. Particularly given that it necessitated cannons.

  “Gretel! Over here!” Hans’s cheery voice reached her through the general hubbub. As she approached him, the reason for his good cheer became evident. His cheeks had about them a particular g
low, his eyes a particular twinkle, such that only quality ale and plenty of it could bring about. “You are not a moment too soon,” he told her. “Dinner is about to be served and I am assured we are in for a feast of some quality and flair!”

  “I find that hard to believe,” she told him, taking the seat next to him. Their table was set for six, with all their fellow diners save one already seated. She exchanged nods and politenesses with them as she wrestled her skirts into place on the less than generous chair provided. She was on the point of inspecting the silverware as Hans hailed the ubiquitous steward to request wine, when there arose from the assembled company a burst of glove-muffled applause heralding the arrival of Captain Ziegler.

  “Hrmph,” said Hans through the unlit cigar jammed between his teeth, “not very good form, is it? The captain being late. Mean to say, if the rest of us can get here on time . . .”

  “His tardiness is not born of disorganization, Hans. It is calculated. This is a man who likes to make an entrance.”

  “You think so?”

  As they watched, Captain Ziegler gave a low bow in thanks for his warm reception. He acknowledged the room with a sweep of his feathered tricorn before returning his hat to his head. As he made his way to his table he paused to kiss a hand here, to playfully punch a shoulder there, to bestow a lingering look now and again, to wink lasciviously where called for. There was about his gait a confidence and a swagger that was at once both ridiculously narcissistic and enormously appealing. His spell fell over all present like a soft, warm wave lapping a tropical shore. Even Hans was won over.

  “He’s coming this way!” he piped. “Look! Look, Gretel, he is to dine with us. We are at the captain’s table!”

  “Calm down, Hans, before you swallow that vile cigar.”