The Case of the Fickle Mermaid (5 page)

Two baffling months had passed, during which time she had suffered interminable hours of Birgit's company, and had to put up with Hans floating about the house wearing a rose in his buttonhole and a silly grin on his face, spouting appalling poems, before something his paramour had said to Gretel in an unguarded moment had made all clear. Somehow, Birgit had got hold of the idea that Hans had a vast horde of money made from his brief moment of fame when they were children. That he lived in a small house in an unremarkable town with his sister seemed not to alert the woman to the unlikeliness of this being the case. She had convinced herself that he had made a minor fortune trading on his experiences in the woods and his escape from the witch, telling his story, receiving a generous payment from King Julian, no doubt publishing his memoirs and having a sausage named after him, and that this money had been sensibly and successfully invested. Clearly, Birgit had not taken the trouble to know Hans at all.

Not surprisingly, she eventually learned the truth. Not surprisingly because Gretel told it to her. It had been clear that her brother would be dumped the second his ghastly girlfriend discovered that his entire fortune consisted of a souvenir jubilee coin, a gold pocket watch (won in a poker game), and a handful of loose change. Gretel saw no advantage to spinning the thing out. Why prolong the agony? Particularly her own. Better to bring the doomed affair to a swift end. Her assessment of the lack of regard Birgit truly had for Hans had been accurate. It was one of the few times Gretel regretted being right. She could not have foreseen the gnashing of teeth and the rending of cloth, the wailing and sighing and sobbing and crying and generally horrendous behavior Hans was to
take up. The months of Hans in Love paled into insignificance when compared to Hans with a Broken Heart. He moped about, relentlessly lachrymose and moribund. He even, for one whole hungry week, refused to cook. And he never again let anyone ever, no not ever, at all, no sir thank you very much, call him Hansel.

“Hansel! My goodness! How marvelous that I find you here. And unchanged, after all this long, long time.”

Hans offered nothing by way of reply save for a squeak of protest as Birgit settled herself, uninvited, upon the chair next to him.

“And sweet sister Gretel! Also unaltered by the many years since we have seen each other.”

“Birgit, I assure you it feels as if it were only yesterday,” Gretel responded through clenched teeth. “Are you here with your husband, perhaps?”

It was a forlorn hope.

“Alas, you see before you a bereft widow,” she explained, looking anything but as she fluttered fan and eyelashes at Hans. “Poor, dear Albert fell victim to the dropsy last summer. I miss him still, but life must go on.”

Hans was giving every impression of a person whose life might not go on very much longer. The ability to speak seemed to have left him. His mouth opened and shut in the manner of a landed tuna that had given up all hope of returning to the water. His bulging eyes suggested that merely drawing breath might soon prove beyond him.

“So you are here accompanied by . . .” Gretel clung to the notion that there must be somebody responsible for the dreadful woman.

“Two dear friends, Elsbeth and Sonja.” She pointed toward the far side of the dining room without for one second taking her eyes off Hans.

Gretel picked up her lorgnettes to peer into the distance. Inspection of Birgit's traveling companions confirmed her worst suspicions. She got quickly to her feet, taking hold of Hans's arm and hauling him up with her. “If you'll forgive us, Fraulein Lange, my brother is feeling unwell.”

“Oh! Nothing serious, I hope? He does not suffer failing health in general? No terrible ailments that might shorten his life?”

“Merely a case of
mal de mer
. He needs to lie down,” Gretel explained, wheeling Hans about and propelling him away from the table.

“Until later, then!” Birgit called after them.

But Gretel did not take Hans to their cabin. She knew her brother well, and she knew when nothing but strong alcohol would do. Despite the early hour, she dragged him to the saloon bar. It was, unsurprisingly, empty. Propping Hans up on a stool, she rang the bell. When no one came to their aid, she took it upon herself to step behind the bar and fetch a bottle of brandy and two glasses. Hans downed the first shot, then the second, after which his eyes at least lost their disturbing stare.

“That's the way,” Gretel told him. “One or two more of those and you will be ready to try a little bite to eat, I feel certain of it.” She needed him to come to his senses so that she could talk frankly to him about the danger he was in. Birgit's mission aboard the
Arabella
was plain as the plain nose on her plain face. The appearance of the other women with her confirmed it. Gretel knew a hunting party when she saw one. Widows. On the prowl. Looking for new husbands, preferably with frail constitutions and healthy bank balances. Hans's best defense was his continued lack of wealth, and they must do their utmost to make his financial ineligibility clear to Birgit. But first he must regain what wits he possessed. “Come along.”
Gretel patted his hand—she was not given to demonstrations of affection with her brother, but the situation called for extreme measures. “Drink up and we'll see if we can't get that fine sounding breakfast brought in here. I think this is a safe enough place to hole up at this hour.”

But Hans shook his head, and the words he uttered next were proof, if proof were needed, that they were in deep trouble.

“You know,” he said, his voice faltering, “I do believe my appetite has fled.”

FOUR

L
eaving Hans in the bar, Gretel went up on deck, feeling more than a little out of sorts. Having Birgit Lange on board was going to be a constant source of irritation and distraction, not to mention emotional torture for Hans. Nothing and no one else had ever put him off his food. Gretel was here to work, and the last things she needed were the screeching presence of Hans's ex and her brother maudlin and needy. What was more, she had missed breakfast. The medicinal brandy she had shared with Hans lurched around unpleasantly in her otherwise empty stomach. She had done little to progress the case she had been summoned to solve, and was unlikely to make much headway unless she was
properly fed. There were men to be questioned and the ship to be examined. While she knew clues were scant, she must search for them, and quickly, if the captain was to believe his investment in her to be money well spent. She took several large gulps of fresh sea air, but they did nothing to fill her up. The day was bright and the sea calm, so she spent some time gazing upon it in the hope that the blue of the sky and the sparkle of the water would have beneficial and restorative effects on her. Whether it was the brightness of the sunshine or the unaccustomed movement of the ship, she could not be sure, but something suddenly gave Gretel the impression that a figure had just swung through the rigging. Not a person, but someone smaller. Or something. She put her hand to her eyes to shade them and squinted upward, expecting to find, perhaps, a monkey. She had heard of sailors who acquired such exotic pets on their far-flung travels. Now she glimpsed whatever it was, a silhouette against the sun. It scampered along a boom, its tiny feet seeming to scarcely touch the slippery wood. And then it was gone, vanished among the sails before she could obtain a clear view.

Blinking, she rubbed her eyes and her mind at once returned to the irritation that was Birgit. It was too bad, having to suffer her company on board, but she knew that she must not let this irksome development hinder her investigations, and she resolved to start interviewing the crew forthwith. Given her gnawing hunger, she decided that the ship's cook might be a good person to start with.

The galley was a place of heat, steam, noise, and raised voices. It looked to Gretel's eye woefully small, given the size of the ship and number of mouths to be fed. She sidled through the entrance and wedged herself between a tallboy and a stack of barrels so as to be out of the way. Breakfast over, it was evident preparations were already under way for the next
meal. The sight of slabs of chocolate being melted, the sound of something sizzling in a pan, and the aroma of freshly baked bread combined to render Gretel quite faint with desire. So much so that as a tray of warm brioche flashed past her, held aloft by a red-faced boy, she snatched one up for herself and stuffed the thing whole into her mouth. The sweetness of the new dough, its glorious buttery texture, the delicate flakiness of it as it melted on her tongue nearly caused her to swoon. She felt instantly better, and pondered the fact that healthy lungfuls of ocean air could not compete with a tummy full of sugar and fat when it came to giving one a boost.

“What are you doing in my kitchen!” yelled a small, round-faced man dressed in the whites of a chef and sporting a black bandanna and a sparse goatee. He held a fearsome knife with a curved blade and bone handle, which he seemed to be in the habit of gesticulating with as he spoke. The effect was unnerving.

“Forgive the intrusion,” Gretel began. “I was called away during breakfast, and—”

“Passengers are not allowed in the kitchen!” he barked.

“Of course, I have no wish to interrupt your excellent work—”

“If you want something to eat, ask the steward. You cannot come in here!”

Gretel remained steadily impervious to the man's blustering and played what she believed to be her trump card. “Sadly, my brother, Hans, is indisposed. He mentioned what an exceptional poker player and a thoroughly helpful fellow you are . . . Herr Frenchie, if I have it right?”

“Hans?” The little man's face twisted through a variety of expressions, touching on puzzled and passing through surprised before arriving at delighted. “Ah, Hans! My good friend! He is unwell? Why didn't you say so? Do not tell me the sea
has unsettled his digestion, no! I refuse to believe this. Hans is a man of substance.”

“Few would argue with that.”

“A man of iron will!”

“Iron stomach, certainly.”

“If he is ailing, he must eat. I will prepare him a fish broth.” He waved his knife and snapped orders at his sweating minions. “I am famous for my bouillabaisse,” he explained, gathering handfuls of ingredients. “I trained in Paris under the great Alphonse Dubois. There is no other living who has this recipe.” As he talked he chopped, sliced, and diced with alarming speed and impressive dexterity.

“I am certain if anything can restore Hans to good health, it will be your cooking,” said Gretel, her mouth watering as the fumes of garlic simmering in white wine reached her nostrils. She struggled to stay focused. “Might I ask, how long have you been cook aboard the
Arabella
?”

“Since first she started her life as a cruise ship. That is to say, this will be my second summer serving under Captain Ziegler.”

“And you find him a fair master to serve?”

“Not the shallots, you imbecile!” Frenchie yelled, causing Gretel to jump, a sous chef to whimper, and the lower lip of the galley boy to tremble. “If I say spring onions I mean spring onions! Yes, fraulein.” His voice returned to a softer level as he addressed Gretel without missing a beat. “He is new to the business, but not to captaincy. He runs his ship sound enough. Does this look like fennel to you, boy?!” he demanded of a passing lad, cuffing him about the ears with the offending bunch of celery.

“I cannot help observing that I did not see you on deck when the mermaid was sighted. Have you no interest in such things?”

“Little interest and less time. I never leave my post during service!”

“Of course. And yet others felt compelled to do so. I understand there are some who are greatly disturbed by the notion of these fishy females.”

But Frenchie was no longer listening. He was in the throes of creation, and nothing would penetrate his consciousness until the fabled seafood soup was completed. Gretel watched him as he worked on, her stomach groaning forlornly all the while, though the noise was drowned out by the cacophonous music of the kitchen. At last the dish was finished. The cook became suddenly still, all around him hushed for this moment, as he lifted the ladle to his lips for the final tasting. Nobody spoke, nobody moved. The galley boy ceased breathing, judging by the color of him. Frenchie slurped. He savored. He swallowed. He smiled! All present applauded before scurrying back to their multifarious tasks. A generous bowl of the precious concoction was whisked away to Hans. The cook called for glasses and took a heavy bottle of brandy from the shelf beneath his workbench. He poured two measures of the darkly tempting drink and handed one to Gretel.

She would, truth be told, sooner have had the soup, but the choice was not hers to make. She tipped her head back, thinking to down the shot swiftly lest her stomach have time to rebel, but the quality of the brandy as it entered her mouth made her pause. She sipped, enjoying the warm, aromatic flavors and detecting nothing of the customary harshness she had come to expect from the ship's alcohol. “My, my,” she said, “I must congratulate you on the quality of your cellar, Herr Frenchie. This is most excellent.”

The cook shrugged, tapped the side of his nose, and mumbled something about any chef being only as good as his ingredients. It was evident to Gretel she would get no more from him on this matter now, but would certainly question him further at another time.

Once back up on deck, Gretel located the captain. There was an air of busy calm among the crew as they went about their arcane tasks to keep the ship on course and on speed. On such a balmy day, the open water offered few challenges. As she approached him, Gretel saw that the master of the ship had his spyglass to his eye. Following the direction of his gaze, she was able to make out another ship some way off. Even at such a distance she was reasonably sure that it was the same vessel she had seen alongside the quay at Bremerhaven.