The Case of the Fickle Mermaid

by P. J. Brackston

  SEVEN

  The following morning, Gretel awoke to find that the storm had abated, and the Arabella once again floated gently upon a calm sea. Hans, having slept through the tempest, declared himself famished and ready to brave the dining room. As this was the first time he had shown any interest in food since Birgit’s appearance, Gretel was keen to seize the moment. She suspected That Woman was quite possibly neither an early riser nor a good sailor, so the sooner they were seated at their table the better. They wasted precious minutes in an argument about whether or not the mer-hund would be permitted to enter the dining room. Gretel was certain it would not be, and that even if it managed to slink in unseen, its stink would soon give it away. In the end she was made to promise Hans could visit Frenchie directly after they had broken their fast in order to find food for his new pet. They dressed hurriedly (Hans doing so in the passage behind a screen of trunks, his doting hound watching him all the while) and then moved past the other cabins as silently as they were able. Gretel had high hopes of finding the dining room empty at such an hour. Her mind was already racing ahead of her, imagining the melt-in-the-mouth butteriness of the cook’s croissants, the sweet, salty tang of the maple-cured bacon, the rich golden glow of eggs fried in the very finest olive oil. Such a breakfast could set one up to face just about anything.

  Alas, there was no breakfast.

  This was because there was no cook.

  Frenchie had disappeared.

  The place was in uproar. Crewmembers had gathered to hear the news and looked anxiously about them, as if the chef might be discovered sleeping beneath a table or curled up in a window seat. Gretel noticed Will and Everard and even Bo’sun Brandt among them looking sorrowful. Captain Ziegler, with a face like thunder, strode up and down the room, his rage filling the space, his furious expletives ricocheting off the low ceiling, causing people to scramble for cover. “Why cannot I sleep without my ship falling to chaos?!” he roared. “What manner of crew have I that they let such things happen?”

  Herr Hoffman, still gelid of eye, but for once looking as if his composure might fracture, attempted to placate his master. “The man was ungovernable, captain. Maybe he was on deck in the storm, drunk, and was swept overboard.”

  “Frenchie could hold his drink as well as the next man.” The captain shook his head. “And he had more sense than to take himself wandering when the sea was up. Damn and blast your eyes, Hoffman! You had the watch. Did you see nothing?”

  “We were about our business with the ship. The night was black. ’Twas all we could do to see those who wanted to be seen, never mind a person keeping himself hidden,” he insisted.

  The captain rounded on him, eyes ablaze. “And who’s to say it was Frenchie’s choice to leave his beloved galley, tell me that? The man lived for his art. For his kitchen. I say he would not leave it. Not but he was dragged!”

  An uneasy quiet descended. Gretel felt the captain, in his anger, had made a serious error of judgment. Whatever he believed might have happened to his chef, to baldly state in front of his already jittery crew that some dark deed had befallen him was to risk dangerous unrest among the men. He had told her that they were on edge after the earlier disappearances, and since then there had been a further sighting of the mermaid. How much more sensible it might have been to go along with the quartermaster’s theory of a drunken accident, if only temporarily. If he had done so he could have bought them—could have bought her—a little more time to get to the bottom of things without spooking the crew further.

  It was at this point that Captain Ziegler noticed Gretel. “And you!” he cried, utterly forgetting the subterfuge they had agreed upon, and before she had a chance to stop him. “What is the point of you being here, fraulein? I am not paying you to be at your leisure! Is Gretel of Gesternstadt no more than a reputation and a deal of talk?”

  A collective expression of bafflement visited the faces of his crew. They were, after all, simple souls, and for all their traveling had clearly been nowhere near Bavaria. Unsurprisingly, it being a region locked by land. Nevertheless, Gretel could not help feeling a tad niggled that her name meant nothing to them.

  Herr Hoffman then did the only thing that ever made him remotely likeable in her view by asking, “You mean, that Gretel?”

  Clearly the cat was out of the bag, brightly striped, bushy-tailed, scampering about the room, lively as could be and impossible to ignore. Gretel drew herself up, put to the very back of her mind the knowledge that her hair looked as if it had been through a storm, because it had, and stepped forward to take control of the situation.

  “Captain,” she said calmly, “I am, of course, saddened, as we all are, to hear that our wonderful cook is missing.”

  “Frenchie!” breathed Hans, tearfully.

  “It may be,” she continued, “that some tragic mishap befell him. It may be that the truth behind his absence is revealed to be more sinister.”

  “Frenchie!” Hans sobbed.

  Gretel ignored him and pressed on. “Whatever the circumstances of his disappearance, rest assured I will discover them. And yes, Herr Hoffman, to answer your inquiry, I am indeed that Gretel, here in my capacity as private detective.” She paused to let the assembled company have their gasps and murmurs. The captain appeared to be on the point of raging again, but she held up a hand and went on. “It is no secret, I believe, that the disappearance of two crewmembers during the Arabella’s previous voyage has not been explained. Your captain cares for his men, and for the good name of his ship,” she said, turning to address this statement to as many as she could, trying to ignore the despairing way Everard was looking at her hair. “It is this conscientiousness, this integrity, that led him to engage my services. I promise you, this case can and will be solved.”

  The crew muttered and shuffled their feet, regarding her warily, none of them quite daring to mention the elephant in the room. The slender, fishy-tailed elephant.

  It was Will the cabin boy who finally summoned the courage to whisper the words, “But what about the mermaid?”

  The mutterings grew quickly louder until there were shouts and curses and even a bit of fist waving. The captain would stay silent no longer.

  “Damn your cowardly eyes! Be ye afraid of such nonsense? Have you had your wits addled, all of you? What care I if there be a singing maid on a rock? Tobias Ziegler fears nothing that lives in, on, or under the sea, and I’ll suffer no lily-livered curs aboard my ship!”

  Gretel hastened to quieten him before he did any more damage.

  “If I might suggest, captain, that you and I retire to your cabin to further discuss the matter . . . ?” She placed a steadying hand on his arm and was surprised to find it trembling. For all his swagger and bravado, the man was disturbed by something. Before he could reply, there came a shrill wailing from the doorway. Birgit and her cronies fluttered into the dining room in a flurry of fans, frills, and flirtatious glances.

  “Is it true?” she demanded, all but flinging herself at the captain. “They say the cook has been murdered, his throat slit, the galley running with blood, before his body was tipped into the cruel ocean!” she shrieked. Her companions cried out. One of them swooned quite expertly. Unfortunately for her, she had chosen to rely on the gallantry of Herr Hoffman, who merely stepped aside, allowing her to fall instead into the burly embrace of Bo’sun Brandt.

  “Frenchie!” moaned Hans. Even the arrival of That Woman could not shake him from the shock of losing his new friend in such an apparently gruesome way.

  The level of noise and unrest was increasing by the second. Gretel placed herself firmly between Birgit and the captain, leaning in close, so that her words were heard only by him.

  “If I might further suggest, captain . . . nothing fuels disquiet like hunger, and there is little that quells it better than a good feed.”

  “Fraulein, have you lost your mind?” he hissed. “We have no cook, woman.”

  “You have not Frenchie, but, fortunately, you
do have my brother. He is, as luck would have it, the most excellent chef, and would gladly step into the breach.”

  Captain Ziegler regarded the tearful Hans skeptically. “You are certain he is up to the task?”

  “I am. He is. Leave it to me. Send your crew about their work with the promise of extra rations in an hour, then go to your cabin. I will meet you there. Hurry now, the mood hereabouts turns uglier with every passing moment.”

  He did as he was told, accepting his instructions with uncharacteristic meekness. Gretel hurried to her brother’s side and shook him roughly.

  “Hans, snap out of it. We have need of your services. Get yourself down to the galley, find an apron, and do what you were born to do.”

  “Play cards?” he asked, blinking.

  “Cook, for pity’s sake.”

  “But Frenchie . . . ?”

  “. . . would not have wanted these people to go unfed, now, would he?”

  Hans looked around the room as if seeing all the strained, angry, or hysterical faces for the first time. He was evidently already coming around to the idea of saving them all from starvation when he spotted Birgit, heading toward him. She was the deciding factor.

  “I’ll do it,” he declared, turning on his plump heel. “For Frenchie!” he called back as he disappeared down the nearest flight of stairs.

  Gretel ignored Birgit’s stream of questions and entreaties and made her way quickly across the main deck, up the still-slippery stairs to the poop deck, past the wheel, and knocked on the door of the captain’s cabin.

  “This is a disaster!” Captain Ziegler wrenched his hat from his head and flung it down on his desk. Gretel was about to begin her complicated work of calming him down, extracting useful information from him, and ensuring that he favorably reviewed his damning opinion of her progress so far, when she was struck dumb by the loveliness of the captain’s quarters. The cabin was as broad as the ship, with a wraparound mullioned window, making it a triple-aspect billet with deep, thickly cushioned window seats. The cot, if such it could be called, was a feather bed set into a cozy structure that would prevent the occupant from tipping out even in the roughest of seas. The soft furnishings were of the highest quality, damask and velvet and silk, and the lamps and candelabra were either gleaming brass or softly shimmering silver. Crystal glasses and decanters sat on the wide central table, and there was an imposing desk to one side, on which were laid charts and maritime navigational devices. It ran through Gretel’s mind that she would give a fair sum, had she been in possession of one, to spend the voyage in such luxuriously appointed accommodation. Much as she would have liked to raise the matter of an upgrade of some sort, any sort, she had to acknowledge to herself that this was not the moment.

  The captain gestured for Gretel to avail herself of one of the fine mahogany chairs at the table while he plucked the stopper from the nearest decanter and poured them both a measure of brandy. He sat heavily opposite her, his face still dark with anger. He leaned forward on the table, his expression one of challenge.

  “Well, fraulein, let’s have it. What is your plan? Your hour has come. Will you be found wanting?”

  It was clear to Gretel that she was in the presence of a man who felt threatened by circumstances and would very likely look for someone to blame for his misfortune. She was determined that that someone would not be her. She took a sip of brandy, and was disappointed to find it decidedly inferior to that she had shared with Frenchie in the kitchen. While she knew a good cook prided himself on his ingredients, the liquor had been unnecessarily good for cooking purposes, and yet here was the captain drinking the same second-rate fare that was served in the bar. Grateful, in any case, for the reviving warmth it offered, as her empty stomach growled in protest, she brought her mind to bear on the matter at hand.

  “In times such as these, Herr Captain, I find it best to return to the facts, and the facts as they present themselves to us thus far are these: two crewmembers disappeared on your previous voyage; mermaids were heard singing and seen sitting on both that voyage and this one; a fine and, I venture to say, dedicated chef has vanished. These occurrences may or may not be connected. Only time will tell.”

  “Time we do not have! Disappearing crew are apt to disturb their fellow sailors and paying passengers all the same. I cannot run my venture without the first, and there will be no point in my doing so without the second.”

  “Time, and diligent investigation. The former we must all bend to; the latter I am here to provide, and rest assured, captain, I will find the truth. I always do.”

  “Always, aye, maybe, but how many more souls must be lost before that truth is found?”

  “Hopefully none.”

  “A sailor does not stay afloat long on hope.”

  “Nor does a detective solve a case solely upon it, but that does not mean we should not hold it to us as we work. For work we must. It is action that will save the situation now.”

  “What would you have me do?” he asked, spreading his arms wide in a gesture that suggested both desperation and a willingness to do whatever must be done.

  “The immediate problem—that of having no cook—has been surmounted by the installation of my brother, Hans, in the galley.”

  “Aye, it is good of him to take on the task.”

  “Believe me when I tell you he is more than happy to do so,” she said, recalling how swiftly he had moved when Birgit advanced upon him. “Though that is not to say he would not appreciate having his talents recognized. A cabin of his own, perhaps . . . ?” She let the idea hang. “Next, we must conduct a thorough search of the ship. I am sure your men have already been told to look for their fellow crewmember, but they must look again, and this time they must look for the slightest clue, the slightest trace, a kerchief, a knife, signs of a scuffle . . . whatever there may be.”

  “I shall put my best men on it.”

  “Excellent. I myself will question those who worked with Frenchie, as well as those who were on deck last night.”

  “That will be the greater part of the crew,” Captain Ziegler warned her. “With such a sea up, most hands were on deck.”

  “Then most hands will be closely quizzed.” She drained her glass and stood up once more.

  “And what of me, Fraulein Gretel?” the captain demanded. “I cannot stand by while my crew is decimated and my business threatened with failure. What task shall I set myself to in order to save both?”

  “Your work is of crucial importance,” she told him. “You must set about diverting the passengers from this unsavory event. Hans will feed them; Mother Nature has blessed us with clear skies and calm seas today. You must see to it that their minds are occupied with happier thoughts than those that arise from dwelling on a possible murder, or kidnap, or being spirited away by mythical creatures from the deep. I recommend music. Dancing. Simple pleasures that soothe body, mind, and soul.”

  “Yes!” The captain sprang to his feet, a roguish smile transforming his countenance. “You have it right, fraulein. I will send a messenger gull at once. We are within reach of the port of Busum. I will summon musicians.”

  “Splendid! I recommend you move among your men and passengers now. Let them see you are unworried, that everything is in hand, and tell them of the wonderful entertainment that awaits them this evening. If there are any murmurings regarding poor taste, respect for the unfortunate cook, and so on, quell them with stories of Frenchie’s good humor. Tell them how it would have pained him to see them so glum on his account. In short, Captain Ziegler, employ your not inconsiderable charm,” she told him, noticing anew the singular manner in which his teeth crossed, giving his grin a mischievous allure. Again this stirred in her some long-forgotten memory, though it still would not reveal itself.

  The Arabella became a place of intense activity. Crewmembers scoured the ship for any sign of their absent cook. The captain went about lavishing attention and charisma upon his passengers, promising them delights and entertainment, calm
ing their fears, and generally playing down the matter of the missing man, even going so far as to suggest he might have jumped ship for the sake of a sweetheart in a nearby port. He worked his talent for leadership upon his men, too, pausing to pat a back or give a nod of encouragement in a convincing manner wherever he could. Soon the mood on board was quite altered.

  Hans outdid himself. The minute he tied the apron strings around his ample form, he was a changed man, no longer lachrymose and woeful, but focused and determined. Frenchie was now someone he had to live up to and whose memory he must serve well. That Woman was not allowed entry to the galley, so that he was able to put her from his mind altogether while he worked. And work he did, falling with glee upon the well-stocked larder, issuing orders to the galley boy to chop this and slice that while he himself mixed and blended and seared and tossed, for all the world as if he were back in his own beloved kitchen in Gesternstadt.

  Gretel set about questioning the crew. She was relieved to be able to cast off the disguise of a vacationing passenger and reveal her true identity and purpose. It felt right to be frankly and openly putting questions to people, taking notes, circling salient points, underlining anomalies, and generally considering possibilities and theories. She was in her element, and confident that the case would now progress swiftly. She would have preferred to go about her investigations without the assistance of the perpetually damp and malodorous mer-hund, but as it was not allowed in the galley and howled noisily if left for any time in the cabin, she was forced to keep it with her. After two hours of diligence, only one person remained to be quizzed. She found the quartermaster at the wheel, his cold eyes fixed on the distant horizon as he kept the ship on her course. The mer-hund, ever Gretel’s shadow, padded around the poop deck behind them.