Once Upon a Crime (14 page)

“An even more excellent idea.”

General von Ferdinand took her out of the torture chamber and led her along a twisting passageway and up a steep set of stone stairs. They passed through numerous doors, each of which, Gretel was relieved to note, became decreasingly ironclad and increasingly decorative. At length they came to a
long, thin room; indeed, the longest and thinnest room Gretel had ever entered. It might have doubled as a place for archery practice in inclement weather. At present it appeared to serve as an occasional dining room. Had the table been in proportion to the space, opera glasses would have been necessary to look one's fellow diners in the eye. However, the table it currently housed was a mere five yards in length, and laid out, Gretel was delighted to find, with all things necessary for a satisfying breakfast.

Unusually for the Summer Schloss, a modicum of restraint had been employed during the selection of the décor, for the walls boasted only gleaming white paintwork, and fewer than two dozen gold candelabra. Floor-to-ceiling windows ran all along one side, so that, despite the early hour, the room was flooded with a somewhat unflattering bright light. Gretel patted ineffectually at her bothersome hair. Ferdinand snapped his fingers and servants scuttled about setting an extra place at the table. That they chose to position her at the opposite end to the general may have been an oversight on the general's part, but Gretel doubted it. Her quick summing up of the man—based on scant information, admittedly—led her to believe that he was not given to oversights. That he did not do things by chance, or without careful consideration. She was seated at the bottom of the table because the bottom of the table was exactly where he wished her to be seated.

Gretel lowered herself onto the proffered chair, her stomach rumbling at the sight of food, sending a wobbling echo the length of the room. At the far end of the table—the top end—General von Ferdinand flapped open his napkin and tucked it into his collar. “Now, fraulein, what is it you have to tell me that is of such a sensitive nature?”

Gretel was keenly aware, however salubrious her surroundings, that much depended on how she put her case to the
general. She must remain focused, be clear, be persuasive, be believable. Fortunately, she was capable of being all these things while eating. In fact, she reasoned, as she helped herself to warm brioche and steaming-hot coffee, she rarely gave her best performance on an empty stomach, so she should see eating as an equally serious matter.

“First of all,” she said, taking care not to spit crumbs as she spoke, “I'm not going to confess to anything. I never abducted Princess Charlotte, and I think you know that.” She paused, meeting his eye as best she could, given the distance between them, and then went on. “I understand that you are the first cousin of our revered and wonderful queen.”

“You understand correctly.” Ferdinand bit into his brioche.

“And I further understand that, while His Majesty King Julian might be a little, dare I say, shortsighted when it comes to the shortcomings of the Princess Charlotte, the queen has, shall I put it thus, a more realistic view of her daughter?”

“Go on.”

“And while I perfectly understand the king's reluctance to accept that the princess might not be as innocent or as truthful as he might wish . . .”

“Tread carefully, fraulein,” warned Ferdinand, sipping his coffee. A spotlessly liveried servant whisked away his empty plate and another replaced it with one bearing lightly poached eggs and kippers.

As the salty aroma of smoked fish reached Gretel, she momentarily lost her thread. The servants, having had attentiveness beaten into them throughout their training, spotted her need before she had time to articulate it and presented her with her own plateful of kippers and eggs. She paused to take a mouthful. The fish was cooked to perfection, and tasted so stupendously good she had to close her eyes the better to savor it.

A discreet cough from the far end of the table brought her back to the matter of securing her own future existence. If this breakfast was not to turn into her last supper, she must apply herself to convincing Ferdinand of her innocence. Or, at the very least, of her ability to
prove
her innocence.

“What I mean to say is, it is only natural and right that a father should seek to protect his child. Even if that child is all grown up and perfectly able to make his, or her, own decisions in life; to choose, not always wisely, his, or her, own path.”

“Fraulein, I urge you to come to the point.”

“Of course, Herr General. Forgive me, I am anxious to state my case as clearly and yet as respectfully as I am able.”

“Yes, I can see that you might want to,” he said, expertly removing the backbone from his kipper.

It took an enormous effort of will for Gretel to keep her mind fixed on the subject of the royal family. She had, completely unexpectedly, suddenly found herself dining on food of the finest quality imaginable, in the company of a disarmingly handsome and—she was now certain she was not imagining it—flirtatious man. The combination of food and a frisson of sexual tension was a heady mix. It had been a very long time since any man had been able to addle her brains (unless one counted Hans, which she did not, as the two things could not be more different). It was poor luck, she decided, that the very person who was now having such a stirring effect on her should also hold her very life in his hands. The balance of the relationship was worryingly loaded in his favor. She took a breath, pulling herself together. After all, he had given her no real reason to suppose his interest in her extended beyond his duty as the king's employee. And yet, and yet . . . it wasn't so much what he said as the way that he said it. And the way that
he looked at her. The way that he was looking at her right now, head slightly on one side, brows raised just a smidgen, secretive smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, eyes sparkling . . . .
Stop it, woman
, Gretel berated herself, and tucked into her eggs.

“It has come to my attention,” she went on, “that there is a person whom Princess Charlotte, rightly or wrongly, holds in high esteem.”

Ferdinand met her gaze levelly but said nothing.

“Now, this person is a pleasant enough fellow, but he is not, alas, of noble birth. I understand—”

“You do a great deal of understanding, fraulein.”

“I do my best, Herr General. I do my best,” said Gretel, parrying the implied criticism by accepting it as a compliment. “And it leads me to understand that the great house of Findleberg, this royal house, the family that built this glorious Schloss, the name that is known throughout the civilized world as a byword for decency, strength, honesty . . .”

Ferdinand straightened up impatiently, tugging his napkin from his collar and dropping onto the table in front of him. “Yes, yes, and the royal laundries are sufficiently equipped with flannel already, thank you, fraulein.”

“. . . finds itself financially embarrassed.”

“It is no secret that the wars in the hinterlands and the failed expedition to the China Sea have left the royal purse somewhat diminished.”

“Quite so. Just as it is public knowledge that the queen is particularly desirous of her eldest daughter making a profitable marriage. All three of her daughters, in fact, but she must, as tradition dictates, begin with the eldest.”

“A healthy alliance with a similarly prestigious . . .”

“. . . but seriously wealthy . . .”

“. . . family of equal noble rank would, indeed, be advantageous.”

“My point exactly,” said Gretel. “But none of that is going to come about if King Julian's Dear Little Lottie gets herself entangled with a local peasant.”

The idea caused Ferdinand to grimace.

He drained his coffee cup before responding. “It would be helpful information indeed,” he said slowly, “to know the name of the young man, if what you say is correct.”

“I'd stake my life on it.”

“You are indeed doing just that. What I need you to convince me of, Fraulein Gretel, is why I should not simply take you back to the chamber below the Schloss and ask Herr Schmerz to use his undoubted talents to extract that name from you?”

“Ah. I was rather hoping you wouldn't do that.” Gretel used a piece of sourdough bread to mop up the last drops of golden yolk.

“As I say, convince me that I should not.”

“Well, you could, of course, extract a name from me. But how would you be sure it was the right name? I mean, under the threat of torture, well, I would give up my own beloved brother, would I not?”

“I could have the man you name brought here anyway.”

“He would deny ever having spoken to the princess, and you wouldn't know if he was telling the truth or not. Only time would tell. When, one day, Princess Charlotte would go missing again . . .”

“So what is it you suggest, fraulein? How can all our disparate wants and needs be satisfied, hmm?” Ferdinand asked. He plucked a fig from the silver platter in front of him, and, never for one second taking his eyes from Gretel's own, sliced it open with his thumbnail and then thoughtfully devoured the flesh inside.

Gretel swallowed loudly. She signaled to the nearest flunkie for a top-up of coffee and downed it hastily. It occurred to her
that Ferdinand von Ferdinand would be capable of extracting any amount of information from her even more speedily than Schmerz, and without the need for employing expensive devices.

“Let me go,” she said, a little breathlessly. “Let me return home and continue my investigations. It is what I do best, after all. I will find you proof of the identity of the secret lover. I will deliver you that proof, discreetly, within an agreed period of time. You can be the one to present this crucial information to Her Majesty, thus saving the princess from making a foolish decision, saving the royal family from certain financial ruin . . .”

“And saving your own neck, fraulein?”

“That too. Definitely.”

Ferdinand was silent for a moment. Gretel found herself holding her breath.

“You ask a great deal of me, you know that?” he said at last. “If I release you, and you fail me, or disappear, I will have broken the king's trust, and for nothing.” He gave a little smile. “That being the case, I may well find myself in the very . . .
interesting
position you were occupying such a short time ago, under the attentions of Herr Schmerz.”

“I will do my utmost to see that does not happen. I promise,” she said.

“Yes.” He nodded. “I believe you will.”

He signaled to a servant, who opened a door, through which several soldiers appeared.

“Take the fraulein back to her cell and await my instructions. Do not leave her door.” He stood up and strode over to Gretel. “Go with them. Wait for me. Say nothing. Do you understand?”

Gretel nodded vigorously.

“I won't let you down, Herr General.”

“You had better not, fraulein. You had better not.”

Back in her cell once more, Gretel found the tension as she waited to be rescued almost unbearable. Outside in the courtyard an eager crowd was beginning to gather, some bringing picnics and clearly planning to make a day of it. She fumed silently, resenting them for making a family holiday with her own brutal demise as the main event. On the scaffold, a large block had been placed, center stage, suggesting a beheading. Gretel swallowed hard, her hand instinctively going to her neck. She tried to tell herself there was nothing to fear, that Ferdinand von Ferdinand was a man of his word, and a deal was a deal. But still, the sight of a hooded executioner lovingly inspecting his axe was unnerving in the extreme. A tortuous hour passed before she heard the bolts to her cell being drawn back. To her surprise, when the door opened, it was not the general who stepped over the threshold but an elderly priest.

“What are you doing here?” Gretel asked.

“My name is Father Wagner,” he told her in a soft, tuneful voice, “and I am here to accompany you on your final journey.”

“But . . . I was waiting for someone.”

“Have courage, fraulein, you will not be alone. God is with you always, and forgives all repentant sinners.”

“I'm not a sinner, I tell you!” Gretel alarmed herself with the shrillness in her voice. “At least,” she said, a little more calmly, “not that sort. Where is General von Ferdinand?”

“Uber General Ferdinand von Ferdinand, you mean?”

“Are there likely to be
two
General von Ferdinands in the Schloss, for pity's sake?”

Father Wagner was puzzled. “The general does not attend executions. I would not expect him to be present today.”

“I tell you, we cannot proceed without speaking to him.”

“I'm sorry, fraulein.” The priest shook his head. “That won't be possible. As I descended the dungeon stairs I passed two of Uber General Ferdinand von Ferdinand's men, who informed
me that they were quitting the Schloss with their master—called away on urgent business. They even complained a little at not being allowed to stay and watch the execution.”

Gretel opened and shut her mouth, silently. She pushed the priest aside and scanned the passageway. Ferdinand's soldiers were indeed gone, replaced by a gaggle of guards and the malodorous jailer.

“Come, child,” said Father Wagner gently, “let us go up together.”

“What? No . . . wait. Look, there's been some sort of mix-up.”

But Gretel's protestations went unheeded. Two guards roughly took hold of her arms and hauled her along behind the priest as he intoned prayers, his solemn words echoing off the dungeon walls as they ascended the twisting stone staircase.

SEVEN

G
retel was surprised to find that she was more cross than scared. She knew she was being led to her death; that a fearsome figure in a hood was about to detach her head from her body with an oversize axe while an eager crowd looked on. And yet the overwhelming emotion she was experiencing was fury. Fury at the injustice of her fate. Fury at the careless whimsy of princesses. Fury at the feckless promises of good-looking men.