Once Upon a Crime

by P. J. Brackston

  ONCE

  UPON

  A

  CRIME

  A BROTHERS GRIMM MYSTERY

  P. J. BRACKSTON

  PEGASUS CRIME

  NEW YORK LONDON

  For Becky

  ONE

  A very long time ago, in a land far, far away, a lonely giant sniffed loudly as he wept. The mournful sound echoed around the cave that was his home, his breathy sobs causing the flames of the torches to gutter and the shadows in the damp space to jump. His grotesque form cast its own vast blackness against the dripping stone walls, hideous even when reduced to silhouette. He wiped his nose with the back of his lumpen hand, spreading a layer of silky grayness across his face. From deeper within the labyrinthine rooms of the cave came the plaintive cries of smaller, frailer beings. The giant paused in his weeping; paused to listen. A frown rearranged his features into an expression of quake-making ferocity.

  “Be quiet,” he whispered, but the cries continued.

  “Be quiet!” he roared, bringing his great fist down with such force that the table beneath it splintered into kindling, and the cries ceased.

  Gretel lay on her daybed and tried to ignore the hammering on the door. It was almost as loud as the hammering inside her head. She had spent the previous evening drinking far too much with Hans, in a rare moment of sibling solidarity, and a hangover of impressive tenacity had taken up residence behind her eyes. Gretel groaned. Both hammerings continued. She pulled a silk cushion over her head, silently cursing Hans, vodka martinis, and people who came knocking.

  “Go away!” She moaned. “Whoever you are—I don’t want to buy anything, I haven’t any rags, or antiques of unnoticed value, and I most definitely do not want to be saved.”

  If anything, the knocking increased.

  “Hell’s teeth!” Belching fruitily, Gretel flung the cushion aside and dragged herself from the tapestry daybed of which she was so fond. She paused in front of a mirror to tighten the cord of her house robe, the better to hold together her otherwise unclothed body. She winced at the pressure on her not-inconsiderable belly. Her breasts sat heavily atop her heavy stomach. She sighed at the landscape her figure presented: an Andean range of mountainous peaks and unfathomable valleys that no amount of dieting could level one inch. She had long ago accepted that she was a big woman. Not just fat, but big.

  Big bones, big features, big voice, big hair. Big appetite. Gone was the flimsy child who had trailed lost through the woods with her brother. Gone was the leggy teenager who had graced the stage at the ludicrously posh school to which the king had later decreed she be sent. Gone, even, was the voluptuous girl in her twenties who had, at least, appealed to a certain type of man. Here, instead, was Gretel the thirty-five year-old woman, with the physique of a wintering grizzly bear—and almost as much facial hair, should she miss one of her frequent waxing appointments.

  She strode past the mirror in the hall, determined to ignore its critical gaze, cleared her throat noisily, spat expertly into the spittoon beneath the aspidistra, and yanked open the door with a “What the bloody hell do you want at this hour?”

  “It is nearly four o’clock,” replied the neat, diminutive figure of Frau Hapsburg. “My point exactly.”

  “Are these not business hours?”

  It was a fair question, a fact that served only to irritate Gretel further. She glanced up at the sign that hung in her porch declaring her to be Gretel (yes, that Gretel), Private Detective for Hire. She frowned, silently telling herself that a possible client meant possible money, and the coffers were worryingly low.

  “You’d better come in,” she said, turning on a slippered heel. Frau Hapsburg followed meekly.

  Gretel’s office had once been the dining room, and still housed a fair collection of pewter candlesticks, tapering, if dusty, candles, tarnished napkin rings, an open canteen of fish knives, and needlework place mats depicting kittens frolicking with wool. It was the sight of one of the last that sent Frau Hapsburg into a fit of sobbing. Gretel recoiled. She disliked displays of emotion of just about any kind, but particularly the wet variety. The wailing and red-eyed bawling was quite revolting and she knew she must do something to make it stop. She cast about for a handkerchief, but could find only an ancient napkin. Too late she realized that what she had taken for an abstract pattern was, in fact, encrusted food. Frau Hapsburg seemed not to care. She blew her nose loudly.

  “So”—Gretel kept her manner business-like to avoid setting off another bout of weeping—“what’s this all about? Let’s have it.”

  “My darlings.” Frau Hapsburg’s voice was hoarse with despair. “My poor darlings have been taken!”

  “Your children? Somebody has taken your children?” Gretel leaned forward, feeling herself perk up a little. A good kidnapping could take time to solve and prove lucrative.

  “Alas, I have no children.” Frau Hapsburg put her right. “I am speaking of my cats.” She swallowed another sob. “My poor, poor pussycats.”

  Gretel slumped back in her chair, causing it to creak alarmingly. “Cats,” was all she could be bothered to say. She had never seen the point of pets and she particularly disliked cats. There had been far too many instances of them stepping happily on silk-soft paws into the role of witches’ familiars. She took a deep breath, tasting the fur on her tongue, and tried to muster sufficient enthusiasm to make some money out of the sad creature who sat before her. “They’ve gone missing, then?”

  Frau Hapsburg was transformed by fury. “Not missing, taken! Taken, I tell you! Taken! People keep saying they’ve wandered off. ‘Cats go missing all the time,’ they say. ‘It’s in their nature,’ they tell me. Well, I know my cats. They never wander. Never! Somebody has taken them, and I want you to find out who it is, find out where they are, and bring them back to me.”

  “Right. I see. And when did these . . . animals disappear? That is”—she held up a hand to stave off Frau Hapsburg’s protestations—“when were they taken?”

  “Two nights ago. I’ve had not a minute’s peace since.”

  “I see,” said Gretel again. Her client’s bottom lip began to wobble once more. “Of course, I’m pretty busy at the moment, heavy caseload and all that. It’d be hard to fit you in . . .”

  “Oh! Please say you’ll help me. I’ve no one else to turn to, and the kingsmen aren’t interested in the slightest, heartless things.”

  Gretel pictured Kingsman Kapitan Strudel’s sour face at the thought of lowering himself to search for AWOL felines. The image it presented made her feel like smiling for the first time in days. She remained straight-faced, however. There was money to be discussed, and money was a serious matter.

  “Well, it would mean putting other things on hold, you know. My fees would have to reflect the priority given to your case, and then there’s the inconvenience to my other clients.” Even Gretel could hear the scraping of a trowel behind her words.

  “I’ll pay extra. Whatever it takes.”

  Much to Gretel’s delight, Frau Hapsburg began ferreting in her carpetbag and extracted a colorful wad of notes.

  “How much do you want?” she asked.

  Gretel found herself licking her lips. She spoke quickly. “Ah, yes, that’d be my usual retainer plus thirty percent, with expenses on top, naturally, with, say, fifty percent up front, daily reimbursements on incremental increases, as per norm, and the balance on successful completion. Would that suit?”

  Frau Hapsburg looked fittingly puzzled but nodded vigorously, pushing what money she had brought with her across the cluttered table to Gretel.

  “Excellent! Excellent.” Gretel made a pretense of counting the cash before attempting to stuff it into her corset, remembering she wasn’t wearing one, quelling instincti
ve panic at having to let go of the notes, and pushing them into a nearby biscuit tin, snapping on the lid, and snatching up a pen.

  “Look,” she said, “I’d better come to your house. See what I can see.” She tugged a coal bill from a precarious pile of papers and began to scribble on the back of it. She took down the necessary details and ushered Frau Hapsburg out, promising she would call on her within the hour.

  The small town of Gesternstadt might have been viewed by many as a charming example of all that was best in Bavaria in 1776, but it had about it a sham friendliness Gretel considered despicable. It wasn’t just the twee architecture, though that was bad enough, with its picturesque wooden houses, shuttered windows with flower-filled boxes, low eaves, and wobbly chimneys, each and every one of them, in Gretel’s opinion, sugary enough to induce diabetes. No, it was more than that; it was the cheery waves, the casual how-are-yous, the genial whistling of the workman, and the broad smiles of the shopkeepers. None of it genuine. Where had these good neighbors been, all those years ago, when Gretel and Hans had been led into the woods and left to the wolves? Where had they been when their stepmother had claimed to have sent them off to summer camp, while their father stood beside her, red-eyed and haunted? Where had they been then, she wanted to know.

  The air was warmed by a precocious spring, but still carried its habitual Alpine nip. The dark woods to the east of the town sheltered it from the fiercest winds, but the influence of the mountains to the west, beyond the verdant high meadows, made sure no sensible person ventured out without a vest before June. Gretel considered herself sensible in most things, but as far as she was concerned fashion was not something that could be compromised in the name of good sense. Admittedly, most of her days were spent slopping about the house in her dressing gown with nary a care as to how she looked. But on the occasions when she could be bothered to get dressed, vanity kicked in. Labels counted. Reputation was vital. Kudos and cachet were paramount. It mattered not one jot to her that there was no one within fifty leagues of Gesternstadt capable of recognizing a Klaus Murren gown or a pair of Timmy Chew shoes. She knew what she was wearing, that was what counted. Not for her the folksy comfort and traditional lines favored by most women in the town. Let them don appliquéd blouses, felt waistcoats, floor-skimming dirndl skirts and floral aprons, and dust off their pinafores on high days and holidays. In her teens, Gretel had shared a dorm with a girl from Paris, and her head had been forever turned.

  The fact that most of the apparel after which Gretel lusted had been designed for women with shapes significantly and tellingly different from her own was one she chose to ignore. If the season demanded figure-hugging satin, then figure-hugging satin she must wear. She would be draped, head to stout ankle, in the stuff, regardless of its unflattering effects on her rolls and mounds. If brocade gowns, cinched at the waist, were to die for, then Gretel forced herself into them, even if she did end up looking more upholstered than clothed. If kitten heels were de rigueur for fashionistas elsewhere, then they were de rigueur for Gretel, despite the unfortunate overtones of trotters her broad feet presented when forced into the latest slender creations.

  Muttering curses at the cobbles that threatened injury with every step, Gretel made her way down Uber Strasse, across King’s Plaza, past the monument erected in honor of the Grand Duke of Mittenwald (who was reputed to have slain several dragons, though proof was scant), on past the Kaffee Haus (resisting the seductive aroma of freshly baked Snurgentorter), beyond the Gesternstadt Inn (where Hans was no doubt propping up the bar), and into Kirschbaum Avenue. The last house on the left was the home of Frau Hapsburg. As she pushed open the little wooden gate to the front garden, her eye was caught by a pretty young girl hurrying down the street. It wasn’t her prettiness that drew Gretel’s attention, however. There was something about her demeanor, her expression, the way she moved that suggested that beneath the attractive, neatly presented exterior lay barely contained distress. Gretel’s detective senses pinged into life at the merest sniff of something-being-covered-up.

  This girl, whoever she was, set off a veritable cacophony of pinging.

  A whiff of an entirely different kind refocused Gretel’s mind on the job at hand. Even before the door opened, Gretel’s nostrils were twitching at the smell of cat. It had the instant effect of reawakening her headache.

  “Come in, please. This way.” Frau Hapsburg disappeared down a narrow hall that seemed to be carpeted with the wretched creatures. Their beloved mistress walked, Moses-like, causing a fur-free path to open up before her. Gretel hurried along, fearing she would be swamped by the cats if left alone.

  In the parlor the smell was no better. It wasn’t just urine, it was cats’ bodies, cats’ fur, cats’ feet, and heaven knew cats’-what-else. Frau Hapsburg sat down, dwarfed by an oversize winged chair. Several felines settled upon her and a thrum of purring filled the room. Gretel searched for a cat-free seat upon which to land but found none, so settled for perching on the arm of the sofa.

  “If you’d just answer a few questions for me, and then I think it best if I take a look around,” she said, whipping out a small notebook with a view to taking down interesting details or beating off cats with it, whichever proved the more necessary. “Now then, do all the cats live in the house with you?”

  “Of course. Where else would they live?”

  “And exactly how many are there?”

  “Twenty-three. Now.”

  Gretel struggled to remain impassive. She wrote down the figure.

  “And do they go out on their own? Into the garden, perhaps?” She paused to scratch a bothersome itch on her left calf.

  “They have freedom to roam wherever they choose, but they never go beyond the garden fence. Why would they? They have everything they need right here.” She stroked a cat with each hand as she spoke. A large tabby climbed onto her shoulder and gently head-butted Frau Hapsburg’s neat bun. Two more snuggled at her feet. A passing kitten ran up the already half-shredded curtains before letting go and flinging itself onto the mantelpiece. Ornaments (china cats to a man) wobbled. Frau Hapsburg beamed indulgently.

  “Quite,” said Gretel. The itch had traveled farther up her leg. She stood up, balancing on one foot so as to rub at her calf with an exquisitely clad toe. “Can you give me a description of the missing—”

  “Stolen!”

  A small muscle beneath Gretel’s left eye began to twitch. “—stolen cats?”

  “Floribunda is six years old. She is tortoiseshell—such a pretty coat. Very shy and gentle. Lexxie is nine, a big ginger tom. And Mippin—” Frau Hapsburg began to sniff—“poor dear Mippin, just a baby. A silver tabby—the most beautiful stripes you’ve even seen.”

  Gretel wrote quickly. The ammonia levels in the room were beginning to make her dizzy, and a surreptitious feel of her leg had revealed a series of small lumps that could only be flea bites. As if either of these torments weren’t bad enough on its own, she was starting to hear bells. Tiny, tinny bells. Like the playing of a distant, celestial glockenspiel. She had to complete her questions and leave. But not before a little further business. She cleared her throat.

  “It is rapidly becoming clear to me, Frau Hapsburg, that this case is far more complicated than I had been led to believe. Three cats, all of different colors, chosen among so very many. So very, very many.” She felt herself becoming more lightheaded. The cats picked up on her vulnerability and became suddenly active, jumping from chair to chair, thrashing their snaky tails from side to side, dozens of eyes all focused on her. Soon she was completely surrounded and any purring had been replaced by low growling. The bells rang louder. Just as Gretel feared she might faint and be set upon by the vile creatures, she spotted the source of the music.

  Every cat wore a velvet collar, suspended from which was a small brass bell.

  “The taken cats—did they have collars like those? With the bells on?”

  “Oh, yes. All my kitties wear them. Such a beautiful sound, don’t
you think?”

  The itching had spread considerably farther up. At the thought of fleas burrowing about in her underwear, Gretel began to feel nauseous. So desperate was she to leave that she even forgot to pursue her planned demand for further funds.

  “Excellent. I think I have all I need for now,” she said, backing hastily toward the hallway, dodging swiping paws and claws as she went. “I’ll see myself out. I’ll be in touch as soon as I have news.”

  She bolted from the house, gasping for clean air. All thoughts of calling in at the Kaffee Haus vanished as she turned left down Kirschbaum Avenue, heading straight for the apothecary on the west side of town. She needed flea repellent and itch treatment and she needed them at once.

  She covered the ground with surprising speed for one so large, particularly when taking into account her unsuitable shoes. Her route took her past the smoldering space that was all that remained of the carriage maker’s workshop. She was just hurrying by, more than a little red in the face and out of breath, when she noticed Kingsman Kapitan Strudel poking about in the rubble with his standard-issue regimental baton. A handful of his subordinates danced in attendance.

  It had been three days since the blaze that razed Herr Hund’s business to the ground had woken Gretel from her slumber. The roaring of the flames as they consumed the wooden building and the carriages within it had indeed roused most of the Gesternstadt inhabitants. A fire in a town constructed largely of wood was not a matter to be taken lightly. Rumor spread with the smoke: this had been no accident. But Herr Hund was a harmless pudding of a man with two clean-living sons and no known enemies. Why anyone would want to destroy his business was a mystery to everyone, not least the irascible Kingsman Kapitan Strudel. The sight of Gretel did nothing to improve his perma-scowl. She was all too well aware that he despised the way she pushed her nose into what he considered his business. This loathing was in no small part due to the fact that Strudel was a useless detective, and Gretel was, against all odds, a good one.