Once Upon a Crime

by P. J. Brackston

  As the town collectively shouted out its welcome to the gift of beer and the band struck up a suitably oompah-based tune, Gretel glimpsed a familiar figure standing on the other side of the square. She recognized him at once as the good-looking king’s aide who had witnessed her humiliation at the Summer Schloss. The same one who had been charged with the duty of seeing her taken to the castle dungeons. The very same who had—and she was fairly certain she had not imagined it—given her a look of special Significance before she was led away to be locked up. Today he was dressed in a scarlet uniform, with just the right amount of gold braid and highly polished weaponry. Gretel thought she had never seen anyone quite so handsome, and decided that the uniform was raising his appeal to inflammatory levels. She glanced about, but could not detect a female companion. Perhaps he had been obliged to attend in some official capacity or other. Or perhaps he had been sent to find her. The notion made her both a little bit panicked and a little bit pleased. Rival impulses tussled inside her. Part of her—the part that was woman first and foremost, and that was on this occasion (unlike her first encounter with the man) looking somewhere near her best—wanted very much to thread her way through the crowd and effect a chance encounter. The rest of her—the part that was mostly concerned with saving her own neck and securing her continued liberty—wanted to hitch up her skirts and run in the opposite direction.

  Fortune, in the scrawny shape of Kingsman Kapitan Strudel, intervened to save Gretel the bother of deciding how to act.

  “Fraulein Gretel,” he said, offering her a stiff bow, “I am surprised to see you partaking of the delights of Starkbierfest.”

  Gretel could have spent some time pressing Strudel for a satisfactory definition of “delights,” but she was too annoyed at having her view of the handsome soldier replaced by the kingsman’s gaunt visage.

  “I don’t intend to go as far as partaking,” she told him, nodding at the brimming stein he was holding. “That stuff is dangerous.”

  “Oh, come now, fraulein, where is your sense of adventure?” he asked, dipping his beak into the creamy foam.

  Gretel realized with deepening glee that the man was already tipsy. She had never seen Strudel in his cups, and wasn’t sure that she wanted to, but the fact that he was plainly out for a day’s enjoyment reassured her that he had not been dispatched to search for errant kidnappers and haul them back to the Schloss. Emboldened, she pressed home her slender advantage.

  “Got anywhere with the case of the burned body in Hund’s yard yet?” she asked.

  “That is kingsman’s business.”

  “Found any more little clues?”

  “Our inquiries are moving forward in a manner appropriate to the situation.”

  “Just as I thought.”

  Strudel gulped down more Debilitator. He narrowed his eyes at Gretel which, given their habitual narrowness, caused them to all but disappear, and swayed very slowly, first to the left, then to the right, coming to a stop a little off the vertical.

  “You don’t like me, do you, fraulein?” It was more of a statement than a question. Gretel bit her bottom lip. Was honesty the best policy? Could she seize the opportunity to tell him precisely how little she thought of him, safe in the knowledge that he would remember nothing of the day past his first sip of ale? Might she? Should she?

  “Not much,” she said.

  “I knew it. I knew it!” Strudel was daftly pleased to be right about this. Gretel put it down to his rarely being right about anything. “I can tell what a person is thinking,” he went on, tapping the side of his nose. “In my job you need to have a nose for these things.”

  “Well, you certainly have that.”

  He hiccupped and took another swig of beer. “Actually,” he said, pitching forward at a risky angle and beckoning Gretel, signaling to her to draw near. She leaned in an inch. Strudel dropped his voice to a whisper. “Actually,” he went on, “between you and me . . . I’ve always thought we would make a good team. You and me.”

  “You and me!”

  “You and me.” He nodded, then, noticing her consternation, added, “Detectivelywise . . . detetctive-ishly . . . that is, not . . . romanticistical . . . ly. Am I being clear? I want to be clear about this, fraulein. Am I being clear?”

  “Clearer than the alpine spring waters of the Zugspitze itself.”

  “S’good. S’good, ’cos I think you should think about that. You and me,” he said, still nodding, which seemed to be a side effect of the alcohol, rather than a conscious action.

  Gretel fought revulsion at any manner of alliance with Strudel that could be categorized as “you and me.” She was on the point of eloquently and elaborately telling him this when the note of the crowd’s shouts and cheers altered abruptly. Cries of alarm and warning sent people scattering. The sea of revelers parted to reveal the barrel, still half full, rolling down the hill from the top of the square, gathering speed with every rotation. Women snatched up their children and fled. Self-preservation cut through drunken fug to force men to bound to safety. Gretel started to run, but Strudel stood rooted to the spot, still clutching his stein staring at certain death as it barreled toward him.

  “Strudel, you idiot, get out of the way!” yelled Gretel. But he did not move. Cursing monks, Lenten beer, and a conscience, Gretel flung herself at the flimsy kingsman, sending him crashing to the cobbles just out of the way of the runaway keg. As she landed on top of him, she heard the unsettling sound of small bones splintering. The barrel charged past, inches from the prone pair. Gretel struggled to her feet. “Strudel? Strudel, speak, man.” She nudged him with a foot. He had turned the color of raw pastry, appropriately enough, and was emitting a soft wheezing sound. At last he gave a loud groan and came stuttering to his senses.

  Gretel turned and scoured the crowd for the king’s aide—but he had gone. Dammit. For a moment she rather wished she had left Kapitan Strudel to be flattened, but then she told herself that it could well be useful to be able to remind him, one day in the not-too-distant future, that she had saved his life.

  The day began to stumble into a woozy afternoon and Gretel chose her moment to slip quietly away. The barrel had been retrieved and the remaining beer consumed. Her peaceful drawing room, her comfortable daybed, and a glass of half-decent brandy were simply too seductive to resist any longer. She had had her fill of roasted pigs’ knuckles for the day, and Hans did not require her company any longer. The last she saw of him was, stein still in hand, grinning from ear to ear, disappearing down Uber Strasse, strapped backward onto a somewhat bandy-legged goat.

  Gretel had never been a fan of stagecoach travel and the daylong journey to Bad am Zee did nothing to win her over. Hans had admired what he considered the fine horses that were to power their conveyance. Gretel put his generous appraisal of them down to the fact that he was still half drunk from the Starkbierfest. She herself fancied the lead animal had a mean look in its eye, and that the rest were overworked and on the scrawny side. Despite spring having fully sprung, the coachman was so muffled against cold winds it was hard to determine his age or countenance. He gruffly hauled cases and boxes aboard, leaving the passengers to see to themselves. Besides Hans, Gretel was to have three traveling companions. There was a stout businessman who insisted on introducing himself to everyone.

  “Bechstein. Bechstein’s the name. Pleasure to make your acquaintances. Weather set fair for a good journey. Should make excellent time. I’ve a meeting in Bad at six prompt this evening, so delays will not be stood for. Will not,” he told anyone who cared to listen.

  Gretel did not. She preferred to travel in peace, gazing through the window at the countryside to remind herself how lucky she was not to be out in it; snacking at irregular intervals to keep blood sugar and spirits up; dozing against the cushion that was her brother when the road was smooth enough to allow it. Sadly, the remaining occupants of the carriage had other ideas.

  “We are the Petersons,” said Herr Peterson, proffering a hand that
Hans felt obliged to shake. “Inge and I are touring the region.” He paused to touch his wife’s glowing cheek and smile at her. “We are indulging ourselves with a second honeymoon,” he added. “We are so happy to be reliving such pleasant memories, such wonderful times in such a beautiful place as this!”

  Watching the middle-aged lovebirds made Gretel queasy. Why did people feel the need to display their cloying affection for each other in public? It was almost enough to put her off her bratwurst. Almost.

  “Crack open the supplies, Hans. This is going to be a very long day.”

  To begin with, the landscape through which the little party rattled was of the picture postcard variety. An hour’s distance from Gesternstadt saw them leave the valley and begin the climb toward the mountains. The high meadows were full of spring flowers and lush grass, dotted with fat goats and cows with coats that shone in the brightness of the day. Pine forests began to fringe the road as they traveled through the Kilmfeld pass and emerged on the eastern side of the hills. Here drama replaced prettiness. The mountains rose so steeply even the goats had been defeated by them. Silver threads of waterfalls glinted against dark stone as they tumbled into glassy lakes. The terrain proved testing for the horses, as they scrambled along the twisting, stony path that traversed the side of the precipitous hill, sending dislodged rocks splashing down into the water far below.

  More than once Inge Peterson whimpered, causing her besotted spouse to pat her gloved hand. Even Herr Bechstein looked a little pale, his mouth set in a grimly determined line.

  Hans distracted himself from thoughts of possible death by taking out his hip flask. “Hair of the hound, an’ all that,” he told Gretel. When the stagecoach took a pothole at speed, making the rear wheels drop and then leap alarmingly, he passed it around and found eager takers.

  In an attempt to remain calm and make good use of the time, Gretel turned her mind to the case of the missing cats. The facts as she saw them were few and unhelpfully far between. Three cats missing, all different colors and ages. The bell from a cat’s collar in the clutches of the dead man at what had been Herr Hund’s workshop.

  Bruder had been wearing a cat collar on his wrist. Agnes was sure the troll held vital information, but not the cats themselves. With a sigh she realized she had made precisely zero headway in her investigation. Other puzzles kept insinuating themselves into her thought processes, pushing aside matters she should be dealing with. For a start, who was the mystery archer? And what had Princess Charlotte been up to? And now, curiously, there was the girl at Madame Renoir’s: Johanna. There was something about her, something that stirred the mud of memory but would not quite reveal the treasure buried there.

  A brutal jolt as the coach negotiated further ruts in the road brought her back to the present.

  “Nearly there,” Hans assured her. “Look!”

  She peered past him out of the drop-side window. Bad am Zee was laid out below them like a toy town, set down on the shores of the sparkling lake, a picture of tranquillity and loveliness.

  The coachman navigated the steep descent without mishap and delivered them safely to the town square, the low light and long shadows of the late-April afternoon softening the edges of the quaintly painted buildings around them.

  The travelers alighted, stretching their aching limbs to a chorus of clicking spines and knee joints, light with relief at having arrived unscathed save for the damage to their bruised posteriors and frayed nerves.

  It didn’t take long for Gretel and Hans to settle into the Bad-Hotel. Gretel unpacked, enjoyed a little pre-dinner nap, and then headed for the restaurant. Hans discovered the adjacent inn was running a mini beer festival and took himself off to sample the local ales.

  Gretel had not entirely forgotten the original reason for spending huge amounts of money on such luxury and indulgence, and did her best to quiz as many of the hotel staff as she could concerning the whereabouts of the troll. Her questions were met with one of three responses: don’t know, don’t care, and don’t ask me, I’m too busy. She was forced to jangle a few gold coins in her hand to get any cooperation at all, but even then she gained nothing more enlightening than one possible sighting and an earful of hearsay.

  She was all for giving it up for the evening and turning in when she bumped into the Petersons.

  “Ah, fraulein,” Herr Peterson greeted her like a long-lost friend, “how nice to see you again. Is the Bad-Hotel to your liking? It is over thirty years since last we stayed here, and it is still every bit as perfect as we remember. Isn’t that so, Inge?”

  Inge nodded enthusiastically.

  “We are so excited about tomorrow’s excursion,” he went on. “Will you be joining us?”

  “Excursion?” The very word forced Gretel to stifle a yawn.

  “Why, yes, the hike up into the mountains on the wildflower trail. Have you not been made aware of it? Oh, how fortuitous that we met! Just imagine, had we not, you might have missed the opportunity to discover the delights of the Alpine flora on offer in Bad am Zee.”

  “Imagine.”

  “Did you know, there are sixteen species of miniature orchid to be found in this region alone and nowhere else?”

  “I’m ashamed to say I did not.”

  “Well, we must let you get to your bed.” Herr Peterson stepped aside, beaming. “The party departs at six sharp in the morning, and we must all be at our best for the steep climb. Good night to you, fraulein.”

  Gretel hastened away in the direction of the sanctuary of her room. Several of her least favorite words (of which “hike” was one of the worst) had just been lobbed at her. While experience had taught her that there were more terrible fates than a flower-spotting walk in the hills, it ranked pretty high on her list of Things I Would Die Happy Never Having Done. She puffed her way to the top of a second flight of stairs and turned into the narrow corridor that led to her room. She was more than a little surprised to spot a walrus sleeping on the floor, its head jammed beneath a leggy jardinière. She approached it cautiously. Closer inspection revealed it to be Hans. “Hans! What are you doing?”

  He stirred with a moan.

  “Get up, for pity’s sake. I didn’t fork out hard-earned money for a room for you so that you could sleep in the hallway.” She steadied the teetering flowerpot as he struggled to extricate himself.

  “Hallway?” He scratched his head as he clambered to his feet, a splayed cigar still clenched between his teeth. “Fancy that. Could have sworn I’d got into my bed.”

  “Let’s be thankful you didn’t see fit to undress first,” said Gretel, steering him toward his door.

  Hans fished his key from his pocket and waved it at the lock.

  “Here, give it to me.” Gretel took it from him, opened the door, and shoved him through. “So much for a break from the inn. You might as well have stayed at home and got drunk there. Really, Hans, you are enough to drive me to drink.”

  “You won’t say that when you hear what I’ve found out,” he insisted, hiccups underlining each word with extra importance.

  “Go on, astound me.”

  “I drank with a man, who danced with a girl, who knew a woman, who had an aunt, who lived with an old lady, who had a summer cottage up on the hill above the town.”

  “Fascinating. And how much beer did you have to buy to discover this riveting piece of local flimflam?”

  “Neither flim, nor flam, but good solid fact.” Hans fought to free himself from his jacket but his arms were reluctant to cooperate, so that he was soon wriggling pointlessly in the manner of someone wearing a straitjacket. “That’s what you want, isn’t it? That’s what you came here for. Facts, eh?”

  “Facts pertinent to the case I am attempting to solve, yes. Facts concerning people of no consequence whatsoever to me or my inquiries, no.”

  “Ah, but they are. Pertinent,” he said.

  “I remain to be convinced.”

  Hans made an extra effort to rid himself of his tweed bondage but s
ucceeded only in tipping over so that he lay facedown on the bed. Gretel waited. After a while he began to snore. She gave way to exasperation and barked at him.

  “Hans!”

  “What? What?” Startled, he came to what senses he had left. “Facts,” he repeated. “Yes, he lives up above the hunting lodges. Way, way up, up, up. There’s a stream. And a hiking trail. And a bridge. That’s where you’ll find him.”

  “Find who?”

  Hans had slumped forward once more and was losing consciousness fast. Gretel shook him roughly.

  “Hans?”

  But he was well beyond her reach. With eyes firmly shut, his mouth at last relinquished its grip on the mangled cigar and emitted a single, slurred word: “Troll.”

  As she trudged along with her fellow flower spotters, Gretel consoled herself with the fact that the weather, at least, was pleasant. Which was more than could be said for the steepness of the incline, the roughness of the path, or the tiresome chatter of the Petersons, et al. There was a guide who had clearly imbibed too much coffee before setting out and now babbled on relentlessly about this edelweiss and that violet until Gretel wanted to push him off the nearest cliff. Of which there were many. She fought for oxygen in the thin mountain air, forcing herself onward, but no matter how hard she tried, the gap between herself and the rearmost hiker was ever widening. At one point Herr Peterson called back to her.