The Case of the Fickle Mermaid

by P. J. Brackston

  Ferdinand looked genuinely pleased to see her.

  “Fraulein Gretel,” he said, getting quickly to his feet to offer her a low bow. Herr Hoffman could barely summon the manners to lift his posterior from his seat as she approached. “You are returned in good time. Your task went well, I trust?”

  “Well enough,” she replied, ducking a little curtsy as she spoke to his mistress. “Baroness, I do hope you have been made properly welcome aboard the Arabella.” She was about to compose a short but pretty speech singing the praises of the ship and its crew, but a commotion behind her made her pause. Turning, she saw the mer-hund, rope trailing, come charging into the room, weaving its way at breakneck speed between the tables, rubbing its damp fur on diners as it passed. It barreled into Gretel, knocking her to the floor, where it pinned her, the better to wash her face with its rough and smelly tongue.

  “Argh,” she gasped, “get off me, you ridiculous animal.”

  So delighted was the hound at having found her, it took both Ferdinand and Everard to haul him off so that she might get to her feet.

  “Good heavens,” said the baroness, “whatever sort of creature is that?”

  “That, baroness,” Gretel told her, “is a mer-hund.”

  “A mer-hund, you say? Well, what is it doing on this ship? And why is it so obviously enamored of you?”

  A titter ran around the room, the baroness’s idolaters eager to show their adoration. Ordinarily, Gretel would happily have stamped on that impudent laughter and ground it into the rug beneath her oh-so-sensible-and-I-wish-I-was-wearing-something-more-attractive shoes. Ordinarily. On this occasion, however, her pride was of minor importance. She brushed herself down.

  “My brother purchased the mer-hund to assist me in my work, for the breed has been developed over generations to hunt the elusive and mysterious mermaid.”

  “Mermaid?” The baroness was unconvinced. “Pshaw! A thing conjured to entertain children and frighten sailors. None such has ever been found.”

  “But, baroness, surely you cannot have forgotten the song you heard from the deck of the Fair Fortune on the night of the ball?”

  “Merely a trick, a folly designed to divert the guests from the horrible discovery of a dead person. A discovery you made yourself, as I recall.”

  Gretel ignored the gibe, determined to keep the conversation on track. “The reason the mer-hund is so keen to be close to me today is that he can detect the scent of the mermaid with whom I conversed earlier today.”

  “You conversed with one?” The baroness was beginning to enjoy the whimsy.

  “Did you now?” put in Hoffman.

  “I did, on an island not far from here.”

  “And was she as beautiful and deadly as legend would have us believe?” Baroness Schleswig-Holstein wished to know.

  “Every bit. But fear not,” Gretel addressed the room, making a point of taking in any crewmembers present, “she is leaving these waters presently, desirous of making her home somewhere a little warmer. We will not hear her singing again.”

  “Oh.” Now the royal guest was disappointed. “For a moment I was rather intrigued, and think I should like to have seen her for myself.” She gave a sigh. “But no matter.”

  Gretel could see her attention beginning to wander, and so was relieved when the captain entered the dining room, Cat’s Tongue, his hands still tied, dragged in behind him by two burly sailors. At the sight of him, Hoffman came out of his seat as if it were on fire. He quickly recovered his composure, but not without noticing Gretel’s small smile. Captain Ziegler adeptly greeted his honored guest, sweeping his tricorn from his head for a wide, extravagant bow, apologizing for his absence upon her arrival.

  “I had serious business to attend to, my lady,” he told her. “Business that dealt with a threat to my crew.”

  “I understand that a captain’s first responsibility is to his ship,” the baroness assured him. “Indeed, any woman wishing to win the heart of a man of the sea must accept she will always take second place to his vessel. Is that not so, Captain Ziegler?” she asked.

  “That, baroness, would depend entirely upon the caliber of the lady in question,” he told her, straightening up and catching her eye as he treated her to a devastating, snaggle-toothed smile.

  Gretel was amazed to see the older woman’s cheeks tinged with pink. The captain certainly had a talent for unsettling females. It was one he could, she decided, gainfully employ. She would speak with him on the matter later.

  The baroness recovered sufficiently to notice the prisoner. “Who is this . . . person?” she inquired.

  Gretel kept her eye on the quartermaster as she replied, “This, baroness, is a ruthless and nefarious smuggler!”

  All present gasped.

  “A smuggler, you say?” The baroness leaned forward for a better look. “And what was he attempting to smuggle?”

  “Brandy,” Gretel explained. “Of a particularly high quality and expensive nature. He and his partners in crime took deliveries of crates of the liquor, and stowed them away on a tiny island, which was also, it transpired, the home of the mermaid.”

  “Oh? And was the mermaid a smuggler too?”

  The baroness’s question was as ridiculous as it was pointless, but her loyal company laughed uproariously. When the hilarity had subsided, Gretel continued.

  “She was not. Though she did unwittingly assist the smugglers in their work.”

  “How so?”

  “The smugglers reckoned on the fear most sailors have of these legendary creatures. They would stay well away from a place from which mermaid singing was heard to come.”

  Now Ferdinand spoke up. “But they had not reckoned with Gretel of Gesternstadt and her thorough investigations.”

  “They had not,” she agreed. “Which is why Hans and I were able to find the villains and discover their plans. Captain Ziegler saw it as his duty to return with me to the island to tackle the criminals and catch them in the act of their illicit business.” This might not have been to the letter of the what and the why and the how of things, but, Gretel felt confident, it was in the spirit of it. No point cluttering up a tale with unnecessary detail.

  “Was it dangerous?” The baroness’s question was directed at Captain Ziegler.

  “Danger must be no bar to acting when that action is the correct course to take,” he told her, nimbly climbing up another step in her regard for him.

  “But you were not harmed, captain?” she asked a little breathlessly. “Your body not wounded, perhaps?”

  Gretel decided enough was enough. It was time to bring things to their conclusion. She did not allow time for the captain to respond, but took the floor again herself.

  “The facts are these,” she declared. “Captain Ziegler has suffered damage to his business and the ship’s cook lost his life, all for the greed and single-minded wickedness of these smugglers. Frenchie was not of their number, but he discovered what they were about and demanded payment for his silence. When his terms became too rich for their liking, the smugglers silenced him forever. And the murderer stands before you now.”

  At this, Cat’s Tongue set up loud and forceful protestations. “’Twas not I! I never set foot on the Arabella before today. I am no murderer!”

  Gretel frowned at him. “You’ve Dr. Becker to thank for the truth of that, or have you forgotten a certain cave, with certain persons shackled within it, awaiting a certain watery death?”

  “But here you are,” he pointed out. “I never killed no one!” he insisted.

  “But you know who did, do you not? You know who killed Frenchie,” Gretel insisted.

  “’Twas him!” Cat’s Tongue raised his bound and bandaged hands to gesture at Hoffman. “He’s the one as did him in. He’s your murderer!”

  Now the audience was properly astounded. Here was a shabby villain, dragged into the room tied and bloodstained, accusing none other than the ship’s quartermaster—a man who wore his respectability like a suit of
armor—of murder. There were shouts of “liar” and “scoundrel” and “well, I never, surely not.”

  Gretel held up a hand for silence. “Well, Herr Hoffman, what have you to say?”

  “I say this is calumny! Slander!”

  “I speak the truth!” Cat’s Tongue cried.

  “Silence, rogue!” Hoffman strode forward, chest puffed out, staring the whimpering ruffian down. “Hold your tongue and your lies.” Now he turned to Gretel. “You would have all here believe the word of a common criminal, a man of no standing, of no consequence, over me? Is not the word of a respected, honest quartermaster, whom Captain Ziegler saw fit to leave in charge of his ship, his crew, his honored guests, to carry weight and be trusted?”

  “You can hide your true nature behind your mask of respectability no longer, Herr Hoffman. The game is up. Your associate here has given us chapter and verse.”

  Rattled into forgetting himself, Hoffman snarled at Gretel. “But he gave you no proof, though, did he, eh? Where is your proof, Detective Gretel of Gesternstadt?”

  There were times when Gretel truly loved her job. Times when, after days or even weeks of diligent work, after dangerous encounters, hardships endured, and lengthy investigations, things came together in the most pleasing and satisfying manner. Times when her adversaries showed themselves to be less than her equal by meekly stepping into the neat and clever trap she had prepared for them. Times such as these. Times such as now.

  “So you deny all charges, Herr Hoffman?”

  “I do!”

  “You are innocent of all that has been said of you here?”

  “I am!”

  “You have nothing to hide?”

  “I have not!”

  “In which case you will have no objection to our searching your cabin?”

  The quartermaster hesitated. Fear flickered across his stony face, but so very quickly, and so very minutely, that is was likely only Gretel saw it. Saw it, and congratulated herself upon it, for it revealed that Hoffman now understood what she herself had always known: that he could not, in the end, outsmart her. That she would, ultimately, get her man.

  The main players descended to the lower deck and the cabins, Hoffman all the while protesting his innocence and declaring that not a single incriminating thing would they find in his quarters. Indeed, he led the way, Gretel having given him the opportunity to do so with a gracious nod and sweep of her arm. She followed on his heels, Captain Ziegler behind her, eagerly pursued by the baroness, who was evidently thrilled by the entertainment, and who was, naturally, accompanied by the general. Hoffman was berthed on the same deck as the passengers, his billet being two doors down from Birgit’s. Upon arrival, he threw open the door in a defiant gesture, which was somewhat lessened by the narrowness of that door and the mean proportions of the room onto which it gave.

  “Search all you want,” he instructed, “for you will find nothing untoward here.”

  “Uber General, would you kindly assist me? I would value your presence as an independent witness.”

  Ferdinand stepped forward. “I am pleased to be of service, fraulein,” he said, squeezing into the cabin with her. Now that both were inside there was, in fact, no room for anyone to look for anything.

  “On second thought,” said Gretel, “I would be grateful if you would conduct the search yourself, as space is limited, and I would not have it said that we have been anything but fair and scrupulous.” She inched her way back out into the passage and took her position with the others, who all stood with necks craned for a better view.

  Ferdinand looked about him. The cabin, as anyone who knew Hoffman would expect, was spick and span and tidy as could be, the cot made up tightly, and nothing out of place. So it was that the brandy bottle on the little writing desk was plain for all to see. The general held it up.

  “Might this be of interest?” he asked.

  “’Tis brandy,” Hoffman growled. “What of it? Cannot a man have a drink in his own cabin?” He spoke confidently enough, but Gretel knew he was shaken by the appearance of the brandy in his room.

  Captain Ziegler took the bottle, wrenched out the stopper, and downed a swig.

  “God’s truth!”

  “Is it terrible?” asked the baroness.

  “It is sublime!”

  Gretel nodded. “So you are certain, captain, that this is not the brandy you serve aboard the Arabella?”

  “Ha! Such luxury would be the ruin of me. We favor honest fare here. I give my passengers the same brandy I drink myself, and I tell you, this is not it!”

  Hoffman scowled. “Which proves only that you are a cheapskate with an ignorance of fine living, sir!”

  The captain might well have punched his quartermaster squarely on the nose for this remark, were it not for what Ferdinand held up for inspection next.

  For it was a knife.

  A bone-handled knife with a silver top to it.

  And a curiously curved blade.

  There was an intake of breath before everyone began speaking at once. Hoffman’s language descended into oaths and curses, mostly directed at Gretel. Ferdinand appealed for calm and placed himself firmly in front of Gretel to fend off the worst of Hoffman’s threats. The captain declared the case proven and damned Hoffman for the murderous blackguard he clearly was. The baroness egged them all on with refined but forceful declarations that she had never witnessed such scenes, and demanded that the quartermaster be clapped in irons, or tied to the mizzenmast, or made to walk the plank, or keelhauled.

  It was Gretel who cut through the noise with her own call for quiet.

  “Let Herr Hoffman speak,” she said. “Let him tell us how he came by this very particular and distinctive knife.”

  “It is not mine. I have never seen it before!”

  “But here it is, among your things, in your very cabin,” Gretel pointed out.

  “So what if it is? In any event, it could be any knife. Not necessarily the one that belonged to that cook you were so fond of.”

  At that moment a door opened in the passageway. Such was the nearness and up-closeness of everything on the sleeping deck that it was impossible for the interruption to go unnoticed. It was Birgit’s door that opened, and it was Hans who emerged through it. A severely ruffled, disheveled Hans, pink-faced and collar askew. He was clutching his precious lighter as if his life depended on his holding on to it, and his eyes had a dazed and faraway look to them. His cheeks bore marks of rouge in blurry kisses, and his hair appeared to have weathered some sort of storm. Even at such a heightened moment, his appearance attracted puzzled stares.

  “Hans . . . ?” Gretel struggled to form an appropriate question. “Are you quite well? You look as if you have suffered an assault.”

  “Indeed I have. But fear not, sister mine, it will be the last. There comes a time when a man has to speak plainly, even at the expense of another’s feelings. I can be no woman’s plaything. I have my own life to lead, my own responsibilities. I explained as much and Frau Lange and I have reached an understanding.” From the cabin behind him there came the sounds of soft sobbing. Hans drew himself up, appeared about to say more on the subject, and then noticed what Ferdinand had still in his hand. “I say!” he exclaimed. “You’ve found Frenchie’s knife!”

  Hoffman looked fit to spit with fury.

  “You put it there!” he screamed at Gretel.

  “I? But I have been off this ship, Herr Hoffman, and have had no access to your cabin, which in any case I imagine you keep locked.”

  “It was that thing!” he raged. “You are in league with it. This is the work of your tame sea sprite!”

  “Come, come, Herr Hoffman,” said Gretel, smiling, “everybody knows that there is no such thing as a sea sprite.”

  NINETEEN

  It was only two days later, as Gretel sat in her cabin while Everard worked his magic on her hair, that she felt fully able to relax and congratulate herself on a job well done. Hoffman had wriggled and squirmed, of
course, but the game was up. With Cat’s Tongue, and indeed Pustule, keen as mustard to testify against him in the hope of saving their own necks, Hoffman’s unreliable alibi in the shape of Bo’sun Brandt—who was also arrested—and the damning evidence of Frenchie’s knife in his cabin, the quartermaster could not escape justice.

  Everard held up the looking glass. “Now then, madam, what do you think?” he asked, showing her the elegant and pleasingly complex hairdo he had created for her.

  Gretel smiled. “I think that if there is one souvenir I should like to take home with me from these silvery Frisian waters, it is you, Everard. I shall miss your skills. Here.” She took a small roll of notes from beneath her corset and handed them to him. “You have more than earned this.”

  “Why, madam! This is too much!”

  “Nonsense. You have made this ship tolerable. I have been well paid. I am happy to share a little of my good fortune with you. I hope you will put it to good use.”

  Everard stared at the money. “Indeed I shall! I have been harboring a notion to leave this ship and try my luck as a master of coiffure in one of the larger cities. Now I have sufficient funds for my journey!”

  “Splendid idea. Where will you choose?”

  “I thought Paris.”

  “Oh! An excellent plan. Let me know when you are established there and I promise one day I shall visit. You can maintain my locks and wigs in the most fashionable of styles while I take in the delights of the city.”

  Everard gripped his hairbrush excitedly. “It will be a dream come true, madam. Though I shall be sorry to leave the Arabella. This curious little ship has come to feel like home. And who would ever have thought it? Captain Ziegler going into partnership with none other than Thorsten Sommer? I do declare, nothing could have surprised me more.”

  “I confess, had you suggested such an alliance a few short weeks ago, I would have thought you quite mad. It seemed the captain had such a loathing of his rival. But I came to see that his attitude stemmed from his own frustrated desires, and that the two need not be at odds. The arrangement they have come to will benefit them both. Herr Sommer will continue to run his luxury cruises, and Captain Ziegler will offer an optional package of days aboard the Arabella for those desirous of the Authentic Sailing Experience, as it is to be called. The baroness will spread the word of her own exhilarating and singular experience.”