The Case of the Fickle Mermaid

by P. J. Brackston

  “Oh, my goodness, my gracious, madam, let us hope such cruises do not always involve anyone as sour and dour as Herr Hoffman.”

  “His presence will not be missed.”

  “What I do not understand,” Everard mused, gazing at the ceiling, gesturing with the hairbrush to underline his point, “is why Hoffman had it in for Herr Sommer. I mean to say, I understand he wished to make money with his smuggling, but putting poor Frenchie’s body on the Fair Fortune . . . it was as if he sought to ruin the man.”

  “Hoffman saw an opportunity to turn the cook’s death to his advantage. Another man might have panicked—a man dies at his hand on board a small ship—but not Hoffman. His chief reason for putting the body on that ship was to distance it from himself, and throw me off the scent, no doubt. The fact that the discovery of a murder victim on the Fair Fortune might damage Sommer’s business was a bonus. It must have been what made him choose that course rather than tipping the body into the sea. It transpires that Hoffman used to work as first mate to Herr Sommer. He had his heart—wherever he kept the stony thing—set upon captaincy proper, and saw the Sommer fleet as the way to get it. But Herr Sommer must have seen something rotten at the man’s core and found a reason to dismiss him.”

  “Ooh, that cannot have sat well with our quartermaster.”

  “It did not. His plan was to earn enough money from smuggling to purchase his own ship one day. If, when that day came, there were no rival cruise ships operating in the area, so much the better for him.”

  Gretel got to her feet, patting lightly at her hair. “I shall go up on deck now. I believe we are about to make port.”

  Everard bobbed a bow. “I wish you good-bye and safe journey home, madam,” he told her.

  Outside, the day was pretty in the pale and whispery sort of way that the region did so well. Most of the passengers were on deck to see the Arabella come into the harbor at Bremerhaven. The crew worked hard to bring her safely to her moorings, apparently happy to do so under Captain Ziegler’s flamboyant instructions rather than being barked at by Herr Hoffman. The Fair Fortune had docked but moments earlier, so that the quayside was filled with a small but well-dressed crowd who cheered and threw streamers and rice in a rather delightful way. In fact, Gretel was finding most things delightful. This was her moment; a case solved, a client happy, a payment—plus healthy bonus—received; hers was a triumphant return.

  She found Hans making a meal of managing the luggage.

  “Dash it all, Gretel,” he puffed, “I swear these things have got heavier during the voyage. You didn’t sneak off to do any shopping, perchance?”

  “Alas, Hans, I had no need of thatching shears, wooden clogs, fish embalmed in salt, or cheese from which all flavor has been thoughtfully removed to save us the trouble of tasting it. No, the trunks are not heavier, but it is possible that you are.”

  “What? Do you think so?” He patted his belly as if pleased with the idea. “Well, all that time spent in the kitchen . . . a chef has to test and taste, you know. Wouldn’t do otherwise. Test and taste, that’s the work of a good cook.”

  Gretel noticed Birgit standing a little way off and making no attempt to approach. She looked subdued, and yet she still wore the wistful countenance of a person in love.

  “Whatever did you say to That Woman to convince her you were neither interested nor available?”

  “Ah, yes.” Hans seemed reluctant to explain further. His expression was all too familiar to Gretel. It was the one she saw when he had spent the housekeeping at the inn, or finished the last slice of gateau, or washed his lederhosen with her Moroccan cotton petticoats, turning them all brown. It was the expression that said you’re not going to like this.

  “Let’s have it,” she insisted.

  “Well, she was so very persistent, so very excitable, she simply would not listen when I told her I did not share her amorous feelings, and such. I had to find a way to convince her, to make her see that I would not, no never, not ever be hers.”

  “So . . .”

  Hans cleared his throat. “So I told her that, however capable you might appear, you couldn’t do without me. I told her that you were mostly perfectly fine and normal and able to do your work really quite well, given your regrettable condition . . .”

  “Which is?”

  “A . . . feebleness of the mind. A weakness of the nerves. A delicacy of the emotional constitution that means you simply cannot be left alone, cannot be abandoned to the mercy of your own fragile mind and irregular but debilitating febrile imaginings.” Hans took a tiny step back.

  Gretel ground her teeth. “Let me get this straight, Hans. You found yourself incapable of being man enough to tell That Woman to go away and leave you alone, so instead you made out that your responsibilities and obligations tied you to me forever because I am, on a part-time basis, a feeble-minded lunatic?”

  “Um . . . yes.”

  To her own surprise, and very much to Hans’s astonishment, Gretel found herself laughing loudly. Loudly enough to draw pitying glances from Birgit and her companions. “Ha! Well, Hans, I must congratulate you. You are your sister’s brother after all, and I am impressed by your cunning. Now go and fetch the rest of the luggage. I still have a valise in my cabin, and I am, apparently, too flimsy of brain to find it myself.”

  It was then that she noticed the noble party disembarking from the Fair Fortune. She moved forward to the ship’s rail for a better view. Baroness Schleswig-Holstein was descending the beribboned gangway, accompanied by her small but stylish entourage, waving and smiling as if she were someone considerably more important than a mere baroness. Two steps behind her, in his smartest uniform, the one with the burgundy cape with the gold lining that Gretel found so devilishly attractive, walked Uber General Ferdinand von Ferdinand. Her heart skipped lightly at the sight of him.

  “Silly woman,” she told herself.

  Ferdinand, as if sensing he was being watched, paused and turned. Seeing her, he smiled. Gretel’s heart twirled about in a fuzzy little spin. He raised his hand as if to salute or wave, but then changed his mind and instead blew her a silent kiss. Gretel’s heart performed two backflips and a double somersault.

  “Silly woman,” she told herself again, as she forced herself to merely smile in acknowledgment, however much she might have felt like responding more exuberantly. There would be a time and a place, and this was not it. The baroness could not keep him indefinitely. Soon he would return to his post at King Julian’s side at the Summer Schloss, where he would be only a short gallop from Gesternstadt.

  “Fraulein Gretel!” Captain Ziegler’s voice brought her quickly back to her present reality. “The good doctor here is about to leave us and wished to bid you farewell before departing.”

  “Dr. Becker.” She nodded at him. “I trust you are satisfied with the alterations to the Arabella’s sailing routes?”

  “I am indeed, fraulein. The captain has been most accommodating, particularly when one considers all the trouble I caused him.”

  “We will not mention that again,” the captain assured him, slapping the older man so heartily on the back that he stumbled forward. “We have studied the charts together and I have given Dr. Becker my word that we will sail nowhere near the islands the birds use during the breeding season.”

  “I have supplied Captain Ziegler with the information he needs regarding their habits.”

  “Particularly those of the pigeon-toed yellow necked speckled wader, I presume,” said Gretel.

  “Aye!” laughed the captain. “He has supplied me with drawings of that mysterious fowl to boot, just to be sure I don’t bag a brace for my supper, ain’t that so, Doctor?”

  The doctor, by now accustomed to the captain’s little ways, was not in the least alarmed. He told Gretel, “We have a new plan, fraulein. On certain cruises I am to sail aboard the Arabella as an ornithological consultant.”

  Captain Ziegler looked especially pleased with himself. “A plan of my own inve
ntion. Seems those folk with a passion for birds will pay good money to see ’em. The doctor will be their tour guide, with evening talks on the matter, so insatiable is their appetite for details of the feathery things.”

  “You are turning into quite the entrepreneur, captain. I applaud your business acumen.”

  At this the captain turned quite pink with pride.

  Dr. Becker took his leave, carrying only one small case, his ever-present binoculars still around his neck.

  “So, captain, when do you set sail for the Caribbean?” Gretel asked.

  “Four days’ time. The mermaid would have had it sooner, but we must take on more supplies and several new crewmembers.”

  “Ah, yes, your number has been somewhat depleted.”

  “Most are replaced easily, though some will not sail with our special . . . passenger,” he said, remembering not to refer to the sea creature as cargo. “I confess we shall feel the lack of your brother the most. His skills in the kitchen were much appreciated.”

  “He tells me you sought to persuade him to stay on.”

  “I hesitated to part you from your family, fraulein, but, well, I am a man of business now.”

  “Thankfully, he declined, so your conscience need not be troubled further.”

  “He said a life at sea would not suit him.”

  “I suspect he would pine for his own kitchen. And his own inn.”

  The captain shook his head. “Newer and better versions of both can be found: it is the companionship of a beloved sister that is irreplaceable.”

  Now it was Gretel’s turn to blush.

  Captain Ziegler begged her to excuse him as there were many matters demanding his attention. He left her with his customarily low bow, his tricorn sweeping the deck as he backed away.

  “I bid you adieu, fraulein,” he called after her. “I shall call on you for your assistance, should I ever again encounter an unsolvable puzzle.”

  “I have yet to find such a thing, captain,” she assured him. His dashing grin was filled with genuine fondness, she felt, but in truth her warmth toward him was due largely to the generous payment, with the sizeable bonus, that he had so willingly handed over to her.

  At that moment, Hans appeared, trailing the mer-hund on its lead.

  “He doesn’t want to move,” he told her. “He knows I’m leaving him and he’s sulking.” Hans knelt down beside the panting animal and ruffled its fur as he spoke to it. “You can’t come home with us. There isn’t any sea. You wouldn’t like it.”

  “You are doing the right thing, Hans. Mer-hunds are bred for the ocean. He would find Bavaria altogether too dry.”

  “But he might pine when I go. He might not eat.”

  Gretel knew her brother was talking about himself as much as his hound, although she was fairly certain his appetite would recover at the first sight of a little weisswurst with grainy mustard.

  “He will be treated exceptionally well,” she reminded him. “He is to be one of the star attractions for the passengers—a genuine mer-hund.”

  The animal hung its head low and looked moribund and pathetic and very un-starlike.

  “But he might be lonely,” Hans said.

  “Ah, I’ve thought of that.” Gretel glanced about her. There was no one close by, as their fellow cruise-goers were busy with their luggage and travel arrangements, and the crew was employed in the business of unloading the ship. She peered up into the rigging. “Hello?” she called in a stage whisper. “Hello, are you going to come down?”

  “Who the devil are you talking to?” asked Hans, getting stiffly to his feet. He and the mer-hund followed the direction of her gaze. Hans could see nothing, but the hound’s ears stuck out and he began to wag his tail a little. And then, suddenly, there it was. The sea sprite flitted effortless down and settled on a pile of rope beside them.

  “Well, I’ll be!” exclaimed Hans. “Look at that!”

  “Good morning to you,” Gretel said. “This, as you know, is my brother, Hans, and this is his mer-hund . . .” But already she could see that the sprite’s attention was elsewhere, as it reached out a tiny purple hand to Hans’s pet. The hound sniffed at it gently. The sea sprite touched the big black nose and hopped down to examine the great shaggy webbed paws before springing lightly up to hover next to its head, the better to look it in the eye. The mer-hund wagged more enthusiastically.

  “The thing is,” said Gretel, seizing the moment, “we have to leave him behind. Captain Ziegler is happy to have him on board. He thinks the passengers will like him. I can’t see it myself, but there we are. Anyway, Hans is worried that the animal might be lonely. Thinks he needs a special someone. I was wondering . . .” But she needed wonder no more. The sprite leaned forward and, showing surprising strength for its size, tugged at the collar and rope until the hound was free of them.

  “He doesn’t need these,” it said, shoving them at Hans. Standing beside the animal, the sprite came barely up to its shoulder, but as it leaned into the hound’s furriness it was plain to see that the two were a good match, both misfits and misunderstood, both creatures bound to the sea, both in need of a friend. The sprite started to flit off, the mer-hund happily padding after it. Gretel was pleased to see such a satisfactory solution found, but she was aware of a strangled sob from her brother. To her surprise, the sea sprite stopped, turned, and called back to Hans, “Don’t worry. I’ll look after him.” And then the curious pair moved on and were soon lost to view among the sails and rigging and bollards and such like that littered the deck.

  A week of steady and testing travel south, and at last they were in sight of the tiny town of Gesternstadt. Gretel experienced, as she always did on returning, a mixture of relief—for here was home, hearth, rest, safety—and disappointment, that she should live her life in so provincial and insignificant a place.

  Hans’s reaction was simpler.

  “We are home, sister mine! We are home, hurrah! Best bit of going away, I always say, the coming back. Don’t you think?”

  They were set down from the stagecoach outside their little house, which had changed not one jot in their absence. Hans insisted she help him inside with the luggage, so that it was another tiring half hour before she sat on her beloved daybed, a pile of mail and parcels on her lap. Hans fetched a bottle of schnapps and the biscuit barrel. Most of the letters were bills, chiefly from dressmakers and tailors, or notes of little interest. What was intriguing was a heavy square parcel, carefully wrapped and packaged. Gretel shook it gently but could discern no clue as to its contents, save for a faint and not particularly pleasant odor.

  “What have you there, Gretel?”

  “I shan’t know until I open it,” she told him.

  She undid the string and cautiously peeled off the brown wrapping paper.

  “Hell’s teeth!” she exclaimed, reeling backward.

  “I say! Gretel, what a stink!”

  Holding her breath, she opened the box. Inside there were a note and a jar. She read the brief lines.

  “Who is it from?” Hans wanted to know.

  “A widow. The wife of a sorcerer who has recently met a violent and untimely end.”

  “Murder, you mean!”

  “It would seem so. It says here that the kingsmen are baffled and clues are scant. The grieving widow asks that I make all haste to find her husband’s killer and bring him to justice.”

  “Another case! Well, you are in demand. Plenty of business coming your way now. Can’t complain at that, can you?”

  Gretel felt that she would like to complain very much. She had just spent a long, tedious, bottom-numbing journey, dreaming of days lounging on her comfy daybed and nestling into her silk bolsters, imagining being fed restorative and reviving snacks by Hans. She had hoped for a little respite, a little peace and quiet, a little tranquility and pampering. All the same, it was gratifying to find her services in such demand. And the tone of desperation in the note suggested a client on the edge, and in her experience, su
ch clients could easily be persuaded that the only way to be pulled back from the brink of the abyss was to invest in Gretel’s expertise. Heavily.

  Gingerly, she lifted the jar from the box and held it up to the light. It contained a cloudy yellow liquid, in which floated something small, shriveled, and pink.

  Hans recoiled at the sight of it. “Great heavens, sister mine, what is that?”

  Gretel glanced at the letter again and then back at the contents of the jar, her eyebrows raised. “This is just about all we have to work with. The only clue left to us. This, brother dear, is the sorcerer’s appendix.”

  And so, as one case closes, another springs open . . .

  THE CASE OF THE FICKLE MERMAID

  Pegasus Crime is an Imprint of

  Pegasus Books LLC

  80 Broad Street, 5th Floor

  New York, NY 10004

  Copyright © 2016 by P. J. Brackston

  First Pegasus Books cloth edition January 2016

  Interior design by Maria Fernandez

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in whole or in part without written permission from the publisher, except by reviewers, who may quote brief excerpts in connection with a review in a newspaper, magazine, or electronic publication; nor may any part of this book be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or other, without written permission from the publisher.

  The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available for the print edition of this book.

  ISBN: 978-1-60598-946-4

  ISBN 978-1-68177-097-0 (e-book)