The Case of the Fickle Mermaid (31 page)

“But he might be lonely,” Hans said.

“Ah, I've thought of that.” Gretel glanced about her. There was no one close by, as their fellow cruise-goers were busy with their luggage and travel arrangements, and the crew was employed in the business of unloading the ship. She peered up into the rigging. “Hello?” she called in a stage whisper. “Hello, are you going to come down?”

“Who the devil are you talking to?” asked Hans, getting stiffly to his feet. He and the mer-hund followed the direction of her gaze. Hans could see nothing, but the hound's ears stuck out and he began to wag his tail a little. And then, suddenly, there it was. The sea sprite flitted effortless down and settled on a pile of rope beside them.

“Well, I'll be!” exclaimed Hans. “Look at that!”

“Good morning to you,” Gretel said. “This, as you know, is my brother, Hans, and this is his mer-hund . . .” But already she could see that the sprite's attention was elsewhere, as it reached out a tiny purple hand to Hans's pet. The hound sniffed at it gently. The sea sprite touched the big black nose and hopped down to examine the great shaggy webbed paws before springing lightly up to hover next to its head, the better to look it in the eye. The mer-hund wagged more enthusiastically.

“The thing is,” said Gretel, seizing the moment, “we have to leave him behind. Captain Ziegler is happy to have him on board. He thinks the passengers will like him. I can't see it myself, but there we are. Anyway, Hans is worried that the
animal might be lonely. Thinks he needs a special someone. I was wondering . . .” But she needed wonder no more. The sprite leaned forward and, showing surprising strength for its size, tugged at the collar and rope until the hound was free of them.

“He doesn't need these,” it said, shoving them at Hans. Standing beside the animal, the sprite came barely up to its shoulder, but as it leaned into the hound's furriness it was plain to see that the two were a good match, both misfits and misunderstood, both creatures bound to the sea, both in need of a friend. The sprite started to flit off, the mer-hund happily padding after it. Gretel was pleased to see such a satisfactory solution found, but she was aware of a strangled sob from her brother. To her surprise, the sea sprite stopped, turned, and called back to Hans, “Don't worry. I'll look after him.” And then the curious pair moved on and were soon lost to view among the sails and rigging and bollards and such like that littered the deck.

A week of steady and testing travel south, and at last they were in sight of the tiny town of Gesternstadt. Gretel experienced, as she always did on returning, a mixture of relief—for here was home, hearth, rest, safety—and disappointment, that she should live her life in so provincial and insignificant a place.

Hans's reaction was simpler.

“We are home, sister mine! We are home, hurrah! Best bit of going away, I always say, the coming back. Don't you think?”

They were set down from the stagecoach outside their little house, which had changed not one jot in their absence. Hans insisted she help him inside with the luggage, so that it was another tiring half hour before she sat on her beloved daybed,
a pile of mail and parcels on her lap. Hans fetched a bottle of schnapps and the biscuit barrel. Most of the letters were bills, chiefly from dressmakers and tailors, or notes of little interest. What was intriguing was a heavy square parcel, carefully wrapped and packaged. Gretel shook it gently but could discern no clue as to its contents, save for a faint and not particularly pleasant odor.

“What have you there, Gretel?”

“I shan't know until I open it,” she told him.

She undid the string and cautiously peeled off the brown wrapping paper.

“Hell's teeth!” she exclaimed, reeling backward.

“I say! Gretel, what a stink!”

Holding her breath, she opened the box. Inside there were a note and a jar. She read the brief lines.

“Who is it from?” Hans wanted to know.

“A widow. The wife of a sorcerer who has recently met a violent and untimely end.”

“Murder, you mean!”

“It would seem so. It says here that the kingsmen are baffled and clues are scant. The grieving widow asks that I make all haste to find her husband's killer and bring him to justice.”

“Another case! Well, you are in demand. Plenty of business coming your way now. Can't complain at that, can you?”

Gretel felt that she would like to complain very much. She had just spent a long, tedious, bottom-numbing journey, dreaming of days lounging on her comfy daybed and nestling into her silk bolsters, imagining being fed restorative and reviving snacks by Hans. She had hoped for a little respite, a little peace and quiet, a little tranquility and pampering. All the same, it was gratifying to find her services in such demand. And the tone of desperation in the note suggested a client on the edge, and in her experience, such clients could easily be
persuaded that the only way to be pulled back from the brink of the abyss was to invest in Gretel's expertise. Heavily.

Gingerly, she lifted the jar from the box and held it up to the light. It contained a cloudy yellow liquid, in which floated something small, shriveled, and pink.

Hans recoiled at the sight of it. “Great heavens, sister mine, what is that?”

Gretel glanced at the letter again and then back at the contents of the jar, her eyebrows raised. “This is just about all we have to work with. The only clue left to us. This, brother dear, is the sorcerer's appendix.”

And so, as one case closes, another springs open . . .

THE CASE OF THE FICKLE MERMAID

Pegasus Crime is an Imprint of

Pegasus Books LLC

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Copyright © 2016 by P. J. Brackston

First Pegasus Books cloth edition January 2016

Interior design by Maria Fernandez

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ISBN: 978-1-60598-946-4

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