The Case of the Fickle Mermaid

by P. J. Brackston

  “Herr Hoffman, I trust my questions will not prove a dangerous distraction,” she said, coming to stand beside him.

  Hoffman kept tight hold of the worn wooden handles, minutely adjusting the wheel this way and that as required. He did not look at Gretel as he spoke. “I’ve been all my life at sea, fraulein. Taken on as a cabin boy when I had seen but eight summers, and the greater part of my years since have seen me aboard rather than on land. I’ve held the position of quartermaster these five years since. I am not to be distracted by a woman’s chatter,” he told her.

  “Quite,” said Gretel, refusing to rise to the bait.

  “Ask what you will. I have nothing to hide.”

  “I sincerely hope that is the case,” she replied, “but if it were not, I doubt any amount of interrogation on my part could unearth a secret you wished to keep.”

  This unexpected tack caused him at least to glance at her. He looked for a moment as if he might make a comment, but instead kept his mouth shut in a firm, hard line. Gretel pressed on.

  “I noticed last night, when I was taking a little air . . .”

  “You were ill advised to be out of your cabin and on deck in such weather, fraulein. There were waves of sufficient strength and size to sweep even you over the side.”

  Gretel chose to ignore the small but ungallant “even” in his remark. It would not do to lose her composure with such a man. “. . . I noticed that, while you had command of the ship, the captain was nowhere to be seen. Even when the storm was at its height. It is clear he trusts you utterly with his ship and his crew.”

  “Would be little point in having a quartermaster if that were not the case. A man does not keep a dog and bark himself.”

  Gretel could not help pausing to look at the mer-hund. She decided it was her turn to be provoking. “Surely, Herr Hoffman, you do not consider yourself your master’s pet?”

  There was an instant of silence, save for the brittle, scratchy sound of offense being taken, yet still Hoffman would not let his stony façade crumble. “It is as you said: the captain trusts me to do my job. And I do it. That is the beginning and end of our relationship.”

  “Indeed. And while you were doing your job so splendidly, you found it necessary at one point to give the wheel to a person of lower rank, so that you might attend to one of the lifeboats.”

  “What of it?”

  “Forgive me, Herr Hoffman, I am a woman come late to the sailing party, but it seems to me more important that the man in charge should be steering the ship, rather than fiddling with rope and such like.”

  “The lifeboats must be secured. For the safety of crew and passengers.”

  “Quite so, but I understand that the maintenance of ship’s equipment—rigging, sails, and the like—falls under the tender auspices of the boatswain. Is that not the case?”

  “Ordinarily, it is. But Bo’sun Brandt was not at hand. There was much to be done, and scarce enough crew to do it. I saw that the lifeboat required lashing and chose to see to it myself, rather than have Brandt fetched,” he explained, with impressive plausibility.

  “I see,” said Gretel. “Thank you so much for clearing the matter up for me.”

  “Have I then?”

  “Oh, indeed you have,” she told him. “I will trouble you no further.” So saying, she took herself off, narrowly avoiding an undignified descent of the stairs as the mer-hund bounded past her. Hoffman had unwittingly given himself away. Gretel knew that, had she confronted him directly regarding his conversation with Brandt near the lifeboat during the storm, he would have invented some harmless explanation. By allowing him to choose to lie about Brandt’s having been there with him, he had revealed this as something he wished to hide, and therefore as something significant. Quite what it signified she did not yet know, but she resolved to find out as quickly as she was able.

  The calm sea allowed the summoned musicians from Busum to meet the Arabella at the given rendezvous point without difficulty. The promise of evening entertainment had done precisely what Gretel had assured Captain Ziegler it would do; the passengers could think of nothing else. They had enjoyed Frenchie’s cuisine; they had, briefly, lamented his loss, but their fickle hearts had happily moved on to more joyful pursuits. Men and women alike disappeared to their cabins to ready themselves for a few hours of fun and frivolity. Hans, of course, refused to leave his post, and so continued his work in the galley, promising a late feast for all the dance-goers. Gretel found herself caught up in the moment, not least because it would mean an opportunity, at long last, to wear her divine wig. Everard was fearfully busy with preparations for the evening, but still managed to slip away for ten minutes to assist Gretel.

  “Fraulein, you look magnificent!” he declared, stepping back as best the confines of her quarters would allow, which necessitated him all but standing on Hans’s hound. He had brushed and tamed her salt water–tangled hair until it was sufficiently malleable once again to force beneath a fine net. This allowed him to fit the wig in place and secure it with pins. It was undeniably a superb creation. As Gretel regarded her reflection in the looking glass, she congratulated herself on money well spent. A wig was not something to scrimp on. It was a statement of grandeur, a declaration of the wearer’s love of style, and fashion, and all things elegant and refined. Everard had skillfully dressed the wig, teasing the piles of curls and twists of snowy white into perfect shape and condition. The tiny silver beads and bells that threaded through the creation sparkled attractively in the low light of the ship’s lamp. He leaned forward and dabbed on a little more powder for the finishing touch.

  “Exquisite!” He smiled.

  Gretel smiled back. There was nothing like a bit of dressing up and showing off to give one a boost. It had been a long, hard day, which came on the heels of an uncomfortable, sleepless night. The drama of Frenchie’s disappearance, and the hours of work that followed, had left her drained. Now she felt restored. Rejuvenated. She knew she looked particularly fine, and now she would drift about the dining hall—transformed for the evening into a mini ballroom—enjoying the admiring glances of the other passengers. She might even dance. True, this would not be as spectacular as a ball at the Summer Schloss, or a grand occasion on board the mighty Fair Fortune, and she would not have the opportunity to be waltzed or polka’d by Uber General Ferdinand von Ferdinand, but still . . . she was wearing her wig, and she intended to enjoy every minute of it. She thanked Everard, insisting he accept a generous tip before he hurried back to take up his position as steward once more. It was early, however, and she did not want to lessen the impact of her entrance by being among the first to arrive. A short turn about deck would be just the thing, she decided. Hans had sent down a juicy bone for the mer-hund, which Gretel now gave him so that she could leave without his kicking up a rumpus at being shut in without company. The last thing she needed was a pungent, hairy chaperone to color her enjoyment of the occasion.

  Up top, the air was fresh but warm, the sky a slowly deepening blue, the sea flat as a silk bedsheet. Gretel leaned on the rail, enjoying the way the lightest of westerly breezes refreshed and soothed her at one and the same time. She knew she cut a striking figure. From the corner of her eye she was aware of the honeymooning couple turning to look at her. Birgit and her cohort craned their necks for a better view. Even Dr. Becker lowered his ever-present field glasses in order to take in her glamorous appearance.

  Which, for the briefest of moments, was all so very harmlessly pleasant and lovely. Why was it, Gretel asked herself later, that such joy could only ever be fleeting? Why was it that such gentle pleasures that might, admittedly, be defenseless against accusations of pride, but which were otherwise simple delights that caused no one any distress, had to be paid for in such currencies as shame and humiliation? Would it have been too much to hope for that the soft zephyr that barely rippled the sails could stay as such, and not suddenly develop a stiff gust? It seemed that it would. For such a gust did indeed develop, whipped up
from who knew where, to hit Gretel with its full force. She teetered against the rail, but was never in any danger of tipping over it. What was unable to withstand the brisk blowing, however, was her beloved wig. Or rather, the pins that secured it. The wind whisked the towering confection from her head, suspended it for the shortest of moments in the air above, and then swept it out to sea, where it landed with a poignant splash before descending to the depths.

  From atop the rigging there came a shout.

  “Wig overboard!”

  Without a word, Gretel turned on her heel, hitched up her skirts, held her hair-netted head high, and returned to her cabin and the uncritical gaze of the mer-hund.

  EIGHT

  Two days after Frenchie’s as-yet-unexplained disappearance saw warmer weather still, and an excursion was arranged to one of the tiny nearby islands so that the cruise-goers might indulge in some sea-bathing. The Schmidts cornered Gretel at breakfast and spent two courses extolling the benefits of saltwater swimming, listing among them glowing skin, increased vigor, healing of old wounds and scars, and a boosted appetite. Gretel assured them that her appetite needed no boosting, and that in her experience sea air could prove the ruination of a good complexion. However, she was pleased to share that she would in fact be taking advantage of the excursion, as she had never visited such a place before, might not be given the chance to do so again, and firmly believed in experiencing what life had to offer when such occasions presented themselves. The loving couple was not really interested in her reply, for they were still immersed in their love for each other, and indeed their love of that love. Long before Gretel had come to the end of her response, Herr and Frau Schmidt had turned their attention from her and back to themselves.

  The truth was, Gretel had other reasons for booking her seat on the tender that was to take them to Amrum. Whatever the magical properties of seawater, she felt she had already seen, swallowed, and been doused in more than enough of the stuff. As for the notion of lowering herself, clad in a ridiculous bathing costume, into the briny surf for the purpose of floating about like so much flotsam, nothing could appeal to her less. However, Herr Hoffman was to accompany the passengers on the trip. She had overheard him insisting to Captain Ziegler that he should be in charge of the outing, remaining with the party throughout the day to ensure their safety. The captain had been happy to let him do so, clearly not relishing the prospect of having to play host himself. But why, Gretel wondered, was the quartermaster so keen to put himself forward for the duty? He was the least sociable man on board, and she could not, however hard she tried, picture him frolicking in the waves. There was something behind his action, some hidden motive, and if she was to stand any chance of discovering what it was, she must go to the wretched island herself. Fortunately, she had acquired a bathing suit for the cruise. She shuddered briefly at the memory of how she had looked wearing the thing in the privacy of her own bedroom. The thought of stepping out in public wearing nothing but the unflattering stripy horror was a depressing one. She clung tight—as a drowning woman to a barrel—to the fact that the island boasted bathing machines. She had been assured that one of these would provide total privacy for her sea-bathing.

  The journey from the Arabella was pleasant enough. The ship’s tender was both comfortable and seaworthy, and there was room aplenty for the brave band of passengers who had signed up for the excursion. There were the Schmidts, naturally; Birgit and her phalanx, no doubt lured by the promise of a miracle beauty treatment; and Dr. Becker, who told any who cared to listen and some who didn’t of all the rare bird species he hoped to have sight of on Amrum. Aside from these, two elderly couples from Hamburg, a dry stick of a spinster and her matching sister, Gretel, two oarsmen, and Hoffman made up the party. Hans could now not be shifted from his kitchen, and would anyway never have put himself in such proximity to That Woman. He had assured Gretel that he would use the time to walk the mer-hund around decks so that he and it both might exercise.

  The waters surrounding the chosen isle were shallow, so that the Arabella had been forced to anchor at some distance. When first Gretel had had Amrum pointed out to her, she had assumed that it was this distance that made it look so small. She was disappointed, then, to discover that it looked scarcely any larger when they were upon it. Hoffman and the seamen jumped out and hauled the boat onto the shore, wading through the water to do so. Everyone on board became quite childishly excited as they were required to disembark into the shallows themselves. Everyone except Gretel. Boots and shoes were removed first, and there was a deal of silly squealing and exclaiming as people splashed their way onto the beach. The temperature of the water came as a nasty shock. Given that it was summer, and the morning was already hot, it came as an unpleasant surprise to find that the sea itself evidently thought it was still winter. A chill shot through Gretel’s feet, traveled up her entire body, finishing with a jarring pain in her teeth. By the time she came to stand on what passed for terra firma, she had lost all sensation in her toes. The sand, in contrast, had kept up with the changing seasons and was fearfully hot. A fact that revealed itself to Gretel as feeling returned to her lower extremities, causing her to hop from one foot to the other as if she were practicing some undignified rustic dance.

  “Good grief!” she snapped. “Is one expected to enjoy such torture? Whatever next?”

  “Oh, Gretel,” giggled Birgit, “don’t be a such a killjoy. We are here to have fun, are we not?”

  “Fun? Joy?” Gretel did not trust herself to respond further. Looking about her, she surmised that Amrum offered an abundance of nothing. The beach stretched away in both directions, an uninterrupted expanse of nothingness. A little farther inland there were pale dunes, from which sprouted sparse, wiry grass, lonesome as the last hairs on the head of a balding man. There was not a bush, nor tree, nor building of any sort to give shade or shelter. To Gretel the place presented a perfect picture of desolation, so barren and bare it made her pine afresh for her own house and even the tweeness of Gesternstadt. At least her hometown was inhabited. Amrum was wilderness, which Gretel held meant a lack of anything one might actually wish for. Such as comfortable seating. Or a decent meal. Or something admirable by way of architecture, perhaps. Or society, indeed. What could the poor folk of Amrum do by way of cultural stimulation and refined living, she wondered.

  “Is this place actually inhabited?” she asked of Herr Hoffman.

  “There is a village further inland,” he said, indicating somewhere beyond the dunes.

  Dr. Becker smiled at her. “Fraulein, the beauty of this island is precisely the absence of man’s heavy-handed presence. Here nature still rules. It is a paradise for seabirds.”

  “Indeed.”

  “Look!” he cried excitedly, pointed into the middle distance, his voice hoarse with emotion. “A lesser crested greater spotted egret, if I am not mistaken. Wonderful! And another. Must be a breeding pair.” He had no need of his glasses now, only his hand to shield his eyes from the increasingly strong sun. Without waiting for anyone to comment on his find, he hurried off toward the dunes.

  The quartermaster grunted. “It seems saltwater swimming holds no interest for the good doctor. This way, if you please,” he called to the little group. “Allow me to show you to your bathing machine,” he said, his tone uncharacteristically solicitous.

  Gretel let him lead the way along the scorching sands. The others followed, laughing at the lopsided gait the shifting surface beneath their feet forced them into. The honeymooners took off their shoes, squealing at the heat of the sand. Birgit and her comrades followed suit. They blundered on for what felt like an age before the beach curved a little to the left, and behind some large dunes they found a row of curious, brightly painted wooden huts on wheels. Each had a pair of shafts, and a stout horse and its equally stout owner stood waiting to tow the devices out into the sea. Hoffman addressed the man with a string of curious-sounding words Gretel took to be Danish. The incomprehensible exchange seemed to resul
t in terms being struck. Hoffman turned to the party.

  “Ladies, gentlemen, please choose your bathing machine. You enter by the steps and door at the back. Inside you may change into your costumes, leaving your clothes on the shelf provided. When you are ready, sing out; the ostler will hitch up his horse and tow the carriage into the sea, turning so that you may exit down the steps and into the water for bathing.”

  Those present meekly did as they were bid. The steps were quite steep, and the doorway narrow, so that Gretel entered only with some effort and struggle. Inside was clean, but the space restrictive, so that by the time she had divested herself of her clothing and wriggled into her bathing attire she was unpleasantly hot and damp with perspiration. Gazing down at her body, she thought that she had never worn such an unflattering garment. The clingy nature of the fabric held every voluptuous mound and curve in a tight embrace, while the broad horizontal stripes she had been assured were de rigueur for such a thing had an unhelpful broadening effect. Comforting herself with the knowledge that no one else would be able to view her, as the bathing machine afforded her total privacy, she hollered for the horse to be brought. The animal’s handler kept up a stream of unfathomable chatter as he backed the horse into the shafts, attached the straps and chains, and then led it forward. The deep, dry sand caused the contraption to lurch and sway alarmingly, but the pace was slow and steady, and they reached the sea without mishap. Gretel held on tight as the little house was turned and then backed into the surf. The final position was with the entrance door and steps in the sea, the rear, with the shafts and a small viewing window, facing back up the beach. The handler detached the horse and wound down two stabilizing feet from the bathing machine into the sand before heading off to move the next one into place. Gretel peered out through the little window. She could see Herr Hoffman seated among the dunes, leaning back on his elbow, relying on his hat for shade, taking out his pipe in the manner of one planning a lengthy stay. He did not look like a person about to do anything suspicious or interesting. The whole point of coming on the excursion had been to watch him, but there was nothing to watch.