Gretel and the Case of the Missing Frog Prints (28 page)

Bacon Bob had been arrested and charged with the murder of Bruno Phelps. Such was his terror when being taken away for questioning that he gave up the whole story unprompted, telling anyone who would listen that he had not intended to kill the man, but that Phelps had started shouting at him and threatening to call the police and he reached a point where he just had to shut him up. Gretel thought that quite a large number of people had probably reached that point with Phelps. She knew she had.

Mistress Crane fled. Most of the girls, according to Valeri, so Herr Durer wrote, did not go with her, but together took themselves to a quiet rural area, so that they might stand a better chance of forging a new life for themselves.

Herr Durer bashfully announced his intention to marry Valeri. He explained it was to be a chaste union, but one that ensured her a secure future. After all, as he put it, even he could not live forever. It also meant that she would make certain that his art collection was dispersed in accordance with his wishes, so that most of it would eventually reside in the Nuremberg Art
Gallery for all to enjoy. He also wrote that the Society of the Praying Hands had decided to offer Gretel an honorary membership, in recognition of her efforts to protect the fabled works of Albrecht Durer the Younger. Gretel was delighted to accept.

The news that clearly cheered Herr Durer the most—his shaky green scrawl growing bigger and bolder as he set the words down—was that Leopold had come good. It seemed his brief spell in the city gaol had given him time and opportunity to reflect upon his ways. The ghastliness of being a murder suspect, and of facing the possible prospect of a lifetime of incarceration, forced him to reevaluate his lifestyle. He emerged from the small stone cell a changed man. Not only did he vow to eschew hedonistic living, he resolved to become the nephew his uncle deserved.

Herr Durer was as good as his word, and saw to it that no charges were brought against the hobgoblin who had taken his prints. Instead, he worked on the morose creature's behalf to secure him the position of resident hobgoblin and night-caretaker at the art gallery. Apparently the creature was transformed. He could now guard his precious frogs, and gaze upon them every night if he so wished. Not to mention being able to look in wonder at Durer's rhinoceros.

This arrangement, of course, left Wolfie short one cleaner. All was resolved satisfactorily, however, as the cheery hobgoblin from the brothel was in search of a new home. Everyone agreed the match was a far better fit.

Wolfie also discovered a new friend. He and Gottfried found they could happily pass an hour or two debating all manner of ideas and possibilities. Where Gottfried employed philosophical reasoning and logic, Wolfie was permitted to indulge in flights of fancy the heights of which even he had not previously ventured to. The more convoluted and mendacious his argument, the greater the challenge, the better Gottfried liked it.

On the third day after their return, Gretel and Hans were still engaged in their restorative lounging. Hans had indulged his twin passions for cooking and eating until he was, at last, replete. Gretel had enjoyed assisting him in eating what he cooked, and saw it as her part of the bargain to be an appreciative and encouraging critic of each dish that came out of the kitchen. Between meals, as she reclined peacefully, she allowed her mind to relive some of the more pleasurable moments of her time in Nuremberg, and permitted herself to bask in the warm glow of a difficult case successfully solved to wide acclaim. A sensation almost as enjoyable as the one she experienced each time she thought of the thick wads of money tightly curled into her favorite biscuit tin, safely hidden in the complex mess of her office. She and Hans sat in contented silence, lulled by the soft crackle and hiss of the fire, more than happy to let sleep claim them.

Into this scene of gentle repose, however, came an urgent and energetic hammering on the door.

“Hell's teeth!” Gretel groaned. “What now? Can't a person spend five minutes in her own home without having the teeth shaken from their head? And why must everyone who knocks on my front door do so as if pursued by the very hounds of hell? There is a knocker. A firm but controlled rapping would surely suffice. But no. No. Not on my front door, it seems. The portal to my sanctuary must be pounded and beaten on a regular basis, and as cacophonously as humanly possible.” She continued muttering as she dragged herself off her daybed, across the room, and into the hallway. “All right, I heard you. I'm on my way.” She wrenched open the door and scowled at the young man in front of her. “Is my chimney on fire?” she asked him.

“Why, no, Fraulein.”

“Has the Danube changed its course so that it is even as we speak surging this way, putting us in danger of being deluged?”

“Er, no, Fraulein.”

“So, where, then, is the bear that is chasing you?” she demanded.

“Um, there isn't one, Fraulein.”

“Then what, in the name of all that is sensible, is so urgent!?”

The youth held out a large, flat box, tied up with string. “A delivery for you, Fraulein,” he said.

“Oh.” Gretel, took it from him.

He pulled a folded document from one jacket pocket, and a small inkpot and quill from another. “Sign here please.”

“This is all very official. What is it?”

“I'm afraid I don't know, Fraulein. I was dispatched to ride with all haste from Nuremberg and deliver it to Gretel of Gesternstadt.” He paused, then asked, “You are Gretel,
that
Gretel, are you not?”

“I am,” she said, signing with a flourish.

The delivery boy turned with a remarkably cheery wave and mounted the tired-looking horse which he had tied to the lamppost. Gretel watched him ride off. She peered at the parcel and gave it a gentle shake. The contents sounded reassuringly soft.

Back inside she sat on her daybed and untied the string.

“A parcel?” Hans roused himself from his slumbering state, at least as far as properly opening his eyes and relighting his cigar. “Have I forgotten your birthday again?”

“Not yet.”

Inside the brown box was another, far more attractive, tied with broad silk ribbon, and embossed with the name of a certain dress shop Gretel had recently become so familiar with. There was no message attached. The ribbon was cool as it slipped through her fingers. She lifted the lid and her heart missed a beat.

“The Swedish Silver Wolf!” she gasped.

“Wolf you say?” Hans was astonished. “Bit warm for that sort of thing around here, I'd have thought. Or are you planning
a trip north. Somewhere snowy, perhaps? Dash it all, Gretel, I do wish you'd tell me these things. A fellow needs time to organize his life if he's to be traveling, you know.”

But Gretel was not listening to Hans's drivel. She lifted the fabulous fur from its box and held it to her. It was even more luxurious, more sensuous, more gorgeous than she remembered. It was hard to believe so many shades of silver existed. The garment had a luster to it, so that it shimmered in the firelight.

“Who's it from?” Hans asked.

“There isn't a note. I am, happily, acquainted with the House of Fashion, which is in Nuremberg.”

“Ah! I have it!” Hans chomped on his cigar smugly. “Good old Wolfie! I
thought
he'd taken a shine to you. Knew I was right.”

“Oh? And how did Wolfie know anything about the existence of this cloak? I don't imagine he is given to visiting ladies' dressmakers, and I made no mention of having seen a fur of any sort.”

“Ah, you may have a point.” Hans puffed silently.

“No, there is only one person who could have sent this,” Gretel smiled, a broad, proud, pleased-as-punch sort of smile. “Only one person who saw me trying it on. Who said I should have it . . .”

She did not, however, have time to finish her deduction. At that moment there was a tremendous
woomph
and a cloud of smoke and ash erupted into the room. Hans squawked. Gretel squawked. And the large bird that had just descended the chimney and come hurtling through the fire, singeing feathers all the while, also squawked. The thing was big and black and flung itself about the room in an effort to rid itself of the sparks and embers that clung to it.

“Catch it, Hans, for pity's sake!”

“Why me? You catch it!” cried Hans from behind his chair. “Throw that cape thing over it?”

“What? Never!” Gretel thrust the fur cloak back into its box, jamming the lid on and pushing it beneath her daybed. The great bird continued its flailing and thrashing about. Its desperate actions served only to fan the flames of the small fires that were starting among its feathers. Gretel snatched up the soda siphon and doused the bird. At last it came to rest on the curtain pole. It looked a sorry sight, covered in soot, feathers dripping, its bright eyes flicking this way and that with alarm after its ordeal.

“A crow,” said Hans, peering out from his hiding place. “And a dashed big one.”

“No, not a crow. That's a seagull.”

“What? I'm no bird spotter, sister mine, but we are a very long way from the sea. We don't get seagulls in our garden.”

“It seems, however,” said Gretel, moving a wooden chair nearer the bird's perch, “that we do get them in our house.” She stepped up and slowly held out her arm. After only a moment's hesitation, the gull hopped onto it.

“Good grief!” said Hans. “Mind it doesn't bite.”

“Peck, Hans. Birds peck. But we have nothing to fear from this one,” she said, stepping down, “other than the filth it has acquired on its journey down our flue.”

“Perhaps that's why it's called a “flew,” ha, ha!”

“Hans, do be quiet. And hand me my lorgnettes. There they are, on the mantelpiece.”

Hans did as he was told, if somewhat nervously. “Can't think why you want a closer look at the ugly great thing. How are you so sure it won't sink that beak into you? Looks pretty sharp to me.”

“Because this is a messenger gull. Sailors train them to carry ship to shore messages.”

“They do?”

“Yes. And this one has a message attached to its foot.”

“It does?”

“Yes.” She put her silver glasses to her eyes and squinted through the grime. “The lettering is unusual, but legible.”

“It is?”

“Stop it, Hans.”

“Oh, sorry.”

“It says . . . let me see . . . keep still bird. If you're good, uncle Hans will find you some prawns, presently.”

“Prawns? That thing could eat a lobster.”

“The message
says
. . . “Ship's company in peril. Persons missing. Mermaid sighted off the coast of Schleswig-Holstein. Come at once.”

“A mermaid!”
breathed Hans.

“A cruise!”
breathed Gretel. She lowered her lorgnettes and straightened her shoulders. “Fetch the maps, Hans. There is work to be done.”

THE END, AND YET
ALSO THE BEGINNING.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

T
hanks, as always, to my long-suffering family, who endured many nonsensical conversations about frogs and rhinoceroses, put up with months of my being hopelessly distracted by a particularly bizarre collection of fictional characters, and suffered without complaint the disturbing outbursts of laughter from my writing nook beneath the stairs. I hope they agree that my time spent with Gretel was time well invested.

Thanks also to my agent, Kate Hordern, without whom Gretel might yet languish in obscurity. And I am grateful to all at Pegasus for taking the frog leap of faith required to launch Gretel onto an unsuspecting U.S. readership.

GRETEL AND THE CASE OF THE MISSING FROG PRINTS

Pegasus Books LLC

80 Broad Street, 5th Floor

New York, NY 10004

Copyright © 2015 by P. J. Brackston

First Pegasus Books cloth edition January 2015

Interior design by Maria Fernandez

Cover illustration copyright © Adam Fisher

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in whole or in part without written permission from the publisher, except by reviewers, who may quote brief excerpts in connection with a review in a newspaper, magazine, or electronic publication; nor may any part of this book be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or other, without written permission from the publisher.

The Library of Congress has cataloged the printed edition as follows:

ISBN: 978-1-60598-672-2

ISBN: 978-1-60598-737-8 (e-book)

Distributed by W. W. Norton & Company