The Case of the Fickle Mermaid (11 page)

The truth was, Gretel had other reasons for booking her seat on the tender that was to take them to Amrum. Whatever the magical properties of seawater, she felt she had already seen, swallowed, and been doused in more than enough of the stuff. As for the notion of lowering herself, clad in a ridiculous bathing costume, into the briny surf for the purpose of floating about like so much flotsam, nothing could appeal to her less. However, Herr Hoffman was to accompany the passengers on the trip. She had overheard him insisting to Captain Ziegler that he should be in charge of the outing, remaining with the party throughout the day to ensure their safety. The captain had been happy to let him do so, clearly not relishing the prospect of having to play host himself. But why, Gretel wondered, was the quartermaster so keen to put himself forward for the duty? He was the least sociable man on board, and she could not, however hard she tried, picture him frolicking in the waves. There was something behind his action, some hidden motive, and if she was to stand any chance of discovering what it was, she must go to the wretched island herself. Fortunately, she had acquired a bathing suit for the cruise. She shuddered briefly at the memory of how she had looked wearing the thing in the privacy of her own bedroom. The thought of stepping out in public wearing nothing but the unflattering stripy horror was a depressing one. She clung tight—as a drowning woman to a barrel—to the fact that the island boasted bathing machines. She had been assured that one of these would provide total privacy for her sea-bathing.

The journey from the
Arabella
was pleasant enough. The ship's tender was both comfortable and seaworthy, and there was room aplenty for the brave band of passengers who had signed up for the excursion. There were the Schmidts, naturally; Birgit and her phalanx, no doubt lured by the promise of a miracle beauty treatment; and Dr. Becker, who told any who cared to listen and some who didn't of all the rare bird species he hoped to have sight of on Amrum. Aside from these, two elderly couples from Hamburg, a dry stick of a spinster and her matching sister, Gretel, two oarsmen, and Hoffman made up the party. Hans could now not be shifted from his kitchen, and would anyway never have put himself in such proximity to That Woman. He had assured Gretel that he would use the time to walk the mer-hund around decks so that he and it both might exercise.

The waters surrounding the chosen isle were shallow, so that the
Arabella
had been forced to anchor at some distance. When first Gretel had had Amrum pointed out to her, she had assumed that it was this distance that made it look so small. She was disappointed, then, to discover that it looked scarcely any larger when they were upon it. Hoffman and the seamen jumped out and hauled the boat onto the shore, wading through the water to do so. Everyone on board became quite childishly excited as they were required to disembark into the shallows themselves. Everyone except Gretel. Boots and shoes were removed first, and there was a deal of silly squealing and exclaiming as people splashed their way onto the beach. The temperature of the water came as a nasty shock. Given that it was summer, and the morning was already hot, it came as an unpleasant surprise to find that the sea itself evidently thought it was still winter. A chill shot through Gretel's feet, traveled up her entire body, finishing with a jarring pain in her teeth. By the time she came to stand on what passed for
terra firma
,
she had lost all sensation in her toes. The sand, in contrast, had kept up with the changing seasons and was fearfully hot. A fact that revealed itself to Gretel as feeling returned to her lower extremities, causing her to hop from one foot to the other as if she were practicing some undignified rustic dance.

“Good grief!” she snapped. “Is one expected to enjoy such torture? Whatever next?”

“Oh, Gretel,” giggled Birgit, “don't be a such a killjoy. We are here to have fun, are we not?”

“Fun?
Joy?
” Gretel did not trust herself to respond further. Looking about her, she surmised that Amrum offered an abundance of nothing. The beach stretched away in both directions, an uninterrupted expanse of nothingness. A little farther inland there were pale dunes, from which sprouted sparse, wiry grass, lonesome as the last hairs on the head of a balding man. There was not a bush, nor tree, nor building of any sort to give shade or shelter. To Gretel the place presented a perfect picture of desolation, so barren and bare it made her pine afresh for her own house and even the tweeness of Gesternstadt. At least her hometown was inhabited. Amrum was wilderness, which Gretel held meant a lack of anything one might actually wish for. Such as comfortable seating. Or a decent meal. Or something admirable by way of architecture, perhaps. Or society, indeed. What could the poor folk of Amrum do by way of cultural stimulation and refined living, she wondered.

“Is this place actually inhabited?” she asked of Herr Hoffman.

“There is a village further inland,” he said, indicating somewhere beyond the dunes.

Dr. Becker smiled at her. “Fraulein, the beauty of this island is precisely the absence of man's heavy-handed presence. Here nature still rules. It is a paradise for seabirds.”

“Indeed.”

“Look!” he cried excitedly, pointed into the middle distance, his voice hoarse with emotion. “A lesser crested greater spotted egret, if I am not mistaken. Wonderful! And another. Must be a breeding pair.” He had no need of his glasses now, only his hand to shield his eyes from the increasingly strong sun. Without waiting for anyone to comment on his find, he hurried off toward the dunes.

The quartermaster grunted. “It seems saltwater swimming holds no interest for the good doctor. This way, if you please,” he called to the little group. “Allow me to show you to your bathing machine,” he said, his tone uncharacteristically solicitous.

Gretel let him lead the way along the scorching sands. The others followed, laughing at the lopsided gait the shifting surface beneath their feet forced them into. The honeymooners took off their shoes, squealing at the heat of the sand. Birgit and her comrades followed suit. They blundered on for what felt like an age before the beach curved a little to the left, and behind some large dunes they found a row of curious, brightly painted wooden huts on wheels. Each had a pair of shafts, and a stout horse and its equally stout owner stood waiting to tow the devices out into the sea. Hoffman addressed the man with a string of curious-sounding words Gretel took to be Danish. The incomprehensible exchange seemed to result in terms being struck. Hoffman turned to the party.

“Ladies, gentlemen, please choose your bathing machine. You enter by the steps and door at the back. Inside you may change into your costumes, leaving your clothes on the shelf provided. When you are ready, sing out; the ostler will hitch up his horse and tow the carriage into the sea, turning so that you may exit down the steps and into the water for bathing.”

Those present meekly did as they were bid. The steps were quite steep, and the doorway narrow, so that Gretel entered
only with some effort and struggle. Inside was clean, but the space restrictive, so that by the time she had divested herself of her clothing and wriggled into her bathing attire she was unpleasantly hot and damp with perspiration. Gazing down at her body, she thought that she had never worn such an unflattering garment. The clingy nature of the fabric held every voluptuous mound and curve in a tight embrace, while the broad horizontal stripes she had been assured were
de rigueur
for such a thing had an unhelpful broadening effect. Comforting herself with the knowledge that no one else would be able to view her, as the bathing machine afforded her total privacy, she hollered for the horse to be brought. The animal's handler kept up a stream of unfathomable chatter as he backed the horse into the shafts, attached the straps and chains, and then led it forward. The deep, dry sand caused the contraption to lurch and sway alarmingly, but the pace was slow and steady, and they reached the sea without mishap. Gretel held on tight as the little house was turned and then backed into the surf. The final position was with the entrance door and steps in the sea, the rear, with the shafts and a small viewing window, facing back up the beach. The handler detached the horse and wound down two stabilizing feet from the bathing machine into the sand before heading off to move the next one into place. Gretel peered out through the little window. She could see Herr Hoffman seated among the dunes, leaning back on his elbow, relying on his hat for shade, taking out his pipe in the manner of one planning a lengthy stay. He did not look like a person about to do anything suspicious or interesting. The whole point of coming on the excursion had been to watch him, but there was nothing to watch.

With a sigh, Gretel decided she might as well experience what little the empty island had to offer and partake of the sea-bathing. She turned and opened the door on the seaward side.
She shuffled out and sat on the top step. To either side, panels protruded so that she could not see left or right, and no one could see the area of water into which the steps would lower her. The view directly out across the ocean was quite striking. The
Arabella
could be made out anchored at some distance, but other than that there was only an expanse of shimmering teal blue water, fading into pale blue sky at the horizon. Sunlight danced and sparkled on the gently ruffled surface. Somewhere high above, gulls called, their cries drifting away in a manner that was both plaintive and faintly soothing. Soft waves lapped at the bottom stair of Gretel's conveyance. She reached down and dipped a toe into the water. For all the heat of the day, it was shockingly cold. This was a disappointment, as Gretel always preferred her baths as hot as possible. However, she was so overheated by now that the coolness, and the refreshment it promised, was in fact quite appealing. Cautiously, she lowered herself down until she was seated on the bottommost step. She gasped as the water washed over her body, but held her nerve and her position, sighing as the invigorating salt water flowed over her. She settled so that she was submerged up to her waist, which felt both daring and yet reasonably safe. She had never learned to swim, and now was not the time to try. There was no necessity, she decided, to cast herself free of the safety of the bathing machine; here on the step, semi-immersed, she could surely enjoy all the benefits the sea had to offer without imperiling herself. She wriggled forward a little, so that she could comfortably lean back against the higher steps. Her eyes closed, her face shaded by the overhang of the roof, she felt blissfully relaxed.

In such a state she was able to consider the facts in a fresh light. Frenchie was still missing, his disappearance unexplained. Hoffman was hiding something. In this quiet moment, Gretel brought to mind the curious rhyme the sea sprite had
given her as a puzzle. She had half hoped to encounter the little creature again. It seemed to her it was well placed to witness the goings-on aboard ship; perhaps it could shed some light on the case. Aside from this probability, something recent seemed to connect to it to other salient facts, though Gretel could not quite fathom how. She turned the words over in her mind, muttering them as she did so.

“‘Look once, look twice, look again at the tooth”—indeed, I should not like to look too closely at the sprite's own teeth. But it could not have been referring to itself, surely? No, another tooth, another mouth. “Ah-
ha!
I have it!” she cried, opening her eyes and sitting up a little. That smile, she had known there was something familiar about it—the crooked teeth. Captain Tobias Ziegler he might be now, but that man was and always would be none other than the Snaggle-Toothed Pirate! So famous that his likeness had been rendered in a thousand pamphlets and notices. How could it have taken her so long to see it? Granted, it had been a few years since his exploits were last reported, but even so, anyone in the southern half of Germany would have heard of him. The Mediterranean had been his favorite hunting ground, so that interest in his daring deeds was stronger there than in the north. Gretel reasoned that this could be the reason none of her fellow passengers had apparently recognized him. And the
Arabella
's former purpose was to sail the high seas in search of ships to plunder. That explained the nature of most of the crew. But not all of them. Not Hoffman. What was it the captain said? The reason he hired him . . . Gretel searched her mind for it. There was something he had brought with him that Ziegler could not do without. What, though? In an attempt to jog her memory, Gretel recited aloud the sea sprite's little rhyme.

“‘First the coat, then the badge . . . . dum de dum de something-or-other . . . for the truth.' The coat? His pirate's booty
taken from a conquered adversary, perhaps. The badge? A badge of honor? Of captaincy? That would fit. Hoffman is a professional sailor of some reputation. A
legitimate
reputation. Something a pirate would need to make the transformation from buccaneer to master of a cruise ship, one might imagine.”

Pleased with her own insight, Gretel closed her eyes and settled into the water once again. She stifled a yawn. Several interrupted nights and patchy access to meals had taken their toll. Why should she not enjoy a little relaxation? As her body half floated, lifted and lowered by the ebb and flow of the waves, her mind too floated, further and further, until all thoughts became blurred and sounds muted, and sleep claimed her.

On waking, she had difficulty making sense of her situation. Her head felt hot, but the rest of her felt nothing at all. She was benumbed. Had she become a bodiless head somehow? What had happened to her, and where on God's earth was she? She attempted to sit up, but her limbs were reluctant to cooperate in their heavy, lifeless state. As she blinked sleep from her eyes, she recalled that she had fallen into slumber while sitting upon the steps of her bathing machine. How long ago must that have been? She was indeed, still on the steps, a point brought home to her with cruel insistence by the one sensation of which she was aware—that of the wooden steps digging into her back. The level of the water had risen so that she was now submerged up to her neck. Fighting mounting panic, she attempted to haul herself up the steps. Her costume had doubled in weight, now that it was saturated, and her chilled arms and legs moved only sluggishly and clumsily despite what she considered Herculean effort. She gasped in horror as she caught sight of her puffy, wrinkled fingers and palms. Once she had dragged herself out of the water and into the bathing machine proper, she could see that her feet were similarly transformed.