The Case of the Fickle Mermaid (7 page)

“Well, I'll be . . . A sea sprite!” Gretel murmured.

The sprite smiled, showing disconcertingly sharp, pointy white teeth. “You're supposed to say, ‘There's no such thing as a sea sprite!' aren't you?” it teased.

“And spit loudly to the left, I believe. Yes, I am aware of that unsavory custom.”

“Aren't you going to do it, then?”

“There seems little point, when the evidence before me is so very . . . convincing.” As she watched, the nimble creature walked happily up and down along the narrow rail, its wings quivering lightly to give it perfect balance. “Do you live aboard
the
Arabella
?” Gretel asked it, playing for time while she searched her mind for what she knew of the things. Should she be on her guard, or were they harmless? She couldn't bring the necessary facts to mind. All she could summon was the knowledge that they were neither male nor female, which did not feel like a useful detail at all, and that they were playful. Or was it mischievous? Or dangerous? It appeared friendly enough, but those teeth looked as if they could deliver a nasty bite.

“Oh, yes, this is my ship,” the sprite replied. “I've been here longer than anyone. Right from before ever the
Arabella
was a cruise ship. Longer even than Captain Ziegler.” It frowned as it spoke, folding its tiny arms tightly across its plush chest, but Gretel detected a slight softening of its features at the mention of the captain.

“And what trade did this vessel ply before it was converted to accommodate cruising passengers, can you tell me that?”

The sprite chose not to answer. Instead it suddenly flitted through the air. It was more a fluttering jump than actual flight, but conveyed it quickly from the rail to Gretel's chest, where it crouched, examining her lorgnettes.

“I say!” said Gretel. “Would you mind alighting elsewhere?”

“These are nice,” said the sprite, ignoring her remark. “Will you give them to me?”

“Alas, I have need of them. Besides, they are too big for you.”

“Oh, I don't want to wear them, silly. You are a bit silly, aren't you?” The thing leaned forward until its face, and therefore its teeth, were uncomfortably close to Gretel's own. “I'll see if you are. I'll give you a puzzle, and if you can't solve it, then you must be silly.”

Without waiting for her to protest, the sprite jumped up, wings a blur, and resettled on the empty deck chair beside her. It thought for a moment, cleared its throat, and then spoke again. “Look once, look twice, look again at the tooth; first the
coat, then the badge, then the mouth for the truth!” And with that, it sprang aloft once more, disappearing among the rigging.

Gretel pondered its strange rhyme, rather wishing it hadn't involved making her think about teeth. There might be some information to be gained from the creature, that much was plain. What was also clear was Gretel's own need for some rest after her feast. She was too dozy and too well fed to solve puzzles. She would return to the matter a little later when she was refreshed from slumber. Once she was certain the sprite was not about to leap onto her chest again, she risked closing her eyes. The sun was still warm, and her belly still full, so that she was soon able to drift quickly into a happy, restorative sleep.

She was awoken an hour later by some unknown person apparently washing her face with a rough flannel. Gretel squawked, struggling to sit up and put an end to the unasked-for lavation. “Stop it, I say! What the devil do you think you're doing?” She opened her eyes expecting to see a madman with a fetish for cleanliness, but instead found, looming over her, an enormous hairy brindled hound, its slobbering tongue still straining to lick her further, the stench of its foul breath all but knocking her senseless. As she cried out and fought to push the thing away, she noticed it had a collar with a rope attached to it, and that on the other end of that rope stood her brother.

“Hans! What in the name of all that is sensible are you doing with this monstrous dog?”

He hauled on the fraying leash, dragging the panting beast backward the best he could. “Not a dog, sister mine, a mer-hund!”

“A what?” Gretel stood up, still groggy from sleep and somewhat shaken from the manner in which she had been woken. Looking about her, she saw that they were once more at sea. So deep had her slumber been that she had not even been aware of their setting sail, but the port of Friedrichskoog was now
beyond one of the apparently identical blue-gray horizons that currently surrounded them.

“A mer-hund,” Hans insisted on explaining. “Here, look at his paws—webbed, see? For swimming both on top of and beneath the surface. And his fur, incredible stuff, practically impervious to water.”

“It certainly smells as if that were the case,” said Gretel, quelling an uncharacteristic wave of nausea as the creature's body odor assailed her.

“He's just back from hunting. Drew a blank this time, but he'll find your mermaid, you mark my words. Bred for the job. Been used for generations to find the fishy little things.”

“How much did you pay for him?”

“Have you any idea how hard these are to come by this far north?”

“How. Much?”

“I used my winnings from the other night.”

“And?”

“And the spending money I brought with me.”

“You mean the spending money I furnished you with which was to last the entire trip, not a measly couple of days.”

“Dash it all, Gretel, have a little faith. He'll make it back for you and more besides. When he finds the mermaid and solves the case, well, how will you like him then, eh?”

At that moment the hound quivered, pointed with nose and paw, and then flung itself over the side and into the sea.

A cry came from atop the rigging. “Mer-hund overboard!”

“There goes our money,” Gretel muttered wearily.

“No, he's working. He's on to something! Look at him go!” cried Hans excitedly. He commenced dashing up and down the deck, calling encouragement to his stinking—and at that moment sinking—investment. Gretel allowed herself a single deep sigh, but then her flagging spirits were lifted a tad when
she thought what a cheering effect the hound was having on Hans, and what an effective Birgit deterrent such an animal might prove to be.

“A curious creature,” came the softly spoken comment to her left. Turning, she found Dr. Becker.

“Are you referring to the hound or my brother?” she asked, and then, upon seeing the consternation on the gentleman's face, added, “As a matter of fact, I think them a well-matched pair.”

The doctor relaxed, clearly relieved he had not inadvertently caused offense. “He will need to be a strong swimmer,” he observed, nodding at the ocean. “There is a wind getting up and the water is becoming quite choppy. I have noticed the way the gulls behave when the weather is about to change. It is almost as if they have some inbuilt sense, some barometer of their own creation, which allows them to know what lies ahead and seek shelter when necessary. Quite fascinating.”

“Quite,” Gretel agreed.

“Did you know,” he went on, his features aglow with love of his subject, “that the black beaked gull, after fledging and leaving the nest, will not set foot on land for nearly two years?”

“I confess I did not,” she replied, thinking to herself that she had not felt the lack of this knowledge but that evidently it was a source of great joy to the mild-mannered doctor.

“Or that the albatross will stay aloft or on water for five years?”

“Alas, I was ignorant of that fact too, until now. Thank you for enlightening me.”

“They mate for life, most birds, you know. Astonishing, given the perilous lives they lead. We could learn so much from them, if only we took the time.”

“Indeed,” said Gretel, rather thinking that time was in fact taking her, and in the general direction of her cabin.

Dr. Becker lifted an outlandish eyeglass to his spectacled eyes. Gretel had not seen its like before. The device was larger and much more cumbersome than her own lorgnettes, and yet had two lenses, rather than a single one, such as the captain's telescope had. She watched as the doctor swept the darkening waters with his gaze thus freakishly extended. She peered into the nothingness of the ocean surface, but could see neither flesh, fish, nor fowl.

“You have found something, with your . . . glasses?” she asked him at last. “A bird of some rarity, perhaps?”

“Sadly, no,” he replied, lowering the heavy things, “not a bird. But I can see a ship.”

“Really?” Gretel lifted her lorgnettes and tried with, without, with, without, but she could see no ships.

“Please.” The doctor took the leather loop from around his own neck and smiled at her. “Try my binoculars. They work on the same principle as your glasses, but their forte is power, rather than decoration.” He helped her put them to her eyes and turn the small wheel that helped adjust them to her eyes. At first she saw nothing but gray-blue-blur, but then, there it was, so close it made her take a step back.

“Good lord! A ship where seconds before there was none. Astounding! Such detail. I can read the name . . . yes, it is the
Fair Fortune
. I can even see the people on deck.” She continued to watch the ship as it changed its course fractionally, bringing it a little nearer. Soon she was able to make out the elegance of the gowns worn by the ladies promenading on board, and could see the string quartet playing for them, and the silver trays of champagne held high by white-gloved flunkies. Everything looked so grand and gracious and glittering and in no way whatsoever resembled the grittiness on offer aboard the
Arabella
.

“I can see you are impressed by my glasses, fraulein. I find them invaluable in my pursuit of shy and wild birds.”

Gretel was aware that the doctor was speaking, but his words fell on deaf ears. Two things had captured her attention and held it in an iron grip. Two things, or, rather, two people. For the ship had glided sufficiently close for her to be able to discern their features clearly enough to identify them. The first, with her unmistakeable beakish nose, sharp expression, and angular physique, could be none other than Baroness Schleswig-Holstein. A distant cousin of King Julian the Mighty, she had the distinctive bearing of the Findleberg family. Gretel recalled the last time they had met, during a testing case of art theft in Nuremberg. If memory served, she had not made a good impression on the aged royal. Neither woman would consider it a blow should their paths diverge permanently. No, it was not the baroness herself who interested Gretel, it was the tall, broad-shouldered figure who stood at her side. Who must be there acting as her personal bodyguard, lent out by King Julian whether he willed it or no. Even at such a distance the sight of him had the power to reach parts of Gretel that had lain hitherto undisturbed, at least since the last time she had been in his company. She experienced the now-familiar combination of conflicting emotions. There was joy at seeing him again, hand in hand with pique that he had not sought her out while they were both back in Gesternstadt. Here was the hot flame of excitement brought about by his manly form, dampened down by the wet blanket of disappointment that he was enjoying a glamorous cruise without her. Uber General Ferdinand von Ferdinand. The man who had saved her from a lion. The man who had seen to it that she was not, after all, tortured or executed, when others would have had it so. The man who had sent her the Swedish wolf-fur cape. The man who, damn his dark, smiling eyes, his flowing salt-and-pepper hair, his well-turned ankles, his handsome frame in his handsome uniform . . . was currently steadying the scrawny arm of
a blue-blooded shrew on a stingingly desirable ship instead of being where he should be, doing what he should be doing. On the wretched
Arabella
. With Gretel.

“Bastard!” she snapped.

“Bustard? Where?” the good doctor wanted to know, taking his glasses from her to scour the horizon.

While he was happily engaged in his search, Gretel was able to slip away to her cabin.

SIX

U
pon my word, my goodness,” Everard could not help himself declaring on taking a closer look at Gretel's hair. “My gracious,” he added, somewhat unnecessarily, Gretel thought.

“I have realistic expectations,” she told him. “We are at sea, the wind is increasing, the ceilings are low, the accommodation cramped and airless. These are not, I recognize, conditions conducive to hair at its best. I ask that you do the best you can to render it kempt, stylish, and secure.” She had removed her dress and petticoats, as the width of its birdcage would have made it impossible for the steward to get anywhere near her otherwise. She found she was not
uncomfortable in this condition of
deshabille
, not in Everard's presence.

He sucked air through his teeth, shook his head, and tutted. “I don't know whose salon you attend when you are home in . . . where was it again?” he asked, removing quantities of pins as he spoke.

“Gesternstadt. A small town in Bavaria. You won't have heard of it. Nobody has. Unless, of course, they are looking for—” She stopped herself just in time, recalling she was supposed to be traveling without giving away the real reason for being on the
Arabella
. “—oh, I don't know, all things quaintly Bavarian . . .” Everard gave her a look that told her clearly how little appeal such things, whatever they might be, held for him. “But it does boast a reasonable establishment run by Madame Renoir. She is better than one might hope to find in such a backwater.”

Everard arched his neatly plucked brows. He picked up a bristle brush and began applying it to Gretel's frizzing locks. She clenched her teeth but would not complain. She had always known she must suffer to present herself to the world in the way in which she wanted to be seen.

“It must be washed,” he decided, “and I will apply a coating of coconut oil to restore luster.”