Once Upon a Crime (23 page)

The interior of the public house was every bit as lovely as its exterior. It was almost a mercy that a cirrocumulus of tobacco smoke put much of it into soft focus. Even through the gloom, the quality of the clientele shone forth. There seemed to be a dress code of shreds and patches held together by a coating of substances of which undigested food and spilled ale were the most pleasant. Hair was to be worn either matted and wild or else jammed beneath a cap or hat of no recognizable weave or shape. Pipes were de rigueur, for men and women alike. And what women they were. Females formed not a quarter of the assembled company, but what they lacked in numbers they made up for in the loudness of their shrieking gaiety, or the eye-popping cut of their décolletage.

Gretel put her head down and weaved through the pungent bodies to the bar. Hans stuck close behind her. Together they
cut a sizeable swath through the revelers, but garnered little more than the odd curious look. It struck Gretel that, for once, her disheveled and travel-weary appearance was an advantage to her. Had she been attired in her usual chic finery, hair coiffed and perfumed, shoes clean and beautiful, she would certainly have drawn unwanted attention to herself.

Leaning on the sticky wooden plank that served as a bar, she signaled to the wench serving behind it.

“Would you be so kind as to direct me to the proprietor of this establishment?” she asked. Her question, reasonable and harmless as it seemed to her, set off a chorus of cackling and guffawing.

“‘Proprietor,' says she!” screamed the barmaid.

“‘Establishment!'” bellowed a nearby drinker.

And so it went on. Gretel waited for the merriment to subside as patiently as her frazzled state would allow her before smiling sweetly and trying again.

“I merely wish to ascertain the cost of a repast, accommodation for the night, and stabling for my horse.”

This request proved as hilarious as the first. Gretel was at a loss. As far as she was concerned, she was asking perfectly sensible questions in a perfectly sensible manner, and yet she was being greeted with scorn and ridicule. She turned to her brother. “Hans, years of time spent in such company may have rubbed off on you. Try and get some sense out of this harpy before I take a bottle to her head.”

“Steady on, dear sister. No need to resort to violence. Allow me.” He squeezed past her so that his broad form took up pole position at the bar. “Sweet thing!” he called. “I say, Sweet young thing!”

The barmaid paused, her attention definitely snagged. She sauntered over. As she drew closer, she was revealed in unforgiving detail. She might not have been thirty, but was
obviously the survivor of a pox of some sort that had left her skin cruelly scarred. This in itself might have been overlooked, had it not been enhanced by a purple tinge to her nose, presumably born of such close association with a ready supply of booze. The most singular and alarming characteristic of the woman's appearance, however, was her inability to control her wandering left eye. For a second she would focus upon the person of her choice—which was in this instance Hans—but then, while her right eye held steady, her left would drift and slide first outward, and then in, where its focus remained fixed upon her own slightly bulbous nose.

Hans showed his true mettle by not missing a beat but seizing the moment.

“Take pity on my poor, laboring heart,” he implored her, dramatically clutching at his chest. “It is so disturbed by the very sight of such loveliness, only the finest ale will calm it from its passionate rhythm.”

Now it was Gretel's turn to laugh. A loud, incredulous snort had left her mouth before she could stop it.

“Be quiet!” Hans hissed at her. “I know what I'm doing.”

Clearly he did. The barmaid stepped closer and leaned across the bar toward Hans in an exceedingly friendly manner.

“Now,” she said, “here's a gentlemen if ever I saw one. What might be your pleasure, sir?”

Hans and the young woman giggled together as if sharing some deep and highly erotic secret. Gretel felt queasy.

“Oh.” Hans sighed wistfully. “What does any man want? A good meal. A safe place to rest his weary head.” He paused to drop his gaze pointedly to her expansive bosom. “And the love of a good woman.”

The wench threw back her head and laughed aloud, giving everyone who cared to look an uninterrupted view of her four fine teeth. “Dear me!” she cried. “You took a wrong turn
somewhere and no mistake, for you'll not find nothing good in this place, God knows!”

“Fraulein.” Hans shook his head. “I am rather inclined to believe the evidence of my own eyes.” So saying, he took her hand, lifted it to his lips, and kissed it gently.

Gretel didn't know whether to vomit or applaud. This was a side of Hans that had remained hitherto hidden from her. His gift for mendacity stunned her. She leaned close to his ear.

“How long is this going to go on?” she asked.

Hans ignored her, his mind fully focused on the task at hand.

“My traveling companions and I have come a long way,” he told the woman, “and are sorely in need of food and rest. Some soup, perhaps? A small beer? A room for the night?”

“We've stew,” she told him, “and beer aplenty.”

“Excellent!” said Hans.

“But there's only one room, and it'll cost you dear. Him as owns this place”—she jerked her head toward a figure slumped on the settle by the fire—“he's a hard man to bargain with. He'll take five notes off you for the use of it for a single night, he will.” Gretel could remain silent no longer.

“Five notes!” she cried. “In
this
place.”

The barmaid narrowed her eyes. “
This
place is where you are, Frau Smell-under-yer-nose. Take it or leave it,” she added, snatching her hand away from Hans.

“We'll take the stew and the beer,” said Gretel. “And a place in your stables and hay for our horse. We'll do without the room.”

Hans opened his mouth to protest but was silenced by the look on his sister's face. The barmaid shrugged. “There's a boy in the barn will watch your horse if you pay him,” she said, turning her back and sloshing beer from the nearest barrel into grubby tankards.

“Here.” Gretel handed Hans a coin. “Take this out to Roland and tell him to put the horse to bed, and then both of you come and eat.”

There was room by the fire only for the privileged few, which did not include them. Instead they were forced to perch on a splintery bench positioned to take full advantage of the drafts that chased each other from front door to rear window. The three sat in glum silence, chewing their way through tasteless stew, washing it down with watery ale. The thought crossed Gretel's mind that the troll might have learned his culinary skills here.

She heard Roland curse under his breath and followed the direction of his gaze. In the far corner of the room four men sat at cards. Even through the filter of the foul smoky air the tension at the table was obvious. There was a sizeable pile of notes and coins in front of them, and the only words uttered were tersely delivered bids.

“I say,” said Hans, spotting them, “a hand or two of poker might brighten things up a tad.”

“I don't think they are playing for the pleasure of it,” Gretel said.

“Indeed.” Roland banged his empty tankard down beside his plate. “They are interested only in the thrill of risking their happiness, and no doubt that of their families, on the turn of the cards.”

“But that's my point,” Hans went on. “Don't mean to blow my own horn, as it were, but, well, I am considered reliable at playing a fair hand or two myself when occasion demands.”

Gretel found it hard to imagine how occasion could ever have demanded—until now.

“I've very little money left, Hans. Exactly how certain are you of increasing, rather than decreasing, what stands between us and destitution?”

“Dead certain.”

“I'd be happier with a more optimistic assessment.”

“Completely, absolutely certain. Really, Gretel, I could show these bumpkins a thing or two, I promise you.”

“I suggest you start by not addressing them as bumpkins.”

“How much have we got?”

Gretel hesitated.

“All right,” Hans tried again, “how much will you let me have?”

“Five notes. It's no good looking at me like that. Five notes is all I'm prepared to risk.” She didn't think it prudent to let him or Roland know that five notes was all she possessed in the world.

Hans was just pocketing the money and rising stiffly to his feet when a commotion broke out among the card players.

“Cheat! Filthy cheat!” shouted the scrawny man seated nearest the fire.

Chaos ensued. There was a deal of shouting and swearing. Two of the men leapt from their seats and set about beating the third with flailing fists. The fourth was tipped backward, the table upset, coins and notes scattering far and wide. A near riot broke out as several drinkers threw themselves upon the spilled money, while others tried to haul them off. In the midst of the kerfuffle, there came a scream. In a heartbeat the scrambling for loot ceased and people backed quickly away from the table. The man who had been accused staggered into the clearing, hands clasped to his stomach, blood gushing from between his fingers, his face registering shock and fear. He stood for an instant, suspended between life and death, before crashing to the dirty floor. Someone nudged him with a booted foot. Satisfied the victim was dead, he and two others dragged him from the inn. The card table was righted, tankards refilled, and everyone returned to the business of drinking, eating, or falling asleep in front of the fire.

Gretel tugged at her brother's sleeve. “Sit down, Hans.”

“But the game . . .”

“I cannot let you play with them!”

“I am a child no longer, Gretel. I shall play with whom I choose.”

“Do I have to remind you what a poor judge of character you are?”

Hans said nothing for a moment. There passed between them a look that recalled many years of recriminations, debts owed, scales unbalanced. He straightened his jacket.

“They are short a player,” he told her, his voice calm and firm. “I intend to take his place.”

Gretel watched him stride over and introduce himself. The gamblers all too readily accepted him. He sat in the seat vacated but minutes before by the chancer whose body was now cooling rapidly in a ditch behind the inn. Gretel tried to recall how she had got them all into such a situation in the first place, and knew that she would never forgive herself if harm came to her brother. It was her actions that had brought them here. She was responsible.

Two hours later Hans, Gretel, and Roland were seated comfortably in the best seats in the house, warming their toes by the fire, brandy chasers lined up next to their beers, fresh bread mopping up bowls of the superior stew that had miraculously appeared, Hans's pockets bulging with his winnings, and a stout cigar clamped between his teeth. When he had at last stood up from the table and declared himself done for the evening, he had swiftly ordered a round of drinks for the entire company as a preventive measure against mugging or ill will.

“A triumph, darling brother,” Gretel announced. “A triumph.”

Hans beamed, blushed, and burped with pleasure. “I am not entirely without my uses, you know.”

“So it would appear.”

Even Roland had overcome his understandable loathing of gambling sufficiently to enjoy the benefits of Hans's winnings, and was tucking into his third bowl of stew. Gretel felt a new optimism adjusting her view of their situation and the challenges that lay ahead. They had enough money for a room, which would give them much-needed proper rest. Even more important, the upturn in their circumstances had had a rejuvenating effect on Gretel's mental faculties. So much so that she felt the beginnings of a Sensible Plan taking shape in her mind. They were within a day of the giant's castle. No kingsman had as yet traced them. They had a reasonable means of transport, and by morning would be well fed and well rested. All she needed now was a method of gaining entry into the castle itself, preferably without the giant's knowledge.

“Time for bed, gentlemen,” she said. “We are all in need of our sleep.”

But Hans was not listening. He was staring, brow furrowed, at a woman who had just entered the inn with a group of particularly rough-looking men.

“That woman,” he said, his words a little slurred, “damned if I don't know her from somewhere.”

Gretel peered at her, too. She was tall and thin, and when she took her cape off she revealed shabby, unflattering clothes and a scraggy physique. There was a dagger hanging from her belt. She leaned against the bar in a manner that suggested such a pose was familiar to her, and took out an old clay pipe, which she proceeded to tamp and light. One of her companions spoke to her and she answered with a raucous laugh and a stream of language so foul that both Hans and Roland gasped. Gretel, too, was shocked, but not by the vulgarity of the creature. It was her identity that caused Gretel to shake
her head and rub her eyes before she was convinced whom it was she was looking at.

“You do know her, Hans,” she said quietly. “Or at least, another version of her.”

“Really? You don't say. Can't recall her name.”

“Allow me to assist your memory,” she told him. “
That
,” she said slowly, “is none other than Inge Peterson.”

ELEVEN

A
s soon as she had satisfied herself that Inge Peterson was not about to disappear, but was at the inn for the night—a simple matter of listening to her demanding copious amounts of ale and food, berating the innkeeper for not having a room left for them, and then grudgingly accepting his offer of cots in the kitchen—Gretel hurried Hans and Roland up to their own cramped billet.