The Case of the Fickle Mermaid (28 page)

“But who is it that you are?” she demanded of him. “Will you act as the Snaggle-Toothed Pirate? Or are you truly become the man you claim to be, Captain Tobias Ziegler of the good ship
Arabella
?”

There was a tense pause, filled with hope on Gretel's part, horror on the doctor's part, silent rage on the captain's part, and a steaming stream of urine on Cat's Tongue's part. Reluctantly, slowly, the captain took a step back and lowered his sword. Gretel smiled a
well done!
at him. Cat's Tongue fainted from relief and loss of blood.

Gretel found the business of binding the rogues who had so recently bound her rather satisfying, enjoying the opportunity to let them see how rough rope chafed and rubbed, how knots dug into tender places, and how extremities were alternately throbbing or benumbed. Before Cat's Tongue came to what little senses he possessed, she removed Frenchie's knife from him and tucked it into her skirt pocket. She then tore off a strip of petticoat with which to wrap his wound and stanch the flow of blood, which was in fact not a threat to his life. She made a note to add a hefty amount to Captain Ziegler's bill to cover the cost of the proportion of her wardrobe that had been sacrificed during her investigations into the case. It was decided that Dr. Becker would take his boat, with Braun to assist him, and ferry Pustule and Mold to the island of Sylt, where there was a kingsman's station, which would no doubt be happy to receive them and mete out justice in due course. Cat's Tongue they would take back with them to the ship, Gretel having explained to the captain about his having been in possession of Frenchie's knife. The last they saw of the larger vessel involved in the smuggling, it was turned about and making all speed in the direction opposed to the island, likely having heard pistol fire, seen an altercation on the shore, and decided on discretion being the better part of valor.

As they tied Cat's Tongue to the oarlocks in the lifeboat, Gretel put the situation to him bluntly.

“You are in no small amount of trouble, there's no dressing it up. You are a smuggler and a would-be murderer. Your future, in short, does not look bright. Or long.”

Here Cat's Tongue fell to weeping.

“However,” Gretel went on, allowing the word to come loaded with hope and possibility, both of which, she knew, would have a profound effect on the man, “there is yet a way you might, to some extent, redeem yourself, and possibly even avoid the scaffold.”

“What? What is it you want me to do? I'll do anything, just tell me,” he begged.

“Give me Hoffman,” she said. “Tell me all that he is and all that he has done, spare not a single detail, speak up and speak quickly, and it will go easier for you, I promise.”

And before the captain had maneuvered the little boat beyond the breakwater, an eager Cat's Tongue was singing louder and clearer than the mermaid herself.

EIGHTEEN

A
s they came alongside the
Arabella
, Gretel could make out the distinctive silhouette of Hans at the rail. It was by now past the hour for cooking lunch, and he stood in his chef's apron, an unlit cigar in his mouth.

“I say, sister mine, you've caught one of our old acquaintances,” he noted as she came aboard.

“We have. His fellow villains are even now being found a cozy bed in the jailhouse on the island of Sylt. Tell me”—she glanced about her—“has the baroness arrived?”

“She most certainly has. She and her party are in the dining room finishing their meal. Difficult woman to please, I don't mind telling you. I served up the very finest of Frenchie's
recipes, did him proud, if I say so myself, and still her ladyship kept a face as sour as a Greek lemon.”

“It is, to my knowledge, the only face she has.” Gretel hesitated, then, lowering her voice, asked, “And the Uber General? He . . . ?”

“Is here, too, yes, and asking after you.”

“Oh?” Gretel's feigned nonchalance was unconvincing.

“Yes, though I think he mainly wants your protection from That Woman's traveling companions. They have set their caps at the poor man.” Hans shook his head slowly. “A woman so fixed on her prey is a frightening thing to see. I came up here for a soothing cigar”—he gestured with the unsmoked one in his hand—“but my lighter is lost, gone from my waistcoat pocket where it has always been. No sign of the thing.”

The captain called to Gretel. “Shall we summon Hoffman directly?” he asked. “Where is the scoundrel?”

Hans confirmed he was below with the visitors, playing the part of host adequately.

“If you could just give me a few minutes, captain. There is something I must attend to first. Hold our guest out of sight for now.”

“This cannot keep long, fraulein.”

“I know it. But we have only one chance to snare the quartermaster. There is another step to be taken before we reveal our knowledge and our charming witness.”

“Very well. I will await your word in my cabin, but be quick, I urge you.” Captain Ziegler summoned a sailor and together they marched Cat's Tongue toward the poop deck.

Gretel turned to her brother. “I believe I know where you will find your lighter.”

“You do?”

“It will be somewhere in plain view in Birgit's cabin.”

“What?” Hans was appalled. “But I have not been within arm's length of the woman all day. How could she have taken it from me?”

“She did not. Another did, on her behalf, and will have placed it where she can easily find it.”

“Another? Who?”

“You need not concern yourself with that now. Do I need to tell you to what conclusions Birgit will fling herself if she finds it?”

Hans gulped.

“You must fetch it back, and quickly.”

“But, to enter the lair of the gorgon . . .”

“Don't be so wet, Hans,” she said, pushing him gently toward the stairs. “She will be in the dining room with her friends, by the sound of it. Go now, go on.”

She watched him disappear and then switched her attention to the rigging. Shielding her eyes against the sun, she searched for the sea sprite. Sure enough, it was not far off, but watching from its high hiding place.

“Won't you come down?” Gretel called to it. “I'd very much like to speak with you.”

As she watched, the little creature descended in a small purple blur though the ropes, masts, and sails. It came to rest on the mainbrace, its tiny wings fluttering with excitement.

“Well,” it said, “you have missed the most unusual arrivals. A baroness, no less, very cross and scratchy, and your lovely general with her. He's almost as handsome as the captain.” It grinned.

“From what I've heard, some of the passengers certainly seem to think so.”

“Ha-ha! Those silly, silly women will not leave him alone. You'd better run to his rescue!”

“I am certain he is in no real danger and fully able to secure his own safety. Besides, I wish a word or two with you first.”

“Did you work out my riddle? It was really so very simple, and everyone keeps saying how very clever you are. The cleverest person aboard, they say.”

“That is because they have not met you,” Gretel told it. “I found your puzzle to be most amusing. Sharpest of sharp eyes indeed! Very good.”

“And the sharp flaw, did you find that, too?”

“Ah, Frenchie's knife. That is precisely what I wanted to talk to you about. I have a favor to ask, if you are willing.”

The sea sprite put its head a little on one side, considering. “I might be. I might not. Is there fun to be had?”

“A certain amount, yes, I can promise you that. More importantly”—Gretel leaned a little closer, shutting her mind to the sharp teeth the sprite was baring in a mischievous smile—“you would be helping Captain Ziegler.”

At this the sprite squealed with delight, clapping its little velvety hands. “Then of course I shall assist. Tell me, quickly, what is it you wish me to do?”

The dining room was packed, despite the majority of the diners having finished their meals. People sat about sipping port or brandy, lingering as long as they could to remain in the company of minor royalty. They laughed loudly at the baroness's attempts at wit, and applauded just about anything that came out of her mouth. Such sycophancy never ceased to amaze Gretel. Is wasn't as if the baroness were young, beautiful, stylish, or even pleasant company. On the contrary, she was dreary to look at and equally dreary to talk to, the only spice to flavor her conversation being the bitter pepper of a put-down or the tartness of a sharp remark. But still the common man, and woman, it had to be said, hung on her every word, desperate
for her favor. They were likely to be disappointed. Baroness Schleswig-Holstein's natural demeanor was one of grudging tolerance of humanity. She did not bestow her approval or thanks lightly. And from what Gretel could deduce as she entered the dining room, the baroness had found little aboard the
Arabella
to lift her innate tendency to gloom. To her left sat Herr Hoffman, grim-faced and silent as ever. To her right, Ferdinand, handsome, but at a loss, no doubt, as to his purpose beyond the baroness's safety. Her lady-in-waiting was attempting to elicit some tiny crumb of good humor from her mistress.

“Such delicious food, baroness,” the pale, tired-looking girl tried. “The lobster bisque was particularly tasty, do you not think so?”

“It tasted of lobster,” the baroness observed, “as lobster bisques are apt to do. The quality was high, I grant you.”

“And the wine?” Ferdinand joined in. “A very passable claret, I thought.”

“Yes, I could find no fault in it. I can find no fault in anything,” she said flatly, whipping out a fan, which she proceeded to work as much for something to do as to create a cooling draft.

Watching from the entrance to the room, Gretel saw at once what the problem was. Hans had, as always, excelled himself in the kitchen. The food that had been served, and the wine with it, had been of an excellent standard. Everard, standing close to the baroness's table, had clearly been on hand to provide smooth and swift service. The sea was calm. The air pleasant. The assembled diners deferential and well behaved. In short, there was nothing new for the royal guest here, nothing remotely different or unexpected. She had come looking for an authentic sailing experience; a little rough glamor, some romantic rustications, perhaps even a smidgen of danger. Instead, all she had found—due to the diligent and strenuous efforts of everyone involved—was a scaled-down imitation of
what she had been accustomed to getting every day of her long life. Where was the adventure in that?

Gretel touched the shoulder of Will the cabin boy as he scampered past the doorway.

“Will, be so good as to take a message to the captain, would you?”

“Of course, fraulein.”

“Tell him I am ready. Ask that he bring our newest guest here at once.”

“Yes, fraulein,” he said and ran off to do her bidding.

Gretel hurried over to the center table. She saw that Elsbeth and Sonja had taken seats as close to Ferdinand as was possible. She also saw that Birgit was not with them and experienced a fleeting moment of worry for Hans.

Ferdinand looked genuinely pleased to see her.

“Fraulein Gretel,” he said, getting quickly to his feet to offer her a low bow. Herr Hoffman could barely summon the manners to lift his posterior from his seat as she approached. “You are returned in good time. Your task went well, I trust?”

“Well enough,” she replied, ducking a little curtsy as she spoke to his mistress. “Baroness, I do hope you have been made properly welcome aboard the
Arabella
.” She was about to compose a short but pretty speech singing the praises of the ship and its crew, but a commotion behind her made her pause. Turning, she saw the mer-hund, rope trailing, come charging into the room, weaving its way at breakneck speed between the tables, rubbing its damp fur on diners as it passed. It barreled into Gretel, knocking her to the floor, where it pinned her, the better to wash her face with its rough and smelly tongue.

“Argh,” she gasped, “get off me, you ridiculous animal.”

So delighted was the hound at having found her, it took both Ferdinand and Everard to haul him off so that she might get to her feet.

“Good heavens,” said the baroness, “whatever sort of creature is that?”

“That, baroness,” Gretel told her, “is a mer-hund.”

“A mer-hund, you say? Well, what is it doing on this ship? And why is it so obviously enamored of you?”

A titter ran around the room, the baroness's idolaters eager to show their adoration. Ordinarily, Gretel would happily have stamped on that impudent laughter and ground it into the rug beneath her oh-so-sensible-and-I-wish-I-was-wearing-something-more-attractive shoes. Ordinarily. On this occasion, however, her pride was of minor importance. She brushed herself down.

“My brother purchased the mer-hund to assist me in my work, for the breed has been developed over generations to hunt the elusive and mysterious mermaid.”