The Case of the Fickle Mermaid (12 page)

“How utterly revolting!” she told herself, her voice echoing flatly around the cramped space. She squinted out of the rear window. The sun had dropped to the inland horizon; the light was flat and dull. All the other bathing carriages had been returned to their original positions at the top of the beach, well above the waterline. There was not a living soul to be seen. No Hoffman. No Birgit et al. Not even the chunky cob and its master. No one. She had been abandoned. All of a sudden, the surf surged forward and upward. Gretel cried out as an unnervingly strong wave rushed into the wooden hut. As there was no way for it to get out, the level rose with alarming speed, so that even standing up she was doused to her bosom. As the wave receded, she cursed at the realization that all her clothes were now soaked, as the shelf on which she had so carefully placed them had been covered by the brief inundation. In any case, there was too much water and too little room for maneuver to allow her to change back into her petticoats and day dress. The awful truth presented itself to her, ugly side up. The tide was coming in. The level of the water inside the bathing machine was rising. If it was not to be all up for Gretel (yes,
that
Gretel) of Gesternstadt, she had to get out. Soon. And the only way out was down the steps and into the sea. It was hard to judge precisely how deep the water was that now surrounded the little wheeled hut, but going on the height of the floor, the size of the wheels, and the amount of water currently inside, the conclusion she came to was that she would be out of her depth. Which would mean swimming. Except that she could not.

How had she come to be in this predicament? It made no sense. All the other bathing machines were empty. The group from the
Arabella
gone. What would have made them leave her behind? The neat line the wooden carriages now presented did not suggest any haste or emergency. Why, then, had they not woken her and taken her with them?

Gretel had no answers for these questions. The only thing she was certain of was that Hoffman lay behind her situation. She had always suspected the man had something to hide. At last she had the motive that had driven him to play escort for the excursion. He had wanted to be rid of her. Her questions had evidently spooked him. He must have planned to maroon her in this way, and had clearly fabricated some story that convinced the rest of the party that she was no longer in her bathing machine when they left.

Fury began to form a cold, hard knot in Gretel's stomach. It was kept company by the colder, harder pain of indigestion, which reminded her that she had had nothing to eat or drink for several hours. With these twin goads lending her courage, she started her descent of the steps. She would not just sit about to meet a soggy end. She would walk on the seabed if necessary, scramble and claw among the seaweed and shells, hitch a ride on a passing turtle if she had to, but one way or another she would get out of her humiliating situation, save her own water-wrinkled skin, and return to the
Arabella
to deal with the murderous quartermaster.

There was a different coldness to the water now. Gone was the refreshing quality that had been so pleasant. Instead the water felt as if it might chill her to the very bone, or even stop her heart. Every fiber of her being cried out for her to stop, go back, stay out of those dark depths. But she knew she had no choice; she must go on. On tiptoe upon the bottom step the water was up to her chins. She leaned against the side panel, planning to use it to pull herself around and up the other side. For a moment she hesitated, her nerve threatening to fail her. She thought of Hans. If she didn't make it back, would he be fated to stay forever aboard the
Arabella
, working his endless passage as ship's cook, with only the mer-hund to call friend? What would become of her dear home, left to house nothing
but cobwebs and dust? Would Ferdinand mourn her passing, or would he simply give one of his maddeningly handsome, rueful smiles, and go on with his life without her?

“Not if I can help it!” she roared, taking a huge breath, and plunging into the water. Beneath the surface all was silence, save for the pounding of her own heartbeat against her eardrums. When she stepped off the last stair and her feet met the sandy seabed, the water covered her entirely. It was too dark and swirly to see anything helpful, so Gretel closed her eyes and groped her way along, scratching at the wet wood of the side panels, taking enormous, slow, bouncing strides. It was more than a little terrifying having to force herself to go farther into the sea, but there was no option. She had to get free of the bathing carriage before she could head for the shore again. She could only hope that she had sufficient breath and strength and time to make the journey, for she knew she would not be able to propel herself to the surface from such a depth. She held on to her rage at Hoffman to drive her forward.

At one point something slimy and sinuous slithered around her ankle and then was gone. She told herself it was much too cold for snakes, and pressed on. She became aware of pressure building up inside her, and of a faintness that must come from using up most of the workable air in her lungs. She must not give way to panic. At last her fingers curled around the edge of the panel. She dragged herself around it, galvanized by the thought of how near freedom was. The tide must have been beginning to turn, for it was harder to make progress in the direction of land now. She clawed and scrabbled, and kicked at the melting sand beneath her feet, and at last she felt her head break through the surface. She gasped, exhaling spent breath and gulping air too soon, so that she took in an equal quantity of water. Coughing and spluttering, thrashing without thought or restraint, she flung herself through the breaking waves and
onto the beach. With her last scrap of strength she crawled out of the water, coughing up brine, before collapsing exhausted onto her back. She lay where she fell, eyes shut, entirely done in, but aware of the mounting elation that follows the experience of surviving a brush with death.

“A pleasant day for a swim, fraulein.”

The voice was unmistakable. Gretel ground her teeth, just the teeniest, weeniest bit. It wasn't that she was sorry he was there. She was glad. It wasn't that she did not want to see him. She did. It wasn't even that, had he arrived but a few minutes earlier he could have spared her the trouble of her waterlogged walk and helped her effect a less terrifying and considerably drier escape. She was safe, after all. No real harm done. No, none of those factors was the cause of her clenched jaw, deepening frown, and building urge to scream. What it
was
was that yet
again
the one man in the whole of Germany (including but not confined to territories off its shores) to whom she dearly wished to present herself in the best and most flattering of lights was witness to her at her absolute worst. On this occasion, she was sporting a garment so vile in its fabric, so unforgiving in its cut, and so revealing in its shape, it was as if it had been designed specifically to highlight every flaw she possessed. Highlight, expose, draw attention to, and generally flaunt. Her sodden hair clung to her head like so much seaweed. Her face had been alternately scorched, poached, and sand-scrubbed to a shining redness she suspected might be visible for several miles in any direction. She had not the aid of perfume nor powder, but instead the aroma of shellfish, and a dusting of sand.

She opened her eyes.

“Good afternoon to you, General von Ferdinand,” she said. “A pleasant day to be out riding, too,” she added, taking in the magnificent horse he was mounted on. She had never seen such a beautiful animal. It was ebony black, with a proud
bearing and arched neck. Its mane was long and flowing, with an attractive wave to it.

“Isn't he splendid? He is a Frisian, lent to me for the day. I shan't want to return him to his owner,” he said, patting the horse's velvety neck.

Gretel knew things had reached a Bad State of Affairs when she was being outshone by a horse. Even if it was a particularly fabulous one. The stallion lowered its head to sniff her curiously. With as much dignity as she could muster, Gretel scrambled to her feet.

“It appears I have been left behind,” she told Ferdinand.

“An astonishing oversight on someone's part.”

“I think not.”

“You suspect a deliberate act?”

“I am certain of it.”

Ferdinand nodded slowly, taking in the perilous position of the bathing machine and the sorry condition of its recent occupant. “It would seem that, once again, Fraulein Gretel, your talent for identifying a villain has led you into danger.”

“Happily, my talent for survival is also well developed. However, I find myself ill-clad, ill-shod, and ill-disposed to effect my return to the
Arabella
. Might I prevail upon you to assist me?”

“It would be my honor,” he said, slipping down from the horse. He undid his burgundy cape with the gold silk lining and wrapped it around Gretel's chilly shoulders before assisting her ascent into the saddle. He sprang up to sit behind her, taking the reins in one hand, his other arm holding her tightly to him.

It was not the most comfortable of perches, and Gretel was painfully aware of how ghastly her hair looked and how stout her legs appeared where they protruded from beneath the cape, but she would not, at that moment, as they galloped across the
sands with Ferdinand clasping her close, and the fine horse carrying them away to safety, have wished herself anywhere else on earth.

Some time later, safely back aboard the ship, her hair dried and tamed, her clothes changed, herself restored to some manner of normality, Gretel shared a glass of wine on deck with Ferdinand. Her arrival had caused confusion. She had been greeted by her fellow salt-water bathers with a disconcerting lack of concern. Questioning revealed that they had understood her to have left her bathing machine moments after they had disappeared into their own, having decided against using it. Herr Hoffman had informed them that she had instead chosen to explore the island, no doubt looking for evidence of mermaids, or clues as to Frenchie's whereabouts. Indeed, they had waited some time at the tender for her to appear at the agreed hour, and some had grown quite infuriated that she had not kept the rendezvous. When Dr. Becker reached them, they felt certain that he must have seen her while searching for seabirds, but he claimed not to have. It was then that Herr Hoffman decided they could wait no longer or they might miss the tide. He had assured them a smaller rowing boat would be sent back with able men to search for her as soon as was possible.

The quartermaster had shown an impressive nimbleness of mind. Gretel surmised he must have had approximately half an hour from the time he identified her in the tender Ferdinand used to ferry her to the
Arabella
to the moment she was brought aboard and stood toe-to-toe with him. Calculating that he would have needed a full two minutes to recover from the shock of seeing her alive, followed by another eight of barely suppressed panic wherein he quite possibly believed he was
on the point of being exposed as a would-be assassin, that left him no more than twenty minutes to invent a plausible excuse for his actions. He had convincingly feigned both delight and surprise at seeing her, which, given his habitually immobile features, was in itself quite an achievement. He had insisted he was on the point of sending a boat and swift oarsmen back to the island to look for her in the interior, prepared to rouse a search party from the village if necessary. When asked why he had thought she had left the bathing machine, he had maintained that one of the crew who had helped row the tender had been informed by the other crewmember also on the excursion who had been told this was so by the ostler with the draft horse. Since he spoke no German, and they spoke no Danish, confusion and misunderstanding had ensued.

Someone had suggested it was odd that the bathing carriage had been left in the sea rather than returned to dry land. To this, the quartermaster had responded that it was not his job to oversee the repositioning of an empty hut. His responsibility had been to return the passengers to the
Arabella
while the tide was favorable.

As excuses went it was pretty flimsy, but Gretel was prepared to bide her time. She knew that it would be hard to prove evil intent on Hoffman's part, but now she knew what she was up against. She knew that he had something sufficiently serious to hide to warrant attempting her murder. And what was more, he knew that she knew. She would watch him. She would wait. Such an inflammatory secret could not help but burn through whatever shrouded it sooner rather than later.

She and Ferdinand sat side by side, enjoying a passable claret and making the most of a pleasant sunset. Others were strolling about the deck or reclining in chairs here and there, no doubt happily tired if a little salty after their excursion and all with sharp appetites for the feast Hans was at that moment
preparing for them. Beside Gretel the mer-hund, delighted at no longer being confined alone to the cabin, stretched out panting in the evening sun, nibbling on the remnants of yet another bone. Suddenly it left off its licking and munching to raise its head, ears pricked, and gaze up into the sails. Gretel thought it an unlikely place for a mermaid to be hiding, but followed its gaze, only to find the sea sprite sitting in a knot of rope, watching. The mer-hund wagged its tail briefly and then went back to its bone. The sea sprite pointed at Ferdinand and then got to its furry feet and performed a saucy little dance before turning to laugh at Gretel in a highly suggestive manner. It was a highly eloquent little performance that she did not care for. She mouthed “shoo” at it, and it scampered away, laughing silently still, fading into the confusion of sail and rope and masts. Gretel glanced at the general, but he seemed not to have noticed the tiny interloper. Some way off, bathed in the pink of a northern sundown, the
Fair Fortune
lay at anchor. Gretel waved her glass at it.