Authors: P. J. Brackston
She was so furious, in fact, that when two of Ferdinand's soldiers appeared through a hidden entrance in the passageway and tried to rescue her, she attempted to fight them off.
“Let go of me, you brutes!” she shouted as they sought to take her from the guards.
“But, fraulein,” said the nearest soldier, “you must come quietly, please! We are here on the instructions of Uber Generalâ”
“What? Oh, yes, yes, come on then. We don't have time for his whole name,” she said, coming quickly to her senses.
The guards handed her over without a struggle, the praying priest moving slowly on, all the time seemingly unaware of what was taking place behind him. Another figure was hauled out of the shadows and bundled toward the guards, who continued on their procession behind Father Wagner. The soldiers assisted Gretel along an uncomfortably narrow tunnel. Just as she feared claustrophobia might get the better of her, they reached a doorway and stepped through it into a smart and luxuriously appointed room. Ferdinand stood in front of the fireplace.
“Fraulein Gretel, so pleased you were able to join us.”
“Not as pleased as I. You might have warned me about the priest and the whole last-journey business. I nearly had kittens.”
“A necessary subterfuge, for which I apologize.”
“Didn't Father Wagner know what was going on? He seemed under the impression you had been called away.”
“It is better that as few people as possible know of your . . . release. Better, indeed, that some believe the execution has taken place as scheduled.”
“And would that some people include the king?”
“Alas, His Majesty's mind is not as clear as once it was. It is the queen's wish that he be spared the worry of troubling himself on the matter of Princess Charlotte's possible assignations.”
“I see. But won't he notice? I mean, there's quite a throng gathering out there. There'll be a riot if the execution doesn't go ahead. Even King Julian might notice a riot.”
“Indeed. Which is why I have taken steps to prevent such a thing. Please, see for yourself.” He indicated the south-facing window.
Gretel looked down upon the courtyard below. Even from the safety of what she learned were Ferdinand's private quarters, it was unnerving to think about what she was seeing, and about how close she had come to providing entertainment for the ruthless crowd. As she watched, Father Wagner emerged from the Schloss, the gaggle of guards still following. They appeared to be supporting the hapless figure who had been so roughly maneuvered into Gretel's place. The poor fellow seemed to have lost consciousness, so that the guards were all but carrying him up the steps and onto the scaffold.
“But who is that?” Gretel asked. “Don't tell me you sent some other innocent soul in my place?”
“Please, do not distress yourself, fraulein.”
“Oh no, that's not right. I mean, it wouldn't be right if it were me either, but . . . I can't let you do this!”
“Your moral outrage does you credit, but please, remain calm. No one will suffer on your behalf. Look closely.” Ferdinand had come to stand beside her now. He gestured through the window, urging her to do as he said.
Hardly daring to do so, Gretel squinted down at the terrible scene in the courtyard. The priest had finished his prayers and stepped away from the condemned. The victim was so robbed of strength that the guards were required to lay him down on the block and hold him there. The executioner raised his great axe. Gretel wanted to look away, but found she could not. There was a collective intake of breath among the crowd outside and the smaller one in Ferdinand's room. The axe swung down. Gretel emitted an embarrassingly girlish scream. There was a gasp as blood gushed from the opened neck, and the head
plopped noiselessly into the waiting basket. A cheer rattled off the walls of the enclosure. The executioner held up the head for all to see before tossing it carelessly back into the basket. Gretel thought she might well throw up. Blood continued to flow from the inert body.
“Oh,” said Gretel, too shocked to form a sensible thought.
“Convincing, isn't it?”
“What?”
“It really does look as if a real person has been executed,” Ferdinand said.
“It really does? Hasn't it? Really?”
“No, my dear fraulein. As I told you, no one has suffered to enable our plans to come about.”
“But . . . the body . . . ?”
“Was a scarecrow from the Schloss gardens.”
“And the blood . . . ?”
“Came from a pig, freshly butchered for the royal supper tonight.”
“And the guards?”
“Are well practiced in this particular charade. As is everyone else.”
“You mean, they all knew? What, even that crowd out thereâthey all knew it would be a fake?”
“Regrettably, such pretenses have proved necessary on many occasions over the last ten years or so. King Julian is much loved, but, sadly, his powers of reasoning have left him. It is up to us, his loyal aides, and the queen, of course, to see to it that his wishes are carried out, while at the same time, as few people as possible suffer as a consequence.”
All at once Gretel felt giddy. The events of the night, culminating in such peaks and sloughs of emotion, had taken its toll. She put a hand to her brow.
“Might I, d'you think, have a little water?”
“Of course. I think we can provide something more reviving.” Ferdinand took her arm and steered her to an ornate carved chair by the fireside. He signaled to a servant, who quickly fetched a bottle of eiswein. He poured a glass and handed it to her.
Gretel drank and sat in silence for a few moments until she felt she had sufficiently regained control of herself to speak.
“The archer,” she said at last. “It was you, wasn't it? You who killed the lion and helped me to escape?”
Ferdinand smiled. “My services were hardly needed. There were times when I feared for the lions.”
“Wouldn't it have been easier simply to have sent your men to release me?”
Ferdinand considered this and his face became serious again. “It is important you understand, fraulein, that there is still danger in what we do. While the queen does her best to care for the king, she must allow him to at least be seen to rule. For outsiders to gain the knowledge that his mind is enfeebled could be catastrophic for the security of the realm. This means that we can never publicly be seen going against the king's orders. It also means that the volatile, shall we say, unpredictable nature of His Majesty's thought processes can, sometimes, have unfortunate results, which we are unable to prevent.”
“Particularly when you've got Princess Charlotte stirring things up, I should imagine.”
“Quite so. In which case I urge you to proceed with the utmost caution. I will have one of my most trusted men take you from the Schloss and return you to your home. You must not be observed. We may be able to convince the king his wishes have been carried out, but the princess has sharp eyes and ears, and a talent for protecting her own interests.”
“She is a Findleberg, after all.”
“If she were to see you, or if she were to hear that you are conducting investigations that might lead to revelations regarding her private life . . .”
“I get your meaning, Herr General.” Gretel rose to her feet, dusting herself off, mentally preparing herself for the task ahead. “Fear not. I shall return to Gesternstadt and at once set about discreet but effective work, which I promise you will produce proof of the princess's unsuitable paramour.”
“Within the week, fraulein.”
“Absolutely. Within the week,” said Gretel.
She was sneaked out of the Schloss and placed on a sturdy but surprisingly swift horse, which, mercifully, required no instructions from her but galloped happily after the mount of General von Ferdinand's trusted man. By the time they reached Gesternstadt, there wasn't a bone in her body that did not feel jarred and jolted in such a way she was certain would plague her in old age. If she ever lived to be old. Recent events had shaken her, she realized. Somehow, while she was actually dealing with dangerous situations and perilous predicaments, she was always able to find the strength to endure, and to be resourceful. Later, however, when she had time to consider what might have happened, what painful and horrific fate might have claimed her, she found herself weak with terror and in need of comfort and solace. The sight of a splinter-fringed hole where once her front door had been offered little by way of either. As her escort deposited her wordlessly in her porch and sped away, she struggled to haul herself up the front steps and into her house.
“Hans?” she called out wearily as she entered. The sound of her own some might say flimsy, others might say downright wet, voice provoked a useful response within her. “Hans!” she yelled this time, squaring her shoulders, taking a deep, steadying breath, and silently admonishing herself for allowing
a few setbacks to get the better of her. She was, after all, Gretel (yes
that
Gretel) of Gesternstadt, private detective for hire. She had been through much worse, and no doubt greater challenges lay ahead.
Hans appeared in the hallway.
“Gretel! Thank heavens! Are you all right?”
“I know I've felt better, and I'm very sure I've looked better, but yes, thank you, Hans, I am, in every way that counts, quite all right.”
“Thank heavens!”
“You've said that.”
“I was so worried about you.”
“Didn't put you off your food, I see,” she said, nodding at the bulging club sandwich her brother was clutching.
“What, this? Oh, just a snack. Hardly eaten at all since they took you. Fair lost my appetite.” He bit off a chunk of bread, small pieces of bacon escaping and gliding to the floor on lettuce leaves. “Didn't know what to do for the best,” he said.
“Clearly fixing the front door did not present itself as a good place to start.”
He shook his head. “Too worried. Couldn't think straight,” he explained as he chewed.
Gretel had neither the time nor the strength to be cross with him. There was work to be done.
“Right,” she said. “Stop feeding for five minutes and make yourself useful, Hans. First, get round to Hund's yard, and see if you can't find Roland. Ask him to come and fix our front door.”
“Roland Hund? But he builds carts. Not really a carpenter, is he?”
“In case you haven't noticed, the Hunds haven't been building much of anything lately. He'll be glad of the chance to earn some notes, and I'll be glad of the chance to talk to him. Once you've done that, you can get back in the kitchen
and make me one of those,” she said, pointing at the last inch of sandwich as it disappeared into his mouth. “But no lettuce. This is not a lettuce sort of day.”
“Right you are. Roland Hund. Sandwich. Hold the lettuce.”
“I am going upstairs to find some sensible clothes and attempt to get a comb through my hair.”
“Sure you don't want me to fill up another bath?”
“No time, Hans,” she called back over her shoulder as she mounted the stairs. “There is much to be done, and little time in which to do it.”
Gretel was right about the Hunds being keen for some trade, and Roland arrived, hammer in hand, within the hour. She listened to him sawing and fixing as she battled with the disaster that had been her hair. It quickly became clear that professional help was needed. She hid the worst of it under a bold blue turban, secured at the front with a gaudy glass stone. She hoped it made her look exotic and sophisticated. She feared it made her look like a refugee from a pantomime. Turning her back on the somewhat depressing results of her efforts the mirror presented, she hurried downstairs.
“Ah, Roland. So good of you to fit us in at such short notice,” she said, treating him to her best smile.
“You are very welcome, fraulein.” He continued to work as he spoke.
It was evident from the set of his shoulders and slight frown that he wore that the young man was not in the best of spirits. Whatever the truth behind his tangled love life, it clearly was not making him happy. And unhappy people, in Gretel's experience, were always grateful to find a receptive ear for their woes.
“A very bad business,” she offered, “the fire. So dreadful to lose your livelihood like that. How is your father?”
“Oh, as you might expect . . .”
“Quite. Quite. And I daresay a deal of the burden will fall upon you and your brother. Work must be found.”
The youth nodded but said nothing.
“And of course there is the dreadful matter of the unfortunate soul found among the embers.”
“Unfortunate!” Gretel had clearly hit a nerve. “It would take a person more charitable than I to call him that, fraulein.” Roland took up his saw once more, venting his ire on the planks of wood in front of him so that Gretel feared for her new door.
“You do not believe, then,” she asked, “that he was merely a hapless passerby, an innocent victim . . . ?”
“Not innocent, no! Nor victim, save of his own bad character.” Roland dropped the saw and picked up his hammer, pounding at nails with alarming vigor.
“Do you believe, perhaps, that he was in some way responsible for the blaze?”
“What I believe will change nothing,” said Roland. “What's done is done. The world is as it is and we are dealt with as fate decrees.”
Gretel waited, but no further information was forthcoming. The conversation was not going as she had hoped. She was convinced the dead man was connected to the troll, and therefore the errant cats. She was also convinced that Roland was Princess Charlotte's secret lover. But to gain anything by all this conviction, she needed further facts. The identity of the dead man would be a start. With a name she at least stood a hope of unearthing his background. It might even be possible to bypass the troll altogether, if the trail led to the catnapper himself. As for proof of the princess's liaison with Roland . . .