The Case of the Fickle Mermaid (2 page)

“I assure you, sir, I am the very embodiment of discretion. My inquiries will be thorough, diligent, and successful, but not, I stress, via slipshod methods. I must assume it was my reputation that prompted you to engage my services. That reputation is dearer to me than my own brother, and I would do nothing to dent it.”

“That is good to hear indeed.” The captain relaxed sufficiently to treat Gretel to a broad smile. The instant he did so, she was assaulted by a jolt of memory. The sight of his white but unusual teeth, two of which crossed slightly, in his brown face, with those deep-set eyes, combined to stir some long-forgotten knowledge. Stir it, as a creature on the sea floor might stir the fine sand, sending up a cloud of confusion and murk. What that memory was would not reveal itself to her completely. Not yet. She made a mental note to return to sift through those swirling sands in the next available quiet moment.

The captain went on, “May I suggest you let it be thought you are here for a recreational cruise, nothing more?”

“In which case you must resist using my name loudly when we may be heard lest someone recognize it,” she warned him. “As to the notion of recreation, I am already breathless with
anticipation of the delights and comforts that sailing on the
Arabella
might offer me.”

If Captain Ziegler detected any mockery in her words, he chose not to show it. Lowering his voice once more, he said, “This voyage must be a success, fraulein. Word has spread of the disappearance of my two crewmembers, and there are whispers of mermaids even now. It don't take much to put off paying customers, that's the truth of it. And my lads are getting windy. Mermaids are bad luck for sailors, and some will likely jump ship if there are more reports of the fishy little maidens singing in these waters.”

“I sense you do not share their fear of the . . . creatures?”

“I do not. There's not a thing alive has scales that ever frighted Tobias Ziegler. There is room aplenty in the ocean for us all, don't you think?”

“Admirable sentiments, captain. Though for myself, I prefer the idea of
on
rather than
in
the ocean.”

A commotion concerning the loading of supplies took away the captain's attention. “I must tend to my ship, fraulein. Pray excuse me, we will talk more anon.”

“One more thing before you go . . . you do not believe that the missing crewmembers were scared away by the notion of the mermaids? You suspect something other will explain their disappearance?”

“I do. And I am prepared to pay handsomely to discover what that something may be. My very livelihood depends upon it.”

“Be at peace, Captain Ziegler, you have come to the right person for help.” She watched him stride away to give commands to his crew. He was a man of some presence, some appeal even, though his charms were, to Gretel's eye, a smidge too rough around the edges, lacking in refinement. It was clear, as she watched him go about his mastering of the ship,
however, that he had the respect and even the affection of his crew. She noticed also her fellow passengers drifting somewhat restlessly, no doubt as impatient as she was to set sail and be off. There was a small man alone, in sensible clothing, who gazed intently out to sea; a young couple, so enraptured by each other that they might as well have been in a cave for all the interest they took in their surroundings; and a trio of women of a certain age at the far end of the ship, busily working their fans and twirling their parasols in a manner altogether too coquettish for their years. What other cruise-goers there were remained belowdecks, and Gretel suspected some might take a day or two to find their sea legs.

All at once, she found that the strains of such a long journey and many days traveling had caught up with her. She needed a little lie-down and a reviving glass of something before changing for dinner. She was on the point of moving, when something on the very periphery of her vision snagged her attention. She turned, not certain what she had seen or what she expected to find, but knowing there had been something. Yet when she searched the rigging and sails she could see nothing that fitted the glimpse of movement, the fleeting flash of color she had noticed. She peered upward through her lorgnettes, but still there was nothing. With a sigh she decided fatigue was adversely affecting her eyesight. She selected the cleanest-looking crewmember within reach and tapped him on the shoulder with her silver glasses.

“Be so good as to take me to my cabin, would you? A two-berth. Gretel of Gesternstadt. See if you can't find out where I am to be billeted.”

The youth had a pleasant face and cheery manner that would surely fade in proportion to the passing years, particularly if he was to serve them on board a ship of such base company, Gretel felt.

“Of course, fraulein. This way, if you please,” he said, scampering ahead.

“You are in possession of a list of guests and their allocated cabins?” Gretel had to hurry to keep up as the boy dashed down a flight of stairs so steep they could better have been called a ladder.

“No, fraulein,” he talked over his shoulder as he led her along increasingly narrow corridors and down yet more steps, “and it would do me no good if I were, for I cannot read a word. But I know where the passengers are berthed. Follow me, if you please.”

They dropped down still another deck, so that Gretel feared they would soon be in the hold.

“Are you sure this is correct? If we descend any farther we must surely find ourselves below the waterline.”

The boy laughed at this. “Oh, no, fraulein! However could the cannons have been fired if they were not above the water?”

“The cannons?”

The boy had come to a halt in a passageway so narrow that even his slender frame nearly filled it. Gretel was uncomfortably aware of the walls pressing in on her.

“Yes, fraulein. When the ship was converted, the deck that used to house the cannons was given over for passenger berths so that the holes they once fired through could be fixed up as portholes. And very good ones they make, too. I am certain you will be pleased.”

Before Gretel had time to process this information, he ducked into a cupboard and gestured that she should pass.

“Everyone else is aboard and has taken their cabins. There is one left for you at the end of the passage.”

A glance showed her a stack of luggage filling the corridor and she recognized it as her own.

“Thank you,” she said to the boy, pressing a coin into his palm. “Give me your name, in case I have need of you again.”

“It is Will, fraulein. Thank you very much, fraulein!” So saying, he darted back the way he had come, carried swiftly up the stairs by his springy young legs and boyish enthusiasm for life.

Gretel squeezed herself onward until she was forced to stop by her own trunks.

“Hans!” she called out. “Where the devil are you?”

The narrow door opened. Hans's bulk entirely filled the frame. “You took your time. Thirsty work being an unpaid porter, you know.”

“Why is the luggage still out here?”

He raised his arms as far as space would allow—which is to say barely at all—in a gesture of helplessness.

“It's it or us. We won't all fit.”

“What? Nonsense. Let me see. Stand aside.”

“There is no side.”

“Hans, for pity's sake, don't be so difficult. Let me in!”

There followed a moment of squeezing and squashing during which Gretel was forced into a proximity with her sibling she had never been compelled to endure before, and would walk a very long way to avoid having to do ever again. At last, with a gasp and a popping sound, she gained entry into the cabin. “Small” was too big a word for it. She tried thinking of it as
bijou
in the hope that it might sound a little bigger and a little more sophisticated. It didn't work. She realized now that what she had taken for a cupboard when Will had stepped out of her path must have been another berth of similarly skimpy dimensions. There were two bunk beds, which ran the length of the space. The gap between the lower and the upper looked generous only when compared to the gap between the upper and the ceiling, which had evidently been designed to accommodate a person with neither bosom nor belly. Which ruled both her and Hans out. A tiny table was fixed into one corner,
and beneath it sat a tiny stool, its silk cushion fooling no one as to its rustic provenance. On the far wall—where “far” is taken to mean the distance a person could easily spit should they feel so inclined (which Gretel did)—was the promised porthole. Its brass fitments were pleasant enough, and daylight did fall through it onto the threadbare rug. Sadly, the fact that it was at ankle height rendered it useless for viewing the outside world. Which was already beginning to feel like a distant memory. The cabin was, naturally, constructed entirely of wood, worn and polished by use over many years, so that Gretel had the impression she was standing inside a much-traveled packing crate. Or possibly a coffin. She gave a shiver. All thoughts of languishing on her bed while sipping a little brandy vanished.

Hans put a cigar in his mouth and took from his pocket his new silver lighter. He had purchased the modern device especially for the voyage, reasoning that sea breezes might extinguish a match too easily. He flicked at the flint striker with his thumb.

“Hans, if you start puffing cigar smoke about the place, the air in here will be used up entirely in a matter of moments.”

“Oh? Now I am to be denied the smallest of pleasures?”

Gretel pushed him through the door. “Come along,” she said, following him out. “We are in urgent need of three things. Air, ale, and an upgrade!”

TWO

T
he saloon bar on board the
Arabella
was a low-ceilinged room that had all the charm and appeal of a forgotten roadside tavern.

“Ah!” declared Hans. “This is more like it. Just what a fellow needs. My good man,” he addressed the barman, “some of your finest ale, if you please.” He slid onto a barstool with a nimbleness that belied his size. Gretel cautiously took up her perch opposite. The stools were sufficiently high that, once mounted, they raised the sitter uncomfortably close to the ceiling. Gretel decided this was not a room in which she would be wearing her fabulous new wig. The glorious object, a present to herself after her recent testing work in Nuremberg, sat snugly in its
box in her cabin, awaiting its moment to debut. It demanded altogether more glamorous surroundings than the ship had so far revealed, such that Gretel began to fear that she might not have the opportunity to wear it, nor some of the more elaborate new gowns she had purchased for the cruise.

“Here you are, sir, and for you, madam.” The barman placed two tall glasses of beer in front of them. He was a slender man, presentable, well groomed, and attentive. The perfect combination for a barman.

Gretel raised her glass to him. “Your good health,” she said before downing half her drink in thirsty swallows. She dabbed foam from her lips with a lace handkerchief. “Your accent . . . I could not help but notice . . . is it English, perhaps?”

“Madam has a keen ear! I hail from a small coastal town named Brighton, though I have not seen the shores of old England for many years now.”

Hans drained his glass and banged it down on the bar. “Ah! Most acceptable. Another, barkeep!” he demanded, adding a loud belch as punctuation.

Gretel frowned. “Forgive my brother. We have had a long and dusty journey. His manners are a little frayed.”

“Madam, think nothing of it. My sensibilities have gained a hardy veneer, I assure you.” He leaned close, glancing around the half-empty room before confiding, “When first I took up my post as steward on the
Arabella,
I confess I was shocked. Oh!” He rolled his eyes heavenward. “You would not believe the uncouthness and obscenities I endured!”

“Ah, from the crew, no doubt.”

“Crew, passengers, captain.” He flicked his bar towel expressively. “I had never heard the like. I swear it is as if being on a ship puts it into a person's head that he may let slip the observance of the niceties and refinements that make this rough and ready life through which we must pass tolerable. Ooh,
my word, my goodness, I cannot begin to tell you,” he said, shaking his head and picking up a glass to polish it with vigor.

“Indeed.” Gretel nodded. “I have heard it said that those traveling abroad for recreational purposes often omit to pack among their luggage their Usual Standards and Dignity.”

“Madam, it is true! Or if they bring them with them, I see no evidence of it. Dignity? Upon my word!”

Gretel and Hans both stole a glance at the company in the bar. All seemed entirely respectable and subdued.

Guessing their thoughts, the barman added, “Oh, they can all show a little restraint in port. You wait till we set sail.” He polished on, the glass in his hand gleaming. “Ooh, yes. Once we are at sea, that's when people show their true colors.”

“How interesting.” She leaned forward, hoping to draw him into further confidences. “Tell me, Steward, are there any better cabins than the ones on the lower deck? We seem to have been allocated somewhat inadequate accommodation.”

“Ooh, well, madam, there is only the captain's cabin. Far as I know there's nothing more. We crew must make do with hammocks in the hold.” Here he tutted and rolled his eyes again. “Such bedfellows!”

Gretel nodded sympathetically. “You seem to me like a man who knows what's what, knows what's going on. I heard that the ship's company is reduced by two. Did you know the crewmembers who are . . . no longer here?”

The steward's eyes flashed. “I did not, madam, as I am recently come to this ship, but I heard tell. One was a fine steward of many years' experience, the other a lookout boy of tender age. No explanation was given for their leaving. It is as if they simply vanished!”