“I can see you are impressed by my glasses, fraulein. I find them invaluable in my pursuit of shy and wild birds.”
Gretel was aware that the doctor was speaking, but his words fell on deaf ears. Two things had captured her attention and held it in an iron grip. Two things, or, rather, two people. For the ship had glided sufficiently close for her to be able to discern their features clearly enough to identify them. The first, with her unmistakeable beakish nose, sharp expression, and angular physique, could be none other than Baroness Schleswig-Holstein. A distant cousin of King Julian the Mighty, she had the distinctive bearing of the Findleberg family. Gretel recalled the last time they had met, during a testing case of art theft in Nuremberg. If memory served, she had not made a good impression on the aged royal. Neither woman would consider it a blow should their paths diverge permanently. No, it was not the baroness herself who interested Gretel, it was the tall, broad-shouldered figure who stood at her side. Who must be there acting as her personal bodyguard, lent out by King Julian whether he willed it or no. Even at such a distance the sight of him had the power to reach parts of Gretel that had lain hitherto undisturbed, at least since the last time she had been in his company. She experienced the now-familiar combination of conflicting emotions. There was joy at seeing him again, hand in hand with pique that he had not sought her out while they were both back in Gesternstadt. Here was the hot flame of excitement brought about by his manly form, dampened down by the wet blanket of disappointment that he was enjoying a glamorous cruise without her. Uber General Ferdinand von Ferdinand. The man who had saved her from a lion. The man who had seen to it that she was not, after all, tortured or executed, when others would have had it so. The man who had sent her the Swedish wolf-fur cape. The man who, damn his dark, smiling eyes, his flowing salt-and-pepper hair, his well-turned ankles, his handsome frame in his handsome uniform . . . was currently steadying the scrawny arm of a blue-blooded shrew on a stingingly desirable ship instead of being where he should be, doing what he should be doing. On the wretched Arabella. With Gretel.
“Bastard!” she snapped.
“Bustard? Where?” the good doctor wanted to know, taking his glasses from her to scour the horizon.
While he was happily engaged in his search, Gretel was able to slip away to her cabin.
SIX
Upon my word, my goodness,” Everard could not help himself declaring on taking a closer look at Gretel’s hair. “My gracious,” he added, somewhat unnecessarily, Gretel thought.
“I have realistic expectations,” she told him. “We are at sea, the wind is increasing, the ceilings are low, the accommodation cramped and airless. These are not, I recognize, conditions conducive to hair at its best. I ask that you do the best you can to render it kempt, stylish, and secure.” She had removed her dress and petticoats, as the width of its birdcage would have made it impossible for the steward to get anywhere near her otherwise. She found she was not uncomfortable in this condition of deshabille, not in Everard’s presence.
He sucked air through his teeth, shook his head, and tutted. “I don’t know whose salon you attend when you are home in . . . where was it again?” he asked, removing quantities of pins as he spoke.
“Gesternstadt. A small town in Bavaria. You won’t have heard of it. Nobody has. Unless, of course, they are looking for—” She stopped herself just in time, recalling she was supposed to be traveling without giving away the real reason for being on the Arabella. “—oh, I don’t know, all things quaintly Bavarian . . .” Everard gave her a look that told her clearly how little appeal such things, whatever they might be, held for him. “But it does boast a reasonable establishment run by Madame Renoir. She is better than one might hope to find in such a backwater.”
Everard arched his neatly plucked brows. He picked up a bristle brush and began applying it to Gretel’s frizzing locks. She clenched her teeth but would not complain. She had always known she must suffer to present herself to the world in the way in which she wanted to be seen.
“It must be washed,” he decided, “and I will apply a coating of coconut oil to restore luster.”
“Luster, you say?”
“I will then commence ridding you of tangles and . . . passengers . . .”
“What? Hell’s teeth!”
“Just a few lice, madam. Unpleasant but harmless. A common complaint among sailors.”
“Sailors! I am no Jack Tar! I have been aboard this dismal ship for a matter of days and you tell me I have an infestation passed on to me by the crew?”
“Madam, calm yourself.” Everard helped her lean back on the stool so that her hair could be submerged in the bowl of hot water on the tiny table. “I will soon have you free of them, and I promise you will be happy with the end result of my labors.”
She was about to rant further on the indignity of catching vermin from burly seamen, but the heat of the water, the perfume of the soap, the fragrant steam, and Everard’s expert fingers soon soothed her. Within moments, everything seemed long ago and far away and not really all that important at all. She had thought to quiz him further on his fellow shipmates, but now she felt so blissfully quieted she simply could not bring her mind to bear on business. It was at times such as these that the harshness of her own day-to-day existence was brought home to her. Not for Gretel the pampered life of an adored wife, a woman with no worry beyond what to wear for which glittering social occasion. Not for her the comfort of a sizable inheritance to cushion her from the world and its woes. No, since the day she had rescued her brother from the witch, she had known that everything was Up To Her. Food on the table? Up To Her. Fire in the hearth? Up To Her. House in which to have a hearth? Up To Her. It was true, King Julian had provided a donation when their story first broke, sending them both to fine schools, with a little left over to aid the purchase of their home in Gesternstadt. But any such funds had run out many years ago. She viewed Hans as an expensive fixture in her life, and did her best to count the benefits he brought with him (which were few and almost entirely food-based) and not dwell on his attendant irritations (which were many). The plain fact was, no one was going to see to it that Gretel enjoyed the standard of living she knew she would thrive in. It was Up To Her to secure it, even if that meant hard and often dangerous work. Therefore, to enjoy a few peaceful moments in the care of the gentle and talented Everard seemed a small and just reward for all that she had achieved so far.
Into this pleasant reverie burst Hans, red-faced and full of his own rather more basic concerns.
“I say, Gretel, you’ll never guess . . . oh!” He was brought up short by the sight of the steward rhythmically working his fingers through Gretel’s hair. A shocked glance took in his sister’s state of semi-undress and the enraptured expression on her face, and embarrassment overcame him. He retreated, backward—there being no space for him to turn around—muttering apologies and pulling the door firmly shut behind him.
Gretel sighed. She was aware that the only jumping her brother ever did was to conclusions, usually the wrong ones. She would set him right later. For now she was determined to enjoy the rest of Everard’s ministrations. He combed, he brushed, he curled, he tonged, he spritzed, he pinned and powdered until at last he held up the hand mirror so that she might see the finished ’do.
“Is madam pleased?” he asked.
“Madam is delighted,” she assured him. Her hair stood high and bouffant, secure, yet a little daring in style, and had indeed acquired a charming luster. “Everard, you are wasted as a steward, if I may say so, but I am exceedingly glad you are here for my voyage.” She plucked a lacy shawl from the bed and a folded note from her corset. “Here, with my thanks,” she told him. “By the way, during your time on this ship, have you ever encountered a sea sprite?”
“There’s no such thing as a sea sprite, madam,” he said quickly, lobbing a dry little spit into the washbowl while holding it to his left.
“No, of course there isn’t. Well, thank you again,” sh
e said as he left. “And if you should see my brother on your way out, I should be grateful if you would send him to me. He rarely does anything with any speed, but he is surprisingly swift when it comes to spreading rumors.”
When Hans arrived, he brought the mer-hund with him. The thing was horribly wet from its swim, so that the cabin was instantly filled with the pungent pong of damp dog. Damp, fishy dog.
“You can’t bring that in here,” Gretel protested, fending it off with her fan as it attempted to climb onto her lap and lick her face once more. “For pity’s sake, get it away from me!”
Hans hauled on the rope and issued commands that had no effect on the creature’s ebullience whatsoever. “I can’t leave him outside, he might get lost, or start barking for me. He doesn’t like being left on his own. Anyway, there’s no need to make a fuss. He’s only being friendly,” he insisted.
“I prefer an acquaintance of longer standing before any such intimacies!”
“So I noticed earlier,” said Hans, finally succeeding in dragging the mer-hund to sit at, or rather on, his feet.
“And what is that supposed to mean?”
“Well, dash it all, a fellow expects to be able to return to his cabin without finding another fellow already in it.”
“Everard kindly agreed to attend to my coiffure.”
“Oh, really? All part of a steward’s duties nowadays, I suppose?”
“Don’t pretend you know anything about who does what on a ship, Hans.”
“I know what I saw, and I know who I saw doing it, and to whom, and it was most definitely on a ship at the time. Though could have been anywhere, I suppose. Mean to say, not confined to onboard, that sort of behavior, far as I’ve heard . . .”
“Hans, stop. Please. Believe me when I tell you Everard’s interest in me arises from a purely professional arrangement.”
“He’s a gigolo?! Gretel, I am shocked!”
“He’s a hairdresser! Now for pity’s sake bring your attention to the matter of that . . . animal.”
“This animal, as you rather harshly call him, has spent the past two hours working diligently on your behalf, matter of fact.”
“I find that hard to believe.”
“Kept sending down a man on a rope to help him back aboard, but no sooner had he set paws on deck than . . . hup! Over the side and off he’d go again. Didn’t want to give up. Highly tenacious. It’s bred into them, you know.”
“Fascinating. And did he find anything?”
“Well, one time he did come back with a fish. Not just any old fish, mind you, no. It was thought to be a blue-nosed rib fish, which are known to be found only in close proximity to mermaids. Sometimes called mermaid fish, in point of fact.”
“And was it?” Gretel asked, her interest finally piqued.
“Alas, it was not. It was later identified as a red herring.”
Gretel narrowed her eyes at both man and hound. “I fear, brother mine, that you have been sold a pig in a poke.”
Later that night, with the three of them packed into the cabin like salted fish in a jar, sleep proved as elusive as the mermaid. Hans had, with some difficulty and much complaining, clambered into the top bunk, Gretel was once again wedged into the bottom one, and the mer-hund lay on the floor, just about filling all remaining space. The amount of air that had to be shared between them was pitifully inadequate, a fact not helped by the fishy farts the dog emitted at irregular intervals as the hours passed. Only the thought that the revolting animal had so successfully pulled Hans from his slough of despond over Birgit stopped her shoving the animal out into the passageway. Meanwhile, her brother’s every second breath was a rumbling snore, as was his habit. The wind outside had strengthened, causing the ship to pitch and roll with increasing severity. At times its movements were so violent, Gretel would certainly have been tipped out had there been sufficient space. Yet again, she promised herself that something would have to be done about the size of their quarters. She thanked the heavens that she, and indeed Hans, had been blessed with staunch stomachs that remained unperturbed by the bucking and leaping of the Arabella as the weather worsened. She found her mind straying into the equally turbulent waters of her feelings for Ferdinand. What was he doing at that very moment, she wondered. She was reasonably certain that whatever it was, it was a good deal more pleasant than her own current cruising experience. Here she lay, wide awake, no sensible notions regarding the case entering her head, her beautiful hairdo unnoticed and unappreciated, suffering a jarring lullaby of wind (both inside and outside the cabin), her brother’s juddering snores, and the arthritic creaking of the ship. She could stand it no longer. A few deep breaths of sea air and a turn around the deck might prove restorative.
She wriggled from her cot. As there was scant floorspace on which to put her feet, the business of extracting herself from her bed and changing from horizontal to vertical was a struggle. The mer-hund was sleeping so deeply it barely stirred as she stumbled over it. She pulled her shawl over her head and took her coat off the peg on the back of the door and slipped it over her peignoir, reasoning there would be few about to witness her curious attire. Most of her luggage was still stacked outside the door, so that she had to squeeze her way past it all, slowing her progress sufficiently to hear plaintive wails and cries coming from other cabins along the passage. Clearly not everybody was as sanguine regarding the choppiness of the sea and the unsettling motion of the ship.
Once up on deck, it became clear to Gretel that this was indeed weather of some significance. Men scurried about in all directions, tying this to that, hauling on ropes, wrestling with sails, and generally giving the impression that there was much to be done, and done with all haste. She wondered if she should be alarmed, but noticed that the captain himself was not to be seen, and convinced herself that an emergency would surely rouse him from his bed. Herr Hoffman, though he was aloft in charge of the wheel, stood at the epicenter of all action, barking orders, growling at the crew, but evidently not in a state of agitation or vexation. The Arabella answered the urging of the sailors, turning into the wind, prow first to the enormous waves that had got up seemingly out of nowhere. The night was dark, the sky heavy with clouds that now began to rain onto the deck. The noise of the breakers, the shouting men, the raging wind, and the cracking and groaning of the ship were near overwhelming.
“Get those sails down, boys!” bellowed Hoffman. “Trim the mainsail, Bo’sun Brandt, if you please! This is no time to let her have her head. Hold her steady and she’ll take us safely through.”
The ship lurched and leapt so that Gretel had to clutch hold of the nearest solid object if she were not to fall over. She thought of the passengers below, clinging to their bunks, seasick, no doubt, but unaware of the terrifying wildness of what was going on outside. She pulled her coat tighter around her and knotted the shawl at her chin. A part of her—a considerably ample part—wanted very much to scuttle back to her own fetid cabin, put a pillow over her head, and pray persuasively to anyone she could think of. But another part, the part that knew a rare thrilling moment when it came along, wanted to stay. Wanted to witness man pitted against the fury of the ocean. Wanted to watch those brave, strong, more than a little heroic men heave on a rope or climb up a ladder or swing through the tilting rigging. The thickset man she knew from Will to be the boatswain, or bo’sun, as it was known, loomed at her out of the jumping lamplight.
“Tha’ll get a drenching, squatting yon like a booby in a flurry!”
“I beg your pardon?” Despite the cacophony, she could actually hear Bo’sun Brandt quite well, but could not find the sense in his words.
“When she takes a dip, tha’ll be wetter’n a squilgee!” he yelled.
“Indeed.” Gretel continued to hold on to the bollard, hoping the man would go away and leave her alone, but he seemed to expect something of her. “Am I in the way?” she asked. “I merely sought a little fresh air, though I confess, this is somewhat fresher than I had anticipated.�
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He rolled his eyes and shook his head. “Get yersen below, woman! We need no deadwood cluttering the deck, waiting to get washed o’erboard!”
As if to underline his point, a vast wave, suggested only by a darker darkness than the surrounding night, reared up above them. It glimmered in the light of the ship’s lamps as the wave stayed suspended for the briefest of moments. There were shouts. Voices were raised in warning or alarm. Gretel recognized one of them—easily the shrillest—to be her own. And then the wave descended, breaking over the stoic figurehead on the prow, sending such a weight of water onto all who were on deck that the force of it tore the shawl from her head and threatened to sweep her over the side. She held tight, and the pressure subsided. Spitting water, she looked about her to see the crew pick themselves up as if nothing had happened and go about their business. Herr Hoffman admonished them for taking any opportunity for a break, cursed them for landlubbers, and demanded they see to their duties. Bo’sun Brandt nodded at Gretel in a manner that could only mean “I told you so,” which quite possibly he had. Her clothes heavy with salt water, her hair ruined, her body bruised, Gretel mustered her damp dignity the best she could and wobbled her way toward the stairs. As she was about to descend, she turned and noticed that the quartermaster was no longer at the wheel; that position had been taken up by another crewmember. She spied him, instead, attending to one of the lifeboats. For a second she feared they were in real peril and would all be called to abandon ship, but no, he was not launching the thing. He was joined by none other than Bo’sun Brandt, and for a long moment the two busied themselves lashing the ropes that held the canvas cover in place. Naturally, it was important that the lifeboats remain secure, and it was entirely possible that the freakish wave had loosened the ropes that held them in place. But there was something about the way in which the two men bent their heads together. Something about the furtive glance Hoffman gave over his shoulder. Hoffman, a man whose every movement and every word was considered and clear, deliberate and plain for all to understand. Why should he, of all people, have cause to be furtive, Gretel wondered.
The Case of the Fickle Mermaid Page 6