The Sorcerer's Appendix

by P. J. Brackston

  “What are you doing here, Fraulein?” he demanded.

  “I am doing my job, Herr Kapitan, as no doubt are you.”

  “Kingsman’s business is not your business,” he snapped.

  Gretel held the books behind her back. If she knew Strudel, which she did, he would have them off her in a minute. It was a constant source of irritation to the Kingsman that Gesternstadt’s famous detective single-handedly solved more crimes than his entire department. Gretel knew that if he thought she was withholding useful evidence he would make her suffer for it. In her opinion, there was a time for sharing, and this was not it. Edging sideways toward the door she treated him to a deferential little bow, which should have aroused his suspicions, but he was too busy feeling flattered.

  “I shall not keep you from your important duties one second longer, Kapitan,” she promised, reversing out of the door and hurrying away.

  The day had stepped into its stride and become hotter than Gretel had expected. She found that her clothes were unsuitably warm, causing her to glow in a way she liked to think looked becoming, but feared would move on to hot and bothered very shortly. She clucked loudly to herself at the annoyance of August. She had endured quite enough stifling days, forced to shelter beneath parasols and broad-brimmed hats to prevent her face from having the look of a laundry maid about it. Heat did not suit her, and she looked forward to the gentle embrace of autumn. She welcomed crisp, cool air, and the more flattering garments it called for. For now, she must contend with unhelpfully high temperatures that would bring about sweating and chafing and a rustic high color she did not care for.

  It was in this mood, then, that she set forth to find the first of the sorcerer’s clients. Gesternstadt was a small town, and she was all too familiar with its every street and corner. As she strode beneath the floriferous window boxes and stepped around the prettily planted barrows and urns that people of a fluffier disposition insisted on placing at their doors, she tried to ignore the cheeriness and quaintness for which the place was known. It grated upon her. It wore her down with its relentless joie de vivre. Did the townsfolk truly believe one could chase away the ills of the world and the terrors of the night with a few well-placed flower pots and a perma-smile? What was wrong with a bit of facing up to reality? If Gretel had something to smile about then she would smile and look rather elegant while doing so. She was not prepared, however, to face the world with an imbecilic grin come what may, and fervently wished others would stop it.

  “Good morning, Fraulein Gretel!” called the apothecary from his shop doorway. “Another lovely day!” he exclaimed, as if she were incapable of assessing the weather for herself.

  She grunted at him and moved on, but there were plenty more where he came from. From all sides, she was assailed with Good Mornings and Delighted To See Yous. Well-wishers and friendly neighbors blocked her path, arm in arm, to exchange syrupy pleasantries, or popped up like jack-in-the-boxes from behind a stretch of privet or picket fence.

  Head down, Gretel did her best to elevate her thoughts to a higher level, and as she did so, the handsome, refined features of Uber General Ferdinand von Ferdinand came into the sharp focus of her mind’s eye. She felt a new warmth spread through her that had nothing to do with the heat of the day. She had not seen Ferdinand since her time cruising aboard the Arabella, which seemed an age ago now. The memory of dancing with him was still vivid, however, and as she brought her mind to bear on recalling the feel of his strong arm about her waist as they waltzed around the ballroom, her irritation at Gesternstadt, her neighbors, and mankind in general began to fade. She would go about her work in an agreeable frame of mind, and good results would surely follow.

  TWO

  Two hours later, her feet aching, her brow furrowed, and her hair frizzed from the heat, Gretel lay upon her beloved daybed, eyes closed, drawing comfort from the softness and plumpness of the many silk cushions thereon.

  Hans came in from the kitchen. “A successful start to your investigations?” he asked.

  “Not by any measure.”

  “Oh, not taking the case, then?”

  “Indeed I am, Hans, for how else am I to keep you in weisswurst and ale this winter?” She did not allow him time to respond, but went on, “I accepted the brief from Frau Arnold, along with names and addresses of those I must interview in search of information both background and foreground regarding the disappearance of the hapless sorcerer.”

  “Well, I’d call that a good start.”

  “Not if you were me, Hans. Not if you had trudged and traipsed the length of this wretched town knocking on doors that remained unopened, in search of people who were gone away, ill, or otherwise indisposed, resulting in not a single questioned asked nor answer obtained.” She opened her eyes and sat up so that she might rub her stockinged feet. “I tell you, brother mine, you have not known discomfort until you have experienced the tyranny of cobbles beneath kitten heels. If I turned my ankle once I did it a dozen times.”

  “You could try wearing sensible shoes.”

  “Those two words do not belong together.”

  “How about a little refreshment? Might that put things in a better light?”

  “It might, and it is most definitely worth trying.”

  “Right you are.” Hans turned toward the kitchen and then stopped. “Oh, I have news that may cheer you.”

  “I doubt it.”

  “No, really, listen. Herr Mozart is coming here, to give a concert. How about that?”

  “Mozart? The darling of Vienna? The most sought-after musician in all the land, coming to Gesternstadt? You must be mistaken, Hans.”

  “I am not,” he fumbled in his trouser pocket and produced a crumpled flier, which he handed to Gretel. “Man in the Inn gave me this only last night. See for yourself.”

  She took the notice and read that a certain Herr W. A. Mozart would be conducting a new piece of music at the town hall in two weeks’ time. Tickets were available now.

  “Good Lord,” said Gretel. “It does appear to be true.” She did indeed feel her spirits rise, borne up on the waft of Viennese sophistication unexpectedly blowing her way. Such an event would call for a new gown. Would provide the opportunity to rub shoulders with what passed for society in the region. Might even offer the chance for a romantic evening. A thought that she rashly mentioned to Hans.

  “I wonder if the Uber General would be free on that day?” she mused. “I believe he has returned to his duties at the Summer Schloss. He might enjoy escorting me to such a cultured event.”

  It was then that Hans made a curious noise. It might have started out as a coherent sentence, but it emerged as a garbled utterance devoid of actual language yet strangely still able to convey sentiment.

  “What’s that, Hans?”

  “Nothing. I did not say a word.”

  “A word, no, but you clearly voiced an opinion, and one that seemed to contain the remnants of a pshaw!”

  “I … er …” His face grew pink from the exertion of trying to think of something to say while clearly not daring to say anything. All of which served only to irritate Gretel further.

  “You know something. Let’s have it.”

  Hans took a gulping breath and then blurted out, “General Ferdinand has a girlfriend. Or so rumor has it. Though, matter of fact, not so much a girlfriend as a fiancée. If hearsay can be relied upon. Which of course it cannot be. Or should not be. And I know how you feel about gossip, and gossip this may be and nothing more. Though I got it from a man at the Inn, who has a sister who works at the Summer Schloss, who talked to a maid who did the very woman’s hair, and saw her very engagement ring, and …”

  He stopped. Gretel noticed him take hold of the doorjamb as if bracing himself for the full force of her fury. She was, in fact, undecided as to the appropriate response to this news. After all, Ferdinand was nothing to her and she nothing to him. After all, they had indulged in nothing more than a flirtation. After all, he was a handsome, eligi
ble man, and had every right to become engaged to whomsoever he chose. After all, a few dances, a few glances, a few missed chances in difficult circumstances did not any manner of obligation make.

  After all that Gretel felt suddenly drained. She had not the energy to raise herself from her daybed, let alone take to the streets once more to resume her investigations. All at once, everything felt pointless and colorless. She settled deeper into her cushions and closed her eyes again.

  “What is there to eat?” she asked.

  “You’re not going back out, interviewing and whatnot?”

  “No one ever solved a case on an empty stomach, Hans.”

  “Well, I did purchase some rather splendid weisswurst this morning, and I’ve just opened a new batch of sauerkraut, which looks particularly successful. Bottled it only last month, so a little young, but pungent, nonetheless.”

  “Bring it to me, brother mine, and do not stint on the mustard or rye bread or anything else you consider helpful. I shall dine, then I shall nap. I am more likely to find those I seek at home in the evening, in any case.”

  “I shall fetch a veritable feast!” Hans promised, hurrying out of the room with the light step of one who has just escaped a seemingly inevitable unpleasantness.

  Gretel lay and waited for the food that she knew would revive her spirits. She could not permit herself to wallow. She was a woman of business, a woman who must make her own way in the world, and she could not afford the luxury of a tender heart. If Ferdinand wanted to marry someone other than her, there was little she could do about it.

  By the time Gretel set out again dusk had fallen, softening the edges of the buildings, blurring the rooftops, and generally casting a fuzzy gloom. It suited Gretel’s mood far better than the earlier sunshine. The only thing preventing her from wearing a scowl was the knowledge that such an arrangement of the facial features could lead to aging and unattractive lines in later life. Her pride might have been dented by the news of Ferdinand’s betrothal, but her vanity remained intact.

  Her first port of call was the home of one Victor Winkler, a cheesemaker who, according to Ernst Arnold’s appointment book, had engaged the services of the sorcerer quite recently. The ledger did not contain details of the specifics of the work, so Gretel was wholly unprepared for the startling appearance of the man who opened the door to her.

  “Herr Winkler?” she asked, as much to buy time to recover from her surprise as out of politeness.

  “Who wants to know?” snapped the middle-aged man, who was of middling height and build, and mostly unremarkable aside from the one, unmissable characteristic that set him apart. Gretel had encountered hirsute men before, of course, and had known many who chose to wear a full set of whiskers and abundant beard. Victor Winkler, however, did not appear to have any choice in the matter of his facial hair, for he was entirely covered in it; every inch of his face—and for all Gretel knew the rest of his body, although this was a point she determined not to think about—bore a layer of thick, brown, luxuriant fur. He showed not a patch of skin, but only a sleek and soft pelt, much like a cat. The idea that he might be part cat caused Gretel to squirm. She forced herself to focus upon the reason for her visit.

  “My name is Detective Gretel, and I am making inquiries regarding the disappearance of Ernst Arnold, on behalf of his widow …”

  “That charlatan!” Herr Winkler growled. Gretel wished he wouldn’t.

  “I understand you were one of his clients.”

  “I paid him good money to work his sorcery on me. Very good money.”

  “The magic was not … successful?”

  “Does this look successful to you?” Herr Winkler gestured at his own face.

  “That rather depends,” Gretel spoke cautiously, “on what you were hoping for.”

  “He promised me good results with one treatment. He swore he could work his magic and succeed where all others had failed to rid me of my affliction.”

  “But he did not?”

  “Magic, indeed! That man had no more magic in him than your or I.”

  “I wonder, Herr Winkler, if I might step inside, so that we can continue this discussion in private.” Here she glanced pointedly over her shoulder, though the street behind her was unhelpfully empty. Gretel was eager to hear more, and did not want this evidently dissatisfied customer of the sorcerer slamming the door on her in a fit of temper. “It seems to me,” she went on, “you have a well-founded grievance against the late Herr Arnold, and I should like to know the details.”

  Gretel had played her hand well. She had judged that Herr Winkler had a lot to get off his chest—and here she tried hard to blank further furry images from her mind—and would not pass up the opportunity to offload the tale of his suffering onto a new recipient. He stood aside and beckoned her. Gretel followed him into a somewhat drab sitting room. She wondered if the dim lighting was to provide a cover for his appearance, and was not surprised at the total lack of mirrors in the place.

  They sat on matching chairs of equal and unyielding ugliness on either side of an unlit fire and she took out her notebook.

  “Tell me, Herr Winkler, when did you last see the sorcerer?”

  “Two weeks ago. I had called him here so that I might show him the continuing extent of his failed treatment.”

  “Forgive me, Herr Winkler, a delicate matter, I realize, but I have to ask, what precisely were you expecting from Herr Arnold’s magic?”

  “To be rid of this excessive coverage, of course!” He appeared to be getting angry, but it was hard to read his expression under so much fur. “The sorcerer said he could get rid of it all, so that I would no longer have to endure daily the torment of jibes and laughter at my appearance. In point of fact he made it worse.”

  “Worse?” Gretel made notes.

  “The cursed stuff grows thicker now than it did before his meddling!”

  “And yet, as I understand it, Herr Arnold’s reputation as a practitioner of sorcery was unbesmirched. He remained held in high esteem among his peers and clients until his untimely demise. You did not think to complain, to make public your dissatisfaction, or to take your complaint to the Sorcerers’ Circle, perhaps?”

  Here Herr Winkler grew uncomfortable and fidgeted on his uncomfortable chair. “I thought about it, yes, but then, well, Herr Arnold persuaded me to keep my grievances to myself.”

  “Persuaded how?” Gretel asked, though she was confident she already knew the answer.

  “He refunded my fee, of course, and … added a little more. To cover my disappointment, and any inconvenience caused, etcetera, etcetera.”

  “He bought your silence.”

  Herr Winkler’s frown deepened into furry furrows. “I was entitled to compensation! That sorcerer should have been stripped of the name.”

  “And yet you did not feel it incumbent upon you to warn others of his shortcomings?”

  At this the man got to his feet. “I have told you what happened, Fraulein. The man was a fraud, that’s all you need to know.”

  Gretel left the house with a much better understanding of Herr Arnold’s situation than she could have hoped for. She had been right in her assessment of the sorcerer’s home; he was not a wealthy man. Nor, it seemed, was he a capable magician. She had just encountered startling proof of his ineptitude, as well as evidence of the lengths to which he would go in order to protect his professional reputation. Gretel decided that more of his clients must be interviewed, and was fairly certain that they would reveal similar experiences of the sorcerer’s work.

  She moved briskly through the town toward the next address in the diary. It had become properly dark, and the streetlamps had been lit. Couples were walking, arm in arm, taking advantage of the pleasant evening to stroll and whisper and coo and even, heaven help her, kiss. The more she looked, the more examples of romantic activity she found. There appeared to be a smitten couple around every corner. Why was it that suddenly everyone seemed to have someone? Everyone, that was, besides
herself. She brushed past giggling youths, blushing new brides, the happily married, and the enamored elderly. Even Widow Arnold had enjoyed a loving marriage up until the moment her husband had been so reduced. Gretel was aware that this sudden sensitivity was due to the news of Ferdinand’s engagement. All at once she felt the sore point of her hurt feelings shift to something altogether more powerful. She began to experience a growing anger at the way she had been so summarily passed over for someone else. Why had the general seen fit to turn his back on her, to deny the burgeoning friendship that had been developing between them? And who was this Jenny-Come-Lately to steal away her man without so much as asking permission? True, no promises had been promised, no declarations declared. But still, they had danced together at the festival in Nuremberg, he had held her tight while they galloped across the sands on his black stallion on the isle of Amrum, and there had been lingering looks and meaningful glances aplenty.

  “Well, engaged is not married!” she declared emphatically to the night, to a surprised couple on a nearby bench, and to herself. She decided then and there that she would not give up Ferdinand without a fight. She would complete the business of interviewing the sorcerer’s clients and then it was straight to Madame Renoir’s Beauty Salon, where she would submit to any and all treatments and tortures that might put her in the very best of shape for the battle ahead.

  THREE

  The treatment room at the beauty salon was one of the places where Gretel often managed some of her very finest thinking. On this occasion, as she lay upon the narrow yet comfortable bed, her body basted in fragrant oils and unctions and wrapped in the warmest and fluffiest of toweling, she felt ideas and inspiration were only moments away. Her hair was enjoying an intensive rejuvenating treatment, and was still swathed in layers of muslin and cotton. Her skin tingled, steeped in essence of juniper and geranium, stimulating and soothing in equal measure. She had earlier endured the unpleasant business of hair removal from areas which, in her opinion, hair had no business being, so that now only gentle and enjoyable processes lay ahead. Such as the beautification of her hands and feet. And an invigorating massage of the scalp. And a slathering of expensive creams upon her face. And a fitting of her newly ordered and custom-made wig.