Authors: P. J. Brackston
“No!” Gretel shouted, then quickly recovered herself. “It's good brandy, Hans, let's not water it down with ice this time.”
Hans frowned, shrugged, and then went inside. Gretel stepped a little nearer Strudel. “Please forgive my brother, Herr Kapitan. His mind is not as clear as it might be. His experiences as a child, you know . . .” She raised her brows, leaving the implication hanging.
Strudel nodded sagely. “Ah, yes, of course. And the facts of the case are confusing, after all,” he admitted.
“Indeed.”
He shook his head. “It is not enough that we have identified the corpse at the scene of the fire. We still have nothing to indicate that it was he who started the blaze.”
“You say he was a Muller, too. A brother, perhaps?”
“Yes. Erich. Every bit as much a scoundrel as his sibling. They would often work together to cheat and defraud people out of their hard-earned incomes. Despicable.”
“Quite so. But fraud, you say. Not violence?”
“We have never been able to prove a link between the Mullers and any suspicious deaths in the area.”
“But you have your own theories?”
“I do.”
Hans returned with the brandy. Strudel took his and sipped delicately. Hans began trying to recap who was who once more, causing the kingsman to drain his glass in a single gulp.
“Hans,” said Gretel, “fetch Kapitan Strudel another, please.”
The alcohol had had an instant and noticeable effect on the little man. Gretel saw her chance.
“I am grateful, Herr Kapitan,” she said, “that you were available to investigate this terrible event so swiftly.” She shook her head sadly, taking in the prone figure still flattening the weeds before her. “Whatever Muller's crimes, it was a horrible death. One wonders what can have driven a person to do such a thing.”
“The criminal classes fall out with one another just as easily as anyone else,” Strudel told her.
“Do you think he had argued with his brother, perhaps?”
“It is possible, but the pair had worked together for many years without apparent dispute. It is more likely they attempted to double-cross one of their own, and that person exacted their revenge.” He hiccupped quietly. “Rest assured, fraulein, we will not stop until we have got to the bottom of the matter.”
He looked at her fuzzily, trying to regain his usual aloof and critical composure. “Of course, as Muller was known to you and died in your company with no witnesses present, I will have to take a formal statement from you.”
“You surely do not consider me a suspect?”
“I would be failing in my duty if I did otherwise.”
“But, Herr Kapitan, we are on the same side, you and I. The side of justice. I had absolutely no reason to wish Peterson . . . Muller . . . any ill.”
“There is the outstanding issue of Bechstein's murder, which was, after all, committed in the hotel in which you and your brother were staying, and with your hunting knife.”
“An unfortunate set of coincidences, I admit, but nothing more.”
Hans returned with more brandy, but Strudel was starting to remember where he was and what he was supposed to be doing.
“I regret to say, fraulein, that a kingsman does not believe in coincidence.” He signaled to his men to pick up the body and then turned back to Gretel. “You will attend our offices tomorrow to give your account of events. It goes without sayingâ”
“But you feel the need to say it anyway.”
“âthat you must not leave Gesternstadt until our inquiries are completed.”
“I have business that may demand my attention elsewhere.”
“Then that
business
will have to wait. Do I make myself clear?”
“Perfectly.”
Gretel and Hans watched as the body was removed, and the kingsmen trailed out, Strudel all the while barking instructions to remind himself and everyone else of his own importance.
That night, sleep eluded Gretel. The air was clammy, the temperature was unseasonably high, and her mind was awhirr
with recent events. She had an uncomfortable sense that things were closing in on her. She had been accused, condemned, and even executed for a kidnapping that never happened. Her escape might be only temporary if she did not find proof of Princess Charlotte's liaison with Roland, particularly if the princess ever found out that she had not, after all, had her head lopped off. Then there was Bechstein, rotting away in some mortuary in Bad am Zee, case unsolved, with her as the prime suspect, and Hans running, puffing, a close second. And now Peterson-Muller, unhelpfully putting her in the frame for a spot of fatal poisoning. None of any of it was her own doing, and yet every bit of it was severely impacting on her liberty, her peace of mind, and her ability to do her job. True, she had made some progress in the matter of Frau Hapsburg's wretched cats, but how was she to resume her investigations and retrieve the felines if Strudel had confined her to Gesternstadt? The extra cash she had extracted from her client would not last long. She needed to get back to the troll, winkle the name of the cat stealer out of him, get an address for same, and pay the man a visit.
Gretel fidgeted upon her feather mattress, shifting position for the umpteenth time in an hour, but still unable to settle. Vivid pictures of severed body parts flashed in front of her tightly closed eyes. It had not been easy, relieving Peterson-Muller of his fingers. With hindsight, and with the experience of having hacked away at tissue and knuckle with first a chisel and then an axe, she thanked whatever stars kept watch over her that she had not attempted to do the same to Hans. It had been far more difficult than she could ever have imagined. The idea of the scene of ghastliness, discovery, failure, and reprisals that would have followed such an attempt made her sweat anew. She threw the cotton cover from the bed, exposing her nakedness to the thick air.
At least she now had the troll's payment, nestled snugly in the icehouse.
She recalled the moment of anxiety Hans had prompted by suggesting he fetch ice for their brandy. She could just imagine him returning, ashen-faced and appalled, Peterson-Muller's index and middle fingers held aloft, the blood barely dry. Still, there was no point dwelling on a horror she had, by however narrow a margin, escaped. She must focus on the here and now, and on the what-might-be if she didn't apply her mind to the problems that presented themselves.
She needed to compose a plan and then carry out that plan. Method and fortitude were called for. Good sense. Determination. Gretel was certain she possessed these qualities in abundance; it was simply a matter of mustering them to the cause. She had to get back to Bad am Zee and to the troll. Strudel had not specified a time for her to turn up and give her statement. Tomorrow, he had said. That being the case, he would not, presumably, see her absence as significant until about teatime. That would allow her several hours' head start, which could be enough. Provided she had a speedy conveyance. She couldn't risk the stagecoach: too public and too slow. No, if she was to slip away she must do so as early as possible. She knew it was beyond her ability to ride such a distance, so a carriage of some sort would have to be found.
Preferably with a driver. But whom to approach? It must be someone discreet, available, and happy to make some quick money. It occurred to Gretel that while she was in Bad am Zee she could do something to clear up the mysterious activities of Peterson-Muller. It would be sensible indeed to be able to return to Gesternstadt with evidence that would remove any suspicion from her own head, in regard to the con man's murder. On top of which, it was becoming clear to her that, if the man in Hund's yard was connected in some way to the
missing catsâand she believed he wasâand that man was a Muller, and so connected inextricably to Peterson-Muller, then the brothers were of more interest to her than she had at first realized. Was Peterson-Muller also involved with the catnapping?
Gretel felt her head beginning to throb. She reminded herself that pointless conjecture did not constitute proper investigation. The most pressing question was, who would take her to Bad am Zee? Who needed money and had access to transportation? She sat up.
“Roland!” she cried. Of course. He might not have a wagon of his own left, but he was bound to know a man who did. And he certainly needed the money. The cuckoo clock in the hallway announced the hour. In a little while it would be dawn.
Abandoning all thoughts of sleep, Gretel left her bed and dressed, choosing clothes suitable for speedy travel, for mountain walking, and for repelling the advances of trolls.
The new day had barely broken when she rapped urgently on Herr Hund's front door. She had made her way through the town without being noticed, but still found herself frequently checking furtively over her shoulder. Footsteps inside heralded an answer to her knocking. The door was opened cautiously. Gretel was relieved to see that it was Roland who stood sleepily peering out at her.
“Fraulein Gretel? It is very early.”
“Yes, I'm sorry about that. The thing is this. I have a proposition to put to you, and time is of the essence.”
“A proposition?”
“I need someone with a carriage to drive me to Bad am Zee, and then on farther. Five days should see the job done. I'm willing to pay a fair price for your time.”
“Fraulein, the fire . . . we have no carriages.”
“Of your own, but I'm sure you could borrow something. You must know of every wagon, landau, gig, and cart hereabouts.”
Roland pushed a hand through his hair and stifled a yawn. “Yes, it is possible, but when? When would you want to leave?”
“Immediately?”
“What?”
“At least, as soon as possible. Let's say before noon, definitely.” She watched him considering the idea. “Forgive me for saying so, Roland, but you cannot have more work than you can manage at present.”
“Five days, you say?”
“Not a minute more, I promise.”
“And the money . . . How much will you pay me?”
Though it pained Gretel to think of parting with any amount of money, she had already convinced herself that Frau Hapsburg would bear the cost, and this was not time to cut corners.
“Sufficient to purchase a new wagon of your own, perhaps?”
The deal was struck. Roland said he knew of a suitable conveyance and would set about securing its use at once. Gretel would return home, pack a small bag, and tell Hans what he needed to be told. Which would be as little as possible. Despite his loyal intentions, he could not be trusted with sensitive information concerning her whereabouts. Best that he did not know the full story, as Strudel would have it out of him in a very short time. She would meet Roland at the ford on the western edge of the town at ten o'clock. She felt energized by taking action, so that she sped back through the cobbled streets, barely noticing the aroma of freshly baked Snaggentorter wafting out from the Kaffee Haus, oblivious to the humidity already building to insufferable levels, heedless to the annoyingly cheerful good-mornings from early risers walking their dogs. Once home, she busied herself filling a case with essential clothing and toiletries. Hans, roused by the
slamming of the new front door, drifted into her room to see what she was doing up at such an hour.
“Oh, you're packing,” he said.
“Your powers of observation are razor sharp as ever, darling brother.”
“Which means you must be going somewhere,” he said, lifting an arm to scratch a pajamaed pit.
“Spot on. How do you do it? Mind, out, I need to get at the wardrobe.”
Hans stood aside, watching her for a moment as she squeaked hangers along the rail in her search for some crucial item or other.
Gretel glanced at him, never pausing in her task.
“This is where you're supposed to ask me where I'm going,” she told him.
“What? Oh, yes. All right then, where are you going?”
“To visit cousin Brunhilda.”
“Oh. Do we even have a cousin Brunhilda?”
“We do now.”
“I see. I think.”
“I doubt it.” She sat on the lid of her suitcase and looked levelly at him. “Listen, this is important. I'm going to visit cousin Brunhilda for a couple of days. My nerves have got the better of me, dead body in the garden and all that. Tell Strudelâ”
“Can't you tell him?”
“Tell Strudel I'll be back by the end of the week and he can have my statement then. I'll be much recovered after a few days' peace and quiet away from the shocking memories, and so on, and so on. Yes?”
“If you say so.”
“Good.” She heaved at the straps and did up the buckles on the case. She already felt horribly hot and sweaty, despite
having chosen a cool cotton dress that allowed a blissful circulation of air about her body. She secured a natty straw boater to her tightly pinned hair and met Hans's puzzled gaze once more.
“So, where have I gone?”
“To stay with cousin Brunhilda.”
“And why have I gone there?”
“Peace and quiet. Absence of corpses. Home cooking, shouldn't wonder. Good cook, is she, our cousin Brunhilda?”
“One of the best.”
“Really? Perhaps I should come, too.”
“Next visit, certainly. Better you stay here this time, look after the house, convince Strudel I'll be back very soon and all will be well.”
“If you say so.”
“I do.”
She hurried downstairs, Hans trailing behind her in an irritating, lost-lamb fashion. She hesitated, then said, “Don't suppose you could fix me a snack for the journey? Nothing complicated. A little bratwurst, some black bread would be nice. A jar of your sauerkraut, maybe . . . a pickled egg or two?”
“Consider it done,” said Hans with renewed vigor, happy to be given something to do he understood.
Gretel waited for him to become ensconced in the kitchen and then slipped out of the back door and into the icehouse. Mentally bracing herself, she pushed her hand down beside the large lump of ice, feeling for the wax-paper package she had deposited there the evening before. The tips of her fingers touched the wrapping, but it was encrusted with ice and slippery as could be, making it almost impossible to grasp. Grunting, she leaned farther, forcing her arm as far down the gap between the hefty block of ice and the stone wall of the little house as she was able.