Once Upon a Crime (11 page)

Bechstein was very, very dead, and the very knife that killed him had been her very own. These facts had been enough to bring an excited flush to the cheeks of the kingsman charged with the task of investigating the case, and only Gretel's ability to wear people down with her self-assurance and quick wits had prevented him charging both her and Hans with murder. While the weapon was indeed damning evidence, and opportunity was arguable, the kingsman lacked the vital element of motive. He had reluctantly accepted that he had no grounds on which to hold his prime suspects, and had not had the sense to obtain an order preventing them from leaving the hotel.

Gretel knew it could only be a matter of time before he rectified this error, hence her keenness to quit Bad am Zee by the first conveyance that presented itself. She was at a loss as to why anyone should actually bother to kill the bumptious businessman.

True, he had been irritating, but so were a lot of people, and, unfair as it might seem, this was not a good enough reason to do them in. He must have done something to seriously upset someone, and whoever that someone was, they had got hold of Gretel's knife and used it. But who? The square had been empty
that night, save for the Petersons, neither of whom Gretel could see as murderers. And why had Bechstein been, apparently, heading for her room? How could it be that a law-abiding subject such as herself should have been accused of capital offenses twice in as many weeks? And where, in the name of all that was sensible, was she now going to find a finger? On top of which, the very last coin and note had been spent, and as yet she had no real progress to take to Frau Hapsburg. Still, Gretel reasoned, she could legitimately claim for some of the expenses she had incurred. Perhaps the silly woman would appreciate her efforts. After all, she had visited the Old Crone, escaped from a dungeon, wrestled a lion, traveled several leagues' distance, dealt with an amorous troll, and become a fugitive from justice—surely all that meant she was due some sort of recompense?

She had the wool merchant drop her off in Kirschbaum Avenue. Matters, in the form of Gretel's finances, were urgent. Frau Hapsburg would just have to take her as she was, the dust of the journey still upon her. She found her client busy tending roses in her front garden, and felt her spirits lift at the thought that she might conduct the entire interview outside, and not have to enter the cat-ridden, flea-infested house itself. She let herself through the picket gate and made her way along the narrow stone path. Slinky shapes darted in front of her or slipped among the shrubbery as she went. Here and there a cat basked in the sunshine of the fading day. Further felines lay in window boxes or on the iron bench across the lawn.

“Good afternoon to you, Frau Hapsburg,” she called out.

“Oh! Fraulein Gretel. Are they found? My poor tiny ones—have you recovered them?” She sprang to her feet, trowel held high, a look of hope on her face so heartbreaking even Gretel felt its impact.

“Alas, not yet. But,” she hurried on, anxious to prevent one of the bouts of weeping the elderly woman seemed prone to, “I have news. We must take heart, Frau Hapsburg.”

“You know who has them?”

“Not exactly.”

“But you know where they are?”

“Not precisely.”

“Then you have at least heard that they are safe?”

“Not specifically.”

The poor woman wobbled, lowering her trowel, her eyes brimming.

“In that case, I fail to see,” she said, “how any news you may have could be of significance.”

Gretel stepped forward, eager to give reassurance, but as she was separated from Frau Hapsburg by a particularly floriferous specimen of a Himalayan tea rose, she had to deliver her speech through a screen of leaves and blooms.

“I have made an excellent contact.” She quelled a shudder at the memory of the troll and prayed she would not be questioned in detail about her source. “He lives near the resort of Bad am Zee. He has, it transpires, some important local knowledge on the matter, and he is willing, for a price, to reveal the name of the person who has taken not just your cats, but others besides.”

“Oh! Others have been stolen? There are more poor folk who suffer as I do? What monstrous fiend would be so cruel, would inflict such suffering?”

The eyes were still filled with tears, but none fell. Gretel felt she was winning, so pressed on.

“Indeed. But do not distress yourself unnecessarily. I have given the situation a great deal of my time and attention,” she said pointedly. “I have mulled over the specifics, and cogitated upon the facts, and what strikes me is this: a person, however
wrong, however misguided in his actions, a person who will go to great expense and effort to acquire something must surely do so because it is of value to him. Because he covets that thing, and, once in his possession, will treasure it and treat it with the utmost kindness and care. That's what I think.”

“Yes.” Frau Hapsburg nodded uncertainly, her head bobbing up and down like a bluebell in a breeze. “It would seem to signify. It may be that my little darlings are lost to me, for now, but at least they have come to no harm, but are loved and looked after well. Oh, fraulein, do you truly believe that to be the case?”

“I am certain of it,” said Gretel, crossing her fingers behind her back. The truth was, her informant had given no hint of the purpose behind the catnapper's actions. She thought it best not to share the unasked-for insight she had gained into the feeding habits of trolls regarding small domestic animals. She studied the furry pets surrounding her and, while she felt no desire to touch the things, she found she didn't care for the idea of them being eaten. This puzzled her a little. Was there a danger she was growing accustomed to the creatures after all? She attempted to hold the gaze of a coal-black tom sitting beneath a laburnum. No, it was no good, she concluded—stare at a cat long enough and you start to think of witches. She cleared her throat. “Naturally, I have formulated a plan,” she said.

“You have?”

“A complex and thorough course of action that will, I can confidently state, bring about the results we desire.”

“Oh, I do so hope you are right. I remain in fear that all my darlings are in danger. I hardly dare let them out of my sight.”

“Rest assured, Frau Hapsburg, excellent progress in the case is being made. Of course, such dedication has already made considerable demands on my time and resources. And will continue to do so.” She waited. Her client looked blank. Gretel
went on. “Expenses are rising daily, and I anticipate them doubling very soon.” Still no response.

“I will shortly have to make another trip to Bad am Zee, and indeed travel farther, to follow up the promising leads I have already unearthed. See what I can see.”

One or two of the cats had clearly decided it was teatime and began to wind themselves about any legs they could find, starting up a wailing and singing that set Gretel's teeth on edge. It was all the provocation she needed to cut to the chase.

“I will need a deal more money to enable me to continue my investigations,” she declared.

“Oh, but of course.” Frau Hapsburg all but dropped her trowel. “Forgive me for not raising the matter myself. How much will you require?”

Gretel thought of a number, doubled it, added a smidge more for discomfort and personal humiliation already suffered, toyed with the idea of listing all the expenses accrued thus far, tossed the idea aside as too much effort, added a further sum for unforeseen circumstances that might very well arise, and delivered the figure in confident tones. Her client scurried off without a word of complaint or resistance—making Gretel wish she had asked for more—returning mere minutes later with a fat bundle of notes.

As she headed for home, Gretel found her travel-weariness considerably alleviated by the comforting bolster of money now nestled snugly in her corset. She was looking forward to the gentle pleasures of home: Hans's cooking; her daybed; an uplifting martini or two. The twilight was settling prettily on Gesternstadt, and in her current mood even she found it appealing. She turned out of Kirschbaum Avenue, her stomach growling in anticipation of one of Hans's feasts, and was just drawing level with the still-smoldering cartwright's workshop when she saw a young couple standing among the remnants of
the buildings. Something in the tone of their exchange caused her to pause. She knew the young man to be Roland, the elder of Hund's sons, and, squinting through the dwindling light, she recognized Johanna, the new girl from Madame Renoir's parlor. It still bothered Gretel that she could not place the girl. Secreting herself behind a handy lilac bush, her detective antennae twitching, she tuned in to their conversation.

“It doesn't do any good you coming here,” the boy was saying. “Things are the way they are and that's that.”

“I don't believe this is really what you want. I can't accept it.” The girl tugged a lace handkerchief from her sleeve and sniffed into it delicately. Roland softened immediately. Gretel made a note to employ this feminine tactic herself sometime. She retrieved her notebook from her jacket pocket and wrote down “Kerchiefs—preferably laundered.”

“Johanna, please don't.” The young man placed a hand lightly on the girl's shaking shoulder. “You know I could never bear to see you cry.”

“It is torture for me, knowing that you are so near, and yet . . .”

“We've talked of this, many times.”

“After all the years I have been true to you. After all I have endured!”

“I know . . .”

“All the waiting, the hoping. All that time spent with . . . Oh! I cannot bring myself to speak of him.” She blew her nose gently, a fragile, tuneful blow. Gretel thought she herself might not be able to successfully pull that bit off.

Roland let his hand drop.

“Perhaps it would be better if you moved away. It was a mistake after all, your coming to live here.”

“You would send me away!” Johanna stopped sniveling and glared at him. The change in her demeanor was so swift and extreme the young man took a step backward. “Has our love
meant so little to you that you could so easily banish me from your life? Oh, Roland, you are not the man I believed you to be! Where is the steadfast boy who risked so much, time and again, to be with me? Where is the gallant young man who never let me down, who traveled and travailed so that we might share moments of love and beauty, whenever and wherever we could? Are you now become so weak-willed?”

“Johanna, please do not excite yourself.”

“And why would I not! Am I to allow myself to be so cruelly cast aside and say nothing? I think not!”

“What can I say to you to make you understand? Things have changed. They are not the way they once were. Our lives are different now. I have . . . obligations.”

The girl spoke through gritted teeth, her eyes dark and furious. She spat her words at him. “You have Charlotte!”

Gretel almost snapped the nib of her pencil as she scribbled down notes. Charlotte! Could she mean Princess Charlotte?

“Your precious
princess
.” It seemed she could.

“Hush.” Roland glanced anxiously about him. “Please, Johanna, I beg of you, do not speak of her.”

“Why should I care if your sordid secret gets out? What matters it to me what becomes of you? Either of you!”

“If we were to be discovered . . .” But he was talking to an empty space. Johanna was running, her handkerchief discarded on the sooty ground, her sobs fading like the call of some passing bird as she hastened away. Roland made as if to go after her, but thought better of it. He reached down and picked up the small square of lace, held it tenderly to his lips, before putting it in his pocket and trudging glumly in the direction of home.

Two hours later Gretel lay in a deep bath, bubbles maintaining her modesty as Hans poured in yet another top-up of hot water. Earlier, she had fallen hungrily upon the fine
casserole of pork and bottled plums he had prepared. The pair had feasted in contented silence, savoring the tasty meal and reveling in the peace and safety of their own house. Gretel's mind was whirring, and she knew she needed to still it before attempting to make sense of what she had learned. And the best way she knew of to still her mind was to feed it well, to rest it, and, if possible, to pamper it. Or rather, to pamper her body. She was still suffering from her exertions on the mountain and the unforgiving seating of the wool wagon. A fragrant, foamy soak was called for. She had nagged Hans into dragging the iron bath into the sitting room in front of the freshly lit fire. Now, at last, as she lay wreathed in the scent of orange blossom and lavender, her muscles finally relaxing, her joints moving more freely, she felt able to tackle the puzzle before her. Or almost ready.

“Hans, don't sit down yet.”

“For heaven's sake, Gretel, what now? I'm beat.”

“You'll like this idea, I know you will.”

“Go on, then, before I fall over with exhaustion. Because when I do, I give you fair warning, I will not be getting up again until the notion of breakfast stirs me.”

“Martinis. Perfectly chilled—there's plenty of ice in the ice house—and two plump olives per glass, if you please.”

Hans brightened.

“The best idea you've had all day by a country mile,” he said.

Gretel listened to him moving about the house, assembling the necessary items and ingredients for preparing the cocktails, muttering happily to himself as he did so. She experienced a momentary stab of guilt at what she had nearly succeeded in doing to him. She could still feel the weight of his pudgy paw in hers. Would she have been able to bring herself to do it, she wondered. With a sigh she realized that she probably would. And, had she done so, her brother would not at this moment
be expertly assembling martinis. It had indeed been a lucky escape for both of them. But the fact remained that she was still only in possession of her own fingers. Another had to be found from somewhere. From someone. She slid deeper into the bath, her tummy and knees emerging through the suds like atolls. It could not be a coincidence, she decided, that the corpse at Hund's yard had been minus a digit. One of the things on her list of Things That Might Actually Lead Somewhere was to tackle the dreaded Kapitan Strudel and find out the identity of the cadaver. At some point in its life, the hapless soul must have encountered the troll, or someone acting on the troll's behalf. And the troll knew who wanted the cats. It all knitted together somehow, though at present Gretel was aware the misshapen garment her theories amounted to was in danger of unraveling under scrutiny.