The Case of the Fickle Mermaid (6 page)

“Keeping a keen eye on the competition, captain?” she asked, attempting to look at the ship through her lorgnettes, but finding them of no help.

“Good morning, fraulein,” he replied, passing the telescope to her so that she might take a closer look herself. “The
Fair Fortune
has the advantage in sail, sailors, and spending. Seems I must always be trailing in her wake,” he added with not a small measure of rancor in his voice.

Gretel squinted through the eyeglass. It took a moment for her to adjust the device to suit her own vision, but at last the
Fair Fortune
sprang into crisp focus. She was even more impressive with her sails set than she had been at anchor. Her lines were graceful and curvaceous, her proportions ample but never heavy. She handed the scope back to its owner. “She is very fine, it is true,” she said, “but the
Arabella
has her own charms. There are sure to be those who would prefer a more . . .
authentic
cruising experience.” Even as she said it Gretel feared, glancing at the captain's threadbare coat and the ragtag crew behind him, that the experience might prove a bit too authentic for some. Herself included.

“I must trust the preferences of paying passengers, then. I am new to this game, as you know, fraulein. Where I cannot compete on scale and coin, I must offer something other to win their custom.”

“Are there more ships plying their trade in these waters?” she asked, pleased with her own grasp of the sailing lexicon.

The captain gestured at the distant vessel. “She has a sister ship, the
Pretty Penny
.”

“Sailing under the same flag?” she asked, warming to the theme.

“Aye, both owned by one Thorsten Sommer, damn his eyes. The man could not be more slippery had he been fathered by an eel.”

This was such a disconcerting notion that Gretel quite lost her stride regarding seafaring terminology. She simply put the question, “Might it not be within the reach of reason to suggest that Herr Sommer is not happy to see a new cruise ship in what he possibly considers to be his territory? And that it might be to his advantage were your enterprise to fail?”

“He would like nothing better! But I shall not give him that satisfaction. It would take more than a lard-bellied Norseman, fat with his family money and from dining with royalty, no less, to turn me from my chosen course!” So saying, he faced Gretel, his eyes flashing, a determined grin lighting up his craggy features. Thus animated, he was quite transformed, his gaze disarmingly charismatic. And familiar, somehow. Gretel once again had the strongest sense that she had seen this devilishly handsome face before, but still she could not say where nor when. Attempting to return her energies to the case she was charged to solve, she filed away the facts she had gleaned so far. Thorsten Sommer had surely to go atop her list of suspects regarding the missing crewmembers, with or without the assistance of what might or might not be a mermaid.

At that moment, the quartermaster descended from the poop deck wearing his habitually solemn expression. Gretel noted the minute alterations in Captain Ziegler's stance, as if he were slightly bracing himself for an attack, or at least readying
himself for a difficult exchange. In the event, the two traded nothing more than curt nods and Herr Hoffman continued on his way. Gretel seized the moment.

“A dour fellow, your quartermaster, captain.” When this observation failed to draw him out, she continued. “Such a demeanor cannot be conducive to a pleasant partnership, one would have thought.”

“I look for no pleasantries from Hoffman, nor him any from me. 'Tis not required of us that we be friends. He knows his job.”

“Which is why you engaged him, no doubt?”

“It is. That and . . . well . . .” He fell silent, apparently deciding against sharing the completed thought with Gretel.

“Come, come, captain. There can be no secrets between you and me. If I am to assist you, to do what it is I do best, it is necessary that you inform me fully and frankly of the setup of this ship, of the workings of your business, and of the salient facts regarding your crewmembers. Do not be coy.”

The captain nodded. “Very well. I do not like the man. He sets himself above me, or would do, were such a thing not to smack of mutiny and likely get him hanged. He covets my ship and position both. He carries a grievance not against me, but against the world, that these things are not his. This has soured him, and his only happiness is to share that sourness.”

“So why then employ him? There must be others can muster a crew and fill his shoes?”

“He brought with him something I could not have else. In a word, reputation. In another, respectability. Both crucial for the cruising business. Passengers must have confidence, must be reassured, d'you see?”

Gretel was not at all sure that she did, but any chance she had of questioning him further on the matter was stamped beneath the kitten heels of Birgit Lange as she tottered across
the foredeck toward them, waving a lace handkerchief and shrieking effusive greetings.

“I will take my leave, fraulein,” said the captain, striding for his cabin before Gretel could persuade him otherwise.

“Gretel! Oh, Gretel, how delightful. Here you are! Now, tell me, where has that simply wonderful brother of yours got to?”

With a deep sigh, and a growling stomach, Gretel realized that the woman was going to prove harder to shake off than a Baltic barnacle.

FIVE

O
ver the following day and night, Gretel's time was taken up in unreasonable quantities by Hans and the avoidance of That Woman, as he had insisted she be named. Attempting to flee from someone while sharing a ship was not an easy task. The narrowness of all corridors and passages and the broadness of Hans, and indeed herself (though she preferred to think this was at least in part to do with the current fashion for exaggerating the hips, even where no exaggeration was called for) did not aid them in their need to be stealthy and swift. Far and away the worst aspect of this unasked-for game of hide-and-seek was the disruption to meals. Brandy seemed easy enough to come by, as the bar was not a place a
lady (lady!) could modestly frequent in the morning, and later in the day a hip flask in the cabin provided fortifying swigs. Food was more problematic. No sooner would Gretel wedge Hans into a dining room chair or have him recline on deck on a stripy lounger, hastily summoning the steward to take their order for a seafood platter or cheese omelette, or even a bite of cold meats and bread, than That Woman would heave into view, uttering her terrifying “tally-ho,” and they would be forced to their feet again, retreating with decreasingly plausible mumbled excuses. Hans claimed not to care. His appetite had jumped ship, and he saw little chance of it ever being found. Gretel was beginning to fear her newly acquired gowns would soon hang loose on her withering frame if she did not gain sustenance somehow, somewhere.

On the third afternoon, the
Arabella
put into the small harbor at Friedrichskoog. The stop was scheduled in order to take on fresh supplies, but passengers who felt so inclined were permitted to go ashore for an hour or two. Hans protested that he did not feel in the least inclined. Gretel insisted that the change of scene and possibly a new bar to enjoy might do him good. Hans declared that the ale and brandy were as good on board as any he was likely to find in such a humble harbor. Gretel pointed out that he might find a little
weisswurst
and mustard to go with the ale. Hans sighed and said that even a sausage could not tempt him now, such that he must surely be beyond saving. At which point Gretel bared her teeth, grasped him by the collar, and explained that the only way she would get five minutes' peace in which to sit and dine uninterrupted was if he were safely out of the reach of That Woman, which meant getting him off the ship, and that being the case, Gretel could either send him ashore or tip him over the side. Either was good for her. Hans sulkily opted for a quayside inn.

Gretel bustled him onto the gangway before hurrying to find Birgit. It went against her every instinct to actually seek her out, but she needed to buy her brother a little time to ensure he was not followed. As luck would have it, she found his ex-paramour in a flutter of excitement as she and her companions were being escorted by the captain on an impromptu excursion to Schloss Winzig, the town's one architectural feature of any merit.

Gretel raised an eyebrow. “Captain Ziegler, I would not have singled you out as a lover of historic buildings.”

He leaned close to whisper, “Needs must, fraulein. We cannot be seen to be lacking in cultural activities on our cruises.”

Birgit pounced on Gretel. “But are you and your brother not planning to accompany us?” she asked, her face an equal mix of hope, disappointment, and rouge.

“Alas, no. My brother is indisposed. I am on my way to plead with Cook for another bowl of his superior fish broth.”

“Oh, poor Hansel! Might he be well enough to receive a cheering visitor later on, d'you think?”

“I very much doubt it,” Gretel replied, making a brief bow and backing away, the thought of her first decent meal in days lending wings to her heels. She went straight to the steward, who was polishing glasses in the bar. “Just the man,” she told him, hoisting herself up onto a stool. “Would you be so good as to take my compliments to the chef, apologize for disturbing him, and tell him I am in dire need of a proper feed.”

“You do look a little peaky, madam, if you'll forgive my saying so.”

“I have traveled beyond peaky, young man, I am drifting into the dark waters of sickly, and am in danger of washing up on the rocks of unwell. I require good food and plenty of it.”

“If I may venture to suggest madam's hair might also benefit from a little attention?”

“You may and it might. All this gritty sea air and my perspiration-inducing cabin do nothing for it. But who is there to help me?”

“Allow me to be of assistance.”

“You?” Gretel eyed up his worn bar towel, unconvinced.

The steward nodded. “At the risk of sounding vain, madam, I will say I have a talent for such things. Before coming to work on the
Arabella,
I was in service as footman and valet in more than one fine home. Upon my word, such glamor! On each occasion, it was not long before the lady of the house recognized my gift for improving her coiffure and this became a regular part of my duties. I had even begun to consider finding premises from which to offer my skills to a wider clientele. But alas, life has a habit of pushing us in the most unexpected of directions.”

“So you find yourself here. A jealous husband, perhaps?” Gretel suggested.

At this the steward gave a soft laugh. “Yes, madam, jealous of his wife.”

“Ah,” said Gretel. “And your choice of a position aboard a cruiser . . . ?”

“The
Arabella
was the first ship sailing out of the nearest port to the scene of my . . . situation. I was fortunate the crew was light one steward.”

“Indeed, one of two crewmembers to have recently, er, left.” She paused, allowing the young barman to offer what he knew of their unexplained disappearance. She already had him marked down as a keen sharer of gossip, so when none was forthcoming, she surmised that he had none to give. “Well, then, until the occasion allows me to don my exceedingly splendid wig, I should be grateful for any assistance you can offer regarding the styling of my hair, Herr . . . ?”

“Everard, madam. Just call me Everard,” he insisted.

“As you please. But first, I must have food.”

They arranged for Everard to visit Gretel's cabin with quantities of hot water later that day, before he was dispatched to the galley to plead with Frenchie to save Gretel from starvation. The ship's cook did not disappoint. Gretel spent a happy hour in the saloon bar, which was blissfully empty save for herself and Everard's gentle presence. She began her feast with a bowl of the renowned bouillabaisse—which was every bit as exquisite as its reputation suggested—accompanied by warm French bread with which to scoop up tender prawns and mop and dip at will. Next came an expertly steamed sole, drizzled with butter and lemon. This was followed by melt-in-the-mouth
boeuf en croute
garnished with baby vegetables and a robust red-wine
jus
. Between courses, tiny sorbets and savory mousses were served as
amuse-bouche
, and Gretel would happily attest later to anyone who might ask that her
bouche
was indeed highly amused. She was offered a selection of desserts so delectable and delightful that she considered it would be churlish to refuse any of them, so that she enjoyed first a
galette roulade
with raspberries, chased down by a particularly creamy
crème brulée
, and settled into place by a hefty helping of profiteroles. After such a symphony of flavors and a veritable opera of tastes and textures, Gretel asked herself whether or not she might have preferred more familiar fare: the odd
weisswurst
, perhaps, a spoonful of cabbage here or there, a few steamed potatoes, a slice or two of black forest gâteau, possibly? When the answer came to her clearly “no,” she experienced a fleeting flash of guilt, but it passed soon enough when Everard returned with a board of French cheeses. She ate on, the glorious food fueling her spirits, her body, and her mind, so that soon she was certain she was once again in tip-top condition to do her very best work. After a short nap, obviously. She took herself up on deck and selected a chair with a helpful recline and a
footstool. The weather was pleasantly warm, with a gentle breeze causing the ship's flag to flutter in an appealing manner. She was on the starboard side of the vessel, so that the noises of the quayside would not disturb her, and she was certain she would be able to rest well. However, as she half closed her eyes, she became aware of both a movement and a presence close to her left shoulder. Her limited vision allowed her only a partial view of her new company, but she sensed at once that whoever it was—whatever it was—was not entirely human. Her first thought was the monkey she fancied she had seen swinging through the rigging, but that did not seem to fit. Keeping very still, she asked softly, “If you wish to speak to me, there is no need for shyness. We are quite alone. Why don't you show yourself?” She opened her eyes fully once more and watched as the small, dark shape slipped silently from its perch behind her and came to rest on the edge of the ship's rail in front instead. What a curious creature it was! No taller than a decent-sized wig, it had the slender form of a tiny person, but was covered entirely—even its sweet face—in velvety purple fur. On its back were two pairs of silvery wings. Its eyes were golden and attractively almond-shaped, and its miniature hands and feet had dainty fingers and toes, also purple-furred, with silver nails.