The Case of the Fickle Mermaid

For my dear friend Maddy Westlake,
because to think of her is to smile.

ONE

T
he ship certainly was impressive. Gretel was aware that docked vessels were apt to appear large, as one was more accustomed to seeing them on a distant horizon. Even allowing for this, however, the four-masted cruise ship that now towered above her was still magnificent. A shiver of excitement rattled up her spine, causing the stays of her corset to creak, as if they were emitting faint, ghostly cries to warn their brethren of the likely fate of whalebone in these parts. In her idle moments—which some might say were many, but which she considered all too scarce—she had often dreamed of taking a cruise. At such times her beloved tapestry daybed had become a sumptuous cot in a spacious stateroom, lilting
gently with the swell of the summer ocean, the sound of lapping waves and crying seabirds her lullaby, and the smell of expertly prepared seafood at once both calming and stimulating. She had drifted into most pleasing fantasies of sunsets reflected on the balmy sea; of promenading on deck in her very best gowns; of dining on fine food in the company of an equally fine captain; of evenings of erudite and glamorous entertainment. Which meant that the decision to take on the case at hand had not been a difficult one. When the messenger gull, sent by the captain himself, had arrived at her home in Gesternstadt with a request for her services as a private detective, she had known at once that she would accept.

“I say, sister mine, these trunks are exceedingly heavy. What on earth have you got in here?”

Alas, Gretel's vision of her elegant and sophisticated cruise had not included the very broad, very Bavarian, and, in her opinion, very irksome presence of her brother.

“Stop whining, Hans. I told you to fetch a porter.”

“There are none to be had. All snapped up by the regular cruise-goers who know what they are about.”

As if to underline his point, an expensively turned-out couple swooshed by in a cloud of powder and perfume, followed by designer trunks and cases stacked high on trolleys pushed by panting porters. Gretel sighed. It would have been so much easier, so much cheaper, and so much all-around nicer without Hans to cramp her style. How could she hope to be accepted into the upper circles of high society while accompanied by a brother who practically had “Provincial and Proud of It” stamped in India ink on his forehead? Each time work required her to travel, Gretel promised herself she would not allow Hans to tag along, and yet each and every time, she found herself traveling
à deux
. Hans always contrived some reason, some mitigating circumstance, some bargaining chip
with which to plead his case. On this occasion he had insisted that she could not possibly make the dauntingly long journey from Gesternstadt through the greater part of Germany to the port of Bremerhaven alone. It was too far and too dangerous. Gretel had maintained that his being there would do nothing to make the journey any shorter, and that she had rescued
him
from danger on many more occasions than he had ever come close to rescuing her. Hans had countered that she would be journeying farther afield than ever before, no doubt encountering all manner of nefarious ruffians, villains, and nincompoops. She declared that she failed to see how adding to their number by taking him along would help. His response to this had been two days of pouting and petulance, during which time not a door in the house remained unslammed. At last she had capitulated, in part to save them from a hefty carpentry bill, but mostly because, though it pained her to admit it even to herself, he had a point. A woman traveling alone was prey to all manner of unwanted attention. This was a business trip, and time and the tide at Bremerhaven waited for no man, woman, or private detective. If she was to be on board the
Arabella
when she set sail for her second cruise of the summer season, she could not afford to be delayed or hindered en route. Hans, using nothing other than his size, might just deter bothersome opportunists.

Whether or not he was the reason she had been able to make her journey unmolested she would never know for certain, but the desired result was all that really mattered, and the pair had arrived at Bremerhaven in good time.

“Come along, Hans, don't dawdle.”

“Dash it all, Gretel, I'm doing my best. Why a person has to travel with so much in the way of luggage I can't fathom.”

“Fortunately, you are not required to understand. Ah, here we are.” They reached the gangway leading from the dockside
up onto the ship. A smartly uniformed young sailor clutching a scroll of names stepped forward.

“Your name, please, fraulein?” he asked.

“I am Gretel of Gesternstadt. Yes,
that
Gretel,” she added, to fend off the inevitable question. “I am here at the request of the captain of this good ship, who is expecting me, so I should be grateful if I might board swiftly. I assume there is someone who will show us to our quarters?”

But the youth was shaking his head. “Forgive me, fraulein, but you are not listed here.”

“What? Not?”

“Not?” echoed Hans wearily from behind the trunks.

“I'm afraid not.” The sailor paled at the darkening expression on Gretel's face.

“There must be some mistake. Kindly check again. Gretel of Gesternstadt, a two-berth cabin reserved on the
Arabella
departing this very day.”

“The
Arabella
? But, fraulein, this is not the
Arabella
.”

“Not?”

“Not?” puffed Hans, beginning to teeter beneath the weight of the luggage.

“This is the
Fair Fortune
, flagship of the Thorsten Sommer fleet. The
Arabella
is moored over there.”

Gretel turned to follow the direction in which the young man pointed. She lifted the silver lorgnettes from where they rested upon her sturdy bosom and put them to her eyes. She knew she should not be surprised. This was, after all, the way of things. Something splendid and beautiful and thrilling was dangled in front of her, only to be whipped away and replaced by something altogether plainer and more mundane. The
Arabella
was not, in truth, a poor ship. She looked sound enough, and solid enough, and big enough. But she was not elegant. She was not stylish. She was not the sort of ship that had sailed so
serenely through the silky waters of Gretel's fantasies. Where the
Fair Fortune
had burnished mahogany masts with shiny brass fitments and finials, the
Arabella
had a workaday, tarry look to her. Where the
Fair Fortune
sported a high-end finish to her flags and bunting, her ropes and tackle, her balustrades and handrails and gleaming portholes, the
Arabella
opted for a no-nonsense, no-frills, handsome-is-as-handsome-does decor. Indeed, each ship could be summed up by its figurehead. On the prow of the
Fair Fortune
rode an exquisitely carved Botticelli-like beauty, with a refined brow, gentle gaze, and decorously positioned robe. The
Arabella
would apparently be led out to sea by a woman with the dress sense of a harlot, the muscular arms of a stevedore, and a hard look in her eye to match. Gretel wondered that she did not have a pipe clenched between her teeth.

After trudging a short way farther along the quay and wobbling up the alarmingly narrow gangplank to board the correct vessel, Gretel directed Hans to find his way to their cabin and install himself and the luggage there.

“Oh?” Hans paused to lean heavily against the largest trunk, dabbing at his sweat-beaded brow with a gray handkerchief. “And what will you be doing while I am carting your entire wardrobe hither and yon?”

“I shall find the captain and introduce myself.”

“Can't I just leave everything here for now? I mean to say, a man needs his refreshment, after so much traveling, and such like . . .” He trailed off under Gretel's glare.

“Hans, do I need to remind you that this is a business trip? That I am here to do work, for which I hope to be paid? And that if I am not able to concentrate on the task in hand I might not prove effective, and so that payment might not be forthcoming . . . have you considered the consequences of such an outcome for yourself?”

“Not too many evenings at the inn, I should imagine.”

“Not for a very long time. Now, do as I ask. You shall get to the bar soon enough, I promise.”

The main deck of the
Arabella
did nothing to alter Gretel's view of the ship. For the most part it was concerned with matters entirely to do with sailing, rather than the needs of those aboard in the capacity of cruisers. Such concessions as had been made to comfort were scant. There were, here and there, seats on which to sit and take in the sea views, some wooden and fixed, others of the stripy-cloth-reclining variety. A worn and incomplete set of deck quoits took up an unimportant corner. Nothing more was offered. Sailors clambered up rigging and over bollards and so forth in large numbers. The crew did not wear uniforms but a muddled mix of rustic sailor's garb and working clothes, giving no indication as to the rank or function of the wearer. This troubled Gretel. How was she expected to know whom to ask for a plate of sandwiches, and whom to address as “Captain”? A grubby fellow in baggy trousers and a short-sleeved shirt—the better to display his bulging muscles and bold tattoos, no doubt—raised his head from his job of coiling rope to stare at her. Gretel tried her brightest smile.

“Would you be so kind as to tell me where I might find the captain?” she asked.

The sailor straightened slowly, his eyes narrowing in suspicion.

“Thar'll find he aft,” he growled. “Him's cabin lies 'neath the poop,” he continued in the manner of one addressing a simpleton. “To the stern, woman. To the stern!” He jerked his head in the direction of the back of the ship before returning his full attention to the rope.

Gretel was still attempting to unravel the mouthful of seemingly unrelated and incomprehensible words when a loud, commanding voice nearly blasted her off her feet.

“Gretel of Gesternstadt! Here you are, and a sight for sore eyes, if I may say so.”

She turned to find, standing some way off, his hand on the wheel of the ship, Captain Tobias Ziegler. He cut a fine figure, with a scarlet coat, tight-fitting and silver-braided, and a feathered tricorn of French navy, which seemed splendidly appropriate. From where she stood Gretel could make out an abundant beard; fine, strong features; and dark, dark eyes capable of a powerful gaze. The captain descended from what she would later learn was the poop deck, dropping down the stairs, a hand on either rail, his feet not once touching the polished wooden steps. In an instant he was by her side, the hat whisked from his head to reveal an impressive head of glossy black ringlets, which were loosely secured at the nape. He bowed low, making an unnecessary show of the whole business. Despite her inclination to dislike such showmanship, Gretel found herself snatching her fan from her skirt pocket and working it beneath her chin.

“Captain Ziegler.” She nodded.

“You are welcome, fraulein. Welcome aboard the good ship
Arabella
.”

“I am pleased to be here, and ready to offer my assistance in the mysterious matter of the mermaids.”

At this the captain's demeanor altered at once. All courtesies abandoned, he stepped forward and grabbed Gretel by the elbow, roughly steering her to a less populated area of the deck.

“Have a care, fraulein!” he hissed. “My men are spooked enough as things are. It will not go well with them to know I have required assistance in searching out the truth of these sightings. They must not know what you are about. I entreat you, be discreet in your work.”

Gretel pulled her arm free and took up her lorgnettes to better inspect her new client. At such close range and with the
aid of her glasses, she saw an altogether different fellow. His lean physique remained, but the red coat was clearly military issue of some sort, and had a disturbing patch over the heart, the size and shape of a hole one might imagine a musket ball would produce. The feathers of the hat were not glamorous plumes; rather they appeared to have been plucked directly from a variety of passing seabirds and farmyard fowl. The beard, while manly, was worryingly unkempt, and she suspected that the gloss on the captain's ringlets was not the result of good health and vitality, but of oil of some kind. Or possibly grease. Human or otherwise.