Once Upon a Crime

by P. J. Brackston

  She felt obliged to form the question. “What does it do?”

  “Ah, well, I’m glad you asked me that. You lift this iron bar here, and the subject—that’s you—the subject lies underneath it, see?” He indicated the where and the how as he spoke.

  Gretel nodded, powerless to resist such enthusiasm.

  “Then the operator—that’s me—well, he replaces the bar, like so. Now we employ this body plate, fitted with over a hundred spikes—tempered steel, look at that, lovely workmanship—and the plate lowers over the subject, that’d be . . . ?” He waited.

  “Me?” said a small voice Gretel barely recognized as her own.

  “You! Indeed. Cottons on fast, this one,” he said to the soldiers. “No flies on her. Well, no flies now, ’course later’ll be different. Ha, ha! Anyhow, where was I? Oh, yes, the plate lowers over the body of the subject and is tightened by the turning of these two screws, here and . . . here. You see? You see how that works?” He straightened up, nodding slowly. “That’s your impressive machine, that is,” he said.

  Gretel decided the surreal element of having such a cheerful torturer was indeed beginning to enfeeble her wits. She recalled an ancient Turkish punishment, in which the victim could choose between having his testicles crushed betwixt bricks or silk cushions. Quite what crime the wretched person would have to have committed to warrant such treatment she couldn’t bring to mind. All she knew was that she was starting to detect a worrying ancient Turkish flavor to things she did not wish to be a part of.

  “I’m a little confused,” she said softly.

  “Happy to answer questions. Ask away,” said Herr Schmerz helpfully.

  “I had expected to stand trial for the crime of which I am wrongly accused. I really don’t see the necessity . . .” She gesticulated at the room feebly.

  “Trial?” Schmerz laughed even more heartily. “Oh, dear me, no,” he said, wiping a tear of mirth from his eye. “No. Haven’t had one of those here since, ooh, let me think”—he scratched his hairless head—“well, not since King Julian took the throne, that’s for sure. Too time-consuming, he said, apparently. No, torture’s much better all round. Much quicker. Less paperwork.”

  “It is hard to argue against that, Herr Schmerz. However, I do feel it might be a little fairer if a person were to be given the chance to protest their innocence.”

  Schmerz took a twist of paper from his pocket and undid it to reveal toffees. He offered them around. “Want one? Go on, help yourselves.”

  The soldiers did so. Gretel demurred.

  Schmerz popped one into his mouth and chewed vigorously as he spoke. “Innocent? Nah. Doesn’t work like that. Wouldn’t be here if you were innocent now, would you?”

  Gretel tried to think of a sensible response but her mind was filled with images of the sunny torturer chewing on toffees while winding tempered steel spikes—of the finest workmanship—into her defenseless flesh.

  “Look, this is how it works. Your subject—that’s you in this case—gets him or herself arrested for some horrible crime. Naturally they’re going to deny doing it, so they get brought to the torturer—that’s yours truly—and I apply my skills, and instruments, to obtain a confession. The king decides on a fitting sentence, and there you are. Job done, and we can all go home. Well, not you, ’course, but the rest of us can. Everything clear now?” He looked at her, waiting, his eyes bright with love for his work and a genuine desire to share his knowledge with others.

  Gretel knew she must pull herself together.

  “This is ridiculous,” she declared, in as firm a voice as she could muster while standing within screaming distance of Sally Stretch and her friends. “I demand to see a lawyer. At the very least, surely I am entitled to that?”

  “No good asking me about lawyers and visitation rights and stuff.” Herr Schmerz, his work clearly done for the evening, drifted off to polish a branding iron.

  “But then who?” wailed Gretel as the soldiers led her away.

  “Take it up with your jailer, fraulein. Won’t do you any good, but if you feel that strongly about it . . .”

  She was marched deeper into the Schloss dungeons but not, as she had anticipated, to the dank cell she had so briefly shared with Bruder. Instead, she was shown into a clean, spacious room with a large window overlooking one of the main courtyards to the rear of the Schloss. There was a low bed with a passable mattress on it, mercifully devoid of stains, a table and chair, and even a lamp, already lit. Gretel felt cheered at the sight of such comparative luxury, and took it to be a good sign.

  The jailer—the same pungent guard who had been so bribeable when last she was incarcerated—quickly disabused her of such an idea.

  “This is the condemned cell. King Julian’s no skinflint—likes to do right by people, he does. Only fitting a person about to be executed should have his or her last night of comfort.”

  “But I haven’t had a trial; how can I have been condemned? Look, I demand to see a lawyer. Send a message to my brother, Hans, to fetch the best one he can find in Gesternstadt and bring him here straight away.”

  The guard shook his head dismissively. “Sorry, can’t do that.”

  “I’ll pay you.”

  “I got into enough trouble ’cos of you last time. Nearly lost my job over that, I did. And I haven’t been paid the second half of what I’m due yet.”

  “I’ll pay you heaps—double, and what I owe you, of course.”

  “It’s not worth the risk.” He slammed shut the door and turned the key. He put his face to the small grille at the top. “You’ll be taken up to Schmerz first thing in the morning. He’ll send for someone for you to confess to when you’re ready. Sleep well.”

  Gretel began to pace her cell. She needed to think. There was no way she was going to allow some toffee-chewing madman to test out the latest Bavarian engineering on her. As she strode about her room she marshaled her thoughts, making a list of all the facts in her favor. It was a very short list. Top of it was the fact that she was certain that Roland Hund was Princess Charlotte’s lover. This had to be a valuable piece of information, but was it enough to save her neck? And whom should she tell? And when? If she played her ace card too soon, she might well end up being given the chop anyway. And what proof did she have? It would be her word against that of the king’s favorite daughter, a situation that had not gone well for Gretel on an all-too-recent occasion. The doddering monarch wouldn’t hear a word against his precious princess. But how could she get any proof now? She couldn’t even get a message to Hans.

  Through the window there came sounds of activity in the courtyard below. Gretel peered out into the darkness. Several torches had been lit, so that she could quite clearly make out the workmen as they went about the business of erecting a scaffold for the imminent execution.

  The night seemed endless, and Gretel’s dreams were peopled with hideous creatures and iron monsters with terrible clanging jaws that snatched at her as she tried to run away. She woke up as a feeble dawn was shedding a gray and uninspiring light onto the cell floor. She felt dreadful and knew she must look a complete fright. She dragged her fingers through her candy-floss hair and straightened her clothes. She had, after many hours of desperate thinking, come up with a plan of sorts. In the chilly, unflattering light of day, it didn’t seem a very solid plan to stand between her and a grisly death. She squared her shoulders and took a deep breath. This was no time to feel flimsy. When the guard unlocked the door to take her up to Schmerz, she was as ready as she would ever be.

  “Good morning, fraulein. Here we are then, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. Well, one of us is, at least. Now then”—he rubbed his hands together with undisguised glee—“thought we’d start off with a bit of Sally Stretch—just to get you warmed up, as it were. Shouldn’t do any strenuous activity without a warm-up, you know. Don’t want you pulling a muscle now, do we? Ha, ha!” He continued to chortle as he guided Gretel over to the enormous wooden contraption.

 
“How very thoughtful of you,” said Gretel, laying herself down as she was required to do, arms and legs akimbo.

  Schmerz set about tightening straps at her wrists and ankles.

  “Spirit of cooperation, that’s what I like to see,” he said. “You and me are going to get along just fine. There. Now, does that feel secure? Don’t want a foot coming free when we’re under way, do we?”

  “Perfectly secure, thank you.”

  “Right you are.” He dug in his pocket for a toffee, expertly lobbing it into his mouth. “Let’s get started, then, shall we?” He put a hand on the worn wooden lever that would turn the great wheel, each cog of which would tighten and move the oak bars to which Gretel was so snugly strapped.

  Gretel opened her mouth and let out a scream of such pitch and volume that Schmerz spat out his toffee.

  “I haven’t started yet,” he said.

  “Oh, the pain! The terrible pain!” Gretel cried.

  “But I haven’t done anything,” he insisted. “Look, lever’s still in ‘ready’ position. Hasn’t moved one bit.”

  “Oh, the unremitting agony! I can’t stand it, I tell you. It is unbearable! I will confess!”

  “You what?”

  “I wish to confess.”

  “But we haven’t even started. I haven’t done anything.”

  Gretel lifted her head and gave him a hard stare. “I tell you, I’ve had enough. You’ve done your job excellently, Herr Schmerz. I am powerless to resist further.”

  “Further!”

  “If you would be so kind as to summon Uber General Ferdinand von Ferdinand, I will readily confess to him.”

  “Oh, I don’t know about that. Not usually him who hears the confessions. Last time it was the king’s adjutant. Time before that it was our old priest, Father Wagner.” He shook his head. “General von Ferdinand is always very busy.”

  “Herr Schmerz, you are a man who likes to do things properly, that is plain for all to see. I know you would not want to be accused of allowing important information to fall into the wrong hands simply because you refused my request. The confession I am about to make will be of extreme interest to Her Majesty Queen Beatrix. Kindly inform General von Ferdinand of this fact, and he will no doubt applaud your good sense in bringing this matter to his attention.”

  Schmerz chewed over this idea as if working his way through a particularly dense toffee. After a long pause, he shrugged, shaking his head slowly.

  “All right, then, if that’s the way you want it.” He let his hands fall uselessly against his sides, a man defeated and deflated, robbed of the chance to do the one thing he excelled at. “I’ll send for General von Ferdinand.”

  “Wise decision, Herr Schmerz. I am very certain he will be impressed by the speedy effectiveness of your skills.”

  Schmerz narrowed his eyes at Gretel to check he wasn’t being made fun of. For a horrible moment Gretel thought she might have blown her only chance of survival, but then he shrugged once again, sighed, and plodded off to find the general.

  Even at such an unforgiving hour General Ferdinand von Ferdinand looked fresh, well groomed, and almost improperly handsome. He was wearing a velvet cape the color of crushed plums, with a clever scarlet lining, and a fetching cap sporting the feather of a golden pheasant. His salt-and-pepper hair, worn attractively long and loose, fell about his collar. Gretel decided he was past forty, but wearing his years ever so well. He stood beside her, bestowing upon her a heart-melting smile and the aroma of sandalwood.

  “Good morning, Fraulein Gretel. Herr Schmerz tells me you would confess to no one but me. I am honored.”

  Gretel summoned up her few remaining scraps of dignity and attempted to sound both confident and a smidge flirtatious. It was a big ask. She was still strapped to the rack, doing a passable imitation of a stuffed giant starfish. Her hair had become a felted mass sticking upward and outward even while she was flat on her back. Her black silk skirt had ridden up to reveal hideously wrinkled stockings, and there was an embarrassing dampness spreading out from beneath her armpits, staining her cream linen blouse with telltale dark patches. She made a promise to herself that if she survived her current predicament she would, somehow, bring about an encounter with Ferdinand von Ferdinand where she was not, for once, at such a crippling disadvantage.

  “Herr General, I appreciate your finding the time to listen to what I have to say. Tell me, can we be overheard?”

  Ferdinand raised a quizzical eyebrow.

  “I would rather impart the information I have to you, and you alone,” Gretel whispered.

  Ferdinand hesitated only for a moment before flicking a dismissive hand at the soldiers who had accompanied him into the torture chamber. He spotted Herr Schmerz tightening the bolts on a scold’s bridle.

  “Would you be so good as to leave us, too, Herr Schmerz?”

  “Me? But, Herr General, you might require my services,” he said, clearly having not altogether given up hope of applying his skills to Gretel.

  “Should that prove necessary, I shall call you.” Schmerz reluctantly left the room.

  Ferdinand leaned closer to Gretel. It passed through her mind that he was in some ways enjoying seeing her so bound and helpless, and that with no one to observe him, a baser side of his nature might be allowed free rein. She was just mulling over whether or not this could turn out to lead to a terrible experience or one she might actually quite like, when Ferdinand released first her arms and then her feet. He offered her his hand.

  “Come,” he said. “Let us find somewhere a little more comfortable for our conversation.”

  “An excellent idea,” said Gretel, heaving herself off the wretched contraption with as much elegance as she could muster.

  “I was about to break my fast when I received your message. Perhaps you would care to join me in a simple repast.”

  “An even more excellent idea.”

  General von Ferdinand took her out of the torture chamber and led her along a twisting passageway and up a steep set of stone stairs. They passed through numerous doors, each of which, Gretel was relieved to note, became decreasingly ironclad and increasingly decorative. At length they came to a long, thin room; indeed, the longest and thinnest room Gretel had ever entered. It might have doubled as a place for archery practice in inclement weather. At present it appeared to serve as an occasional dining room. Had the table been in proportion to the space, opera glasses would have been necessary to look one’s fellow diners in the eye. However, the table it currently housed was a mere five yards in length, and laid out, Gretel was delighted to find, with all things necessary for a satisfying breakfast.

  Unusually for the Summer Schloss, a modicum of restraint had been employed during the selection of the décor, for the walls boasted only gleaming white paintwork, and fewer than two dozen gold candelabra. Floor-to-ceiling windows ran all along one side, so that, despite the early hour, the room was flooded with a somewhat unflattering bright light. Gretel patted ineffectually at her bothersome hair. Ferdinand snapped his fingers and servants scuttled about setting an extra place at the table. That they chose to position her at the opposite end to the general may have been an oversight on the general’s part, but Gretel doubted it. Her quick summing up of the man—based on scant information, admittedly—led her to believe that he was not given to oversights. That he did not do things by chance, or without careful consideration. She was seated at the bottom of the table because the bottom of the table was exactly where he wished her to be seated.

  Gretel lowered herself onto the proffered chair, her stomach rumbling at the sight of food, sending a wobbling echo the length of the room. At the far end of the table—the top end—General von Ferdinand flapped open his napkin and tucked it into his collar. “Now, fraulein, what is it you have to tell me that is of such a sensitive nature?”

  Gretel was keenly aware, however salubrious her surroundings, that much depended on how she put her case to the general. She must remain focused, be clear, b
e persuasive, be believable. Fortunately, she was capable of being all these things while eating. In fact, she reasoned, as she helped herself to warm brioche and steaming-hot coffee, she rarely gave her best performance on an empty stomach, so she should see eating as an equally serious matter.

  “First of all,” she said, taking care not to spit crumbs as she spoke, “I’m not going to confess to anything. I never abducted Princess Charlotte, and I think you know that.” She paused, meeting his eye as best she could, given the distance between them, and then went on. “I understand that you are the first cousin of our revered and wonderful queen.”

  “You understand correctly.” Ferdinand bit into his brioche.

  “And I further understand that, while His Majesty King Julian might be a little, dare I say, shortsighted when it comes to the shortcomings of the Princess Charlotte, the queen has, shall I put it thus, a more realistic view of her daughter?”

  “Go on.”

  “And while I perfectly understand the king’s reluctance to accept that the princess might not be as innocent or as truthful as he might wish . . .”

  “Tread carefully, fraulein,” warned Ferdinand, sipping his coffee. A spotlessly liveried servant whisked away his empty plate and another replaced it with one bearing lightly poached eggs and kippers.

  As the salty aroma of smoked fish reached Gretel, she momentarily lost her thread. The servants, having had attentiveness beaten into them throughout their training, spotted her need before she had time to articulate it and presented her with her own plateful of kippers and eggs. She paused to take a mouthful. The fish was cooked to perfection, and tasted so stupendously good she had to close her eyes the better to savor it.

  A discreet cough from the far end of the table brought her back to the matter of securing her own future existence. If this breakfast was not to turn into her last supper, she must apply herself to convincing Ferdinand of her innocence. Or, at the very least, of her ability to prove her innocence.