“I’m not frightened of anything,” it told her, jutting out its velvety chin.
“Indeed. And during that night, did you happen to witness anything . . . unusual?”
The sprite did not reply at once, but seemed to be considering how much, if anything, to reveal about what it had seen. When it finally did speak, it was, much to Gretel’s annoyance, to deliver another puzzle.
“To understand, look close at the hand, and remember that special drink: the answer is clear, though it’s not kept near, and it’s never the person you think,” it sang, before flitting away into the darkness.
“Quite. Thank you so much. Exceptionally illuminating. Inordinately helpful of you,” Gretel muttered as she made her weary way belowdecks. By the time she reached her trunks in what she now accepted was their permanent lodging in the passageway, her temper was frayed at the edges, her patience threadbare thin, and her good humor worn right through. As there was unlikely to be anyone else stirring at such an hour, she removed her ball gown and birdcage where she stood, taking advantage of the fractionally larger space, before entering her cabin wearing only her petticoats, shift, and corset. Hans lay on the floor in his chef’s garb, still clutching a wooden spoon, the fumes of his snore-borne breath suggesting that the news of Frenchie’s body being found as it had been had driven him to even more drink than usual. Gretel was horrified to see the mer-hund stretched out upon her own bunk.
“Well, really!” she huffed. The hound stirred at the sound of her voice, grinned sheepishly, wagged its tail, rolled over, and went back to sleep. Gretel knew there was no way she could make the climb to the top bunk. She sat heavily on the wooden stool and plucked off her shoes. As she sat rubbing her aching feet, she repeated the sprite’s rhyme to herself just to make sure she would remember it. There seemed little sense to it, and it was galling to think the creature might be holding back some useful information. The plain truth of the matter was, Gretel had made no discernible progress with her investigation. The Arabella was losing crew; the captain was losing his reputation and in danger of losing his business, and would soon lose tolerance for paying a detective who failed to detect anything worthwhile. Hoffman was still at the center of things; Gretel’s mind had not changed about that. That Sommer was also involved now seemed less likely. That the mermaid was in some way linked to what was going on seemed one of the few sure things remaining.
“In which case,” Gretel said to herself, “cherchez la femme.” She got to her feet again and clambered over her brother. She fetched a simple day dress from her trunk outside the door and wriggled into it, wrapping a shawl around her shoulders.
“Hans,” she called to him, then again, louder, adding a gentle nudge with her foot. “Hans! Wake up!”
“What? What’s that? Who’s there? Dash it all, Gretel, I don’t need kicking like a lowly mutt.”
“I can’t kick him, he’s up on my bunk. Anyway, it wasn’t a kick, just a bit of gentle encouragement.”
“Says you. Felt like a kick from down here,” he told her, puffing as he twisted and heaved himself into a sitting position. “It’s still dark. The middle of the night. What on earth is it that can’t wait until a sensible hour?”
“Aside from the fact that your stinking mer-hund is in my bed, d’you mean? Never mind that now. Get up and come with me.”
“Where are we going?”
“To the kitchen. We need provisions.”
“We do? Why?” he asked, his knee joints cracking in protest as he stood up.
“Drink—ale would be best, I think. And bread, cheese, some cold meat. Bring a knife. And matches of some sort. A lantern, too, of course.”
“Of course. What for?”
“Stop asking questions and come along. Not you!” she barked at the mer-hund as it tried to follow.
“No need to snap at the poor thing,” said Hans. “He doesn’t want to be left behind.”
“He can’t come.”
Hans frowned petulantly. “Right, that’s it. I am not moving from this spot until you tell me where we are going, why we are going there, and what’s wrong with his coming with us.”
Gretel sighed. “Very well. I have work to do and I require your help to do it.”
“You do?”
“I do. You are going to have the thrilling opportunity to play captain in charge of your very own vessel.”
“I am?”
“You are. We are going to find that dratted mermaid ourselves, right now.”
“We are? Well, in that case, we’ll need a mer-hund, won’t we?” He waited for her reply, eyebrows raised, hand gesturing unnecessarily at the damp dog on Gretel’s bed. By way of strengthening its own case, the mer-hund yawned elaborately, stretched its front legs, and wagged some more.
Gretel considered the situation. It was doubtful that anyone ever actually needed a mer-hund. What was certain, however, was that if they left the thing behind, it would start barking and howling and kick up sufficient rumpus to wake the whole ship.
“All right, bring him. But he’s your responsibility. It’s up to you to keep him in check. And keep him quiet. And for pity’s sake, keep him from licking me when I least expect it; it is singularly disturbing.” She turned and hurried along the passageway, Hans and his loyal companion following.
“Tell me, sister mine,” Hans asked in a stage whisper, “exactly what sort of vessel shall I be in command of?”
“You’ll see, Hans,” she told him. “You’ll soon see.”
ELEVEN
The lifeboat Gretel had selected for their enterprise was the only one that was not visible to the person at the wheel of the ship. This meant that, if they trod lightly and moved carefully, they should be able to lower it without being seen, so long as she first took care of the sailor on watch. This did not prove difficult. By now it was nearly four o’clock in the morning, so the man was already fighting sleep. Ten minutes of sharing brandy with Hans while listening to him chunder on about the finer points of seven-card whist rendered him helpfully unconscious.
“Right,” Hans whispered as he caught up to her beside the lifeboat, “he’s down for the count. What now?”
“Put the food and drink in the boat. Good grief, we’re only going to be a few hours—you’ve brought half the contents of the kitchen.”
“I was instructed to provide us with provisions, and that’s what I’ve done. See here—a little ham, French loaf . . . Frenchie used to make them better, but I’m improving. Poor Frenchie.” For a moment Hans’s face contorted and tears threatened, but he brought himself back from the brink by focusing on the food. “Not a bad batch, if I say so myself. And ale, and some cheese. Couldn’t decide . . . Emmental or Brie? I’m not a great fan of either, truth be told, but, ha, any port in a storm, eh? Not that I brought any port. Though I could nip back and get some . . .”
“Hans, please, stop talking.” She took the bundles and baskets from him and loaded them into the boat. “Now, you take this rope, I’ll take the other one. We have to let it down so it swings over the side, then we can get in. After that, we lower while we are seated. Come on.”
The maneuver went surprisingly smoothly. The winches on the boat allowed them to position it without mishap. Getting from the ship to the boat while it dangled was a more challenging task, however, particularly when attempting to perform it sotto voce. There was a fair number of muttered curses as first Hans, then Gretel, then the mer-hund made the nerve-testing step over the side with the lifeboat swinging unhelpfully. Once in, they continued to lower away, slowly letting out the rope. At one point, Hans became distracted by the mer-hund’s excited wagging and got behind the movement so that soon they were at an alarming angle. A great deal of hissing and urgent gestures on Gretel’s part rescued the situation, and within minutes they were safely upon the water. The moon was full and the stars still bright, with the promise of daybreak imminent upon the horizon, so that there was sufficient light for them to be able to see what they were about. Releasing the ropes, they pick
ed up the oars, rowing inexpertly but surprisingly effectively in puffing silence until they were at a distance from the ship, and to its stern, which Gretel deemed out of sight and hearing.
Hans beamed. “That went rather well, I think. We are launched! Though I have to say, I had hoped for something a little more ‘ship’ than ‘boat.’”
“This is perfectly adequate for our needs,” Gretel told him.
“And what are they exactly? How does one set about a mermaid hunt?”
“While in the captain’s cabin I examined the charts,” she said, slightly overstating the case, but keen to imbue him with confidence in their expedition. “I identified two small isles, both within striking distance of the Arabella, and both possible locations for the singing mermaid that was heard last evening. According to the charts, the islands lie due west,” she explained, pointing in that general direction. “All we must do is pull directly away from the rising sun, holding our course straight and true.”
“Sounds simple enough. How far are these islands?”
“Oh, no distance at all,” Gretel replied, thinking of the thumbnail space on the map between the ship and their intended destination. “With steady effort I calculate we should make landfall by late afternoon.”
“Gives us time for a few snacks, then,” said Hans, eyeing the provisions.
“We must put a number of miles betwixt ourselves and the Arabella first. I don’t want anyone on board knowing what it is we are about. I wish to locate the mermaid unannounced.”
“So you really believe there is one? Only you seemed somewhat skeptical when we began our cruise.”
“It is my job to be skeptical. She may be real, she may be fake; either way, she is implicated in the various disappearances and I intend to question her and obtain answers. The time for bold action has come. Now I suggest you save your breath for rowing.”
Together they turned the boat about so that they were pointing as west as they could be, the sun their only compass. The vessel was small compared to its mother ship, but felt dauntingly hefty when being powered only by two Bavarians, neither of whom had any boating experience to speak of. The mer-hund stood in the prow, like some ill-fashioned figurehead, gazing intently out at the open sea ahead. After a short while, the rowers found a modicum of rhythm and the lifeboat cut through the calm sea in a pleasing way. Within an hour, the Arabella was a toy ship in the distance, which was a good thing. What was less good, Gretel decided, were the blisters that were already blooming on her hands, the aching of her lower back, and the clamminess of the shift beneath her dress. When Hans suggested a pause for refueling, she did not argue. She quickly scanned the far horizons with her lorgnettes to satisfy herself they could still not be seen by any passing ships and then instructed Hans to break out the supplies. They let the boat drift and bob gently as they tucked into bread, ham, and ale. The sun was lifting above the sea now, casting a dove-gray light upon the water and a helpful illumination all around them.
Hans waved his baguette in the direction of the ship. “Soon be serving breakfast on board.” He shook his head slowly. “I can only imagine the muddle. Kitchen left in charge of the sous chef and two lads who don’t appear to know a ladle from a lentil.”
“I’m sure they will provide an adequate service in your absence, and the passengers will be all the more appreciative of your efforts upon our return.”
“Poor old Frenchie.” Hans paused in his chewing for a few seconds. “Still can’t get over him being found like that. Such a horrible death. So brutal. Who could have done such a thing?”
“We are indeed dealing with heartless people.”
“A bit worrying to know we are sharing a ship with them.”
“Which is why I have turned to the mermaid for answers. If she . . . it . . . is in cahoots with Hoffman, as I suspect she may be, I must extract a confession from her.”
“Well, she’s hardly likely to just tell you everything you want to know, is she?”
“Most people can be persuaded.”
“Torture, you mean?” Hans’s eyes bulged and he took a swig more ale. “Have to say, sister mine, I don’t like the sound of that. Dash it all, defenseless creature, mythical being, rare as hen’s teeth, an’ all that. Not sure I’m comfortable with you . . . how do you torture a mermaid, exactly?”
“Do be sensible, Hans. I have no intention of torturing anyone. I simply meant that every man has his price and I don’t see why a mermaid should be any different.”
“Why don’t you just try to buy off Hoffman, then, if you think he’s at the bottom of things?”
“Firstly because I don’t yet know what ‘things’ are. By which I mean, I know he is involved, but if he is not working with Thorsten Sommer to put Captain Ziegler out of business, I have no motive for his actions, as yet. Secondly, because he has already attempted to kill me once, which suggests he would prefer doing away with people who threaten his plans, rather than negotiating with them.”
“But you have no proof?”
“Not of his attempt at murdering me, nor the killing of Frenchie. What would help is some tangible evidence, such as the murder weapon.”
“That would be handy, I can see that. A slice more cheese? Here, let me cut it for you,” he offered, hacking at the lump, tutting as he did so. “Poor quality knife, this. Frenchie would wince to see me use it, but the only decent blade in the galley was his own, and I’ve not seen that since the day he disappeared. There you are, nice bit of Emmental—good choice after all, it seems. Lacks a spoonful of pickled cabbage if you ask me, but, ha, worse things happen at sea, eh?”
Gretel felt a small muscle in her jaw begin to twitch.
“Hans, are you telling me Frenchie’s own knife went missing the night he was murdered?”
“Isn’t that what I just said?”
“You might have mentioned it sooner!”
“Why? He’s hardly likely to have cut his own throat with his own knife, is he?”
“No, but someone else might well have. In which case we know which knife we are looking for.”
“Most likely at the bottom of the ocean by now, one would have thought. Shame, though, splendid cooking implement, curved blade, as I recall, and a rather attractive bone handle with a silver end. Pass the ham, would you?”
Gretel had to admit that for once her brother was probably right. This news was dispiriting. It meant one of the few possible pointers to the identity of the murderer—i.e., their own missing knife, or recently acquired new one—no longer held water. If Frenchie had indeed unwittingly provided the means of his own death, the killer would almost certainly have lobbed it over the side, and there was an end to it. Suddenly their mission to find the mermaid had become even more important, for it seemed no other avenue of investigation was left them. Gretel dusted crumbs off her hands and skirts and packed away what little remained of the food.
“Right, let’s get back to rowing. The sooner we find that island, the happier I shall be. Look, the sun is properly risen now, so it’s as plain as day in which direction we need to steer. Come along, brother dear, let’s see what you’re made of,” she added by way of pep talk. She knew Hans’s habit was to take a postprandial snooze, but now was most definitely not the time.
After a further hour of effort they had lost sight of the Arabella completely, but there was still no sign of any islands. The morning had cooled somewhat and a breeze had got up. Gretel was doing her best to ignore her own discomfort when Hans began to whine that it must surely be lunchtime by now, and that a person could not be expected to work at full strength when in need of sustenance. It was clear their progress was slow and getting slower as they tired. Gretel shipped oars and examined the equipment stored in the boat.
“If I’m not very much mistaken,” she informed Hans, “this is some manner of mast, and these sheets must be sails. Now that there is a light wind, let us see if we cannot harness its power.”
Hans needed no further persuading to stop rowing. In t
he absence of any helpful instructions, the reconfiguration required more than one false start, but eventually the mast was slotted into the brass ring in the center of the boat and secured by bracket and screws. The cat’s cradle of rope proved a trickier puzzle to solve, but solve it they did, fighting with the flapping sails until they were at last tied in place. A celebratory snack would have been most welcome, but there was no chance of such relaxation. The breeze had upgraded itself to a gusty wind, which filled the sail, sending the boat racing across the water.
“For pity’s sake, Hans, steer the thing! We are going the wrong way,” Gretel yelled.
“Steer it with what?” he wanted to know, as the answer, in the form of the swinging boom, hit him squarely in the belly. “Ooof! Dash it all, Gretel, do something.”
“That bit of rope, by your feet, grab hold and pull.”
Hans did his best to comply with his sister’s wishes, but the lurching of the lifeboat, the swinging of the boom, added to the scrabbling mer-hund’s getting in the way, prevented him.
At last Gretel got hold of the vital controls herself, hauling on the rope so that the sails filled again and the boat turned sharply around. Twice.
“Other way!” Hans shouted above the noise of the ever-strengthening wind.
“This is impossible!” Gretel declared. “The wind is too forceful. We are being sent horribly off course. I can’t keep the thing facing the right way.”
As she spoke, the boat tilted and tipped alarmingly, flinging its occupants to one side. For a moment, as they lay like beetles on their backs in the well of the thing, she feared it would capsize and it would be all up for Gretel (yes, that Gretel) of Gesternstadt. She refused to meet such a ridiculous end. Summoning all her strength, she clambered to her knees and then propelled herself at the sail, grabbing and pulling at the thing in a desperate effort to bring it down.
“Undo something, Hans, quickly!”
“Undo what?”
“Anything! Everything! We have to get this sail down before the wretched boat tips over.”
The Case of the Fickle Mermaid Page 12