Gretel and the Case of the Missing Frog Prints (14 page)

“Yes, the color is right for you, Fraulein. Most alluring. And the fall of the cape, so . . . accommodating.”

Gretel frowned. The day she could not be covered even by a cloak without having it let out would be the day she took to her daybed permanently. Quickly, she forced herself to let the fur slip from her shoulders, shaking her head. “No, I think not. Not today. The blue dress and the lorgnettes will suffice.” She peeled off several notes from the precious roll, gave Wolfie's address, and left the shop feeling restored. There was nothing, she concluded, as effective at improving slumping spirits as purchasing a new item for one's wardrobe.

After an early bite in a mercifully empty kitchen, Gretel repaired to her room. The hobgoblin had evidently been busy throughout the apartment, and the woodwork gleamed and smelled of wax polish, the tassels on the rug had been groomed into place, there were fresh cut flowers, clean linen, and altogether an air of order and care. Gretel doubted she would have felt more looked after at the Grand. Her wig still sat on the dressing table where she had left it. It showed signs of having been dusted, an exercise that must have created a good deal of powder flying about.

“And I don't suppose Herr Hobgoblin liked me any the better for that,” she said, as much to the wig as to herself. Sitting on the padded stool she carefully lifted the intricate creation and placed it on her head. It gave her the same breed
of delicious shiver that she had experienced when in contact with the Swedish Silver Wolf fur. She sighed happily as she studied her reflection, and the tiny bells Madame Renoir had thought to add tinkled softly. The moment was peaceful, calming, and pleasurable. Which made the sudden appearance of a twitching, be-whiskered nose out of the top of the wig all the more shocking. Gretel screamed, tipped backwards, and fell off the stool, crashing onto the floor with very little grace and scant opportunity to save herself. She twisted mid-air, but this only served to make her fall face down. A fierce pain shot through her as her nose connected with the unyielding floorboards of the bedchamber.

“Argh! Hell's teeth!” she cried, clutching her face. The wig was dislodged in the tumble and rolled across the floor, coming to rest against the thankfully empty and clean chamber pot beneath the bed. As Gretel watched, too stunned to move, Gottfried scrambled out from the complex twists of hair and silver embellishments of the wig, dusting powder off himself as he alighted on the rug.

“What on earth do you think you were you doing in there?” Gretel demanded as she struggled to right herself. Her nose was dripping blood now, and she snatched a handkerchief from her sleeve to stem the flow.

“My sincere apologies, Fraulein.” The mouse bowed low. “It was not my intention to startle you. Oh, are you hurt?”

“Given that I have just landed with some force on a hard surface using only my nose as a buffer, the answer is, unsurprisingly, yes.” She tipped her head back and pressed harder with the kerchief.

“Forgive me, Fraulein Gretel. May I recommend a little schnapps for the pain?” The mouse looked genuinely contrite.

Gretel stifled her anger. “An accident, nothing more. The sensitivity will pass soon enough.” She closed her eyes as a wave of nausea washed over her and the tip of her nose set up
throbbing loudly. “I fail to see what possessed you to climb into the wig in the first place,” she said. “Were you hiding?”

“Oh, no.” Gottfried was uncharacteristically tongue tied, and somewhat shame-faced.

“Merely . . . checking,” he said.

“Checking? Checking for what?”

“Oh, we do that. We mice. We check things. You know you really should tilt your head forward, not back.”

“You think so?”

“It is received wisdom in the matter, I believe.”

Gretel did as he suggested. She risked removing the handkerchief. “Seems to have stopped now, in any case.” She took her place at the dressing table once more and peered at her reflection. Already her nose was swollen, no longer appearing in proportion with the rest of her face. The bleeding had indeed ceased, but there was an unbecoming redness radiating outwards from the center of her face. With a sigh she foresaw further bruising and thickening to come, no doubt just in time for her outing with Ferdinand. Why was it that she was never able to present herself to him at her best for more than two minutes at a time?

“And the schnapps . . . ?” Gottfried suggested again.

“No, I think not. I have an engagement, for which I wish to keep a clear head. As a matter of fact I am expecting a delivery of a new dress imminently, so if you wouldn't mind . . . “

“I will take my leave,” he nodded but hesitated. “I wonder, Fraulein, if I might prevail upon you, one small thing?”

“Yes?”

“I should very much like to pass a little more time in the company of Bishop Berkeley, however, Herr Hobgoblin takes a perverse pleasure in thwarting my desires when he can, on occasion. He has, you will observed, done so successfully this time.” He lifted a tiny paw to gesticulate at the bookcase.

Gretel looked and saw that the book in question had been returned to the shelves, but not to its rightful place. Instead it was on the top most shelf, and wedged in so tightly as to make it difficult to remove. Difficult for a human, impossible, in fact, for a small rodent. Gretel fetched it down.

“Where would you like it?”

“If you would be so kind as to set it on the floorboards a pace outside the door of your bedchamber. I can push it along the polished wood with ease. At this time of day there is ample light for reading in the drawing room.”

“Mind you stay clear of the hall,” Gretel warned him. “I don't want my delivery being hampered by some a shop girl having hysterics at the sight of you.”

“I shall be as invisible as a ghost, and as . . .”

“ . . . quiet as a mouse?” Gretel smiled, though it made her wince to do so.

“You have my gratitude, Fraulein,” Gottfried called over his furry shoulder as he disappeared.

Gretel did her best with her nose, dousing it in cold water and then applying face powder. It was improved by her ministrations, but still had a tendency to shine, the skin unattractively stretched over the swelling. Her purchases arrived, the mouse kept the lowest of low profiles, and soon she was dressed and ready. She returned the wig to the safety of its box. The occasion was still not sufficiently grand to warrant wearing it, but she felt sure its moment was drawing nearer. For now she was satisfied with the flattering cut and sophisticated blue of her new dress, with its restrained and elegant black velvet collar and cuffs. She looped the charming lorgnettes around her neck and left the apartment.

Outside, under the guise of admiring the square, Gretel scanned the area for Strudel. She had no wish to appear furtive, but an encounter with the kingsman would most certainly
ruin her afternoon. She didn't doubt that time and due process of law would absolve her from any wrong doing in connection with the death of the messenger, but to be bundled off to Gesternstadt would horribly interfere with her investigations. And besides, she had had quite enough of Strudel one way or another interrupting her engagements with Ferdinand. At least the troublesome Kapitan will not be billeted at the hotel, she was confident of that. Ferdinand was waiting for her at the entrance. He smiled when he saw her. If he noticed anything amiss with her nose he did not show it.

“You look very elegant this afternoon, Fraulein.”

“Only this afternoon? I had hoped I always looked elegant.”

His smile broadened. “You always look . . . interesting.”

Gretel tutted. “To be damned with faint praise so early in our outing.”

“Worry not, for the next few hours I promise to make use of every opportunity to flatter and gloze.”

“Excellent,” she said, taking his proffered arm. “It's been far too long since I have been glozed. Not nearly enough of it coming my way of late.”

They threaded through the afternoon shoppers, sightseers and walkers, a pair sufficiently eye-catching, each in their own way, to draw curious glances from passers-by. Gretel thought how rare it was to find herself one of a couple, doing something people with ordered and sensible lives did, strolling through the charming streets of the city, taking the air, enjoying one another's company. This was, she imagined, how many well-to-do women lived, and yet for her it was an occasion of such rarity she was unable to recall one similar. How had it happened, she wondered, that her existence precluded such simple pleasures? She resolved to make room in her life for more such pleasant and harmless pursuits. She found the general easy company, and the two talked lightly as they passed flower
displays and stalls being set up as part of the wurstfest. She told him of Hans's involvement in the mammoth sausage making attempt. He told her of a cheerful restaurant he had seen by the river. She mentioned the comfort afforded her by Wolfie's apartment. He spoke of the welcome firmness of the mattresses at the Grand. Inevitably, however, the conversation turned to the matter of the stolen prints. Gretel trod carefully. Whilst the general had no jurisdiction here, and no professional interest in matters concerning the law beyond those that affected the royal family, Hans had seen him walking and talking with Kingsman Strudel. The more he knew about Gretel's connection to a suspiciously dead body in Gesternstadt, the more he might feel moved to inform the authorities, i.e. Strudel, of her whereabouts and whatabouts.

As if reading her thoughts, Ferdinand said, “I am curious only as to your methods of investigation, Fraulein. Your procedures intrigue me. They are known to be as successful as they are unorthodox. As a military man, my curiosity is piqued by the creative ways in which you set about your work.”

“I do not suffer from the handicap of military training,” she explained. “I am at liberty to invent my own systems. I seek the facts by whatever means present themselves; I apply logic; I allow instinct to guide me, and deduction to bring me to the answers I seek. It is an approach that has, thus far, served me well.”

“Indeed. Even if it does, on occasion, bring you up against the more, shall we say, pedantic upholders of the law?”

Gretel feigned interest in a cake shop window. Not a difficult pretense, in truth. Had she not been escorted by the general she would most likely have got no further, but would have returned, arms laden, to Wolfie's apartment to feast upon the decidedly scrumptious looking pastries and sugary delicacies on offer.

“I do my best not to interfere with pedants and their stolid ways in the hope that they will leave me to my more flexible ones,” she said without looking at him.

“And in your current case?” he asked. “Are you making satisfactory progress via these uncommon practices?”

An image flashed through Gretel's mind of herself encased in black leather, swishing a whip. Her appetite dwindled, the cakes no longer appearing quite as appetizing as they had only moments before.

“Oh yes,” she said in what she hoped was a confident and convincing tone. “I already have the prime suspect in my sights. I need only to amass a smidgen more evidence and I shall make my move. I do not wish to alert him to my suspicions, but when all the ducks are in a row, I will pounce.”

“I quite pity the man, if man it be?”

“In this instance, yes, I believe so.”

“Aah, here we are, the Nuremberg Art Gallery. An impressive building, don't you think?”

“Exceptionally. One could mistake it for a palace, rather than a place to store pictures,” Gretel said carelessly.

“I sense you are not an ardent art lover, Fraulein.”

“I can tolerate a nice landscape, and I admire fine draughtsmanship, General, but I do not pretend to be an aficionado.”

“I wonder you agreed to accompany me here, if that is your feeling.”

“Do you?” She met his gaze and raised an eyebrow before looking away again, her tone businesslike. “Your bringing me here is fortuitous. It will aid my investigations considerably, I believe, to acquaint myself with the work of Albrecht Durer.”

“Then allow me to introduce you,” he said, stepping aside as he held the door open for her.

The interior was every bit as striking and imposing as the exterior, with lofty ceilings, marble floors, and broad stairways
leading to rooms housing an eclectic collection of art works. Moving from the foyer to the main exhibition area Gretel found herself beneath the stern gaze of long-dead monarchs, sporting as many ermine robes, crowns, or feathered hats as a person could wish for. Then came military heroes real and mythical, biblical figures with expressions on a scale that began at quietly contemplative, progressed through dyspeptic, and ended at enraptured, with a host of cherubs and angels. Further along she was surrounded by vistas rendered in unlikely bright hues beneath even more optimistic blue skies. Another room offered studies of still life, though in most cases “still” meant “dead,” judging by the pheasants and hares draped over silver platters. The gallery was busy, but not uncomfortably so. For Gretel the most enjoyable part of the experience—besides her companion's attentiveness—was the gentle drift of the well-dressed and the well-heeled she now mingled with. For once she was not some out-of-towner, a provincial woman past the first flush of youth, carrying more weight than was fashionable. Here, in her new clothes, peering through her silver lorgnettes the better to appreciate the art displayed for her benefit, on the arm of a handsome general, she felt blissfully sophisticated. Felt that she fitted. Felt that perhaps Leibniz might, after all, have been on to something in declaring this to be the best of all possible worlds.

Sadly, this happy young illusion was destined to be strangled in its cradle.

Just as Ferdinand announced with a flourish that they were now approaching the works of the great master himself; just as Gretel was preparing her face to show erudite appreciation of Durer's renowned rhinoceros; just as she was beginning to believe that an ordered life among sensible people might not be beyond her reach, into the enlarged view her lorgnettes presented her came the unwelcome shape of Kapitan Strudel.
She froze. The kingsman was standing before a large picture which, because of the eager crowd around him, Gretel could not clearly see. Strudel, it appeared, was completely absorbed by the thing. He seemed transformed as he gazed upon it. Gretel had never seen him look so . . . alive, somehow. As the throng shifted slightly the object of his adoration came into view. Now Gretel was able to see what it was that so mesmerized the Kingsman. There, commanding the attention of all who saw it, without shouty colors, or dramatic composition, or so much as the assistance of a single cherub, stood stoutly and calmly, Albrecht Durer the Younger's fabled rhinoceros. It was depicted in exquisite detail, a pattern of precise and lovingly rendered fine lines, its strangeness, its exotic form, its ancient, knowing eye, sufficient to enthrall all who stood before it.