Once Upon a Crime (3 page)

Gretel would never have admitted it to anyone, but she liked having Hans around. Aside from his skills in the kitchen (a
room into which Gretel herself never ventured), his unchallenging companionship was a comfort, even if he did insist on dressing like every other Bavarian gentleman she had ever met—though, mercifully, he drew the line at lederhosen. More important, his knack for tangential reasoning had, bizarrely, on several occasions, illuminated dark corners of cases Gretel had been struggling to solve. It irked her to even consider the idea that she needed him, however. She had simply persuaded herself that having saved his miserable neck all that time ago, it would make no sense to abandon him now.

“All I know,” said Gretel, having finished excavating around her molars, “is that I don't want Frau Hapsburg getting wind of what I've found. One brass bell doesn't prove anything.”

“And you don't want to have to give her back her money.”

“There are three potentially abducted cats to consider here, and only one bell.”

“And you don't want to have to give her back her money.”

“And in any case, the cat may have wriggled out of its collar and made off before the fire started.”

“And you don't—”

“Stop it!”

Hans puffed smoke donuts pointedly.

“Things are never as obvious as they seem, in my experience,” Gretel went on. “Least I can do for the old trout is ask a few questions. See what I can see.”

“Strudel won't like that.”

“Strudel will be far too busy trying to find out who was barbequed in Hund's yard.”

Hans shrugged. “You'd better go and talk to Agnes, then.”

Gretel groaned.

Hans shook his head. “It's no good being like that; you know how useful she can be. She knows stuff. She sees stuff. Get her to read your cards.” He laughed throatily, pausing only just in
time to prevent himself swallowing his cigar stub. “You'd like that!” He chortled. “Go on, treat yourself!”

“Oh, ha very ha
ha
, Hans. You are so much less funny than you think you are. Your therapy sessions may have cured you of your fear of witches; mine, sadly, did not. As you very well know.”

“Now, now, Agnes is not a witch, she's a crone.”

“You don't have to tell me.”

“There is a difference.”

“Not a big enough one to make me want to spend time with the creature.”

Hans raised his eyebrows. Gretel knew he was right. If there was tittle being tattled, the Old Crone (to give her her official title) would know about it. And she was unnervingly good at reading the damn cards.

“Very well.” Gretel plumped up her cushions and wriggled into a more comfortable position. “Agnes it is. Right now, however, I intend fitting in a pre-bedtime nap, if you've finished filling the room with those toxic tobacco fumes.” She settled into the goosefeather embrace of her bedding. “I'll get myself up to Crooked Cottage first thing in the morning. Very first thing, in fact.”

TWO

T
hree days later Gretel set off to consult the Old Crone. She wore one of her favorite outfits, a skirt and jacket combination in the finest yellow and dark gold wool check, with exquisite tailoring that made even Gretel's figure look at least structured. She had agonized over her choice of footwear. It was a crooked mile to the Old Crone's cottage, and the road was stony and uneven. Gretel's hand had hovered above a pair of tan leather buttoned boots, which would have managed the terrain excellently. But it was spring, and her newest court shoes, in honey brown with elegant three-inch heels, were just crying out to be shown off in the April sunshine. Besides, the walk would wear them in nicely. Gretel
completed the look with a miniature top hat in toning bronze, fixed jauntily to the side of her head, her hair having first been tamed by industrial quantities of pins and lacquer.

By the time she reached Crooked Cottage, she was all but crippled by blisters.

“Hah!” the Old Crone cackled at the sight of her. “Hah
hah!
What a foolish creature ye be, young Gretel. Here, come inside my humble dwelling and rest your poor sore feet.” The ancient woman added another cackle for good measure as she creaked inside the house, bent almost double, her steps apparently every bit as painful as Gretel's.

Gretel followed into the tiny room, falling into the first available chair.

“Okay, Agnes, you can drop the act,” she said, gasping as she pulled off her shoes. “You know it brings me out in a rash.”

Agnes straightened up, rubbing the small of her back.

“Thank goodness,” she said in a surprisingly musical voice without a trace of crone in it. “Much more of that stooping and carrying on and I really will have a wonky spine.” She paused to remove a set of false black teeth from her mouth, revealing a perfect set of her own. “Tea or something stronger?”

“Stronger, definitely. Though none of your home brew.”

“Still don't trust me, then?”

Gretel let her gaze rest on the cauldron simmering on the range. It bubbled menacingly, and the fumes that emanated from it were of a worryingly meaty yet nothing-you-would-want-to-eat nature.

The crone wordlessly placed a heavy lid on the pot.

“With or without the cackle, Agnes, your chosen profession presses buttons I'd far rather leave unpressed.”

Agnes fetched two bottles of local beer, uncorked them, handed one to Gretel, and sat at the small kitchen table. “So,”
she asked, “what brings you all the way out here in those silly shoes?”

“Silly! I'll have you know these shoes—”

“Were ridiculously expensive and have rubbed holes in your feet.”

“They are Timmy Chews!”

“As I said, silly shoes. Let's hope you haven't spent all your money on them, or there won't be much point in your coming here, will there?” Agnes swigged off a couple glugs of beer and waited.

Gretel shook her head.

“Not so fast,” she said. “I'm not parting with any money until I'm sure you're going to be of use to me. I'm not some dewy-eyed girl who wants to hear a lot of guff about tall, dark, handsome strangers.”

“Are you not?”

“I've taken on a new case. I want information to help me get started on the thing. No more, no less.”

“‘Hmm, and would this new case have anything to do with the fire at Herr Hund's carriage workshop?”

“Nice try, Agnes, but no. At least, not directly. That is, I don't think so. Or it may. Possibly. But not probably.”

“Good to see your powers of deduction are as sharp as ever, Gretel.”

“It has to do with cats.”

“Cats?”

“Yes, cats. You know, horrid furry things with claws, teeth, and fleas. Surprised you haven't got one yourself,” she added, glancing around the little room.

“I know what they are,” said Agnes. “I'm just surprised you're having anything to do with them.”

“My client is in despair and needs my help.”

“Your client must be paying you very well.”

“You're the one
who sees things and knows things.” Gretel drained her bottle of beer and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “No need for me to tell you the details of a private financial arrangement.”

“That much, eh?”

“Look, three of the woman's wretched cats have done a bunk. Have you heard anything?”

“Will you be paying in gold or notes?”

Gretel sighed and pulled two folded notes from her cleavage. Agnes stood up. “I'll fetch the cards,” she said.

Agnes, Gretel had long ago realized, made a pretty fair Old Crone when she put her mind to it, but it was indeed an act. What was beyond question, however, was her talent with the tarot. She was well known for her accuracy and had proved a useful resource on several of Gretel's more tricky cases.

The women seated themselves closer to the table, curtains drawn, a pool of low light from a single lantern replacing the brightness of the spring sunshine. Gretel took the pack as she was directed and shuffled carefully, allowing her mind's eye to see as many cats as she could stand. Agnes took the cards from her and began to lay them out. She did so in silence for a moment, seeming to find nothing of interest, and then, all at once, paused and gave a little smile.

“Well, well, well,” she said. “That is unexpected.”

“What? What can you see?”

“You're not going to like it.”

“Tell me.”

“You will meet a tall, dark, handsome stranger.”

“Oh, Agnes, really!”

“I'm serious! That's what it says.”

“There had better be something else . . .”

“All right, give me a chance. You can't rush the cards.” She turned one more, and then another. The pictures meant
nothing to Gretel, so that she was forced to sit quietly and wait for Agnes to reveal their significance.

“This may be something, it's hard to make out.”

“What?”

“Looks like it's suggesting . . . gloves. Hands, maybe? No, fingers, that's it. Fingers. Any of your missing cats got fingers?”

Gretel successfully masked her excitement. “Don't be daft,” she said.

Agnes shrugged. “Stranger things have happened in these parts.” She turned another card and grimaced. “Urgh! That's very nasty.”

“For pity's sake, what is it?”

“A troll.
Yeuch,
haven't had any dealings with a troll for years. Horrible things.”

“What about it? Has it got the cats?”

“No. I don't think so. But there must be some connection.” She closed her eyes, leaning back in her chair. “I can see a bridge. An old stone one. There's a revolting smell.”

“Where? Where is this place?”

“Not anywhere I'd be in a hurry to visit. Wait a minute, there's a signpost . . . I can't quite make it out. It's all blurry.”

“Would another note make it any clearer?” Agnes opened one eye.

“Gretel, you are such a cynic.” She closed the eye again, screwing up her face in concentration. “Something beginning with F. No, P. That's it . . . Per . . . No good, I can't read the rest.” She opened her eyes and refocused on the cards. “There's something here about water.”

“Well, under the bridge, presumably, there is a river.”

“No, more water than that. A lake, perhaps.” She sat up straight now, her scrutiny of the cards over. “So, there you are. Any help?”

Gretel attempted to recap.

“Fingers.
A stinking troll who lives under a bridge, near somewhere beginning with Per, and a lake. It's all a bit vague.”

“Don't forget the tall, dark, handsome stranger.”

“Oh,
please
.”

“I promise you, it's what I saw.”

“Well,” said Gretel, forcing her feet back into her shoes and getting up, “unless he's got the cats, I'm not interested.”

The journey home was long and uncomfortable, and manageable only because of the wads of cotton Agnes had provided. They stuck out of Gretel's precious shoes in ludicrous tufts, but at least she was able to walk. The sun was warm and before she was half a mile from the cottage she was perspiring beneath her tweed jacket, the heat provoking her dormant flea bites into a new bout of irritation. Just when Gretel was thinking that she wasn't charging Frau Hapsburg nearly enough for all the effort she was expending, an empty cart pulled by a chestnut nag appeared from a side lane and joined the road in the direction of town.

“Hey! Wait a minute!” Gretel hobbled after it. “Any chance of a lift?”

The rickety vehicle was driven by a rosy-cheeked farmer Gretel dimly recognized as one of Hans's sometime drinking companions at the inn. He smiled at her, a gappy grin that emitted a pungent blast of halitosis. Gretel reeled backward, grimly noting that this was not the breed of stranger Agnes had promised.

“Out for a walk, are ye?” he asked.

“Not exactly.”

“Lovely day for it.”

“Are you going into Gesternstadt?”

“That I am.”

“I'd be most grateful for a lift.”

“How grateful?” asked the farmer, his grin never faltering.

“Is there
anyone around here who would do something without being paid?”

“Would ye?”

With a sigh Gretel handed over the smallest note she possessed, promising herself she would visit Frau Hapsburg the first chance she got to demand more money to cover the ever-mounting expenses. She clambered up beside the driver, quickly learning that the best way to avoid further assaults from his toxic breath was to refuse to be engaged in conversation. So it was that they plodded along in silence. Gretel found the pace maddeningly slow, but at least her feet were getting a rest. As they rounded a bend, she noticed movement in a small copse a little way from the road.

Squinting against the sun, she was able to make out two figures, apparently a young couple. At the sound of the wagon the pair hastily said their goodbyes, the young man disappearing into the trees and the girl darting out onto the lane. She did not, as Gretel had anticipated, hail the cart and beg a lift. Instead, she put her shawl over her head, and walked briskly past them in the opposite direction without so much as a good-morning-how-are-you.

The farmer tutted. “Young people b'aint got manners these days,” he said.

Gretel was inclined to agree with him, but merely nodded, turning to watch the girl as she hurried by. The sound of galloping hooves in the distance caused her to halt. The noise grew louder. The driver steered the old mare to one side of the road and pulled her to a stop.

“What be coming now?” he muttered.

The noise was certainly thunderous and quite alarming. Nevertheless, Gretel was surprised to see the girl run as if the devil himself were on her heels. She flung herself into the back of the cart.

“Hide me!” she cried. “Oh, please, you must help me. I cannot be found.
Please!
” The sight of such prettiness in distress was enough to melt the stoniest of hearts. The farmer signaled for her to lie down in the wagon.