The Sorcerer's Appendix

by P. J. Brackston

  Perversely, Hans had brightened at the thought of, as he had put it, “slumbering beneath the stars!,” so that his view of the whole expedition had altered considerably. His sudden enthusiasm for outdoor living, campfires, whittling, and all things similar had led him to gather quantities of equipment, the like of which Gretel had not known existed. The sitting room was home to a great mound of the stuff. There were flints and knives and balls of string and sheets of canvas and metal trivets and fish-hooks and snares … Gretel had been forced to call a halt to the acquisition of so many supplies, pointing out that they would soon spend more than the case could possibly earn, and that anyway, they would be unable to carry it all. In fact, her primary reason for inviting Hans to accompany her was to utilize his talents as a packhorse. She didn’t want him taking so much paraphernalia that she would be forced to transport her own luggage, or else what was the point of putting up with him?

  One of the few upsides of the mission was its low cost. Previous cases had seen her travel to such places as Nuremberg, and while she would rather have been there for her own enjoyment, it was a ruinously expensive place. One night’s bed and breakfast, followed by a few days under canvass, on the other hand, would cost very little. On the matter of money, Gretel had thought long and hard. If, as she strongly suspected, the sorcerer was alive, and she found him, the life insurance company would not need to pay out. As she had already established that the man was all but broke, it followed that she would not then be paid her fee. Much as she would delight in seeing Frau Arnold’s joy at being reunited with her husband, delight did not pay bills or buy winter wood. After careful consideration, therefore, Gretel had contacted the insurers and secured promise of payment by them if she brought back proof of Ernst Arnold’s continuing existence.

  But was he alive? There was still the disturbing evidence of the appendix to be explained. Could they be certain that it had, in fact, belonged to Herr Arnold? Gretel had taken the bottled body part to the apothecary, who was, with the help of Otto Voigt’s sorcery, going to run a number of tests that should, he assured her as she handed over his outrageous fee for the work, provide the provenance of the remnant.

  But even if the sorcerer was minus his appendage, he could still be living. The truth was that Gretel would go into those woods not knowing if she was looking for a mutilated corpse or a living, breathing sorcerer with a story to tell.

  After another restless night, Gretel sat up in her bed, blinking at the sharp dawn light that was forcing its way through the gaps in the shutters. It was horribly early to begin her day, but there was little use chasing sleep now. She clambered out from beneath the tangled covers and slipped a peignoir about her shoulders before descending the stairs. The sitting room presented an unappealing place to sit with the abundance of camping equipment at its center, so she continued to the dining room and sat at her desk. She plucked a sheet of paper from a dusty pile, dipped a somewhat blunt quill into the watered-down ink, and scratched out a letter to Frau Arnold. In it she outlined her planned journey, what expenses she was likely to incur, and how long it might all take, and gave an assurance that she would return as soon as was humanly possible with news of her husband, and an invoice. Given that the only way the insurance company would pay out would be if his disappearance could demonstrably be shown to be murder, it was hard to put a cheerful slant on the letter. She thought about expressing her view that the man was in fact still alive, but did not dare raise the woman’s hopes at this stage.

  The front door was flung open and Hans fell through it. He lay upon the Turkish Kilim, face down, apparently in no hurry to get up.

  “Have you been at the Inn all night?” Gretel asked.

  “Hgmmnff,” said Hans into the rug.

  “Thought so. Well don’t expect me to take pity on your fragile state. We must leave this day, whatever condition you are in.”

  Hans managed, with some difficulty, to roll onto his back. The flattened stub of an unlit cigar was still clenched between his teeth. He waved away his sister’s concern with a pudgy paw.

  “Best thing for a hangover, bit of fresh air. A brisk walk will soon set me right. After a feed, of course,” he added, continuing his roll so that he might push himself up to his knees. He then sat back on his heels. A fuzzy grin settled upon his overly pink features. He stayed in this position for some time, resembling, Gretel thought, nothing so much as a large, happy pig sitting in a mud wallow.

  “It will be something more than a brisk walk, Hans. We will be gone for days, and there is all that camping apparatus to be carted hither and yon. And firewood will need to be gathered, tents set up, some manner of meals prepared. Not to mention the need for sharp-eyed map reading if we are ever to arrive at the right place.”

  “Fear not on that front. Any of those fronts,” said Hans, his diction still slurred from drink. At last he rose to his unsteady feet. “I have good news from the Inn.”

  “That seems unlikely, but go on, I’m listening.”

  “Well, I was talking to a fellow, who knows a chap, who has a cousin …”

  “So far so much like every other evening at the Inn.”

  “… who once went on an exhibition. Expectation.” Hans paused and gave a shake like a dog ridding itself of water before continuing, “An expedition, yes that’s it … he went off on a camping adventure somewhere wild and dangerous …”

  “Was he running from the law?”

  “What? No, don’t think so. His idea of fun, far as I can gather. Anyway, point is he had a guide. Wonderful bloke, by all accounts, goes by the name of Cornelius Staunch. He is a true specialist in these things.”

  “These things?”

  “Camping, hiking, building fires, catching food, all that. A man at home in the wilderness, fearless, resourceful … and the best thing of all? You’ll never guess what. Go on, try, guess!”

  He stopped, and Gretel realized with a weary heart that he was building up to a Big Moment, and that in order to get to whatever point he was trying to make she would have to play the game.

  “He wrestled a bear with his bare hands?”

  “More than likely, but that’s not the best thing,” Hans was growing ever pinker as he suppressed giggles.

  “He found a crock of gold at the end of a rainbow?”

  “Now you’re just being silly.”

  “For pity’s sake, Hans, just tell me so that we can both get on with our lives.”

  “I sent word asking him to help us, and a message came back saying that he would!”

  “What?”

  “I have engaged his services,” Hans declared, “to assist us in our work. You in your work. However you want to look at it. He has agreed to meet us in the you-know-where a couple of days from now, and take us on to where we want to go, looking after us all the while.”

  Gretel was astonished to find that this was indeed good news. An experienced outdoors person, who could presumably light a fire and read a map, would make the whole unedifying task far more bearable. She could not quite bring herself to congratulate Hans, however, as he was now looking so insufferably smug.

  “And how is he going to find us, on day two or three? Even we don’t have a firm idea of which route we will take.”

  “But Gretel, he’s an expert tracker. He has hunted animals and humans and others all over the globe. He will surely be able to follow our tracks. He would have joined us sooner, but he’s dangling off an Alp somewhere just now.”

  Gretel was forced to concede that Hans had done well. She offered him words of a bolstering nature, which ended in her suggesting that one of his own delicious meals would be the very thing to set them up for their journey, and wouldn’t he like to make the most of his beloved kitchen before he was parted from it? He needed no further encouragement to scurry off in search of bratwurst and pig’s knuckle.

  No sooner had he vacated his space on the rug in the hallway than a sealed note was pushed through the letter box, from where it floated briefly this wa
y and that, riding a dusty little sunbeam to the floor. Gretel bustled from her perch at the desk and picked it up.

  “Ah,” she said to herself upon reading its contents. And then, more thoughtfully, “Aah.” The letter was from the apothecary, and it confirmed, beyond doubt, that the appendix had belonged to none other than Ernst Arnold. Did this make it more likely he was dead? Gretel found that she was no more certain than she was uncertain. Still, the information was a fact, and facts were what would, ultimately, reveal the truth.

  She had taken no more than two strides from the hallway when there came a hammering upon the door. She opened it, ready to berate whomever it was who saw fit to come thumping before she had taken breakfast. Her mood improved, however, when she found one of Madame Renoir’s Salon girls standing on her doorstep. The young woman held out a large box tied with cerise silk ribbon.

  “Your new wig, Fraulein Gretel,” she said. “Madame insisted it be delivered to you the very moment it arrived.”

  Gretel took it with trembling hands. There was little that could induce the fizz of excitement she experienced at the prospect of wearing a brand-new, highly fashionable, exquisitely crafted, and tailor-made wig.

  “Thank you, my dear,” she said and then gasped as she heard the tinkling of miniature chimes.

  “Oh, Fraulein, those will be the extra silver bells you requested,” the girl explained. “They look divine!”

  Both women beamed at each other, lost for a brief moment in shared wonder at the beauty of the world and everything in it.

  Gretel’s joy turned to sadness, however, at the thought of having to leave her new prize behind the very day she got it. It seemed cruel of life to arrange things this way.

  “One thing,” the girl spoke earnestly, “the wig must be broken in before it can be worn out. That is to say, you must take every opportunity to wear it, as if breaking in a new pair of shoes.”

  “Every opportunity, you say?”

  The girl nodded. “Otherwise it will not fit at its best for its intended occasion. Madame was most insistent on this point.”

  “Indeed.” Gretel gave the girl a coin for her trouble and contemplated the box. The wig had been an expensive indulgence; a reward to herself from herself after the success of her previous case. It seemed only right that she should do it justice, to make the most of her investment. Which meant, if it was to be in tip-top shape and fitting perfectly come Herr Mozart’s concert, she would have to wear it whenever possible before the date. It struck her then, how helpfully secret forests could be. She would take the wig with her. She would wear it for a short time twice a day, away from the prying, envious eyes of the women of Gesternstadt, away from dashing generals and their unsuitable fiancées, so that there would not be another to match it come the day of the performance, both Herr Mozart’s and her own.

  Two hours later, she and Hans arrived at the stagecoach, somewhat out of breath due to their haste in order not to miss it, and the awkward weight of their baggage. The warm weather continued, so that the morning sun added to their discomfort. Gretel was already questioning her choice of outfit. She had stared long and hard into her capacious wardrobe, waiting for the perfect clothes to present themselves, but none did. It had felt as if her beloved gowns and ensembles were reluctant to venture into such an uncivilized place. She had tussled with the opposing forces of practicality and flair. She must choose sturdy footwear, and yet she knew her spirits would be depressed by such ugliness. She should select garments that were heavy-duty, and yet how she would miss the sigh of silk against her skin. She ought to take only dark colors to disguise the ordure and grime of the woods, but her heart beat a little faster at the shimmer of pale blue or the fresh glow of mint green.

  In the end she had settled for a linen gown the color of pressed blackberries (or, according to Hans, a bad bruise, but the day Gretel took any fashion advice from Hans would be the day she took to her daybed forever), with a cream bodice and matching bolero jacket. She had pinned a wide-brimmed, black-fringed hat to her hair, as she felt the shade might be useful. It was also made of a crepe that would allow it to be folded small and packed away when she was wearing her new wig instead. For it was Gretel’s plan to break in her new adornment while walking, as soon as they were out of sight of the town, and when there was the protection of leafy shade for both it and her. She had forced herself to push her feet into a pair of stout ankle boots, knowing that anything more delicate would be ruined by all the tramping. At least there would be few people to witness her lack of kitten heels where she was going. But still she appeared to be wearing the wrong thing, for the day was uncommonly hot, and the linen unhelpfully thick.

  “I say,” said Hans, “this striking out and striding forth is more than a little heating.”

  “We have not yet begun,” Gretel reminded him. “The walk to the stage post is one you have made many times before without breaking a sweat.”

  “Ah, but I have adopted the gait of the hiker, sister mine. See? See how I swing my legs and arms, the better to take up a rhythm that will cover the leagues swiftly and surely.” Although they had arrived at their destination, Hans insisted on marching up and down to demonstrate his new technique. Gretel watched her brother with a mixture of pity and irritation. Not for the first time she wondered how she could be of the same blood as a man who leaped (puffing) at the opportunity to wear lederhosen. He had chosen his felt hat and toggles from the wide selection that filled his wardrobe, and now, with a bulging rucksack, rolls of bedding and canvass, and tin mugs a-dangling and clanking as he moved, he cut a ridiculous figure, as she surely would if she walked beside him. She would be forced to tell herself frequently, over the coming days, that Hans’s uses were not, never had been, nor ever would be, of the ornamental variety. His broad shoulders and biddable nature were what counted now.

  “I would conserve your energy, Hans,” she told him, indicating the stagecoach that was now ready to take on passengers. “Heft our belongings aboard quickly and there may be time for a quick snack before we reach the start point of our trek proper.”

  “Right you are!” Needing no more motivation, Hans set about his task.

  Gretel was on the point of getting herself inside the coach when the familiar, nasal tones of Kingsman Kapitan Strudel halted her in her tracks.

  “Leaving town in the middle of a case, Fraulein?” he asked.

  “As you see, Herr Kapitan.”

  “Not your usual modus operandi. Are you, perhaps, conceding defeat and abandoning your investigations?” He circled Gretel slowly as he put his questions to her, his thin neck and scrawny limbs and all over flimsy physique giving the appearance of one who had been filleted earlier in the day and was now held up only by gristle and bad temper.

  “I have never found the case yet that would force me to give up, as I am certain you know.”

  “Oh? Then I must deduce that you are traveling on matters to do with the case.”

  “The people of Gesternstadt are indeed fortunate to have you in charge of their security,” Gretel told him.

  “Ahah!” The Kapitan gave a yap of triumph. “Which means you must have information pertinent to the case of the missing sorcerer, and that information you cannot keep from the kingsman of this region. For if you do you will be charged with obstructing kingsman’s work, withholding evidence, hampering official investigations, and obfuscating facts pertaining to the ongoing enquiry!” Strudel was quite breathless with glee at his own cleverness.

  Gretel regarded him coolly. The man was an idiot, but he was what passed for the law in Gesternstadt, and he could make difficulties for her if he had a mind to. Which was, by all accounts, the only manner of mind he ever had. Tempting as it was to goad him into a frothing state before delivering some withering riposte, she knew she must resist. Public humiliation tended to bring out the worst in minor officials, and was apt to get them issuing warrants and having people dragged away, locked up, and subjected to all sorts of inconveniences. She tried a
smile that would not quite take but only twitched at the corners of her mouth.

  “I promise you, Kapitan Strudel, if I find anything relevant, anything at all, you will be the very first to hear of it. After all, this is, as you have so astutely identified, a difficult case. Nothing is dearer to me in this world than my professional reputation, and for the sake of it I will put aside pride. How much more likely to solve the case will we both be if we pool our knowledge?”

  Strudel narrowed his narrow eyes at her. “You say that, but how do I know you do not already have pertinent information?”

  “If I had, do you really think I would be entering those deep, dark woods?” she pointed out. “It is precisely because of the lack of clues or leads that I must cast my net wider. You must surely know that it is at no small personal cost that I venture to the scene of my childhood nightmare.”

  This threw the Kapitan. Painful experience had taught him that Gretel was almost always playing him for a fool, but he so liked the idea that the fearless detective was actually admitting to being scared that he could not resist believing her. Gretel watched him attempting to sift truth from fiction. His eyes suddenly widened (which is to say they came close to achieving something beyond their customary small proportions). He had evidently taken an idea into his head, a place where, after all, it had ample room to roam.

  “You!” He called Hans over, crooking a crooked finger at him. Hans came, mopping his brow with a disturbingly gray kerchief. Gretel at once saw the man’s plan. If you want a simple truth, simply ask a simple question of a simple person. Ideally a simpleton, should one be available.

  “Phew! Hot work, all that hefting,” said Hans. “How can I help you, Herr Kapitan?”

  “I see your sister has you well employed. Tell me, where is it you are headed?”

  “Haven’t a clue,” said Hans. “Nor has Gretel, truth be told. Clueless, both of us. Ha, ha, not good for a detective, but there it is. Can’t win ’em all, eh, sister mine?”