by Blake Pierce
It did seem odd that so many of the people she could see on the waterfront walkway and adjoining streets were dressed in colorful costumes. Most were wearing folk Bavarian clothes, women in puffy outfits called dirndls and men in short pants called lederhosen. Others were more weirdly decked out as mice, snakes, some kind of bugs that she thought resembled fleas, and still other whimsical characters.
But strangest of all was the noise, like a gigantic band tuning up or playing dozens of different melodies at the same time.
Before London could ask anybody if they knew what was going on, she heard Captain Hays’s voice behind her.
“Ah, the revelry is well under way! Capital! I wish I could join the festivities myself. Maybe I’ll be able to get away for a bit later on.”
Grinning with delight behind his walrus-style mustache, the portly captain joined London to look out over the railing.
“Captain, what’s going on out there?” London asked him.
“Oh, I thought you knew,” the captain said with a wiggle of his bushy eyebrows. “Today is the beginning of Hoffmann Fest here in Bamberg.”
“I didn’t know there was going to be a festival here.”
“You didn’t? Well, I suppose you might not have heard. If we’d followed our original schedule, we’d have missed it. But there’s a silver lining to everything, I imagine, including setbacks and delays—although I suppose I must draw the line at murder. The festival should be great fun for all. Meanwhile, I must get back to the bridge. Ah, the endless and burdensome duties of command!”
The captain turned and headed off toward his glass-enclosed bridge.
Now London was starting to get the picture. The local police investigations of two murders had set their voyage a full day behind schedule. If the Nachtmusik had arrived here yesterday, they would have found a charming and rather quiet historic Bavarian town. Today it was bustling and noisy. The cacophonous music was surely coming from many smaller ensembles playing at different places in town.
London couldn’t wrap her head about what this development would mean for today’s schedule.
And now all she knew was that some major and unexpected event was unfolding here in Bamberg, the so-called Hoffmann Fest. She was going to have to rethink today’s activities. The town they were visiting was certainly lovely and historic, but it seemed that their visit would be anything but quiet and peaceful.
London decided she needed a fresh cup of coffee—and besides, in the Habsburg Restaurant she might even find a moment to chat with ship’s chef and sometimes medic, Bryce Yeaton.
Just a brief friendly visit, she told herself.
She took the stairs down to the Adagio deck, but when she entered the restaurant, she saw no sign of Bryce. To her surprise, the room was quite crowded, and the festival seemed to already be under way there inside the ship.
A middle-aged honeymooning couple, Gus and Honey Jarrett, were dancing a sort of ragged polka among the tables while other customers watched in amusement. The overweight Gus was wearing harness-style suede suspenders, a green felt Alpine hat stuffed with feathers, and leather lederhosen pants that exposed quite a lot of his broad, hairy legs.
His wife, Honey, was dressed in a dirndl with a white puffy blouse, a low-cut bodice that made the most of her considerable bosom, and a colorful dress and apron that were way too short to be considered traditional. She was wearing a feather-laden headband over her heavily dyed red hair.
Gus and Honey stopped dancing as soon as they caught sight of London.
“Hey, London!” Gus exclaimed. “Why aren’t you in costume?”
“I—I don’t have one,” London said. “Where did the two of you get yours?”
“We brought ours with us,” Honey said with a snap of her chewing gum.
Gus added with a laugh, “After all, we knew we were going to be traveling in Bavaria. We figured sooner or later we’d want to blend in with the locals. We didn’t realize we’d have a chance to take part in a festival like this one. What luck things worked out how they did, huh?”
London doubted very much that Gus and Honey would succeed in “blending in with the locals,” especially since she was pretty sure neither one of them spoke any German.
The couple took up their polka again, whirling back toward their table where they sat down. London thought they looked a little winded, but she was sure they would soon revive and have a good time joining the party that was going on outside.
London noticed that Emil was sitting alone at a table off to one side, sipping a cup of coffee. As she headed in his direction to discuss revising their plans for the day, her attention was caught by a gleam of morning sunlight reflecting off a pair of mirror glasses. She saw that Bob Turner was sitting at a nearby table and that he had two unusual companions there with him.
One was Sir Reggie, sitting on a chair and listening intently to the ongoing conversation. She’d left the little Yorkshire Terrier sleeping when she’d left her room, but he’d obviously made use of his doggie door and come out looking for companionship.
And probably for treats, she thought.
The other chair was occupied by an elderly man with squinty eyes and a hawklike nose. It was Stanley Tedrow, an aspiring mystery writer who was so reclusive that he rarely came out of this stateroom.
“I’m glad to see you out and around,” London said to Mr. Tedrow as she approached them. “But maybe I shouldn’t be surprised, since you’ve finished writing your novel.”
“Oh, that,” Mr. Tedrow said with a dismissive wave. “I tossed it.”
“You what?” London said in astonishment, remembering how intently he’d been working on his book, which he’d been sure would be a bestseller.
“I trashed it. Threw it out. I realized I got the whole thing wrong.”
London stared at him. When she’d seen Mr. Tedrow just the night before last, he’d been so excited about finishing his novel that he’d told her the entire plot, spoilers and all.
Pointing at Bob, Mr. Tedrow said to London, “Do you know this guy? He’s Bob Turner, the ship’s crack security expert. Did you know he solved a real-live murder mystery pretty much single-handedly when we were back in Salzburg?”
London couldn’t help but smile.
“Yes, I heard something about that,” she said.
She already knew that Bob had been taking full credit for solving the mystery of the tour guide’s death. Now it appeared that he wasn’t even mentioning her much more considerable role in discovering the killer. She reminded herself that Bob actually had rescued her when she’d almost gotten killed while confronting the man.
In his usual monotone, Bob said to London, “I’m giving him a few tips about the art and science of criminal investigation.”
Nodding toward Sir Reggie, Bob added, “And my canine partner might learn a thing or two as well.”
“This guy is telling me all kinds of stuff I didn’t know,” Tedrow said to London. “That’s how I found out that my novel was junk. I need to start the whole thing over from scratch. I can’t wait to get back to work.”
London tried not to laugh. During the short time since she’d first met Bob, he hadn’t struck her as much of a detective in spite of his earlier years spent in criminal investigations. But she figured no harm was going to come from this budding relationship.
It might even be a good thing, she thought.
At least it meant that the normally dour and solitary Mr. Tedrow was out of his room and enjoying himself. It also gave Bob something to occupy himself with other than prowling around and taking unnecessary notes and photographs of other people’s business, which he tended to do otherwise.
And of course, Sir Reggie seemed to be fascinated by the conversation as he sat there between the two men. Since London didn’t plan on taking him out on today’s tour, it was good to know he had something to keep him entertained.
“Enjoy the day,” she told them, then continued on her way toward Emil, who was staring moodily into his
cup of coffee. She ordered coffee for herself from a passing waiter and then took the liberty of sitting down with the ship’s historian.
“Did you have any idea all this was going on?” London asked Emil.
“I should have,” Emil said with a growl of dismay. “I have heard about this festival. I just had not thought about the date. It was not on our schedule.”
“You don’t sound very happy about it,” London said.
“Are you?” Emil asked.
London didn’t know what to say. She hadn’t had a chance to consider the ramifications of this new development.
“Tell me about the festival,” London said. “The captain called it the Hoffmann Fest.”
“Well, then what do you suppose it is about?” Emil said a bit impatiently, crossing his arms and looking at London in his most professorial manner. “Surely you can figure it out.”
London thought for a moment, then quickly realized that Emil was right.
She said, “It must be a celebration of E.T.A. Hoffmann—the composer and writer.”
“And don’t forget painter,” Emil said.
“Right. He lived part of his life here in Bamberg. We’re planning on visiting the house where he lived on today’s tour.”
Emil scoffed. “We will see how that works out. Our well-made plans for today are rather at the mercy of anarchy and chaos, I fear.”
“I don’t understand,” London said.
“Suffice it to say, Hoffmann Fest ought to be a celebration of literature, music, and painting. But from what I hear, another aspect of German culture takes precedence here today.”
“What’s that?” London asked.
“Beer,” Emil said with a smirk. “Bamberg is home to nine breweries. That’s a considerable number for a city with a population of about seventy thousand.”
Sipping the last of his coffee, he got up from his chair.
“I will meet you in the reception area shortly,” he said curtly.
Without another word, he left the restaurant.
He’s not being much friendlier today than he was yesterday, London thought.
As she sat wondering what the day might have in store, the waiter brought London her coffee. She sipped at it but realized the rich dark brew wasn’t helping to clear her head.
At that moment, Bryce appeared out of the kitchen with a tray in his hands. The chef was obviously helping out the waiters during this unusual breakfast rush. She felt a little thrill when he glanced her way and their eyes met. But with no more than a nod and a discreet wave, he turned away and vanished back into the kitchen again.
London sighed, remembering what Emil had said just now.
“Our well-made plans for today are rather at the mercy of anarchy and chaos.”
Even her wish for a simple spontaneous encounter had lost out to the hullabaloo.
She figured she’d better be ready for anything today.
Abandoning the rest of her coffee, London left the restaurant and headed up the stairs to the Menuetto deck. She thought that her tour group would soon be gathering in the reception area, so she might as well get there and be ready for them. She wasn’t expecting a large number of passengers for the tour this morning, but when she got to the reception area, she was amazed to see the room filled with excited people. They were jammed against the big glass doors that led out to the gangway.
“Somebody get these doors open,” one man shouted. Others muttered in agreement.
London gasped. She knew that the stewards were fastening the gangway into place just outside. Those doors would be opened as soon as the crew had the gangway secured.
But chaos seemed to be already in effect, and London was beginning to feel a bit panicked. If all of these eager people were signed up for the morning tour, how would she ever deal with so many of them? Would they even be able to hear what she had to say?
CHAPTER TEN
As London tried to reimagine her plans for the day, the big double doors at the end of the reception area swung open. She watched in astonishment as the mass of people surged through the doors and clattered down the gangway.
So they hadn’t been waiting for her tour after all.
But what could be happening? She almost wondered for a moment whether the Nachtmusik was being evacuated.
Then she saw that a much smaller group was still there in the reception area, looking somewhat bewildered. Among them were a few familiar passengers, including Letitia Hartzer and Audrey Bolton.
Amy was waving her notebook, checking off names, and Emil stood there with them, looking rather cross.
“A lot more people had signed up for the tour,” he said crankily as London walked toward them. “But these seem to be the only ones actually going with us.”
London felt a wave of relief. What had looked to her like too much of a crowd to handle had actually been tourists eager to get to the festival on their own. So the tour was still scheduled, but just with this handful of people. She thought that this should make the tour easier to handle, even though one of them was already complaining.
“I had thought this was going to be a more sophisticated adventure,” Audrey Bolton said. “Do all those upscale passengers really want to go a German beer fest?”
“You bet they do,” Letitia Hartzer answered her. “And I will too. I just want to see a bit of history first.”
Amy shoved the list of names into London’s hands and left the reception area. It was clear from the marked-up paper that a lot who had signed up had changed their minds. London had to admit, after coping with two murders during the last week, a beer festival was likely to be a healthy way to let off steam. In the long run, it would probably improve morale aboard the Nachtmusik. She half-wished she could skip the tour herself.
“Emil and I appreciate your interest,” she said to the small group that remained. “But I’ll understand if some of you would rather join the festivities.”
A man shrugged and said, “Well, I don’t want to miss the partying altogether.”
A woman said, “After all, the festival is part of Bavarian culture, just like the sights we’re headed out to see. It’s the kind of thing we came on this trip to experience.”
Emil grunted discontentedly. But London knew that the woman was right. It would be a shame for any of the tourists to miss the festival.
“Let’s do it this way,” London said. “We’ll keep our formal touring to a minimum. We’ll take a look at the unique Old Town Hall, but leave the cathedrals for you to visit on your own if you want to. Since this celebration is all about E.T.A. Hoffmann, we’ll focus on things pertaining to him. We’ll finish quickly, and everybody can head off on their own to do whatever they like. Just make sure you’re back aboard tonight before we set sail for Amsterdam.”
Almost everybody smiled and nodded and murmured words of approval.
Then London realized she was making some important decisions without consulting her partner.
She turned to Emil and asked, “Does this plan sound OK to you?”
Emil rolled his eyes and frowned.
“Who am I to say otherwise?” he said.
Hardly a ringing endorsement, London thought.
She wished she knew why he was being so aloof.
The exit and gangway were now clear of passengers. and the group made their way down to join the locals and tourists who swarmed the streets.
“What a mess today is going to be!” Audrey complained. “We should have skipped Bamberg, just like I told you. But does anybody ever listen to my advice? No! And now we’re about to walk straight into pure bedlam!”
London stifled a sigh. She thought that the bedlam in view seemed quite cheerful. At the base of the gangway, a German band had gathered to welcome the American tourists. The musicians were all dressed in lederhosen, and their instruments included a trumpet, a trombone, a tuba, and a couple of less familiar-looking horns, along with an accordion.
The tuba kept jaunty time with a steady old-fashioned oo
mpah, oompah, oompah while men and women in Bavarian costumes danced nearby.
As the group stopped to listen, Emil nodded his head to the music and grumbled sarcastically.
“Oh, yes. A revered and venerated classic, ‘Bayern des Samma Mir.’ It sets the tone perfectly for a celebration of an icon of German creativity like E.T.A. Hoffman. I fear that no translation can hope to capture the exquisite poetry of the lyrics, but they go something like this …”
Then he recited in a tone of mock grandeur and loftiness.
“Bavarians, that’s what we are!
Oh, yeah!
Bavarians, that’s what we are!
Oh, yeah!”
Emil continued, “The words go on to praise Bavarian beer—‘our liquid bread’—and Bavarian beer purity laws. The song was recently performed—‘covered,’ I believe is how you put it in English—by the death-metal rock group Rammstein. I cannot say it was an improvement. But let us soldier on.”
He led the way across the Inselstadt, the island between the two arms of the Regnitz River that formed the center of the city. As they wended their way along narrow streets among half-timber houses and buildings, they encountered plenty of revelers. Most of them were dressed in the usual dirndls and lederhosen, but some were in stranger gear.
Even Emil’s frown disappeared at the sight of a man wearing a black half-mask and a tight-fitting outfit all covered with diamond-shaped patches, and carrying a long, flat stick.
In fact, the historian almost smiled.
“That is Harlequin,” he told them, “a stock character from the traditional Commedia Dell’Arte. The stick he’s carrying is a ‘slapstick.’ It is designed to make a loud slapping sound, so he doesn’t have to hit other actors very hard in order to make a lot of noise.”
“But what does he have to do with E.T.A. Hoffmann?” Letitia asked.
Emil said, “Hoffmann was a composer as well as a storyteller and painter, and he wrote a ballet about Commedia characters called Harlequin.”
