Gretel and the Case of the Missing Frog Prints

For my brother, Trevor—

exceptional pilot, inspirational instructor

and most excellent storyteller.

ONE

G
retel frowned at the lifeless body of the messenger that lay sprawled in the hallway upon her best Turkish Kilim. Only minutes earlier he had been imploring her to accept his master's case, and had passed to her, with trembling hand, a letter outlining the salient facts. She had been in the process of digesting these when he had uttered a strangled cry, turned an unbecoming shade of puce, and expired.

“Gretel? Are you quite well?” Hans appeared in the kitchen doorway, spatula raised ready for action. “I heard curious noises. Thought you might have been bolting the treacle toffees again.”

“Your concern is touching, brother dear, but I haven't had so much as a sniff of a toffee in days, and the sounds you heard came not from me but from him,” she said, pointing at the cadaver.

“Good grief. Poor fellow. Who is he? Was he? And why is . . . was . . . is he wearing that dreadful hat?” asked Hans, lowering his spatula.

Gretel returned to deciphering the loopy lettering. The green ink appeared to have been applied by a man of shaky hand and feeble mind. Perfect client material, in Gretel's experience. In her many years as a private detective she had learned that it was preferable by far to be in the employ of simpletons and nincompoops, for they were easily pleased, easily strung along, and, crucially, easily parted from their money.

“I cannot shed light on his taste in millinery. I can tell you he is . . . was . . . a messenger acting on behalf of one Albrecht Durer.”

Hans's eyebrows did a little dance of confusion. “The artist chap? Ain't he been dead a while?”

“I believe you're thinking of Albrecht Durer the Younger, and yes, in his grave some two hundred years, if memory serves. The writer of this letter still clings to life, though judging by his handwriting his grip is somewhat flimsy. He signs himself ‘Albrecht Durer the Much Much Younger.'”

“Ah. A descendent. Good. Wouldn't want to get a letter from a dead person. Ugh. Idea gives me the shivers. Though I suppose a client is a client. Can't be too picky, amount of business you've been getting lately, eh?”

“Hans, haven't you a mushroom somewhere in need of stuffing?”

“What? Oh, yes, more than likely.”

“Then I suggest you go and stuff it.”

“Consider it done. Not going to hold up lunch, is he?” he used his spatula to gesture vaguely at the late messenger.

“When have you ever known me to let business get in the way of a good feed?”

“Point taken. I'll yodel when it's ready,” he assured her, disappearing into the steamy gloom of the kitchen once more.

Gretel watched until his bulk was swallowed up by the swirling vapors produced by the simmering cabbage within. It never failed to astonish her that she could maintain such ambivalent feelings toward her brother. Aside from the capacious circumference of his stomach acting as both a warning (look what will happen if you eat that third donut!) and an encouragement (at least you're not as huge as Hans!), there were so many conflicting and significant memories and emotions attached to her sole surviving family member. If Hans hadn't led her into the dark woods all those years ago, they would never have found the gingerbread house, ergo, they might not have spent the years since unable to pass an hour or two without craving sugar. If she hadn't succeeded in freeing Hans from the witch's clutches he wouldn't be alive to idle his life away between the inn and the kitchen in such a carefree fashion. If Hans wasn't alive, Gretel would be forced to enter the kitchen herself, which was a thing too terrible to contemplate. She would have to spend a great deal of money on dining out. But then, it cost her no small sum to keep Hans in the indolent and pointless existence he so enjoyed. If she insisted he find a place of his own in which to live, however, it was unlikely he would survive a month, he was such an innocent in the ways of the world. Which would condemn her to a lifetime of indigestion of the conscience, which was too high a price to pay for ridding herself of his irritating habits.

Gretel steered her attention back to the messenger and his message. Before he had so inconveniently died, he had, albeit breathlessly, clearly told her that his master was inconsolable at
having had some priceless works of art stolen from him. Word had reached him, many miles away in his home in the city of Nuremberg, regarding Gretel's skills as a detective, and he wished to engage her services to recover the missing pictures. In the letter, Herr Durer had signed himself as a member of the Society of the Praying Hands, though no helpful explanation of this was given. The doomed courier had further stated that his employer was willing to pay whatever it took to effect the return of his precious art works. That Gretel knew next to nothing about art mattered not. What did matter were such things as “priceless” and “pay whatever it took.” Such motivation, both of Gretel herself and of her prospective client, made the likelihood of a satisfactory outcome very strong indeed. Much as Hans's jibe regarding the paucity of cases coming Gretel's way of late rankled, she had to admit there was some truth to the importance of accepting new commissions. Money seemed to flow out of the coffers so much more freely than it flowed in. But then, certain standards of living had to be maintained. Certain levels of luxury enjoyed. Certain wardrobes replenished.

All of which brought Gretel to the single most attractive feature of the proffered case. It would necessitate a trip to Nuremberg, a city renowned for its culture, its famous artists and inventors, its style, its glamour, and therefore, wonderfully, gloriously, fabulously . . . its wigs! The thought of being able to wear an exquisitely coiffured and powdered wig gave Gretel such a frisson of pleasure that she felt the need for a little lie down. Fortunately, Hans sang out from the kitchen that luncheon was about to be served, so she could combine three of her favorite things all at once: reclining on her beloved daybed, dreaming of dressing in the latest and best fashions, and eating. Gretel stepped lightly over the cooling body before her, reasoning that he was in no hurry to go anywhere and
that she would deal with him directly after she had dined all the more efficiently for not having attempted to do so on a partially empty stomach.

After an hour of enjoying a particularly fine plate of braised cabbage, weisswurst, spicy stuffed mushrooms, and potatoes—naturally with lashings of mustard—Gretel found her mind far more clear. What Hans provided by way of nourishment, however, Hans took away two-fold in the realm of clarity of thinking and sensible planning.

“So,” he began, settling back into his armchair, trouser waistband unbuttoned to allow his dinner to continue its journey unhindered, fresh cigar clamped between his teeth, “you'll be sending for our dear friend Kingsman Kapitan Strudel directly, I should imagine. Another dead body for him. What will he make of that, I wonder? He might say ‘Ah-ha, what have we here, Fraulein Gretel? Another person just happening to die on what just happens to be your best rug, in what just happens to be your house?' He might say that, might he not?”

“He might.”

“And he might think ‘Well, dash it all, Fraulein Gretel does seem to make a habit of this sort of thing. Corpses forever littering the place. What part did the good fraulein play in his death, eh?' He might think all of that too, might he not?”

Gretel narrowed her eyes at Hans. “Whatever the obnoxious Strudel might or might not say or think,
I
might be compelled to beat you about the head with the toasting fork if you don't stop this ludicrous and pointless conjecture.”

“Oh, hardly pointless. After all, he
could
decide you had something to do with the poor fellow dying. He
might
take you away for rigorous and uncomfortable questioning. He
would
, at the very least, enjoy bothering and humiliating you for as long as possible, causing you no small personal embarrassment, preventing you from taking on the case and earning some
decent dosh, and keeping you from attending that blessed ball you claim to be so excited about.”

“Hans, you have a talent for wedding the obvious to conjecture to produce a marriage of the utmost inconvenience.”

“Ha, that's easy for you to say!”

Gretel opened her mouth to further dismantle her brother's hypothesis but instead filled it with one of the Kirsch-soaked cherries dipped in chocolate that sat on a plate temptingly within reach. As she chewed she considered the truth of what he had said. Kapitan Strudel resented Gretel's very existence, not least because of her ability to succeed in solving cases where he failed to make even the smallest progress. He would indeed enjoy the opportunity to make trouble for her. She was certain the messenger had died of natural causes, after a long journey made at speed, and investigations would no doubt reveal him to be a man who had not enjoyed robust health. None of these facts would stop Strudel from making life difficult for Gretel for as long as possible, and she might well miss the chance of taking up Herr Durer's commission.

And then there was the ball. Her previous case had been long and arduous, but had resulted in a reasonable payment. The single most gratifying element of the whole exhausting and dangerous business, however, had been the invitation to Princess Charlotte's birthday ball at the Summer Schloss, as the personal guest of Uber General Ferdinand von Ferdinand. Gretel allowed herself a little sigh of pleasure as she let the name of the dashing aide to King Julian the Mighty roll though her mind. She had spent many happy hours since receiving the invitation choosing a gown and silver slippers for the occasion. It was to be the event of the season, and she, for once, would be attending as a guest of some standing, dressed to impress. It was not to be missed.

“The ball,” she told Hans, “is to be held this coming Friday. I can surely put off leaving for Nuremberg, and evade the worst of Strudel's interference, until the day after.”

“Nuremberg? I say. Haven't been there for eons. What fun!”

“Hans, this is business, not a holiday. I can't possibly justify the expense of taking you with me.”

“But, surely, I am your right hand man, your amanuensis, your person-a-person-cannot-do-without . . .”

Gretel silently cursed herself for ever having allowed Hans to obtain such an inaccurate impression of himself.

“Sadly, brother dear, funds will not stretch to an assistant on this occasion. The city is ruinously expensive, and then there are stagecoach tickets to be bought . . . etcetera, etcetera.”

“Couldn't I be part of the etcetera?” He attempted to make puppy-dog eyes at his sister.

“Stop it, Hans, you're putting me off my chocolate cherries.”

“Huh, you won't be getting any of those in Kapitan Strudel's cell.” He folded his arms petulantly across his chest and pointedly closed his eyes. He puffed grumpily on his cigar for a minute or so before falling into a deep sleep, and was soon emitting a soft, purring snore.

Gretel considered her options. She could send word that she accepted the case, pack, take the morning stage, avoid any unpleasantness regarding the dead messenger, and throw herself into the business of finding the missing art work, and therefore making some much-needed money. Or, she could book an appointment at Madame Renoir's beauty salon to have herself buffed and polished, and order the most expensive wig money could buy. She could face Strudel, endure the inevitable questioning, do her utmost to regain her liberty before Friday, attend the ball, and then head off for Nuremberg. But the dour kingsman might not play fair, and she might end up languishing in some chilly cell for days, possibly weeks, miss the ball, lose the opportunity to be waltzed around the marble ballroom by Ferdinand, and have Durer look elsewhere for a private detective.

What to do, what to do? She ate another cherry. Things began to look a little brighter. She moved the plate onto her lap and chomped on. Surely Strudel couldn't keep her more than a night at most? Where was there evidence of foul play? She began to feel confident of a good outcome. By the time she had licked the last crumb of chocolate from the Delft patterned china she was certain all would be well in the best of all possible worlds.