The Case of the Fickle Mermaid (15 page)

The captain looked sorrowful and shook his head. “It should not have come to that. An honest man's heart stopped, his life at an end, to further the cause of some unscrupulous person, damn their eyes.”

Gretel toyed with the idea that this might be the moment to reveal her knowledge of the captain's previous identity. It seemed a little rich for a man who had, in years gone by, made his living doing precisely the deed he now described with such loathing not to acknowledge this double standard. But then, he was her client, his past was not her business. It was his future she must concern herself with.

She looked down at the chart upon the desk between them. A small model marked the position of both the
Arabella
and its grander competition. All around was mostly empty sea, but there were two tiny islands a way off to the west, and Gretel wondered if it was on the closest of these that the mermaid had sat and sung. It kept coming to her that the elusive creature was connected to Hoffman's skulduggery somehow, and therefore to Sommer, too, if her instinct was correct. “It seems to me that the placing of Frenchie's body aboard the
Fair Fortune
was a double bluff, designed to look like a ham-fisted attempt to implicate the ship or its connections, so that it would do just the opposite, as you have so astutely noticed. Therefore, I believe that someone on that ship is working with someone on this ship to blacken your reputation, scare off your crew and passengers, and put you out of business. As you know, I suspect Herr Hoffman of being involved. He is the common factor. It may well be that he is working with your rival, Thorsten Sommer, though I have no proof of this as yet. However, this is the line of inquiry I shall follow.”

“You suspect Sommer?”

“I do, though, as I say, without foundation, thus far.”

“Aye, the fellow is sly, I've always held so. And no doubt he would be pleased to see me and my ship gone from these waters.”

At that moment there was an urgent knocking on the door, and Will appeared, a messenger gull perched on his arm.

“Sorry to intrude, captain, but I thought I should bring him to you direct,” the boy said, holding the enormous bird as far from himself as his physique allowed.

“You did right, Will. Let me have him.” The captain stood and detached the message from the gull's leg. It squawked loudly before flapping over to a gull perch on the far side of the room and settling to preen its feathers. Will looked mightily relieved to be rid of the thing.

“Hell's eyes and damnation!” Captain Ziegler thrust the note into Gretel's hand. “It is from Sommer himself. See if that don't blow your theory out the water, fraulein,” he told her.

Gretel read the message aloud.

“‘First mate and Sailor Shultz missing. Crew and passengers in state of panic. Putting in at port of Nordstrand.'”

As Gretel left the captain's cabin to return to her own, the stars in the night sky twinkled merrily as if everything were peaceful and lovely and all was right was the world. Except that it was not. At least, not the part of the world Gretel inhabited. Two crewmembers were missing from the
Fair Fortune
. The suggestion was not that they had availed themselves of a tender and sailed away, but that they had vanished, as mysteriously and suddenly as poor Frenchie. Had they, too, met an untimely end at the hands of murderers? Or had they
been lured to a watery death by the mermaid? Either way, Gretel could no longer reasonably hold the view that Thorsten Sommer was behind the disappearance of Captain Ziegler's crew. The loss of his first mate was no minor inconvenience. The setup aboard the
Fair Fortune
differed from that of the
Arabella
; there was no captain as such, but a combination of owner, or master, and first mate. Herr Sommer did not, in fact, hold the title of captain himself, and the first mate therefore had charge of the ship. Without him, they could not continue to sail, and therefore had been forced to go directly to the nearest harbor big enough to take them. This did not smack of a cunning double bluff. This smacked of something of a disaster, for the crewmembers most of all, for Sommer's future business decidedly, and in a horribly damning way for Gretel's theories regarding the case.

So late was the hour that the deck was deserted, save for the lone crewmember who had the watch, and another at the wheel. Gretel was on the point of descending the ankle-twistingly steep stairs when the sea sprite landed on the handrail in front of her.

“Well?” it asked. “Did you solve my little puzzle, or are you as silly as you look?”

Gretel felt this was not a position someone covered in purple fur could safely take, but decided against commenting as such. “It wasn't really very difficult,” she replied. “Though I confess the information was interesting.”

The sprite shook its head, grinning. “Without my help, it would have taken you ages to work out who our glorious captain used to be, wouldn't it?”

“Undoubtedly,” she said, watching the unsettling way the little creature was eyeing her lorgnettes. “I rather think you must have enjoyed life aboard a pirate ship,” she went on. “Lots of sparkly plunder for you to filch, one would imagine.”

“I don't take things to keep, you know,” it insisted. “I don't want them for myself.”

“No? What, then? Do you sell them?”

“Of course not; who would I sell them to? Nobody's going to buy something from someone who doesn't exist, are they?”

“You may have a point. So why take things in the first place?”

“I like to . . . move them around.” The sprite hopped off the rail and circled Gretel, running a silver-nailed finger along the silk of her skirts as it did so. “I like putting them in places they shouldn't be and then seeing what happens. You wouldn't believe the fuss sometimes.” It chuckled; a sharp, impish sound that caused the hairs on Gretel's arms to stand up.

It struck her that the sprite was nothing more than a naughty child, desperate for attention. Although in its case, unlike a child, it could not gain that attention, which must make its existence—or nonexistence—a lonely one. Gretel wondered why it had singled her out for communication. It must, after all, be able to watch everyone on board as much as it liked.

“Tell me,” she asked, “on the night of the great storm, a little while back . . .”

“Huh! Call that a storm? That was nothing.”

“Nonetheless, you know to which night I am referring?”

“Of course.”

“I know you would have been on deck. A . . . person such as yourself could not possibly be frightened of a bit of weather.”

“I'm not frightened of anything,” it told her, jutting out its velvety chin.

“Indeed. And during that night, did you happen to witness anything . . . unusual?”

The sprite did not reply at once, but seemed to be considering how much, if anything, to reveal about what it had seen. When it finally did speak, it was, much to Gretel's annoyance, to deliver another puzzle.

“To understand, look close at the hand, and remember that special drink: the answer is clear, though it's not kept near, and it's never the person you think,” it sang, before flitting away into the darkness.

“Quite. Thank you so much. Exceptionally illuminating. Inordinately helpful of you,” Gretel muttered as she made her weary way belowdecks. By the time she reached her trunks in what she now accepted was their permanent lodging in the passageway, her temper was frayed at the edges, her patience threadbare thin, and her good humor worn right through. As there was unlikely to be anyone else stirring at such an hour, she removed her ball gown and birdcage where she stood, taking advantage of the fractionally larger space, before entering her cabin wearing only her petticoats, shift, and corset. Hans lay on the floor in his chef's garb, still clutching a wooden spoon, the fumes of his snore-borne breath suggesting that the news of Frenchie's body being found as it had been had driven him to even more drink than usual. Gretel was horrified to see the mer-hund stretched out upon her own bunk.

“Well, really!” she huffed. The hound stirred at the sound of her voice, grinned sheepishly, wagged its tail, rolled over, and went back to sleep. Gretel knew there was no way she could make the climb to the top bunk. She sat heavily on the wooden stool and plucked off her shoes. As she sat rubbing her aching feet, she repeated the sprite's rhyme to herself just to make sure she would remember it. There seemed little sense to it, and it was galling to think the creature might be holding back some useful information. The plain truth of the matter was, Gretel had made no discernible progress with her investigation. The
Arabella
was losing crew; the captain was losing his reputation and in danger of losing his business, and would soon lose tolerance for paying a detective who failed to detect anything worthwhile. Hoffman was still at the center of things; Gretel's
mind had not changed about that. That Sommer was also involved now seemed less likely. That the mermaid was in some way linked to what was going on seemed one of the few sure things remaining.

“In which case,” Gretel said to herself, “
cherchez la femme
.” She got to her feet again and clambered over her brother. She fetched a simple day dress from her trunk outside the door and wriggled into it, wrapping a shawl around her shoulders.

“Hans,” she called to him, then again, louder, adding a gentle nudge with her foot. “Hans! Wake up!”

“What? What's that? Who's there? Dash it all, Gretel, I don't need kicking like a lowly mutt.”

“I can't kick him, he's up on my bunk. Anyway, it wasn't a kick, just a bit of gentle encouragement.”

“Says you. Felt like a kick from down here,” he told her, puffing as he twisted and heaved himself into a sitting position. “It's still dark. The middle of the night. What on earth is it that can't wait until a sensible hour?”

“Aside from the fact that your stinking mer-hund is in my bed, d'you mean? Never mind that now. Get up and come with me.”

“Where are we going?”

“To the kitchen. We need provisions.”

“We do? Why?” he asked, his knee joints cracking in protest as he stood up.

“Drink—ale would be best, I think. And bread, cheese, some cold meat. Bring a knife. And matches of some sort. A lantern, too, of course.”

“Of course. What for?”

“Stop asking questions and come along. Not you!” she barked at the mer-hund as it tried to follow.

“No need to snap at the poor thing,” said Hans. “He doesn't want to be left behind.”

“He can't come.”

Hans frowned petulantly. “Right, that's it. I am not moving from this spot until you tell me where we are going, why we are going there, and what's wrong with his coming with us.”

Gretel sighed. “Very well. I have work to do and I require your help to do it.”

“You do?”

“I do. You are going to have the thrilling opportunity to play captain in charge of your very own vessel.”

“I am?”

“You are. We are going to find that dratted mermaid ourselves, right now.”

“We are? Well, in that case, we'll need a mer-hund, won't we?” He waited for her reply, eyebrows raised, hand gesturing unnecessarily at the damp dog on Gretel's bed. By way of strengthening its own case, the mer-hund yawned elaborately, stretched its front legs, and wagged some more.

Gretel considered the situation. It was doubtful that anyone ever actually
needed
a mer-hund. What was certain, however, was that if they left the thing behind, it would start barking and howling and kick up sufficient rumpus to wake the whole ship.

“All right, bring him. But he's your responsibility. It's up to you to keep him in check. And keep him quiet. And for pity's sake, keep him from licking me when I least expect it; it is singularly disturbing.” She turned and hurried along the passageway, Hans and his loyal companion following.

“Tell me, sister mine,” Hans asked in a stage whisper, “exactly what sort of vessel shall I be in command of?”

“You'll see, Hans,” she told him. “You'll soon see.”

ELEVEN

T
he lifeboat Gretel had selected for their enterprise was the only one that was not visible to the person at the wheel of the ship. This meant that, if they trod lightly and moved carefully, they should be able to lower it without being seen, so long as she first took care of the sailor on watch. This did not prove difficult. By now it was nearly four o'clock in the morning, so the man was already fighting sleep. Ten minutes of sharing brandy with Hans while listening to him chunder on about the finer points of seven-card whist rendered him helpfully unconscious.

“Right,” Hans whispered as he caught up to her beside the lifeboat, “he's down for the count. What now?”

“Put the food and drink in the boat. Good grief, we're only going to be a few hours—you've brought half the contents of the kitchen.”