The captain shook his head. “I confess, I would like very much to encounter them! I should run the devils through!” he insisted.
“The hour will come to deal with them,” Gretel promised him, “but this is not it.”
“It pains me to be civil to that blackheart Hoffman.”
“You have adhered to our plan?”
“I have. I informed him you and I would be absent from the ship for some hours and that he must take command.”
“He questioned you on the nature of our excursion, no doubt.”
“That he did, though it was a pointless exchange, for I gave him no answers that carried any credence.”
“He is aware of your knowledge of his deeds, I don’t doubt it. But he will know also you lack proof. He has no choice but to let you go. I only hope he will remain aboard.”
The captain was shocked at the suggestion that he might not. “Even a murderer would not abandon command of his ship,” he told her.
“Ah,” Gretel pointed out, “but the Arabella is not his ship, is she?”
They descended to the main deck. A seaman the captain deemed trustworthy assisted Gretel as she climbed into one of the lifeboats. She fought against a creeping sense of deja vu, reminding herself that this time she had none other than the Snaggle-Toothed Pirate himself to sail the vessel and deliver her safely to her destination. What could possibly go wrong?
Their departure was halted by the arrival of Will, running from the fore of the ship, a large gull perched upon his slender arm.
“Begging your pardon, captain,” he panted, “an urgent message. From the Fair Fortune.”
Captain Ziegler paused, one foot on the edge of the boat, and quickly unfurled the note and recounted the gist of its contents to Gretel. “’Tis from Sommer. He says they are still without a first mate, and their sister ship, the Pretty Penny, will not reach them for days yet. It seems some of their passengers are complaining at being holed up in Norstrand harbor.”
“I’ll wager I know which passenger is complaining the loudest,” said Gretel.
“Baroness Schleswig-Holstein wishes to take a berth aboard the Arabella!” There was no missing the excitement in the captain’s voice. “She is desirous of an authentic sailing experience.”
“You are well placed to give her that, captain.”
“Sommer says that she will arrive this morning, with her maid, and her pet general as her personal bodyguard. Ha! This is tremendous news indeed!”
Gretel felt the familiar frisson that the mention of Ferdinand—even disparaging—evoked. It was certainly a pleasant turn of events that he and she were to share the same ship. It added an extra incentive to bring matters to a close with the mermaid as swiftly as possible. In addition, the general might prove a useful sword arm when things with Hoffman and his cronies came to a head, which they surely and imminently must.
Captain Ziegler turned from the lifeboat and strode about the deck. “At last, this is the manner of passenger I have long dreamed of.”
“The baroness? A person more likely to inhabit nightmares than sweet dreams, I would have thought.”
“Ah, but where she treads, others will follow. Do you not see? A titled lady, an aristocrat of some renown. Why, perhaps her regal cousins will hear of her happy time aboard the Arabella and book their passage this very season. Royal patronage, fraulein! That is what awaits us.”
Gretel glanced about her at the lackluster fittings and features, the absence of glamor or luxury, the single sailor next to the boat who, while not actually scurvy as far as she could tell, offered rather too much authenticity with his food-stained shirt and bristly chin. She tried very hard to imagine King Julian, Queen Beatrix, and their fastidious princesses sitting among the tarry ropes and patched deck chairs. It was not an easy image to conjure.
“All that is required of us”—the captain was lit up with enthusiasm—“is that we please the baroness. I ask you, fraulein, how hard can that be?”
Deeming it inadvisable to crush the man’s dreams just as they were about to embark on a difficult mission, Gretel merely smiled gently in reply. “Indeed,” she said, “how hard.”
There followed a delay during which Captain Ziegler hurried off to inform Hoffman of the new passengers. He was to greet them, apologize for the captain’s temporary absence, and settle them into their quarters. The downside of this was that Hans would be ejected from his newly claimed cabin. Gretel was downcast at the prospect of sharing her own small space with him and his hound again, so she suggested he be given a hammock in the kitchen, and a bed be made up for the mer-hund outside the galley door. Braun, the sailor assisting them with launching the lifeboat, was dispatched to inform the sous chef to set these things in motion. Ferdinand would share the captain’s quarters, which seemed a fitting place for a military man. The helpful aspect of this new development was that it would assure them of Hoffman’s whereabouts. His visible presence would be essential now, and had he any intention of stealing away to follow the captain and Gretel, such an action would be nigh impossible while the baroness demanded he dance attendance upon her.
While Gretel sat in the lifeboat, still in its position on board the Arabella, she detected a nearby presence in the shadows.
“Why don’t you step out and show yourself,” she said. “I would very much like to talk with you again.”
For a second or two, nothing, and then the sprite flitted from its hiding place and alighted on a rope a little above and in front of Gretel.
“You look funny,” it told her, “sitting in a boat on a boat.” The creature gave a giggle, treating Gretel to another glimpse of its disturbing teeth.
“I am on the point of departure,” she told it, “but then, you already know that. You know so many things.”
“I listen. I hear people’s planning and scheming.”
“Quite so. You knew Herr Hoffman was involved in smuggling, didn’t you?”
“Oh, that’s been going on quite some time. Poor Captain Ziegler shouldn’t be so trusting. Hoffman is really a very nasty person.”
Gretel was aware that the sprite liked to play games, but time was short. The captain would return soon and her chance to press the little creature for answers would be lost. “I enjoyed your second riddle,” she told it. “I think I worked most of it out. ‘Look close at hand’ and ‘the special drink’—you put that brandy bottle in Frenchie’s hand after he was murdered, didn’t you? A clue for whoever found him.”
“Well, I knew it would be you, eventually. I was a bit cross when they moved him to that other ship, but they bundled him up and didn’t bother taking the bottle away.”
Gretel smiled to herself, eager to have the sprite confirm her suspicions, but choosing her words with care. She knew the little creature’s love of game playing: to state things boldly would only provoke it into being obtuse again.
“Frenchie knew about the smuggling too, didn’t he?” she asked it.
“Yes, but he didn’t do any of it himself. He found out, and made them give him some of the brandy. At least, that was all to begin with.”
“He began blackmailing Hoffman.”
The sprite frowned. “Bo’sun Brandt is not so bad. He loves money, that’s all. He’d sell his own grandmother if he had one. But don’t think he wanted to hurt anyone. Not really. He would have given Frenchie what he wanted.”
“He was working with Hoffman?”
“He didn’t want to kill the poor cook.”
“You saw what happened that night, didn’t you?” Gretel had had a suspicion, but hadn’t been sure. Now she was certain. “You saw who cut Frenchie’s throat.”
“Horrid Hoffman! I wish he’d never come to this ship.”
“Well, this is most unusual, I must say. A witness to a murder who clearly saw what happened, but who can never expose the murderer, because . . .”
“. . . because there is no such thing as a sea sprite,” it said, and Gretel could swear, even in the dim early light, tha
t she could see tears in its almond-shaped eyes. The creature looked suddenly the loneliest of things. What would it be like, to spend one’s existence watching the lives of others but never be involved, never be acknowledged, never so much as be believed in?
“Tell me, “ Gretel asked, “what made you choose to talk to me? I’m very glad that you did, but I don’t know why I was chosen.”
The sea sprite gave a little shrug. “I watched and listened. You see things plainly. Facts. No nonsense. And you’re not afraid, not like half these daft sailors trembling at the sound of a mermaid. I knew you would listen to me.”
“You have been helpful in solving the case.”
“Have I?”
“Oh, yes. Your riddles made me think and gave me clues.”
“But I can’t stand up in front of a judge and tell him what I saw Hoffman do.”
“No, you cannot. But there are one or two other things you could do to help me.”
The sprite dipped its head a little, shyly. “Would it help Captain Ziegler?”
“Yes. Yes, it would.”
“All right, what do you want me to do?”
“Keep an eye on Hoffman and Brandt while we are off the ship. I want to know everything they’ve been up to when I get back.”
“Oh, that’s easy. What else?”
“Well, my brother’s time on this ship would be a good deal happier if you ceased meddling in his love life and stirring Birgit into a delirium over him.”
The sprite laughed. “But they are such fun to tease!”
“More importantly, please tell me, if you know it, and I think you do, the name of the person who is paying the mermaid to sing.”
The sprite laughed at this. “Haven’t you guessed yet, silly? I’ll give you another riddle, shall I?”
“If that’s all that is on offer.”
The sprite thought for a moment and then recited in a little singsong voice, “Look sharp for the sharp-eyed man. Look again for the sharp flaw in another’s plan.”
“Is that it? Wait, come back!”
But at the sound of approaching footsteps, the small purple being skipped away and was instantly lost among the rigging above.
“Right!” said the captain as he stepped into the boat. “All is arranged. Hoffman is ensnared by the very position he covets. He will act as master of this ship while I am away from it; he cannot do otherwise. And while I am absent, I will see an end to this mermaid business and finish his smuggling enterprise at one and the same time. Upon my return, I will then find a way to see he is exposed for the murderous rogue he truly is. Will we have our proof, fraulein? What say you?”
“I say that we will, captain. One way or another, we will.”
“Then lower us away, Sailor Braun! Lower away and let us be on course at once!”
SEVENTEEN
It was impossible for Gretel not to compare her earlier voyage in a lifeboat with the one she was now embarked upon. Her memory of those hours of hardship and danger were still fresh and vivid in her mind, not least of all Hans’s suggestion that they might have to start eating each other to survive. This time, she felt only a building excitement as Braun and the captain rowed skillfully away from the Arabella and toward the mermaid’s home. Captain Ziegler had ascertained the location of the island from locals at the inn on Hellig Hoog the previous night. He assured Gretel it was no distance at all. She remembered saying those very words to Hans, and felt a pang of guilt at having put him through such a testing and risky experience. Still, she reasoned, such happenings strengthened character, and would surely make him all the more appreciative of the comforts of home when they returned there.
The day was warm but not unpleasantly so, and in any case, Gretel had equipped herself with a parasol to keep the strongest rays of the sun off her face. She could not help but be aware that she presented an alluring picture, seated in the little boat wearing her fresh clothes, her hair wrestled into submission by Everard. She found herself peeping through her lorgnettes from beneath the broiderie anglaise parasol in a way that Birgit would have approved of, and quickly stopped doing it. There was a time and a place for such coquettish nonsense, and this was neither. Besides, charismatic as the captain was, he was not Ferdinand. The thought that the Uber General was even now making his way to the Arabella made her feel happy. It was typical of the way things were that she should, at that very same moment, be heading in the opposite direction, but no matter. By the day’s end they would be on the ship together, which was an added incentive to getting the task at hand done and dusted as swiftly and effortlessly as possible.
Much to her surprise, it took less than an hour to reach the rocky shore of the island. It was galling to realize how long she and Hans had drifted and struggled in all directions, suffering heinously uncomfortable nights and days, when they were such a short distance from their intended destination. Sailor Braun jumped into the sea spume and pulled the boat into the shallows. Captain Ziegler gallantly offered to carry Gretel to dry sand, but she declined, citing such a thing not being fitting for a detective, a professional woman, blurring the lines of the client/detective relationship, and so on. In truth, she would rather not risk possible embarrassment and humiliation should her not insubstantial weight prove too much for the captain to stagger beneath. A vision of them both collapsing in an undignified muddle of flailing limbs in the water made her wince. Better to get wet feet.
“Braun,” Captain Ziegler instructed his man, “stay here. Pull the boat up into the dunes and cover it as best you can. Keep yourself hidden but with a view of the water, so that you are able to observe anyone landing on this shoreline. Now, fraulein, lead on to the mermaid’s lair, if you please.”
The path was rocky but the going considerably easier on this occasion, coming as it did after some sleep and food, and being tackled with the most sensible shoes Gretel had packed. The sun flashed brightly off the sea. Gulls of many kinds swooped and cried overhead. The surf lapped the sand or splashed upon the rocks in a most appealing manner. Were Gretel the sort of person who found nature endlessly enthralling, as many were and did, she might have been distracted by all this oceanic charm. But she was not. While she could appreciate a pretty seascape and scarlet sunset with the best of them, she was at heart an urban woman. She had already had her fill of sea air and sand between her toes, and was now entirely focused on the task given her, so that she might return to more civilized pleasures as soon as possible.
When they reached the mermaid’s cave, they found it empty. If Captain Ziegler was impressed that Gretel was able to take him directly to the place, he did not say as much. The empty cave, however charmingly decorated and furnished, however dazzling the crystal within, lacked a mermaid. And it was the mermaid the captain was interested in.
“I’m sure she will appear presently,” Gretel said, with more confidence than she felt. What if the creature had gone off on some long swim somewhere or other? Or to visit another mermaid on a far-distant shore? Might she not return until dark? Or at all? She sought to quell her own doubts as much as those of the captain when she said, “We have simply to make ourselves comfortable and settle to waiting. When she returns, it will be through this rather attractive pool.” She indicated the circle of water set among the sparkling rocks and pearly shells. Captain Ziegler strode over to stand next to her, and for a moment they both stood and stared into the gently undulating blue-grayness.
It was while they were occupied thus that their assailants crept up behind them. Later, when Gretel had time to think about it, she would deduce that the fellows must have been hiding in the shadowy recesses of the cave, awaiting their moment to pounce. And pounce they did. The first Gretel knew of their presence was a speedy scuffle of footsteps, and then rough hessian against her face as a large sack was forced over her head. Judging by the muffled oaths uttered to her left, Captain Ziegler had also been caught entirely off guard and was being similarly ensnared. Gretel shouted out, more from alarm than anger. The sack was suff
iciently capacious to come down to her middle, and as soon as it was in place her attackers wound rough rope around it, tying her arms to her sides and rendering her bagged, trussed, and helpless as a farmyard fowl on its way to market.
“Take your hands off me!” she insisted, as she was manhandled, stumbling, across the uneven floor. But the villain gave no reply. She could hear the captain raging and bellowing, the sacking masking his exact words, but sentiments nonetheless clear. The pair of them were marched a short distance and then shoved into a nook farther inside the cave, on a slope. She could hear waves entering the cave via another pool—this one was not peaceful and low, but obviously affected by the tides. She was forced to sit, whereupon her feet were also bound. Once sitting, the sack over Gretel’s head moved slightly, so that, as chance would have it, her left eye came level to a small patch worn threadbare. There was just enough light to enable her to see through. The first thing she saw was Pustule’s heavenly visage. The sight of it so close up made her gasp, but she quickly recovered herself. They were in a tight enough spot without her letting her captors know that she had discovered their identity. Her mind raced. The smugglers had evidently been expecting them. But how? Had the mermaid told them? Had Hoffman guessed their plans and sent a gull? It really mattered not. What did matter was what the ruffians planned to do next, and how she might stop them doing it. Particularly if they planned on doing it to her. At that precise moment, she was being secured to a rock by yet more rope, as was the captain.
She squinted through her prickly window. She could make out Mold and Cat’s Tongue as they stooped to fasten the captain’s feet. Mold took his sword and pistol from him, deaf to his victim’s vehement protestations. Cat’s Tongue felt the need to cut a piece of rope in two, and so removed the dagger from its sheath. Gretel gave a small shout, which fortunately the men took no notice of, well able as they were to ignore cries of distress. What had caused her to exclaim, however, was not fear or despair, but amazement, for she saw that Cat’s Tongue did not have a dagger at all. What he did have was a large, bone-handled knife with a silver end to it, and a curiously curved blade. Frenchie’s knife. It could be no other. The very murder weapon itself, and now a link between the smugglers and the cook’s death. The puzzle was, how had it come into Cat’s Tongue’s possession? He had not been on the Arabella the night Frenchie met his end, if ever. Gretel’s thoughts scampered this way and that, exploring promising avenues that quickly revealed themselves to be cul de sacs. Surely Hoffman would have thrown the thing overboard; it would have been the wisest and safest thing to do. But here was the knife. The sprite said that Bo’sun Brandt had been present at the killing. Had he been charged with disposing of the weapon, perhaps, but seen value in the thing, as was his nature, and gone against his master’s wishes? He might have sold it to his fellow smuggler. It seemed the most likely explanation. Gretel cared not for the detail, but knew, as certainly as she knew her own shoe size, that she must obtain that knife. Here at last was the proof she needed to condemn Hoffman.
The Case of the Fickle Mermaid Page 19