The Case of the Fickle Mermaid

by P. J. Brackston

  On the third afternoon, the Arabella put into the small harbor at Friedrichskoog. The stop was scheduled in order to take on fresh supplies, but passengers who felt so inclined were permitted to go ashore for an hour or two. Hans protested that he did not feel in the least inclined. Gretel insisted that the change of scene and possibly a new bar to enjoy might do him good. Hans declared that the ale and brandy were as good on board as any he was likely to find in such a humble harbor. Gretel pointed out that he might find a little weisswurst and mustard to go with the ale. Hans sighed and said that even a sausage could not tempt him now, such that he must surely be beyond saving. At which point Gretel bared her teeth, grasped him by the collar, and explained that the only way she would get five minutes’ peace in which to sit and dine uninterrupted was if he were safely out of the reach of That Woman, which meant getting him off the ship, and that being the case, Gretel could either send him ashore or tip him over the side. Either was good for her. Hans sulkily opted for a quayside inn.

  Gretel bustled him onto the gangway before hurrying to find Birgit. It went against her every instinct to actually seek her out, but she needed to buy her brother a little time to ensure he was not followed. As luck would have it, she found his ex-paramour in a flutter of excitement as she and her companions were being escorted by the captain on an impromptu excursion to Schloss Winzig, the town’s one architectural feature of any merit.

  Gretel raised an eyebrow. “Captain Ziegler, I would not have singled you out as a lover of historic buildings.”

  He leaned close to whisper, “Needs must, fraulein. We cannot be seen to be lacking in cultural activities on our cruises.”

  Birgit pounced on Gretel. “But are you and your brother not planning to accompany us?” she asked, her face an equal mix of hope, disappointment, and rouge.

  “Alas, no. My brother is indisposed. I am on my way to plead with Cook for another bowl of his superior fish broth.”

  “Oh, poor Hansel! Might he be well enough to receive a cheering visitor later on, d’you think?”

  “I very much doubt it,” Gretel replied, making a brief bow and backing away, the thought of her first decent meal in days lending wings to her heels. She went straight to the steward, who was polishing glasses in the bar. “Just the man,” she told him, hoisting herself up onto a stool. “Would you be so good as to take my compliments to the chef, apologize for disturbing him, and tell him I am in dire need of a proper feed.”

  “You do look a little peaky, madam, if you’ll forgive my saying so.”

  “I have traveled beyond peaky, young man, I am drifting into the dark waters of sickly, and am in danger of washing up on the rocks of unwell. I require good food and plenty of it.”

  “If I may venture to suggest madam’s hair might also benefit from a little attention?”

  “You may and it might. All this gritty sea air and my perspiration-inducing cabin do nothing for it. But who is there to help me?”

  “Allow me to be of assistance.”

  “You?” Gretel eyed up his worn bar towel, unconvinced.

  The steward nodded. “At the risk of sounding vain, madam, I will say I have a talent for such things. Before coming to work on the Arabella, I was in service as footman and valet in more than one fine home. Upon my word, such glamor! On each occasion, it was not long before the lady of the house recognized my gift for improving her coiffure and this became a regular part of my duties. I had even begun to consider finding premises from which to offer my skills to a wider clientele. But alas, life has a habit of pushing us in the most unexpected of directions.”

  “So you find yourself here. A jealous husband, perhaps?” Gretel suggested.

  At this the steward gave a soft laugh. “Yes, madam, jealous of his wife.”

  “Ah,” said Gretel. “And your choice of a position aboard a cruiser . . . ?”

  “The Arabella was the first ship sailing out of the nearest port to the scene of my . . . situation. I was fortunate the crew was light one steward.”

  “Indeed, one of two crewmembers to have recently, er, left.” She paused, allowing the young barman to offer what he knew of their unexplained disappearance. She already had him marked down as a keen sharer of gossip, so when none was forthcoming, she surmised that he had none to give. “Well, then, until the occasion allows me to don my exceedingly splendid wig, I should be grateful for any assistance you can offer regarding the styling of my hair, Herr . . . ?”

  “Everard, madam. Just call me Everard,” he insisted.

  “As you please. But first, I must have food.”

  They arranged for Everard to visit Gretel’s cabin with quantities of hot water later that day, before he was dispatched to the galley to plead with Frenchie to save Gretel from starvation. The ship’s cook did not disappoint. Gretel spent a happy hour in the saloon bar, which was blissfully empty save for herself and Everard’s gentle presence. She began her feast with a bowl of the renowned bouillabaisse—which was every bit as exquisite as its reputation suggested—accompanied by warm French bread with which to scoop up tender prawns and mop and dip at will. Next came an expertly steamed sole, drizzled with butter and lemon. This was followed by melt-in-the-mouth boeuf en croute garnished with baby vegetables and a robust red-wine jus. Between courses, tiny sorbets and savory mousses were served as amuse-bouche, and Gretel would happily attest later to anyone who might ask that her bouche was indeed highly amused. She was offered a selection of desserts so delectable and delightful that she considered it would be churlish to refuse any of them, so that she enjoyed first a galette roulade with raspberries, chased down by a particularly creamy crème brulée, and settled into place by a hefty helping of profiteroles. After such a symphony of flavors and a veritable opera of tastes and textures, Gretel asked herself whether or not she might have preferred more familiar fare: the odd weisswurst, perhaps, a spoonful of cabbage here or there, a few steamed potatoes, a slice or two of black forest gâteau, possibly? When the answer came to her clearly “no,” she experienced a fleeting flash of guilt, but it passed soon enough when Everard returned with a board of French cheeses. She ate on, the glorious food fueling her spirits, her body, and her mind, so that soon she was certain she was once again in tip-top condition to do her very best work. After a short nap, obviously. She took herself up on deck and selected a chair with a helpful recline and a footstool. The weather was pleasantly warm, with a gentle breeze causing the ship’s flag to flutter in an appealing manner. She was on the starboard side of the vessel, so that the noises of the quayside would not disturb her, and she was certain she would be able to rest well. However, as she half closed her eyes, she became aware of both a movement and a presence close to her left shoulder. Her limited vision allowed her only a partial view of her new company, but she sensed at once that whoever it was—whatever it was—was not entirely human. Her first thought was the monkey she fancied she had seen swinging through the rigging, but that did not seem to fit. Keeping very still, she asked softly, “If you wish to speak to me, there is no need for shyness. We are quite alone. Why don’t you show yourself?” She opened her eyes fully once more and watched as the small, dark shape slipped silently from its perch behind her and came to rest on the edge of the ship’s rail in front instead. What a curious creature it was! No taller than a decent-sized wig, it had the slender form of a tiny person, but was covered entirely—even its sweet face—in velvety purple fur. On its back were two pairs of silvery wings. Its eyes were golden and attractively almond-shaped, and its miniature hands and feet had dainty fingers and toes, also purple-furred, with silver nails.

  “Well, I’ll be . . . A sea sprite!” Gretel murmured.

  The sprite smiled, showing disconcertingly sharp, pointy white teeth. “You’re supposed to say, ‘There’s no such thing as a sea sprite!’ aren’t you?” it teased.

  “And spit loudly to the left, I believe. Yes, I am aware of that unsavory custom.”

  “Aren’t you going to do it, then?”r />
  “There seems little point, when the evidence before me is so very . . . convincing.” As she watched, the nimble creature walked happily up and down along the narrow rail, its wings quivering lightly to give it perfect balance. “Do you live aboard the Arabella?” Gretel asked it, playing for time while she searched her mind for what she knew of the things. Should she be on her guard, or were they harmless? She couldn’t bring the necessary facts to mind. All she could summon was the knowledge that they were neither male nor female, which did not feel like a useful detail at all, and that they were playful. Or was it mischievous? Or dangerous? It appeared friendly enough, but those teeth looked as if they could deliver a nasty bite.

  “Oh, yes, this is my ship,” the sprite replied. “I’ve been here longer than anyone. Right from before ever the Arabella was a cruise ship. Longer even than Captain Ziegler.” It frowned as it spoke, folding its tiny arms tightly across its plush chest, but Gretel detected a slight softening of its features at the mention of the captain.

  “And what trade did this vessel ply before it was converted to accommodate cruising passengers, can you tell me that?”

  The sprite chose not to answer. Instead it suddenly flitted through the air. It was more a fluttering jump than actual flight, but conveyed it quickly from the rail to Gretel’s chest, where it crouched, examining her lorgnettes.

  “I say!” said Gretel. “Would you mind alighting elsewhere?”

  “These are nice,” said the sprite, ignoring her remark. “Will you give them to me?”

  “Alas, I have need of them. Besides, they are too big for you.”

  “Oh, I don’t want to wear them, silly. You are a bit silly, aren’t you?” The thing leaned forward until its face, and therefore its teeth, were uncomfortably close to Gretel’s own. “I’ll see if you are. I’ll give you a puzzle, and if you can’t solve it, then you must be silly.”

  Without waiting for her to protest, the sprite jumped up, wings a blur, and resettled on the empty deck chair beside her. It thought for a moment, cleared its throat, and then spoke again. “Look once, look twice, look again at the tooth; first the coat, then the badge, then the mouth for the truth!” And with that, it sprang aloft once more, disappearing among the rigging.

  Gretel pondered its strange rhyme, rather wishing it hadn’t involved making her think about teeth. There might be some information to be gained from the creature, that much was plain. What was also clear was Gretel’s own need for some rest after her feast. She was too dozy and too well fed to solve puzzles. She would return to the matter a little later when she was refreshed from slumber. Once she was certain the sprite was not about to leap onto her chest again, she risked closing her eyes. The sun was still warm, and her belly still full, so that she was soon able to drift quickly into a happy, restorative sleep.

  She was awoken an hour later by some unknown person apparently washing her face with a rough flannel. Gretel squawked, struggling to sit up and put an end to the unasked-for lavation. “Stop it, I say! What the devil do you think you’re doing?” She opened her eyes expecting to see a madman with a fetish for cleanliness, but instead found, looming over her, an enormous hairy brindled hound, its slobbering tongue still straining to lick her further, the stench of its foul breath all but knocking her senseless. As she cried out and fought to push the thing away, she noticed it had a collar with a rope attached to it, and that on the other end of that rope stood her brother.

  “Hans! What in the name of all that is sensible are you doing with this monstrous dog?”

  He hauled on the fraying leash, dragging the panting beast backward the best he could. “Not a dog, sister mine, a mer-hund!”

  “A what?” Gretel stood up, still groggy from sleep and somewhat shaken from the manner in which she had been woken. Looking about her, she saw that they were once more at sea. So deep had her slumber been that she had not even been aware of their setting sail, but the port of Friedrichskoog was now beyond one of the apparently identical blue-gray horizons that currently surrounded them.

  “A mer-hund,” Hans insisted on explaining. “Here, look at his paws—webbed, see? For swimming both on top of and beneath the surface. And his fur, incredible stuff, practically impervious to water.”

  “It certainly smells as if that were the case,” said Gretel, quelling an uncharacteristic wave of nausea as the creature’s body odor assailed her.

  “He’s just back from hunting. Drew a blank this time, but he’ll find your mermaid, you mark my words. Bred for the job. Been used for generations to find the fishy little things.”

  “How much did you pay for him?”

  “Have you any idea how hard these are to come by this far north?”

  “How. Much?”

  “I used my winnings from the other night.”

  “And?”

  “And the spending money I brought with me.”

  “You mean the spending money I furnished you with which was to last the entire trip, not a measly couple of days.”

  “Dash it all, Gretel, have a little faith. He’ll make it back for you and more besides. When he finds the mermaid and solves the case, well, how will you like him then, eh?”

  At that moment the hound quivered, pointed with nose and paw, and then flung itself over the side and into the sea.

  A cry came from atop the rigging. “Mer-hund overboard!”

  “There goes our money,” Gretel muttered wearily.

  “No, he’s working. He’s on to something! Look at him go!” cried Hans excitedly. He commenced dashing up and down the deck, calling encouragement to his stinking—and at that moment sinking—investment. Gretel allowed herself a single deep sigh, but then her flagging spirits were lifted a tad when she thought what a cheering effect the hound was having on Hans, and what an effective Birgit deterrent such an animal might prove to be.

  “A curious creature,” came the softly spoken comment to her left. Turning, she found Dr. Becker.

  “Are you referring to the hound or my brother?” she asked, and then, upon seeing the consternation on the gentleman’s face, added, “As a matter of fact, I think them a well-matched pair.”

  The doctor relaxed, clearly relieved he had not inadvertently caused offense. “He will need to be a strong swimmer,” he observed, nodding at the ocean. “There is a wind getting up and the water is becoming quite choppy. I have noticed the way the gulls behave when the weather is about to change. It is almost as if they have some inbuilt sense, some barometer of their own creation, which allows them to know what lies ahead and seek shelter when necessary. Quite fascinating.”

  “Quite,” Gretel agreed.

  “Did you know,” he went on, his features aglow with love of his subject, “that the black beaked gull, after fledging and leaving the nest, will not set foot on land for nearly two years?”

  “I confess I did not,” she replied, thinking to herself that she had not felt the lack of this knowledge but that evidently it was a source of great joy to the mild-mannered doctor.

  “Or that the albatross will stay aloft or on water for five years?”

  “Alas, I was ignorant of that fact too, until now. Thank you for enlightening me.”

  “They mate for life, most birds, you know. Astonishing, given the perilous lives they lead. We could learn so much from them, if only we took the time.”

  “Indeed,” said Gretel, rather thinking that time was in fact taking her, and in the general direction of her cabin.

  Dr. Becker lifted an outlandish eyeglass to his spectacled eyes. Gretel had not seen its like before. The device was larger and much more cumbersome than her own lorgnettes, and yet had two lenses, rather than a single one, such as the captain’s telescope had. She watched as the doctor swept the darkening waters with his gaze thus freakishly extended. She peered into the nothingness of the ocean surface, but could see neither flesh, fish, nor fowl.

  “You have found something, with your . . . glasses?” she asked him at last. “A bird of some r
arity, perhaps?”

  “Sadly, no,” he replied, lowering the heavy things, “not a bird. But I can see a ship.”

  “Really?” Gretel lifted her lorgnettes and tried with, without, with, without, but she could see no ships.

  “Please.” The doctor took the leather loop from around his own neck and smiled at her. “Try my binoculars. They work on the same principle as your glasses, but their forte is power, rather than decoration.” He helped her put them to her eyes and turn the small wheel that helped adjust them to her eyes. At first she saw nothing but gray-blue-blur, but then, there it was, so close it made her take a step back.

  “Good lord! A ship where seconds before there was none. Astounding! Such detail. I can read the name . . . yes, it is the Fair Fortune. I can even see the people on deck.” She continued to watch the ship as it changed its course fractionally, bringing it a little nearer. Soon she was able to make out the elegance of the gowns worn by the ladies promenading on board, and could see the string quartet playing for them, and the silver trays of champagne held high by white-gloved flunkies. Everything looked so grand and gracious and glittering and in no way whatsoever resembled the grittiness on offer aboard the Arabella.