The Case of the Fickle Mermaid (24 page)

Had there been a way Gretel could pass by this melodrama and access her cabin, she would have done so, but the passageway was stoppered with lachrymose women who must be removed if she was ever to get to her own bed.

“Tell me, Birgit,” she asked, “was the fan of high value?”

“To me it was priceless!”

“Quite so, but to another? I merely wish to suggest that a thief is unlikely to risk capture for an item that is of little worth.”

“Little worth!”

“Little
monetary
worth.”

“How can one put a price on precious memory?” Birgit demanded, her sobs growing louder.

Hans emerged from behind Gretel's trunks at the end of the passage, still fully dressed, but showing signs of having been asleep. “I say, some of us have need of our rest after testing times, don't you know? Might it be possible for the noise out here to be kept to a level allowing others to sleep?” he asked, rubbing his eyes.

“Oh, Hansel!” cried Birgit, dropping Dr. Becker's arm and turning the full force of her mania on Hans. “The sanctity of my boudoir has been violated . . .”

“Oh, for pity's sake,” Gretel hissed beneath her breath.

“. . . I have been robbed of something dear to me. You see before you a woman bereft!”

Hans, clearly having no idea what she was talking about, and evidently not able to muster the interest needed to find out, merely muttered, “Ah. Sorry to hear that. Well, there it is. Such a pity.”

He attempted to turn about and scuttle back to his cabin but Birgit had caught hold of his arm now.

“Hansel, thank heavens you are here.”

“Really?”

“It gives me such comfort to know you are near.”

“It does?”

Gretel glimpsed an opportunity to bring this nonsense to an end. “In that case, Birgit,” she said cheerfully, “you will be pleased to learn that Hans will be even closer to you from this point on.”

“I will?” asked Hans, alarmed.

“Will he?” asked Birgit.

“He will. I have secured him his very own cabin. This one here,” she explained, pushing open the door opposite Birgit's own.

Hans did not know whether to be pleased or terrified. Conflicting reactions fought within him. His slothful desire for comfort and ease battled against the natural cowardice that would have him as far away from That Woman as was possible. The two elements of his character slogged it out. Sloth won on points. “Good-oh! I'd better get out of your way, then, sister mine,” he said, edging past Birgit et al., eager to reach the safety and relative luxury of his new billet.

Happily, Birgit did appear somewhat mollified by the prospect of Hans moving a few yards nearer to her. Her expression relaxed a little and the tears ceased falling. It was then that Hans, bidding them all good night, turned to enter his cabin. It was then that Sonja, the larger and louder of Birgit's traveling companions, spotted the ivory handle of a lady's fan poking out of Hans's back trouser pocket. It was then that Gretel saw her chances of a few hours' sleep receding into the dim and far distance.

“There it is!” screeched Sonja. “Your fan, Birgit. Your fan . . . he has it! Here is your thief!”

SIXTEEN

B
irgit gasped.

Dr. Becker uttered a “well, I never.”

Hans, twisting around to try to see what it was they were all so excited about, opened his mouth to protest his innocence, and then found that he was, apparently, guilty, so closed it again.

Birgit's comrades-in-arms set up a chorus of noise, chiefly made up of slanders upon Hans's character.

“If you will just give my brother a second to speak for himself,” Gretel pleaded, “I am certain there will be a perfectly simple explanation as to why he has Birgit's fan in his . . . possession.” Even as she spoke the words, she knew them to be
false. First, the only thing simple about the situation was Hans himself. Second, it was obvious—at least to her—that he had no knowledge of the fan's existence, much less how it came to be nestled snugly in his trousers.

Birgit stepped forward, a worrying smile playing across her face. “Sister Gretel is right,” she declared, “the explanation is indeed simple.”

“It is?” Hans asked nervously.

Birgit placed a hand gently upon his chest. Hans would have stepped backward if he dared, but to do so would have allowed That Woman to follow him into his cabin, and his primeval survival instinct screamed at him on no account to let this happen.

“Oh, Hansel,” Birgit cooed, “my sweet, shy, dear prince . . .”

“Prince?” Hans questioned.

Birgit nodded. “How could I have forgotten what a romantic soul dwells within this fine body?”

“It does?” he asked.

Gretel rolled her eyes, horribly aware of the direction Birgit's single-minded reason was taking. “Hans . . .” she cautioned.

Birgit was positively glowing by now, eyes shining, smiling happily. “Why, yes! I have been foolishly overt in my wish to rekindle our friendship when I should have known you better; I should have waited for you to come to me.”

“You should?” Hans had lost the ability to converse in anything other than the quizzical interrogative.

“But of course! Oh, how painful it must have been for you, not to be able to voice your feelings. I have been hasty, and in my haste I have hindered your own attempts to woo me.”

“Woo you?”

“And you became so desperate, so lovelorn . . .”

“Oh, for heaven's sake,” said Gretel.

“. . . that you crept into my cabin, searching for some memento, something of mine own that you might keep close to you at all times. I understand, Hansel. Truly I do.”

“You . . . ?”

“Hans!” Gretel barked. “Pull yourself together. You no more stole that blasted fan than did I, or Dr. Becker, or the good captain himself.”

Shaking his head, Hans pulled the fan from his pocket and held up the somewhat squashed object. “But, Gretel . . . ?”

“The evidence does appear compelling,” Dr. Becker put in.

“Nonsense,” said Gretel. “Hans has only been back on board the ship a matter of minutes. We have been absent from the
Arabella
, both of us, these past days. My brother has been assisting me in my investigations, and weary work it was, too. We have been without sleep or proper food and our lives endangered. Trust me when I tell you that nothing was further from his mind than romance. Upon our return he went straight to his cabin.”

“But to do that, he must first pass our cabin,” Birgit pointed out.

“And were not the three of you in it at the time?” Gretel asked.

“Why, yes, but . . .”

“And you would have us believe that Hans sneaked into a space scarce big enough to hold its rightful occupants, let alone also accommodate his own considerable bulk . . .”

“Hey, Gretel, steady on,” he protested.

“. . . find and take your fan, and leave again, without any one of you noticing?”

“We were asleep,” said Birgit.

“Sleeping Beauty herself would be forced into consciousness were Hans to step on her.”

However sensible Gretel's argument, Birgit was holding on tight to the idea that Hans was secretly in love with her again
and was not going to loosen her grip willingly. “I only
missed
my fan just now; it may have been taken much earlier,” she said.

“
Days
earlier?” Gretel countered. “We have been absent from this ship more than forty-eight hours.”

“Perhaps he had it with him?”

There comes a point in most debates of such a nature when one of the participating parties entirely uses up their reserves of patience and restraint. Gretel was fast approaching this point. “Fraulein!” She turned the full force of her barely contained rage upon That Woman. “My brother is no thief. He did not take your benighted fan!”

“Then how came it into his pocket?” Birgit demanded.

“I strongly suspect it was the work of a sea sprite.”

As one, voices raised, Dr. Becker, Birgit, Sonja, Elsbeth, and even Hans himself intoned, “There's no such thing as a sea sprite!” before engaging in a revolting bout of synchronized spitting, during which Gretel thanked the heavens that she was standing to the right of all involved.

There followed a deal of pointless conjecture and people talking over one another until Gretel simply snatched the fan from Hans and thrust it at Birgit, spun her brother on his heel and shoved him into his new berth, whistled up the mer-hund, which she pushed into the cabin with Hans as guard against later possible visitations from Birgit, hurled several bad-tempered good-nights over her shoulder, and strode to her own billet, slamming the door firmly behind her.

Alone at last, she pulled off her dress, which was ruined by sea water beyond saving, plucked off her equally spoiled shoes, which had rubbed salty blisters onto her poor feet to match the ones on her hands bequeathed her by the oars, and flopped facedown onto her bunk, still wrapped in her damp petticoats, grateful at least not to be struggling out of her corset, which remained tied to the mast of the lifeboat for all to see.

As a feeble dawn struggled to lift the dark of night from the horizon, Gretel made her way back up to the poop deck for her rendezvous with Captain Ziegler. She had slept deeply, the cozy comfort of her cot—which was revealed to her after two nights in a lifeboat—had held her safe and soft, and the calm sea had rocked her through four whole hours of blissful unconsciousness. True to his word, the captain had sent Everard to wake her. The steward had tackled the horror that was her hair valiantly and without comment, even when he found two sea slugs and a miniature hermit crab held prisoners among its tangles. She had allowed him to work in silence, not wanting to waken any of her slumbering neighbors. The fewer witnesses to her departure, the better.

The morning was typical of so many Frisian summer days, which is to say pale, clean, and with a small wind that was relentlessly refreshing. Gretel was glad of the light wool suit she had selected for the occasion. It was the color of mountain heather, flatteringly cut, allowing ease of movement, and of a cloth that was neither too heating nor too flimsy. Her lorgnettes sat fetchingly against the dark, speckled background. She had enjoyed syrupy pancakes in her cabin, and strong coffee, into which Everard had thoughtfully tipped a measure of rum. Although experiencing the light-headedness that so often accompanies insufficient sleep, she felt largely restored. She felt ready. She felt determined. The hour had come to bring her investigations to a satisfactory conclusion. The future of the
Arabella
depended on it. Gretel's reputation depended on it. Her getting paid depended on it.

The captain stepped out of his quarters bearing an equally resolute air. He wore a dark jacket, his sword at his hip, and a pistol holstered across his chest.

“Good morning to you, Fraulein Gretel,” he said in a low voice. “Are you prepared for what might lie ahead?”

“As always, captain.”

“It may be dangerous. We cannot know what plans the smugglers have, now that their hidey-hole has been discovered.”

“We cannot, but we have no choice but to return to that island and return to it with all speed. With luck, we may reach the mermaid without ever encountering the villains.”

The captain shook his head. “I confess, I would like very much to encounter them! I should run the devils through!” he insisted.

“The hour will come to deal with them,” Gretel promised him, “but this is not it.”

“It pains me to be civil to that blackheart Hoffman.”

“You have adhered to our plan?”

“I have. I informed him you and I would be absent from the ship for some hours and that he must take command.”

“He questioned you on the nature of our excursion, no doubt.”

“That he did, though it was a pointless exchange, for I gave him no answers that carried any credence.”

“He is aware of your knowledge of his deeds, I don't doubt it. But he will know also you lack proof. He has no choice but to let you go. I only hope he will remain aboard.”

The captain was shocked at the suggestion that he might not. “Even a murderer would not abandon command of his ship,” he told her.

“Ah,” Gretel pointed out, “but the
Arabella
is not his ship, is she?”

They descended to the main deck. A seaman the captain deemed trustworthy assisted Gretel as she climbed into one of the lifeboats. She fought against a creeping sense of deja vu, reminding herself that this time she had none other than the
Snaggle-Toothed Pirate himself to sail the vessel and deliver her safely to her destination. What could possibly go wrong?

Their departure was halted by the arrival of Will, running from the fore of the ship, a large gull perched upon his slender arm.

“Begging your pardon, captain,” he panted, “an urgent message. From the
Fair Fortune
.”