The Case of the Fickle Mermaid (21 page)

To Gretel's horror, Mold drew a pistol from his rancid trousers. His aim looked dangerously poor, as he waved his weapon wildly. She knew she must act. She filled her lungs with sea air and bellowed in her most authoritative voice, “Will you be quiet!!? Put that down now! Stop making such a terrible racket! What do you think you are doing?! What would your mothers say if they could see you now?” Her tone cut through the fug of male bravado and found its target in the small boy that dwells in the heart of every man, however grown, however fierce. All four men stopped what they were doing and stood—or lay—shamefaced, heads drooping under the force of Gretel's disapproval. “I have never in my life,” she went on, “seen such behavior! Hans, take control of your creature. You, uncock that pistol. And you with the dagger, unless you plan to fillet a fish with it, I insist you put it away. Such manners! Such rudeness! Here is a woman in distress, at the mercy of your gallantry, and yet you brawl and scream oaths like common ruffians.” The confusion of being accused of being precisely what they were brought the smugglers up
short. They did as they were told. Gretel pressed home her advantage.

“Now, I intend fetching my day dress and shoes from the lifeboat, and then, if it wouldn't be too much trouble, my brother and I would be exceedingly grateful if you could take us to something that passes for civilization in this region. We are in need of sustenance and refreshment, and a bed for the night. In the morning we will send word to the
Arabella
of our whereabouts. I promise you, your assistance will not go unrewarded,” she added, appealing to their greed as well as their altruism, certain in the knowledge that the former was bound to be larger than the latter.

FOURTEEN

K
een as she was to leave the island, Gretel found herself a reluctant passenger on the smugglers' boat. It was not large enough to accommodate them all, so that Hans and the mer-hund were made to travel in the
Arabella
's lifeboat, which was towed behind. There had been some argument about abandoning the hound, but Hans refused to budge without it, Gretel refused to leave without him, and their rescuers—for such they had now become, willingly or not—after much muttering between them, evidently deemed it better for their own plans if the pair were removed from the island. Their acquiescence in the matter was unnerving. Their interest, Gretel decided, must surely lie in making certain their plans were not
thwarted, and to this end who knew what they might be prepared to do. She had to remain on her guard for the slightest indication that she was about to be tipped into the sea. The crates of brandy that had not been used to feed the signal fire were swiftly stashed in the bottom of their boat. The men had offered no rationale or explanation. They had no need to, for Hans had loudly declared it would indeed be a shame and a waste to leave such expensive liquor behind, especially when whoever put it there had clearly forgotten about it.

The night was black as licorice now, with few stars and a dull, cloud-strewn moon. Gretel knew they were at the mercy of these dangerous men, as only they could safely navigate in such conditions. However much she wanted to be free of them, she did not relish the prospect of being adrift at sea again. She was seated in the rear of the boat, which at least meant she was situated between the rope that connected Hans to them and Cat's Tongue's sharp knife. She was weary to her bones, but sleep was out of the question. She must remain awake. She must remain vigilant. One feeble ship's lantern was all that illuminated their vessel. It threw a patchy light across the faces of the crew, swinging slowly with the rocking of the boat, so that they were revealed in turn, each one more grim-faced and fierce than the last. All of them staring hard at Gretel.

The plain truth was that they were all—with the exception of Hans—engaged in a dangerous charade. Were any of them to voice aloud the word “smuggling,” it would be all up for Gretel, her brother, and even the wretched mer-hund. Gretel knew well enough what it was the men were about. They knew that she knew. She knew that they knew that she knew. They knew she knew this. Hans knew nothing. They all must maintain the pretense that nobody knew anything.

Two hours of this tense journey brought them to another island. This one was larger than the last and boasted a small
harbor, into which they put. The quayside was all but deserted, the hour being late. The men bundled their passengers along in front of them and took them to an inn. It looked presentable enough, and from it came the low hubbub produced by gentle drinking, eating, and conversation. Hans spotted the sign declaring it to be the Star and promising good ale, and gave a cheer.

“This is what we need, sister mine,” he said, rubbing his hands together. “A little beer to refresh us, some tasty food, a cushioned seat, and later a soft bed. We will soon be restored in body and spirit, I am certain of it.”

Cat's Tongue opened the front door and pushed Gretel inside before him. For a few fleeting seconds she took in a warm, relaxed ambience, the reviving aroma of a hearty fish stew that set her mouth watering, basic but serviceable furnishings, a lively fire in the hearth, and a fair collection of inn-goers, all male, all of the baser variety, but all, apparently, still in possession of most of their teeth and senses. The instant they noticed the new arrivals, however, the chatter stopped. A heavy silence sat fatly upon the room now, leaving no room for bonhomie or companionable ease. Whether it was their escort that had caused this sudden chill, or she and Hans because they were strangers, or merely her own female presence, she could not yet discern. Pustule led the way to a high-backed wooden settle in the darkest corner of the room. Gretel strode across the floor to the sound of her own footsteps, head high, affecting a manner which suggested that her disastrous hair, weather-beaten skin, and damp, crumpled dress caused her neither distress nor embarrassment. She felt thirty pairs of eyes watching her as she took her place. Hans sat beside her, and the mer-hund slunk beneath the low table. A grunt from Mold indicated that they were to remain seated, while he and his fellows went to the bar.

Gretel quickly assessed their situation. Their circumstances were considerably improved, inasmuch as they were in an
inn and not on an empty island. There was a fair chance they would be fed and watered. They were no longer at the mercy of the smugglers, but in company. However, that company was now her main source of concern. The stubborn silence that had greeted their arrival persisted, as stubborn things are wont to do. In a rocking chair next to the fire sat a sea-salted old man sucking on a clay pipe. Gretel chanced a smile in his direction. He removed the pipe, but only to hawk and spit elaborately into a nearby spittoon before replacing it and puffing on menacingly. At the next table sat three young men, all wearing shirts apparently a size too small for them, so that their muscles bulged through the straining fabric. Not one of them spoke, nor so much as nodded a greeting toward the newcomers. Leaning against the bar was an enormous man, so tall his head brushed the ceiling, so beetle-browed as to surely suffer impaired vision. He moved only to lift a frothing tankard of ale to his wide mouth. The barman himself wore an expression both sour and dour. It was hard to imagine help would be forthcoming from any of these taciturn inn-goers.

Pustule reappeared at their table. He slammed down plates and beakers in front of them.

“We have business to attend to,” he said, jerking his head in the direction of his brother. “You stay here.”

As he turned to leave, Gretel called after him, “And the messenger gull? We will have been missed by now. I must send word to the
Arabella
that we are safe,” she said, though she felt anything but.

Pustule grunted and shrugged. “I'll fetch 'n back. You wait here,” he repeated. As he and Cat's Tongue went out, Mold took up position on a stool by the door, clearly put there to make sure no one went anywhere they were not supposed to go.

“I say, this bread is not bad. Not bad at all,” Hans told her, tucking into the simple fare they had been given.

Gretel found her own appetite compromised by the thought that Pustule had been in contact with the food. However, good sense prevailed, with its winning argument that nobody ever solved a case on an empty stomach. She nibbled a crust and sipped some ale, and soon found herself able to eat properly. Indeed, bread and cheese had never tasted so delicious. As she feasted she glanced warily about her. Still the inhabitants of the hostelry remained watchful and quiet. Were they in cahoots with the smugglers, perhaps? Were they merely biding their time, awaiting the moment when she and Hans were off guard? She decided she must stay awake at all costs. No matter that exhaustion threatened to swamp her. No matter that she had not slept nor so much as rested in comfort for days. No matter that the food she had just eaten and the sweet ale she had just drunk were combining with her fatigue to render her drowsy and slumberous, she must, no matter what, resist the call of sleep.

When Gretel awoke two hours later, it was to a scene so different from the one she closed her eyes upon that for a moment she could make no sense of it. Had she been transported to a better place while she slept? All about her, men were engaged in happy chatter and cheerful drinking. The old man in his rocker rocked merrily, removing his pipe to offer a cheery grin. The colossus at the bar was playing shove-halfpenny with the barman. The three young men were engaged in a good-natured game of Find the Lady with Hans, who was clearly winning, as evidenced by the pile of coins beside him. Gretel sat up stiffly, aware once more of the gritty griminess of her body and apparel both. She would, at that moment, have given a very great deal of her own hard-earned money for a deep, hot bath, clean clothes, and an uninterrupted night in a bed of cool cotton sheets. As none of this was likely to be forthcoming, she returned her mind to their circumstances and the case. The
former seemed vastly improved. Surely these good and gentle folk could not be in league with murderous villains? And surely they would not give up their visitors to be done away with? And surely a gull would be found, a message sent, and their return to the
Arabella
assured. While these facts were uplifting, they did little to rescue the situation regarding Gretel's work for Captain Ziegler. It was imperative she return to the mermaid in the time given, and already so much of it had slipped by. The only smuggler who remained was the silent one, so questioning him on the matter of contraband brandy and who might have an interest in it, and why some of it had found its way onto the
Arabella
, seemed an impossibility. That she had taken one of the captain's lifeboats, and no doubt caused a deal of consternation and trouble by going missing, would not improve her standing in her client's eyes. It was time to deliver results, if her reputation were not to be sullied by failure. Equally important was the fact that, were the case not solved, it was unlikely in the extreme that she would be paid. A thought altogether too terrible to dwell upon a second longer.

Hans had just persuaded the table to switch to a different game and was concentrating hard, tongue slightly protruding as he did so. She leaned over to her brother, keeping her voice low as she spoke.

“Hans, what have you learned of this place from your newfound friends, and how is it you came by money to gamble with?”

Without for one moment taking his eyes from the cards he was holding, he explained. “These are decent fellows, Gretel. We have nothing to fear from them. Oh! A running flummery flush, I think you'll find!” he cried, pausing to set down his winning hand with a chuckle. He scooped another palmful of coins toward him. “I traded my lighter for my stake,” he told her, inclining his head toward the happy smoker by the fire.
“I intend on buying it back later on. He threw in a pipe, too, look,” he said, holding up a worn clay stump of a thing which he then clamped between his teeth. It had a stout bowl, from which malodorous smoke billowed as he puffed. “This is most welcome, don't mind telling you. Not so much as a sniff of a cigar in days.”

“Ask them what they know of our gallant rescuers, but do so quietly,” she whispered in his ear, holding her breath against the tobacco fumes. She took it upon herself to move a little closer to the elderly man in the rocking chair.

“
Moin moin!
” he said in cheerful greeting.

“Indeed, good evening to you, grandfather,” she said, smiling. “It was good of you to assist my brother. I thank you for your kindness.”

The old man gave a toothless grin. “'Tis easy to be kind when there's profit to be made in it. Your kin might find his handsome lighter has increased in value somewhat by the time he comes to make me an offer for it.”

“I see you are an astute businessman.”

“No point getting older if you don't get wiser.”

“Quite so. Though I have met many who seem to operate a reverse system.”

“Aye, there's plenty of those about.”

“The three men who brought us here might well answer such a description,” she said, watching his reaction closely.

His expression remained inscrutable as he glanced at Mold, still seated at the door but dozing now. The old man thought for a moment and then said, “There's those as lack wisdom but are still sharp enough to cut unwary travelers.”

“Indeed,” Gretel replied. “You know them well enough, it seems. Are they natives of this fair island?”

“They are not,” he said, pausing to avail himself of the spittoon once again. Happily, his aim was true. “They are from off.”

“And yet they frequent this hostelry?”

“There's many from the mainland covet what we islanders have.”

Gretel cast her mind wide and far to imagine what this might be.

“Your sandy beaches? Your quaint inns? Your abundance of . . . fresh air, perhaps?”

“Aye, and more besides.” He leaned forward in a conspiratorial manner. For a moment Gretel feared he might upend himself into the hearth, but his balance held. She met him halfway, not wanting to lose any useful information to an unfortunate bit of hip snapping. “They are jealous of our freedom. Of our privacy. We islanders live our own lives. We are blessed to live where and as we do, and we want for nought. We ask nothing of others, and we expect to be left in peace. 'Tis how it has always been.”