They should reach Bad am Zee in daylight and be able to ascend the mountain to the troll’s home before it became too dark to do so.
The horse seemed not to be made of mortal flesh and blood, but galloped on, despite its irregular heavy cargo, as if born of some magical line of tireless steeds. Gretel made a mental note to check for the stump of a horn when they finally stopped. She had never met a unicorn, but she had heard how swift and powerful they were. Roland was proving to be an equally doughty traveling companion. As the hours and the miles sped by, he offered neither complaint nor question but steered the gig adroitly around potholes, puddles, and startled sheep.
By the time they traversed the pass above Bad am Zee and began to descend, the rain had eased. Gretel had the curious feeling that speeding through the storm had left her washed but filthy. Her tweed cape and cotton skirts were waterlogged and cold against her, the weight of rainwater pressing her blouse and undergarments onto her tingling skin. A layer of mud coated her boots and legs. Her hair was loose and flat against her head, hanging as a sodden veil down her back. She had hoped to slip unnoticed through the spa town, but it was hard to see how she could do so in such a state, clinging, as she was, to a young man, their outlandish conveyance being whisked along by a supernaturally fast and wild horse.
She yelled at Roland.
“Pull over! There, down that track.”
He did as she instructed, reining in the horse. At last it seemed fatigued and came to a halt without protest, even standing still while Gretel pried herself out of her seat and hobbled stiffly about in an effort to restore circulation to her feet. Roland also climbed down from the gig, stretching his limbs, and patting the horse’s neck, muttering soothing words in its foam-flecked ear.
“I feel completely revolting,” Gretel said, squeezing water from her hair. “How are we supposed to pass unnoticed through Bad am Zee like this? Look at us.”
“Is it necessary?”
“What?”
“That we pass unnoticed.” Roland continued to stroke the horse, but he was watching Gretel closely now. “You have told me next to nothing about the purpose of your journey, fraulein. I had assumed we would find an inn . . .”
“Ah, yes. Take your point.” She hesitated, unsure of to what extent she could risk taking the young man into her confidence. “It’s like this, Roland. I am on client’s business, and as such, I have to observe a certain measure of confidentiality. Keep a low profile, that sort of thing.”
He looked unconvinced.
“There are people I need to approach, and it is better I do so without warning them I am coming,” she tried. Still Roland remained impassive but clearly waiting for a less vague explanation.
“There are those who would like to prevent me in my inquiries. One cannot follow the profession of private detective without making a few enemies along the way.” She waited for some sign that he was satisfied with her picture of the way things were, but none came. With a sigh, she decided there was nothing else for it but to be honest. She needed the boy’s full cooperation.
“The facts are these. I am under suspicion for two different murders in two different towns. I am completely innocent, I assure you, but I need to find proof to clear my name. And that of my brother, in fact. I am also dangerously short of money, a detail of my circumstances that I know will be of interest to you. To get paid by my one and only client, I need to retrieve three missing cats. The troll on that mountain over there knows who took them. I need to get through Bad am Zee and up to his hovel so that I can extract the name of the abductor out of him, go to wherever it is he lives, and get the cats. I cannot return home without the cats or the evidence that will exonerate me from the crimes of which I have been wrongly accused. Is all that clear enough for you?”
Tired and bruised as Gretel was, her wits were still sharp enough to notice a minute shift in Roland’s demeanor. She could not be certain, but she believed the change began when she mentioned the word “cats” and increased with the addition of “troll.” She watched him closely. He did not answer immediately, but seemed to be considering the information she had just given him. Weighing it up, in some way. It was a full minute before he spoke.
“I have agreed to help you, fraulein, and I will be as good as my word. But my advice to you is to forget about the cats. Do not question the troll. By all means seek to clear your name of the accusations against you—this matter cannot be left, I see that—but as to the cats”—he shook his head solemnly—“best forget them.”
“Now, why would you suggest I do that?” Gretel asked slowly. “If I do not return to Gesternstadt with the cats, my client will not pay me. Can you so easily give up on the opportunity to earn money for your family in what must be for them troubled times?” Roland fidgeted but said nothing.
“You are a brave, steadfast young man. I can see that. Surely you are not afraid of the troll?”
“The troll? No. I am not afraid of that loathsome creature.”
“You’ve seen it?”
“Yes.”
“You’ve been to its house?”
“No. I saw it but once, in Gesternstadt.”
“Whatever was it doing there?”
“That I cannot say.”
“Cannot, or will not?”
There was another roomy pause, loaded to the gunwales with important things left unsaid. Gretel sighed. She didn’t have time to spend trying to pry revelations out of a stubborn young man who clearly did not want to tell her anything he didn’t have to. “Look,” she said, “I know there must be reasons behind your reluctance to continue with me on my mission, but if you refuse to share them with me, there is little I can do to allay your fears. I must see the troll, and I must act upon the information he gives me. Will you at least take me up the mountain to his hovel? After that, well, we shall see what we shall see.”
Roland thought for a moment before nodding curtly.
“Very well,” he said. “If you will not be persuaded otherwise, I will take you to the troll.”
“Excellent! Now, it’s getting late. The light is already fading. There is nothing else for it but to drive through Bad am Zee as swiftly as possible. With luck, no one will think to question our unconventional appearance before we have left the town and disappeared into the hills.”
Gretel decided that she must brave the troll alone. The nature of his interest in her suggested that he would not welcome a male traveling companion. Better that she use whatever advantage she might have to gain all the information possible regarding the stealer of the cats. Roland would deliver her as high up the mountain as was practicable, secret himself in a glade somewhere, and await her return. It wasn’t until she was within smelling distance of the troll’s front door that she felt her resolve begin to waver. A clear picture of the awfulness of the creature came back to her, along with a memory of how strong he had looked, and how swiftly he had moved.
Not to mention how suddenly his temper had got the better of him. She hesitated upon the threshold, hand raised as if to knock, seriously doubting the wisdom of what she was about to do. Suddenly the door was wrenched open, and the troll stood before her, his bulk filling the portal. The moment for turning tail and fleeing had passed. The only course remaining was to press on with what had once seemed like a perfectly watertight plan, but was now beginning to spring rather too many leaks for Gretel’s liking.
“Ah, Herr Troll! Good evening to you,” she said in a tone that sounded insincere even to her.
The troll leaned forward from the flickering gloom of his dank dwelling into the failing light of the spring day. As recognition registered in the swampy depths of his mind, his features contorted themselves into what Gretel surmised was a smile of delight.
“Big-fat woman!” he declared.
“Quite so,” said Gretel. She held aloft a small package. “Big-fat woman bearing gift,” she explained, startled to hear her own voice describing herself thus.
The troll made as if to sna
tch the parcel from her, but she was anticipating such a move and ducked beneath its arm, holding her breath, stepping into its home, chattering brightly all the while.
“Now then, Herr Troll, no need for such haste. I have traveled a great distance and endured considerable personal risk and discomfort to be here. The least I would expect from such an excellent host as yourself is that you offer me a seat.”
She smiled expectantly.
The troll looked at first surprised and then embarrassed. He shuffled about the fetid space, dusting off one of the wooden stools by the fire, gesturing at her to sit upon it. Gretel did so, finding herself grateful for the smoky warmth of the fire. The heat of the day had departed with the sun, so that her wet clothes now felt horribly chill against her flesh. She moved a little closer to the flames. Steam began to rise from her skirts. She expected the troll to sit opposite her but instead he busied himself gathering bowls and spoons and ladled something pungent and lumpy from the pot above the fire. He handed a bowl to Gretel, nodding emphatically.
“Big-fat woman like,” he told her. “Big-fat woman eat!”
She took a steadying breath and reminded herself that a stomach trained on boarding school meals could hold onto anything offered it. Even so, it took an immense effort of will to force down the rancid chunks of meat and gray gravy in which they swam. She refused to consider what creature might have given its life to form this revolting concoction. The troll was watching her with a gaze of unnerving intensity. Gretel swallowed hard and forced a smile.
“Delicious,” she declared. “Indeed, it could only be improved by a sip of that superlative grog I recall from my previous visit. Might you have a drop or two to spare?”
The troll’s highly mobile face underwent a range of expressions that registered first pleasure, then memory, next suspicion, followed by confusion, coming to rest in the shape of cautious agreement. He fetched a stone jar, removed the cork with his teeth, and passed it to Gretel.
“So kind,” she said, relieved to be washing down the foul food with something that might at least render inert the more serious diseases that must have been bubbling away within the stew for several days. She handed the drink back to the troll, who took only a modest swig before sitting heavily on the stool in front of her. He did not eat but continued to watch her as she battled through her seemingly bottomless bowl of supper. A piece of gristle lodged itself between her front teeth, but, as she felt it unlikely her host’s possessions included a box of toothpicks, there was little she could do about it. She decided it was best to get to the reason for her visit without further preamble.
“As I mentioned, I do indeed have a gift for you, Herr Troll. A splendid specimen to add to your collection. I am certain you will be more than pleased with the quality of the . . . item I have procured for you.”
She paused, partly to allow for a grunt or nod or some other sign of the troll’s approval, and partly to chew a particularly fibrous morsel of meat. The troll, clearly not versed in the matter of polite conversation, offered nothing by way of encouragement. The meat also refused to yield. Gretel held out her hand for the brew and took another gulp. Gasping, she went on. “And I shall happily pass this trophy over to you, the second you furnish me with the information I require.”
The troll shifted on his stool, his rheumy eyes narrowing.
“If you recall, Herr Troll, I require the name and address of who it was that stole the cats, or, as seems to be the case, had the cats stolen on his behalf. Give me that name, and that address, and I shall give you the splendid, freshly picked, first-class finger.” She quelled a shudder at the memory of the lifeless digits and was fleetingly thankful for the lack of light in the hovel, which prevented her from seeing what she was eating. She feared it would all too closely resemble the gray, wrinkled nastiness that had been the defining characteristic of the fingers when last she had forced herself to check them.
The troll scowled, hesitated, and then slowly uttered the awful words, “Giant want cats.”
Gretel stopped chewing. “Giant?”
“Giant.” The troll nodded. “Giant always bin wantin’ cats. People bin gettin’ cats for giant. He pay lots-of-lots-of treasure. Troll take cats to Giant. Some times Troll bin gettin’ cats.” He smiled at the memory, his tusks exposed to their very gums. “Giant give Troll lots-of-lots-of fingers!” He laughed his customary phlegm-filled chortle.
Gretel attempted, with some difficulty, to remain focused. “And does this giant have a name?” she asked.
The troll shrugged. “Giant,” he said.
“Giant,” Gretel repeated. She put down her bowl. “And this giant lives where, precisely?”
“Thirty leagues.”
“Thirty leagues!”
“Could be forty—Troll not sure. That way.” He waved a lumpen arm. “Follow road to east for one day and one night. Climb big hill with snow. Giant has cave at top and castle inside cave.”
“A castle inside a cave? That doesn’t sound likely.”
The troll shrugged again. He took what was probably his first-ever stab at elaboration. “Is castle. Is inside cave,” he said.
Gretel heard some small, distant voice in her head telling her to be careful what she wished for. She had wanted the identity of the catnapper, and now she had it. She had needed to know his whereabouts, and the troll had supplied that detail also. Somehow, though, being in possession of these facts brought her no joy. She was prevented from further contemplation of what might lie ahead by the troll springing to his feet, bi-digit hand outstretched.
“Big-fat woman give troll finger now,” he said.
“Oh, yes. Of course.”
Gretel stood up and handed over the parcel. The troll tore off the wrapping and then tenderly, almost lovingly caressed the cold, blue finger. Sniffed it. Nuzzled it.
Gazed at it adoringly. The troll took down his special box and gently placed his new acquisition inside, taking one more lingering look before snapping shut the lid and replacing the box on the mantel.
“Well,” said Gretel cheerily, “I believe that concludes our business. I will take up no more of your time, Herr Troll, but bid you good night.”
She started toward the door but the troll placed himself very solidly in front of her. “Big-fat woman stay,” he purred, his voice soft and husky, his piggy eyes half closing as he let his gaze wander over Gretel’s body.
“I’d love to, of course,” said Gretel, “but, alas, this is a business trip, and that business demands my urgent attention.”
“Big-fat woman stay,” the troll insisted slowly. “Stay with Troll all night.” Gretel’s tongue suddenly felt dry as parchment and beads of desperate perspiration formed on her brow.
“Sadly, I must decline your generous offer.” She kept her voice as level and firm as she could, but a mouselike squeak had attached itself to the end of each word.
The troll frowned.
“Big-fat woman not want to stay!”
“I assure you that is not the case.”
“Big-fat woman not like Troll!”
“As I said, it is urgent business that calls me away, nothing more.” She paused before playing her trump card. “Naturally, I would hate you to think me ungrateful or rude by refusing your hospitality further. There is, perhaps, some way I can convince of my genuine gratitude. Something I can give you?”
The troll’s face lit up. He took a step forward and placed a heavy hand on Gretel’s arm. She held her nerve, giving a little laugh that she prayed did not sound flirtatious.
Moving minutely so as to dislodge the unwanted weight of the troll’s paw, she said brightly, “Knowing how much you prize your collection, I took it upon myself to bring a second specimen, just as a thank-you for your cooperation and gentlemanly behavior.”
“More finger?”
“Yes. One more finger.”
“Give Troll!” he demanded in a tone that suggested he was not altogether convinced.
“I do not have it on me.
I have left it in a safe place.”
“Where is?”
“A little way back along the trail. We can go there now, you and me, and I will give you the finger. How would that be?”
The troll said nothing for a long minute, but scratched his fistulous chin, his eyes raised to the roof of the hovel as if searching for answers among the moss and algae that flourished there. At last he nodded curtly. “Big-fat woman take Troll to place,” he said.
It was properly dark now. A sky grubby with clouds left over from the earlier storm allowed only fragmented moonlight to light the path. The troll appeared not to need any form of illumination to find his way and lumbered on ahead while Gretel struggled to keep up, frequently stumbling and slithering on the uneven, wet track.
She directed him to the place where she had indeed, earlier in the evening, hidden the second tightly wrapped finger. The troll dug beneath the muddy stones. For a horrible moment Gretel worried that some scavenging animal might have discovered the body part and enjoyed a free supper. After an agonizingly long time, the troll let out a grunt of glee. He pulled off the waxed paper and held the finger up, testing it with his teeth as if assuring himself of the quality of a gold coin.
Gretel silently congratulated herself for the brilliance of her plan—she knew it would pay to keep a finger up her sleeve. She also knew timing was crucial. She had already begun to back away, remembering all too well how quickly the troll could cover the ground. Relying on the fact that he would be too engrossed with his new prize to notice her slipping into the night, she had chosen this spot because she had already selected an excellent hiding place not a minute’s scramble off the path. She could never outrun the creature, but if she could make it to her cover and stay there until the troll tired of searching for her, all would be well. She was fairly certain he would be eager to return his precious finger to the safety of his collection, and that eagerness would, heaven willing, override any transient interest he might have in Gretel herself.
With a small but significant distance now opened up between herself and the revolting creature, she risked turning and quickening her pace. The silence behind her suggested the troll was still lost in a loving reverie with his cherished object. Gretel’s left foot found a patch of thick mud and shot forward, lengthening her stride unnaturally and painfully. She gasped, but forced herself not to cry out. In a flash, everything changed. With a roar the troll lurched after her and flung himself forward. He crashed to the ground at her heel, one hand clasped firmly around her right ankle. Gretel screamed. The troll roared again, springing to his feet, still holding tightly onto her. Gretel found her leg raised high in the air in a position that was as undignified as it was uncomfortable.
Once Upon a Crime Page 15
