The Case of the Fickle Mermaid

by P. J. Brackston

  “Ahh, Fraulein Gretel!” The captain bowed again, taking her hand and pressing it to his lips.

  Now, Gretel had had her hand kissed before. Many times. There were kisses she would rather forget and kisses she would always remember. Sadly, more of the former than the latter, but that was the way of things. Etiquette, tradition, good manners, all were designed to encourage this liberty-taking. On good days it made her feel like a queen. Or a pope, possibly. On others it made her skin crawl. At the periphery of her vision she became aware of jealous glances from women not so blessed as to be enjoying the full force of Captain Ziegler’s attention. She noted one or two men among them. She was aware of Hans beaming in a that’s-my-sister-don’t-cha-know kind of way. But beyond that, nothing. No violins. No celestial choirs. No desire to swoon. No desire at all, in fact. For all the captain’s many charms, he could not reach her. Gretel knew that, since she was already in a detective/client relationship with the man, this was a Very Good Thing and boded well for a working partnership that would remain just that. She was also conscious of the fact that this lack of attraction brought to mind an Other. A man who, contrarily, was able to move her. A man whose company she missed. A man she wished very much right at that minute was the one whose teeth were grazing her palm. But he was long ago and far away. She must deal with the matter in hand. On hand. Literally.

  “Save your appetite for the meal, captain,” she insisted, withdrawing her hand. “I hear it is to be worth the wait.”

  “Oh, it will be,” he assured her. “Our cook was schooled in Paris, no less.” He held her gaze. “I’m certain you will not be disappointed.”

  “I’m certain too!” chirruped Hans.

  “I am hard to impress,” Gretel warned.

  “I will make it my personal duty to see that you are,” the captain said.

  “I will be! I’m easily impressed,” Hans insisted, puppylike in his enthusiasm but still failing to attract Captain Ziegler’s attention.

  “Let us hope that Cook is equally committed to his work,” said Gretel, summoning the steward for more wine in an effort to defuse the moment. She knew what the captain was about. What better way to convince all who cared to think about it that she was here for recreation, rather than in her capacity as detective, than to have her seen flirting with the master of the ship? It was not a ruse she felt inclined to encourage, however.

  At last Captain Ziegler took his seat. At a neighboring table, Gretel noticed Herr Hoffman looking bored and checking his pocket watch. As more wine was poured and the first of many courses appeared, she scrutinized the passengers at her table. Across from her sat a young couple who revealed without being asked that they were on their honeymoon. Certainly Rudie and Lena Schmidt wore the inescapable glow of love, lust, and lots of money recently spent on showing it off. Next to them sat the lone middle-aged man she had also seen up on deck. His name was Dr. Becker, retired, and he told them he was a keen watcher of birds, and hoped to see many rare species on visits to the famously wild islands that dotted the Schleswig-Holstein coastline.

  Hans had eyes for nothing but the food.

  “I say, sister mine. This is most excellent. Puffin eggs, lightly poached, on a nest of crispy kelp. Quite delightful.” He tucked in, failing to register the manner in which Dr. Becker blanched and pushed his plate away. “Mmmm! Delicious. A triumph. What luck, to have such cuisine on board, eh?” He elbowed Gretel happily, and she marveled at how quickly his breathless interest in the captain could be diverted by a small plate of food. Hans continued, “If the rest of the repast is as fine as this, well! We are truly in for a rare treat.”

  Whether this was to prove true or not, they would have to wait to discover, for at that moment Will the cabin boy came screeching into the dining room.

  “A mermaid! A mermaid! A mermaid!” he cried, pointing backward and upward, his eyes bright, his whole body trembling. “There is a mermaid singing!”

  THREE

  Up on deck, everyone peered into the darkness. The diners had shown a surprising turn of speed in the scramble from their tables, so that by the time Gretel reached the upper level she had to fight her way through the throng of passengers and crew. There was a great deal of excitement, a heady mix of wonder and fear. Some of the crewmembers were muttering prayers. Others had faces glum as doom and shook their heads solemnly.

  “Where is it?” asked Rudi Schmidt cheerfully enough, he and his bride evidently considering mythical sea creatures as all part of the fun of a cruise. Gretel could see they were protected by a bubble of young love that could not be dented.

  Will pointed into the gloom. “The singing came from over there. I heard it! We all did, clear as day.”

  The crew began to argue about who had and who had not caught the sound of mermaid song until Herr Hoffman had to hush them to a tense silence. Captain Ziegler leaned on the rail, holding a lantern aloft, scouring the dark horizon.

  All listened, breath held.

  There was no wind to disturb the quiet. The night sky was black as ship’s tar, devoid of moon or stars.

  The only sounds in that moment of suspense were the slow, rhythmic creaking of the ship and the wheezing breath of one of the older sailors.

  And then, there it was, an unmistakable, ethereal melody that could only be formed by a mer-creature. The song was high and pure and sharp, so that it cut to the very soul of any who heard it. The beauty of the sound moved some to tears. Others appeared enraptured, transported to a distant, secret place. Gretel observed these effects with interest. The captain, who remained inscrutable, was right when he said many of his men feared the mermaid. To them it augured storms, pestilence, madness, or shipwreck. It was disconcerting to see such anguish on the faces of strong men. Even the quartermaster, who was doing his utmost to remain unmoved, gave himself away by a small muscle twitching in his jaw.

  At that moment there came a break in the cloud, allowing through a little moonlight. People strained their eyes anew, leaning forward, scanning the now-gleaming surface of the sea. The water was calm but still the moonbeams danced and flickered, playing tricks upon the vision of those who looked upon it. The Arabella had left the port of Bremerhaven far behind, so there was nothing but empty sea on all sides. The singing continued.

  “It is growing louder!” Will declared.

  One of the crew, fear in his voice, said, “We ought be sailing from it, not t’ward it!”

  “There!” cried Hans. “On that rock, look!”

  Sure enough, there was a cluster of rocks, a miniature island of sorts, where by rights there should not be. And on it was a shape, a silhouette that was hard to make out. Gretel cursed herself for not wearing her lorgnettes. Captain Ziegler called in vain for his telescope. There were gasps, and entreaties to various deities for protection. There followed a sudden movement, and it was gone. Slipped into the sea. Vanished. For a moment Gretel wondered if the captain would lower a boat and give chase, but he clearly gauged the mood of his men carefully, and she suspected he did not wish to risk a blatant refusal by the crew in the face of an order. Slowly, the intensity of the moment began to lessen. There was nervous laughter. Feeble jokes were cracked. People drifted away from the rail of the ship, some returning to the dining room, others going about their seafaring tasks. Gretel watched them all, taking care to note who was scared, who was enchanted, and who, most curiously of all, remained utterly impassive.

  The following morning Gretel awoke with the sensation that she had been trussed like a game bird ready for the oven. Her arms were squashed tight to her sides, her shoulders pressed up against something unyielding, and she had lost all sensation in her feet. It took a moment or two to recall that she was in fact wedged into the narrow cot that was her bed. That she had slept comfortably through her first night at sea had nothing to do with her billet, and everything to do with a large meal and several generous brandies. The memory of the fine food cheered her enough to open her eyes. Staring up at the underside of the upper bunk, she
deduced by the gray light that it must be close to dawn. A rumbling noise to her left alerted her to her brother’s presence. Stiffly, she propped herself up on one elbow. Hans, fully clothed, was flat on his back on the rug, filling entirely the floorspace of the cabin, an extinguished cigar stub stuck to his bottom lip.

  “Hans!” Gretel barked. “Hans, wake up, for pity’s sake.”

  “What? What? Twist! I’ll raise you five! Banker pays all! Oh, good morning, sister.”

  “Long night of card playing, was it?”

  “I rather think it was,” he said, attempting to sit up and then quickly thinking better of it and reclining again, his hand over his eyes.

  “I daresay there was no shortage of players happy to part you from your money. Or rather, my money.”

  Without opening his eyes, Hans replied, “You surely know me better than that.”

  “Oh? How much did you win?”

  He dug in his pockets and pulled out a fistful of notes and coins. “This much,” he said, waving it blindly at her.

  “Time well spent, then. And at least your absence allowed me room to faire ma toilette before retiring. We simply must find a larger cabin . . .” she puffed, struggling to swing her legs over the side of the bunk. They came to rest on Hans’s ample stomach. “Why aren’t you in your bunk?”

  “Too stormy. Didn’t want to risk it. Ship rolling all over the place.”

  “We have encountered not so much as a stiff breeze since setting sail. Any instability you experienced was due to ale and brandy, not oceanic conditions.”

  “If you say so, though you might say it a smidge more softly. No need to shout in a room of this size, one would think.”

  “What you need is breakfast. Which means you will have to stir your stumps.”

  “Breakfast. First sensible thing you’ve said.” Hans risked opening his eyes, blinking energetically to clear the blur from his vision. “Matter of fact it should be something well worth getting up for. Every bit as scrumptious as our meal last evening. I met our cook in the saloon bar. Splendid fellow. Good card player, too, though fortunately not as good as me. Name of Frenchie.”

  “He is French?”

  “No, but he’s been to France. He is a man who speaks my language.”

  “Gibberish?”

  “Food.” Panting and grunting, he righted himself, hauling on the uprights of the bunks, which creaked alarmingly but did not give way. “I’ll go ahead, let you do whatever it is you do to get from . . .” He paused, gesturing at her weakly. “. . . that, to . . . well, how you eventually look.”

  “Hans, leave now while you still can.”

  An hour later they were both seated in the dining room. The tables were laid out less formally than on the previous evening, inasmuch as there were no place cards, so that the passengers were able to follow their own preferences as to company or solitude. Hans had already made the choice of a seat by the low window by the time Gretel arrived. A combination of him waving cheerily and Gretel glaring served to deter any who thought they might join them. Not surprisingly, the honeymooners were nowhere to be seen. Dr. Becker had almost finished his breakfast and had his nose deep in a volume on ornithology. The captain was no doubt busy captaining. They were spared the stern presence of Herr Hoffman. The number of empty tables suggested their fellow cruisers were either late risers or poor sailors. Or possibly both.

  The barman appeared in his capacity as steward once more, arriving on swift, silent feet to place before them jugs of aromatic coffee and hot milk.

  “Good morning, madam, sir. Will you be wanting continental or a full cooked breakfast?”

  “Yes!” said Hans.

  “What’s on offer?” Gretel asked.

  The steward stood, tea towel draped over his cocked arm, eyes raised upward as he listed, “We’ve calf’s liver, lamb’s liver, kippers, grilled gammon—”

  “Yes!” Hans interrupted.

  “—warm rolls, croissants, brioche, soda bread. Oh, and black bread, just in case you’re feeling homesick,” he added with a shrug.

  “Yes!” said Hans.

  “I’m sure Cook can select the perfect platter for us,” Gretel suggested. “Tell me, steward, before you go, what is your opinion of the curious occurrence last evening?”

  “The mermaid, d’you mean, madam?”

  “Are you a believer or a skeptic?”

  “Oh, my word, it’s not the strangest thing I’ve ever encountered. Not by a very long chalk, I don’t mind telling you.” He leaned close to whisper, “I’ve seen things out at sea would make a singing girl with a fishy tail look commonplace.”

  “So you are apt to believe that such a thing was out there, in the dark, serenading us?”

  “Why not?”

  “Were you not afraid, as many of your shipmates were? Such a singular thing . . . ?”

  “I’m from England, madam, a very singular nation.” So saying, he left to fetch their food.

  Gretel took advantage of the hiatus to consider the facts so far. She had been summoned because there were reports of mermaid sightings and two crewmembers had disappeared. Whether these two facts were connected remained, as yet, unproven. According to both Captain Ziegler’s brief and the testimony of the steward, both men were natural sailors, unlikely to have simply fallen overboard. They were not, other than serving aboard the same ship, connected to each other, so their vanishing was unlikely to have been a planned thing between the two of them. They had given no indication that they intended leaving, they had simply and mysteriously disappeared a short while after the mermaid had been heard singing. The captain feared he might lose more men, and that rumors of bad omens, not to mention vanishing men, might adversely affect his business. This was only his second season operating a cruise ship. He had informed her that his life savings were invested in its success. The appearance of the singing mermaid of the previous evening had been interesting, but far from conclusive evidence. Was the thing a mermaid? If not, what, or who, was it? And why had it taken it upon itself to perch on a chilly rock in the middle of the night? If its aim was to frighten sailors, then had it lured away the missing men, like a North Sea Lorelei? Or was it harmless, and the matters unconnected? There was much to discover, indeed. Gretel resolved that directly after breaking her fast, she would inspect the ship closely and engage as many crewmembers in conversation as was possible without arousing their suspicion as to her motives for being on board in the first place.

  She opened her mouth to ask her brother to pass the coffeepot but the look of him stopped her. Hans gaped, blanched, winced, grimaced, and generally looked for all the world as if someone had just tipped a bucket of iced eels down the back of his shirt. Gretel turned to follow the line of his appalled stare to see what could have transformed him thus. Had she not turned, the nasal whine of the voice that assailed her that second would have been horribly sufficient for the purposes of identification.

  “Hansel! Oh, liebling, my gracious, my goodness. Is it really you? It is! It is my darling Hansel!” cried the red-haired banshee swooping on them from the far end of the dining room.

  Birgit Lange. It could be no other. Though many years had passed since Gretel had last been forced to endure the woman’s company, the memory of certain people simply refused to fade. In that instant, as Birgit continued to coo and shriek in equal measure, Gretel was transported back in time as if by some cruel magic. Back to the one and only occasion in his life when Hans had fallen in love. It had not been a gentle tumbling into a state of joyful bliss; rather a headlong plunge, a panic-inducing descent, into the passionate arms of Fraulein Lange. Gretel could have told him it would all end in tears. In fact, she did tell him. Several times. Often quite loudly. But he would not listen. He was a man enthralled, and the object of his breathless affection dug her claws in deep. From the beginning, Gretel had been baffled as to the woman’s motive. After all, fond as Gretel was of her sibling, his charms were few, his qualifications as a potential husband fewer. True, h
e could cook and could play a fair hand of any game of cards ever invented, but there his talents ended. He was a creature who responded to firm but gentle bullying with a willingness to please, so long as what was being asked of him did not require anything much in the way of effort, skill, or wits. Braise a haunch of mutton, certainly; dig the garden, certainly not. Set down stores of kirsch-soaked black cherries for winter, happily; put up a set of shelves, sadly, no. Pickle a barrel of cabbages, simple; provide a stable income and comfortable home for wife and family, simply out of the question. Gretel had tried to see him as another woman might, but he remained an overrisen, undercooked doughboy. He was not square of jaw, he was not in possession of a twinkling eye, nor a shapely calf. Indeed there was not one inch of him that could be described as athletic or handsome.

  Two baffling months had passed, during which time she had suffered interminable hours of Birgit’s company, and had to put up with Hans floating about the house wearing a rose in his buttonhole and a silly grin on his face, spouting appalling poems, before something his paramour had said to Gretel in an unguarded moment had made all clear. Somehow, Birgit had got hold of the idea that Hans had a vast horde of money made from his brief moment of fame when they were children. That he lived in a small house in an unremarkable town with his sister seemed not to alert the woman to the unlikeliness of this being the case. She had convinced herself that he had made a minor fortune trading on his experiences in the woods and his escape from the witch, telling his story, receiving a generous payment from King Julian, no doubt publishing his memoirs and having a sausage named after him, and that this money had been sensibly and successfully invested. Clearly, Birgit had not taken the trouble to know Hans at all.

  Not surprisingly, she eventually learned the truth. Not surprisingly because Gretel told it to her. It had been clear that her brother would be dumped the second his ghastly girlfriend discovered that his entire fortune consisted of a souvenir jubilee coin, a gold pocket watch (won in a poker game), and a handful of loose change. Gretel saw no advantage to spinning the thing out. Why prolong the agony? Particularly her own. Better to bring the doomed affair to a swift end. Her assessment of the lack of regard Birgit truly had for Hans had been accurate. It was one of the few times Gretel regretted being right. She could not have foreseen the gnashing of teeth and the rending of cloth, the wailing and sighing and sobbing and crying and generally horrendous behavior Hans was to take up. The months of Hans in Love paled into insignificance when compared to Hans with a Broken Heart. He moped about, relentlessly lachrymose and moribund. He even, for one whole hungry week, refused to cook. And he never again let anyone ever, no not ever, at all, no sir thank you very much, call him Hansel.