Once Upon a Crime (25 page)

Roland gasped. “You think
she
was responsible?”

“I'm certain of it. I had my suspicions before, but now I believe, beyond doubt, that it was this ruthless creature who killed both the Muller brothers and the hapless Bechstein.”

Hans's brow knotted in puzzlement. “But why would she kill Bechstein? Why would anyone?”

“I do not claim to have a complete set of the facts, as yet. All in good time. Now, there is much to be done. Roland, you will not be coming with us.”

“What? But, fraulein, I have come this far, you will need me. I cannot let you face the giant alone.”

“She has me,” Hans pointed out.

Roland ignored him. “Fraulein, please reconsider.”

Gretel put a comforting hand on his arm. “I am touched by your concern, but there is something else I must ask of you. There is more at stake than money here—my very freedom . . .”

“And mine!” Hans reminded her.

“I must convince someone of my innocence. Someone whose word will be trusted without question. I need you to ride to the Summer Schloss and take a message to Uber General Ferdinand von Ferdinand.” She took out her notebook and pencil, leaned over the small bedside table, and began to write. “Deliver it into his hands. Trust no one else.” She turned back to Roland. “It is a long journey. You must take our wonderfully swift horse and ride like the wind. Then offer to act as guide to the general and bring him to the giant's castle. I will be waiting for you there.” She handed him the note and then another sheet of paper. “Here, draw me as good a map as you are able of the route my brother and I must follow.”

Hans was shaking his head. “And what are we to do for a horse? I'm not getting between those shafts again, thank you very much. Haven't got all the splinters out from the last time.”

“We will borrow Frau Peterson's animal.”

“Oh, more
borrowing
again, is it? I'd think you would be worried about being accused of horse theft on top of everything else.”

“Needs must, Hans. Besides, taking her horse will slow her down further. No doubt she will obtain another, but it will buy us precious time.”

The three crept out of the inn and into the stables. The stable boy was given another coin to buy his silence and advised to make himself scarce before the missing horse was noticed. Kristina had clearly been won over by Hans, and a flask of beer, a small canvas bag of food, and a sack of clothing were in their trap. Gretel handed out garments, each one filthier and more grim than the last.

“Great heavens, Hans. I suggested farmers, not vagrants,” she said.

“‘Farmers or some such' were your actual words, if I recall, which I'm pretty certain I do.”

“Very well, you can take this,” she said, thrusting a greasy greatcoat at him. “Here, Roland, there is a passable jacket and a cap. And a muffler.” She wrapped it around his neck. The boy looked suddenly terribly young to be entrusted with such a task. The night wind whined around the little barn, its icy fingers seeking out bare flesh through every crack and gap in the weathered boards.

“Take care,” she told him as she gave him a leg up onto the fidgeting horse. “Speed is important, but it is a dark night, and the road is rough and uneven.” She caught herself revealing her concern and altered her manner. “Only remember, you are no good to anyone, least of all me, dead in a ditch somewhere.”

“I will remember, fraulein. Do not fear for me, but be wary of the giant. He can be courteous, almost solicitous, but he has a vile temper and does not heed his own strength.”

The stable boy opened the rattling wooden door and they watched Roland gallop into the night.

“Right.” Gretel marched toward Frau Peterson's fat bay mare. “You, my dear, are coming with us.”

With Hans's help she maneuvered the animal between the shafts of the trap. They repacked their few possessions and their provisions. Hans's movements were slightly hampered
by the length of his greatcoat, which had clearly been cut for a taller make of man, and one with a more slender girth. The selvedges did not quite meet, but had to be held together with a stiff leather belt. Gretel recoiled at his choice of headgear.

“Scoff all you like,” Hans told her, adjusting dangling earflaps on the brown lamb's-wool bonnet so that it covered as much of his head and neck as possible. “
I
will be warm.”

Gretel's own outfit comprised a pinafore of some sort of red, felted wool, fur-lined boots at least one size too big, and a pair of leathery mittens. She put everything on top of her own cotton dress, and topped off the ensemble with the cape she was very glad to have snatched from the hallway as she fled from Gesternstadt. What a long time ago it all seemed now.

“Haven't you a hat?” asked Hans. “The wind will be bitter.”

Gretel dug deeper in the sack in which the clothes had been stashed. At the bottom her hand met something soft and fluffy, making her shriek. She forced herself to pull it out. It was a deep-crowned black hat made of the fur of an animal that must have inhabited a place of fearsomely low temperatures, so thick and bushy was its pelt.

Gretel jammed it onto her head. Hans stifled a guffaw. “Don't,” she warned him. “Just, do not.”

Hans climbed aboard.

“Let's go,” he said. “I wouldn't want Inge Whatever-her-name-is and her merry men catching us taking their nag.”

The stable boy held open the door once more. The night outside looked ever more bleak and inhospitable.

“One more thing,” said Gretel. She stepped over to Inge's wagon, reached inside, and pulled out a cage of cats. She hurried back to the trap and buried them beneath the sacking.

“What the devil do we want with those?” asked Hans. “I thought we were going to rescue cats. You know, get them out, not take them in.”

“These,” said Gretel, patting the angular shape beneath the hessian, “are our ticket into the castle.” She hauled herself into the trap beside Hans, took up the reins, and flicked them across the mare's broad rump. “On you go, old girl!”

The horse did not move. “Yah! Hup, hup! On with you!”

The animal remained where it stood, its feet firmly planted on the dusty but dry floor of the barn, its ears flat back, giving it an exceptionally bad-tempered expression. “She doesn't like the look of it out there,” said Hans. “Can't say I blame her.”

Gretel slapped the reins smartly down on the mare's backside twice more, but nothing would induce the creature to take a step.

“Hans, you'll have to get down and lead her.”

“Why me?”

“Just do it! She probably needs a bit of encouragement to get her started.”

Muttering complaints, Hans climbed down. He took hold of the bridle and pulled while Gretel made vaguely threatening noises from the trap.

“It's no use,” Hans told her. “She simply isn't going to move.”

Gretel called to the stable boy. “Find me a whip.”

“No!” Hans was horrified. “You can't whip the poor thing.”

“This is not the time for sentiment,” said Gretel. “If she won't be persuaded, she must be forced.”

“Wait a moment,” he said, digging into his trouser pocket. “Let me try something.” Gretel craned her neck to see what he was doing but her view was obscured by the mare's bulky shape. Hans appeared to whisper in the animal's ear for a moment and then feed her some small tidbit. The horse chomped thoughtfully and then nuzzled him for more. “Try now!” he called back to Gretel, tugging gently at the bridle.

The mare hesitated, and then began to shuffle forward. Hans fed her a morsel more. Her ears took up a more cheerful position and she gave a little swish of her tail.

“Get back in, Hans. Quickly.”

He scrambled aboard. Gretel clicked her tongue and the horse at last leaned into the collar and set off down the road. Whatever treat Hans had found for her had woken her up sufficiently to discover that her new cargo was considerably lighter than the heavy wagon she had been accustomed to pulling. Soon they were jogging along, the trap swinging slightly to the rhythm of the mare's short but purposeful stride.

“What on earth did you give her, Hans?”

“Oh, just a little toffee.”

“Toffee! All the vile food we've had to endure and you have been in possession of a secret supply of toffee?”

“Come on, Gretel, it's just a few chunks. Not enough to go round, really . . .” He was silenced by her hard stare.

The road climbed ever upward, the temperature dropping with each vertiginous bend. It was as if they were entering territory so remote, so inhospitable, so devoid of redeeming features, that even spring did not trouble itself to visit. The land became rocky and sparsely treed. Here and there a lost sheep dug at the frozen earth to get at the very roots of the shriveling grass, so little sustenance was there to be found above ground. The night sky was cloudless, and a cold moon lit their progress. They were traveling into a cruel wind that seemed intent on pushing them back down the hill, snatching away their breath clouds, tugging at any uncovered hair, and stinging their faces until their eyes watered.

Gretel felt the chill of doubt creeping into her mind. What if Inge caught up to them in this desolate place? What if the giant merely snatched the cats from her and refused to admit her into the cave-castle? What if he
did
let her in and then . . . ? And what if Roland failed to reach the Summer Schloss and return with Ferdinand von Ferdinand in time? She shook such thoughts away—no good could come of dwelling on them.

Flicking the reins and clicking her tongue, she urged the mare on. According to Roland's map, even at such a pedestrian speed, they should be in sight of the giant's abode before dawn.

As the miles jogged by, Gretel allowed her thoughts to wander. She found, even amid the peril and uncertainty she faced, that there was one detail of her immediate future that was giving her a little inner lift, a definite spark of enthusiasm, a minuscule frisson of excitement. It was the prospect of once again being in the company of Uber General Ferdinand von Ferdinand. She tutted at her own foolishness. The man had given her no definitive reason to believe he was interested in her beyond the requirements of his position as aide to King Julian. It was nonsense, therefore, to allow herself to entertain girlish notions of what-ifs and I-wonders. And yet, and yet . . . there had been a special glance here, a lingering look there, perhaps even the teeniest spark passing between them.

“Look!” cried Hans, hoarse from the cold. “Look at that!”

Gretel pulled herself from her reverie and focused on the cause of her brother's excitement.

They had rounded another hairpin bend and revealed before them was a great wall of rock; a towering mountain of stone that seemed to vanish upward into the dawn-lit skies. There was not a tree or a bush to relieve the unyielding, sheer face of the hillside, only hideous gargoyles at irregular intervals, finials of stone and iron, heavy bars across inaccessibly high windows, and one, single, magnificent portal. Taller than a house, the gigantic double doors were constructed of huge timbers strapped together with steel, hinged and studded with iron. These were doors for keeping shut. Doors for keeping people out. And, quite possibly, doors for keeping people in. What they most evidently were not were doors that encouraged flimsy strangers to knock upon them in pursuit of a hare-brained scheme of short planning and unlikely
success. Even the wind that had accompanied Hans and Gretel on their journey took fright and disappeared. She was suddenly reminded of how long it had been since she had had the opportunity to spend time in her own, safe water closet. Her bowels rumbled ominously. The gray sky glowered ominously. Nearby a crow cawed ominously. She raised her chin, set her jaw, and did her utmost to shut out such things.

“Good Lord,” said Hans, “that looks ominous.”

Gretel scowled at him. “It is a door into a cave. That is precisely what we were told to expect.”

“Yes, but,
what
a door.
What
a cave.”

“It is simply a matter of scale,” she said. “We are calling upon a giant, not an elf.”

“Pity,” said Hans. “Elf sounds rather good to me just now. Quite like elves. Small fellows. Not in the least threatening or terrifying. Don't look for a minute like they might pull off one's limbs and devour one for dinner.”

“Hans.”

“Yes?”

“Be quiet.”

They maneuvered the trap until it was hidden behind a smaller lump of rock. Gretel quickly ate a little weisswurst, lamenting the lack of mustard, and chomped through a stale cracker, washing it all down with a swig of ale. It tasted unhelpfully weak and watery, so that she found herself recalling the troll's grog quite fondly. She emptied the canvas bag and slipped it over her head and shoulder, but beneath her cape.

Picking up the basket of cats, she addressed Hans in her best do-as-I-tell-you tones. “Stay here. Do not leave the horse and trap. Eat something. Walk about a bit if you must to keep warm, but do not stray from this spot. Wait for me.”

“But how long will you be? And how will I know if you're all right or if you need rescuing?” Hans asked, sounding all of five years old.

Gretel resisted telling him that among his many and various talents, rescuing did not feature. Truth had its place, but it was farther down the mountain and at some distance away from where they currently found themselves.

“I'm just going to . . . see what I can see. It is important you stay out of sight. When Inge and her men arrive, they must not see you. Do you understand?”

“Of course, Gretel, I'm not simple, you know.”

“If they see you, they might well change their plans. This could be our only chance to prove our innocence. So stay hidden. Once Inge's lot have passed, look out for Roland.”

“Do you really think he'll come?” Hans asked. “I mean, he's a fine young man, and all that, but, well, it is a long way. And Uber General von Ferdinand . . .”