The Case of the Fickle Mermaid

by P. J. Brackston

  “Hansel! My goodness! How marvelous that I find you here. And unchanged, after all this long, long time.”

  Hans offered nothing by way of reply save for a squeak of protest as Birgit settled herself, uninvited, upon the chair next to him.

  “And sweet sister Gretel! Also unaltered by the many years since we have seen each other.”

  “Birgit, I assure you it feels as if it were only yesterday,” Gretel responded through clenched teeth. “Are you here with your husband, perhaps?”

  It was a forlorn hope.

  “Alas, you see before you a bereft widow,” she explained, looking anything but as she fluttered fan and eyelashes at Hans. “Poor, dear Albert fell victim to the dropsy last summer. I miss him still, but life must go on.”

  Hans was giving every impression of a person whose life might not go on very much longer. The ability to speak seemed to have left him. His mouth opened and shut in the manner of a landed tuna that had given up all hope of returning to the water. His bulging eyes suggested that merely drawing breath might soon prove beyond him.

  “So you are here accompanied by . . .” Gretel clung to the notion that there must be somebody responsible for the dreadful woman.

  “Two dear friends, Elsbeth and Sonja.” She pointed toward the far side of the dining room without for one second taking her eyes off Hans.

  Gretel picked up her lorgnettes to peer into the distance. Inspection of Birgit’s traveling companions confirmed her worst suspicions. She got quickly to her feet, taking hold of Hans’s arm and hauling him up with her. “If you’ll forgive us, Fraulein Lange, my brother is feeling unwell.”

  “Oh! Nothing serious, I hope? He does not suffer failing health in general? No terrible ailments that might shorten his life?”

  “Merely a case of mal de mer. He needs to lie down,” Gretel explained, wheeling Hans about and propelling him away from the table.

  “Until later, then!” Birgit called after them.

  But Gretel did not take Hans to their cabin. She knew her brother well, and she knew when nothing but strong alcohol would do. Despite the early hour, she dragged him to the saloon bar. It was, unsurprisingly, empty. Propping Hans up on a stool, she rang the bell. When no one came to their aid, she took it upon herself to step behind the bar and fetch a bottle of brandy and two glasses. Hans downed the first shot, then the second, after which his eyes at least lost their disturbing stare.

  “That’s the way,” Gretel told him. “One or two more of those and you will be ready to try a little bite to eat, I feel certain of it.” She needed him to come to his senses so that she could talk frankly to him about the danger he was in. Birgit’s mission aboard the Arabella was plain as the plain nose on her plain face. The appearance of the other women with her confirmed it. Gretel knew a hunting party when she saw one. Widows. On the prowl. Looking for new husbands, preferably with frail constitutions and healthy bank balances. Hans’s best defense was his continued lack of wealth, and they must do their utmost to make his financial ineligibility clear to Birgit. But first he must regain what wits he possessed. “Come along.” Gretel patted his hand—she was not given to demonstrations of affection with her brother, but the situation called for extreme measures. “Drink up and we’ll see if we can’t get that fine sounding breakfast brought in here. I think this is a safe enough place to hole up at this hour.”

  But Hans shook his head, and the words he uttered next were proof, if proof were needed, that they were in deep trouble.

  “You know,” he said, his voice faltering, “I do believe my appetite has fled.”

  FOUR

  Leaving Hans in the bar, Gretel went up on deck, feeling more than a little out of sorts. Having Birgit Lange on board was going to be a constant source of irritation and distraction, not to mention emotional torture for Hans. Nothing and no one else had ever put him off his food. Gretel was here to work, and the last things she needed were the screeching presence of Hans’s ex and her brother maudlin and needy. What was more, she had missed breakfast. The medicinal brandy she had shared with Hans lurched around unpleasantly in her otherwise empty stomach. She had done little to progress the case she had been summoned to solve, and was unlikely to make much headway unless she was properly fed. There were men to be questioned and the ship to be examined. While she knew clues were scant, she must search for them, and quickly, if the captain was to believe his investment in her to be money well spent. She took several large gulps of fresh sea air, but they did nothing to fill her up. The day was bright and the sea calm, so she spent some time gazing upon it in the hope that the blue of the sky and the sparkle of the water would have beneficial and restorative effects on her. Whether it was the brightness of the sunshine or the unaccustomed movement of the ship, she could not be sure, but something suddenly gave Gretel the impression that a figure had just swung through the rigging. Not a person, but someone smaller. Or something. She put her hand to her eyes to shade them and squinted upward, expecting to find, perhaps, a monkey. She had heard of sailors who acquired such exotic pets on their far-flung travels. Now she glimpsed whatever it was, a silhouette against the sun. It scampered along a boom, its tiny feet seeming to scarcely touch the slippery wood. And then it was gone, vanished among the sails before she could obtain a clear view.

  Blinking, she rubbed her eyes and her mind at once returned to the irritation that was Birgit. It was too bad, having to suffer her company on board, but she knew that she must not let this irksome development hinder her investigations, and she resolved to start interviewing the crew forthwith. Given her gnawing hunger, she decided that the ship’s cook might be a good person to start with.

  The galley was a place of heat, steam, noise, and raised voices. It looked to Gretel’s eye woefully small, given the size of the ship and number of mouths to be fed. She sidled through the entrance and wedged herself between a tallboy and a stack of barrels so as to be out of the way. Breakfast over, it was evident preparations were already under way for the next meal. The sight of slabs of chocolate being melted, the sound of something sizzling in a pan, and the aroma of freshly baked bread combined to render Gretel quite faint with desire. So much so that as a tray of warm brioche flashed past her, held aloft by a red-faced boy, she snatched one up for herself and stuffed the thing whole into her mouth. The sweetness of the new dough, its glorious buttery texture, the delicate flakiness of it as it melted on her tongue nearly caused her to swoon. She felt instantly better, and pondered the fact that healthy lungfuls of ocean air could not compete with a tummy full of sugar and fat when it came to giving one a boost.

  “What are you doing in my kitchen!” yelled a small, round-faced man dressed in the whites of a chef and sporting a black bandanna and a sparse goatee. He held a fearsome knife with a curved blade and bone handle, which he seemed to be in the habit of gesticulating with as he spoke. The effect was unnerving.

  “Forgive the intrusion,” Gretel began. “I was called away during breakfast, and—”

  “Passengers are not allowed in the kitchen!” he barked.

  “Of course, I have no wish to interrupt your excellent work—”

  “If you want something to eat, ask the steward. You cannot come in here!”

  Gretel remained steadily impervious to the man’s blustering and played what she believed to be her trump card. “Sadly, my brother, Hans, is indisposed. He mentioned what an exceptional poker player and a thoroughly helpful fellow you are . . . Herr Frenchie, if I have it right?”

  “Hans?” The little man’s face twisted through a variety of expressions, touching on puzzled and passing through surprised before arriving at delighted. “Ah, Hans! My good friend! He is unwell? Why didn’t you say so? Do not tell me the sea has unsettled his digestion, no! I refuse to believe this. Hans is a man of substance.”

  “Few would argue with that.”

  “A man of iron will!”

  “Iron stomach, certainly.”

  “If he is ailing, he must eat. I will
prepare him a fish broth.” He waved his knife and snapped orders at his sweating minions. “I am famous for my bouillabaisse,” he explained, gathering handfuls of ingredients. “I trained in Paris under the great Alphonse Dubois. There is no other living who has this recipe.” As he talked he chopped, sliced, and diced with alarming speed and impressive dexterity.

  “I am certain if anything can restore Hans to good health, it will be your cooking,” said Gretel, her mouth watering as the fumes of garlic simmering in white wine reached her nostrils. She struggled to stay focused. “Might I ask, how long have you been cook aboard the Arabella?”

  “Since first she started her life as a cruise ship. That is to say, this will be my second summer serving under Captain Ziegler.”

  “And you find him a fair master to serve?”

  “Not the shallots, you imbecile!” Frenchie yelled, causing Gretel to jump, a sous chef to whimper, and the lower lip of the galley boy to tremble. “If I say spring onions I mean spring onions! Yes, fraulein.” His voice returned to a softer level as he addressed Gretel without missing a beat. “He is new to the business, but not to captaincy. He runs his ship sound enough. Does this look like fennel to you, boy?!” he demanded of a passing lad, cuffing him about the ears with the offending bunch of celery.

  “I cannot help observing that I did not see you on deck when the mermaid was sighted. Have you no interest in such things?”

  “Little interest and less time. I never leave my post during service!”

  “Of course. And yet others felt compelled to do so. I understand there are some who are greatly disturbed by the notion of these fishy females.”

  But Frenchie was no longer listening. He was in the throes of creation, and nothing would penetrate his consciousness until the fabled seafood soup was completed. Gretel watched him as he worked on, her stomach groaning forlornly all the while, though the noise was drowned out by the cacophonous music of the kitchen. At last the dish was finished. The cook became suddenly still, all around him hushed for this moment, as he lifted the ladle to his lips for the final tasting. Nobody spoke, nobody moved. The galley boy ceased breathing, judging by the color of him. Frenchie slurped. He savored. He swallowed. He smiled! All present applauded before scurrying back to their multifarious tasks. A generous bowl of the precious concoction was whisked away to Hans. The cook called for glasses and took a heavy bottle of brandy from the shelf beneath his workbench. He poured two measures of the darkly tempting drink and handed one to Gretel.

  She would, truth be told, sooner have had the soup, but the choice was not hers to make. She tipped her head back, thinking to down the shot swiftly lest her stomach have time to rebel, but the quality of the brandy as it entered her mouth made her pause. She sipped, enjoying the warm, aromatic flavors and detecting nothing of the customary harshness she had come to expect from the ship’s alcohol. “My, my,” she said, “I must congratulate you on the quality of your cellar, Herr Frenchie. This is most excellent.”

  The cook shrugged, tapped the side of his nose, and mumbled something about any chef being only as good as his ingredients. It was evident to Gretel she would get no more from him on this matter now, but would certainly question him further at another time.

  Once back up on deck, Gretel located the captain. There was an air of busy calm among the crew as they went about their arcane tasks to keep the ship on course and on speed. On such a balmy day, the open water offered few challenges. As she approached him, Gretel saw that the master of the ship had his spyglass to his eye. Following the direction of his gaze, she was able to make out another ship some way off. Even at such a distance she was reasonably sure that it was the same vessel she had seen alongside the quay at Bremerhaven.

  “Keeping a keen eye on the competition, captain?” she asked, attempting to look at the ship through her lorgnettes, but finding them of no help.

  “Good morning, fraulein,” he replied, passing the telescope to her so that she might take a closer look herself. “The Fair Fortune has the advantage in sail, sailors, and spending. Seems I must always be trailing in her wake,” he added with not a small measure of rancor in his voice.

  Gretel squinted through the eyeglass. It took a moment for her to adjust the device to suit her own vision, but at last the Fair Fortune sprang into crisp focus. She was even more impressive with her sails set than she had been at anchor. Her lines were graceful and curvaceous, her proportions ample but never heavy. She handed the scope back to its owner. “She is very fine, it is true,” she said, “but the Arabella has her own charms. There are sure to be those who would prefer a more . . . authentic cruising experience.” Even as she said it Gretel feared, glancing at the captain’s threadbare coat and the ragtag crew behind him, that the experience might prove a bit too authentic for some. Herself included.

  “I must trust the preferences of paying passengers, then. I am new to this game, as you know, fraulein. Where I cannot compete on scale and coin, I must offer something other to win their custom.”

  “Are there more ships plying their trade in these waters?” she asked, pleased with her own grasp of the sailing lexicon.

  The captain gestured at the distant vessel. “She has a sister ship, the Pretty Penny.”

  “Sailing under the same flag?” she asked, warming to the theme.

  “Aye, both owned by one Thorsten Sommer, damn his eyes. The man could not be more slippery had he been fathered by an eel.”

  This was such a disconcerting notion that Gretel quite lost her stride regarding seafaring terminology. She simply put the question, “Might it not be within the reach of reason to suggest that Herr Sommer is not happy to see a new cruise ship in what he possibly considers to be his territory? And that it might be to his advantage were your enterprise to fail?”

  “He would like nothing better! But I shall not give him that satisfaction. It would take more than a lard-bellied Norseman, fat with his family money and from dining with royalty, no less, to turn me from my chosen course!” So saying, he faced Gretel, his eyes flashing, a determined grin lighting up his craggy features. Thus animated, he was quite transformed, his gaze disarmingly charismatic. And familiar, somehow. Gretel once again had the strongest sense that she had seen this devilishly handsome face before, but still she could not say where nor when. Attempting to return her energies to the case she was charged to solve, she filed away the facts she had gleaned so far. Thorsten Sommer had surely to go atop her list of suspects regarding the missing crewmembers, with or without the assistance of what might or might not be a mermaid.

  At that moment, the quartermaster descended from the poop deck wearing his habitually solemn expression. Gretel noted the minute alterations in Captain Ziegler’s stance, as if he were slightly bracing himself for an attack, or at least readying himself for a difficult exchange. In the event, the two traded nothing more than curt nods and Herr Hoffman continued on his way. Gretel seized the moment.

  “A dour fellow, your quartermaster, captain.” When this observation failed to draw him out, she continued. “Such a demeanor cannot be conducive to a pleasant partnership, one would have thought.”

  “I look for no pleasantries from Hoffman, nor him any from me. ’Tis not required of us that we be friends. He knows his job.”

  “Which is why you engaged him, no doubt?”

  “It is. That and . . . well . . .” He fell silent, apparently deciding against sharing the completed thought with Gretel.

  “Come, come, captain. There can be no secrets between you and me. If I am to assist you, to do what it is I do best, it is necessary that you inform me fully and frankly of the setup of this ship, of the workings of your business, and of the salient facts regarding your crewmembers. Do not be coy.”

  The captain nodded. “Very well. I do not like the man. He sets himself above me, or would do, were such a thing not to smack of mutiny and likely get him hanged. He covets my ship and position both. He carries a grievance not against me, but against the world, that
these things are not his. This has soured him, and his only happiness is to share that sourness.”

  “So why then employ him? There must be others can muster a crew and fill his shoes?”

  “He brought with him something I could not have else. In a word, reputation. In another, respectability. Both crucial for the cruising business. Passengers must have confidence, must be reassured, d’you see?”

  Gretel was not at all sure that she did, but any chance she had of questioning him further on the matter was stamped beneath the kitten heels of Birgit Lange as she tottered across the foredeck toward them, waving a lace handkerchief and shrieking effusive greetings.

  “I will take my leave, fraulein,” said the captain, striding for his cabin before Gretel could persuade him otherwise.

  “Gretel! Oh, Gretel, how delightful. Here you are! Now, tell me, where has that simply wonderful brother of yours got to?”

  With a deep sigh, and a growling stomach, Gretel realized that the woman was going to prove harder to shake off than a Baltic barnacle.

  FIVE

  Over the following day and night, Gretel’s time was taken up in unreasonable quantities by Hans and the avoidance of That Woman, as he had insisted she be named. Attempting to flee from someone while sharing a ship was not an easy task. The narrowness of all corridors and passages and the broadness of Hans, and indeed herself (though she preferred to think this was at least in part to do with the current fashion for exaggerating the hips, even where no exaggeration was called for) did not aid them in their need to be stealthy and swift. Far and away the worst aspect of this unasked-for game of hide-and-seek was the disruption to meals. Brandy seemed easy enough to come by, as the bar was not a place a lady (lady!) could modestly frequent in the morning, and later in the day a hip flask in the cabin provided fortifying swigs. Food was more problematic. No sooner would Gretel wedge Hans into a dining room chair or have him recline on deck on a stripy lounger, hastily summoning the steward to take their order for a seafood platter or cheese omelette, or even a bite of cold meats and bread, than That Woman would heave into view, uttering her terrifying “tally-ho,” and they would be forced to their feet again, retreating with decreasingly plausible mumbled excuses. Hans claimed not to care. His appetite had jumped ship, and he saw little chance of it ever being found. Gretel was beginning to fear her newly acquired gowns would soon hang loose on her withering frame if she did not gain sustenance somehow, somewhere.