Gretel and the Case of the Missing Frog Prints (15 page)

“Shall we step closer?” Ferdinand's voice jolted Gretel from her thoughts. He held out his hand to her, smiling. He had not noticed Kapitan Strudel, and stood with his back to him. Opposing desires and necessities set about pulling Gretel in two. She badly wanted to take Ferdinand's hand, to continue to enjoy this special time with him, to convince herself that she could enter the tantalizing world she had glimpsed while by his side. She also, however, badly needed to avoid the humiliation of being seen by Strudel, arrested in front of the great and the good of Nuremberg, dragged from Ferdinand no doubt in some way bound and degraded, removed from the city, and therefore from the chance of solving the case, finding the prints, and receiving her much-needed fee from her client.

In the event, she was spared from deciding on a course of action, for Strudel, nudged from his prime viewing point by another avid visitor turned to remonstrate with the man, and in doing so Gretel came into his line of vision.

Abandoning all hope of dignity, she turned on her kitten heel, hitched up her skirts, and fled.

“Stop that woman!” Strudel screeched after her, his customarily thin voice climbing yet another octave in his excitement.

The crowd turned as one, expecting an act of vandalism or attempt at theft perhaps. That those pretty people visiting the gallery were fond of their city's art Gretel did not doubt. That any one of them, however, cared enough about it to risk the smallest of personal injuries by stepping in the path of a person fleeing the cries of a kingsman, was demonstrably not the case. The crowds parted before Gretel as the waters before Moses. Men drew themselves in, lest their silver-buckled shoes be scuffed as she passed. A handful of the more sensitive women swooned. Strudel gave chase. Gretel did not know it at the time, but the foot that covertly tripped her pursuer, sending him sprawling and buying her precious time to escape, was attached to the shapely left leg of a singularly attractive general in a burgundy cape. With gold silk lining.

Outside, Gretel continued her flight, crossing the street, heading she knew not where, entirely focused on putting as much distance between herself and Strudel as she could. Her nose had set up throbbing again, and she was already puffed and red-faced. Was this how Cinderella had dashed from the ball at the stroke of midnight, she wondered? Glass slippers must be the devil's own footwear, surely, and not in the least designed for running. No wonder she cast one. Blessing the Italian leather that encased her own feet, and thanking fortune that her route was free of cobbles, Gretel turned left, then right, took a second left down a rather charming row of small shops, and came to rest, gasping, on the steps of a church. Her heart beat a ragged polka beneath the whalebone of her corset. She could go no farther. She peered back up the street. There was no sign of Strudel, but had she succeeded in shaking him off? Wincing as her calf muscles cramped in complaint, she got to
her feet and slipped as quietly as she could through the great, iron-studded doors of the church.

Inside it took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the slanting sunlight filtering into colored beams through the high, stained-glass windows. When her vision cleared, she saw that a small wedding was taking place. The church was capacious, so that Gretel was able to tiptoe across the flagstones and slide inconspicuously into one of the rear pews without causing a disturbance. She chose a seat near enough to be taken for a member of the wedding party, but not so close that a guest might try to engage her in conversation. It was a relief to be sitting down, and her pulse and color slowly returned to their normal states. All things considered, she thought it best to simply stay put, and allow Strudel to grow tired of searching for her. She could then make her way back to the apartment. If she stuck to the backstreets and kept her eyes peeled surely all would be well.

She fell to watching the marriage ceremony. The bride was dressed in traditional Bavarian garb, and her face shone with love and happiness. The groom held her hand as if holding the last bird of a cherished species, his eyes bright with adulation. Whether it was her recent sudden exertion, or the surfeit of sentimentality, Gretel was beginning to feel a little queasy. A pageboy stepped forward and placed something in front of the loving couple. Whipping her lorgnettes to her eyes, taking care not to bump them against her still tender snout, Gretel saw that it was a wine glass, which the child wrapped carefully in a white linen cloth. He put it on the ground at the bride's feet. The girl smiled, then raised her foot and stamped down hard on the bundle. The sound of smashing glass echoed throughout the church. The congregation cried out in delight and set up applauding. Gretel had not witnessed this curious custom before, and it amused her to imagine how such a strangely destructive procedure could have worked its way into such a
solemn thing as a marriage ceremony. The vows exchanged, traditions upheld, kisses given and received, the newlyweds led the procession out of the church. In minutes, Gretel was alone. She availed herself of several prayer cushions, closed her eyes and allowed herself to fall into a much needed nap.

Several hours later Gretel was woken by a celestial choir. For a moment, as she struggled to come to her senses, she thought she had died in her sleep and was now in heaven, being welcomed by angels. She rubbed her eyes, expecting to see Saint Peter, mentally preparing the speech she would need to save herself from being summarily ejected and redirected to somewhere altogether more fiery and uncomfortable. Instead of a bearded and robed gentleman, however, there came into view leaning over her and studying her quizzically a middle-aged woman in a headscarf.

“You can't sleep here, ducks,” the woman said, not unkindly, but with a tone that left little room for argument. “Don't you have no home to go to?”

Gretel sat up, brushing down her annoyingly crumpled skirts. The dress was new, and already it was showing signs of suffering in Gretel's care. She saw, now, that the woman was clutching a rag-mop and held a bucket of grimy water, and that the singing came from a cluster of small boys in surplices standing in the choir stalls.

“I was praying,” Gretel explained.

“Oh,” said the woman. “Looked a lot like sleeping to me.”

“Forgive me if I say you do not have the appearance of an ecclesiastical expert, Fraulein. Now, if you'll excuse me . . .”

She brushed past the cleaner, inhaling fumes of carbolic and dust as she did so, and made her way out of the church.

She walked slowly home, taking a rather circuitous route in order to avoid bumping into Strudel. She thought of Ferdinand,
and of how, yet again, she had left him without so much as an
au revoir
. He would, she consoled herself, have worked out the reason for her abrupt departure. He must know Strudel was looking for her, even if he did not know why. It was somewhat depressing to think that life—or at least, life as Gretel lived it—seemed always to contrive to drive her from the only man who had interested her—or indeed who had shown any interest in her—for several long years. Long, dry, lonely years. Empty years. Stop it, woman, she remonstrated with herself. She was here on business. It was true she had at last extracted some funds from Herr Durer, but she had already had numerous outlays and expenses—the stagecoach tickets, the dress, the silver lorgnettes, spending money for Hans—with no doubt more to come. Besides, there was a long winter ahead, and who knew when her next case might present itself? She must redouble her efforts and apply herself to the investigation at once. This was no time to be mooning about after a man.

Back at the apartment sounds of singing quite unlike that which had serenaded her in the church came ringing from the kitchen. She found Hans and Wolfie, arm in arm, both dressed in outfits involving her host's favored colors of primrose yellow and blue polka dots, belting out drinking songs.

“Ah! Hans's baby Sugar Plum!” cried Wolfie upon seeing her. “Come, let me pour you a little drinkie.”

“It would appear you have already drunk sufficient for both of us.”

“Hang it all, Gretel,” Hans hiccupped, “you're not going to be a spoilsport again are you?”

“Again?
Sport
?”

“Now, Plum,” Wolfie draped an arm about her shoulders, his proximity treating her to a blast of beer fumes through his damp moustache. “You must permit yourself to have some fun. Your brother and I have been working hard at the butcher's
all day, and now we are letting down our hair. You should do the same.”

“Am I to believe you have spent the entire day chopping vegetables and mincing meat?”

“Well . . .” Hans frowned.

“The afternoon?” Gretel offered.

“Not
all
of it,” Hans admitted.

“The hours between luncheon and tea, perhaps?”

“One of those,” he told her. “Or at least, half of one of those.”

“I see. So, you spend the morning in bed, heaven knows how long choosing your singularly ghastly outfits, no doubt eat a hearty lunch, followed by a nap, thirty minutes of actually doing something, before settling to the serious business of the day, which is of course drinking.”

Wolfie laughed throatily. “Oh, Sugar Plum.”

“Will you please stop calling me that?”

“ . . . ah, so, Hans's baby . . .”

“Give me strength.”

“ . . . why don't you accompany us tonight? We are going to partake of all the delights that the city can offer us,” he grinned unsteadily, waving his arm whilst performing a slow pirouette, as if to encompass the whole of Nuremberg.

“It strikes me you have already done a fair amount of partaking. Anyway, I haven't time. I am here to work, you may remember.”

“Oh?” Hans attempted to lean casually against the oak dresser but his elbow slipped so that he was forced to grab hold of it with his free hand instead. “Work you say? Is that why I saw you swanning off with Uber General von Ferdie-whatchamacall earlier on? Didn't look much like work to me, have to say.”

“We went to the Nuremberg Art Gallery. If you dig deep for a part of your brain not yet pickled, you might recall that I am investigating an art theft. The excursion was relevant to my work.”

“Oh,
relevant
was it? Well, if it was
relevant
. . .”

Gretel threw both men a withering glance—though she suspected their eyesight was too compromised by beer to see it—and flounced back to her room. It had been a testing afternoon. She had quite possibly ruined her chances with Ferdinand. She had the continuing irritation of being hounded by Strudel. Her feet ached from all that running, and she had wasted hours which could have been put to use either solving the case or resting before the coming night. For Gretel knew that she must return to Mistress Crane's brothel. Leads were scant, and Phelps was still her prime suspect. With luck, Valeri would have carried out her wishes and talked to her erstwhile friends. Gretel must present herself for another night's work, don the costume of She Who Rules, and extract the truth from the bumptious doctor once and for all. The thought was not a happy one, as she knew she had been fortunate so far to escape a more disturbing, or indeed downright damaging experience. She would have to keep her wits about her to ensure both she and her clients stayed encased in their ghastly garments.

It was gone nine o'clock by the time she was ready to leave. She had changed out of her new clothes and put on the tired garments she had worn to travel from Gesternstadt. She was pleased to see they had been laundered. The hobgoblin had done a fine job of restoring the outfit to as good as it ever was, but still she felt shabby after the sleek, freshness of her blue dress. She had just slipped her feet back into her trusty black shoes when she sensed rather than heard a movement behind her. Turning, she came face to face with Wolfie's moribund cleaner.

“Good evening to you, Herr Hobgoblin.”

“I thought you would be out,” he said, his dark, pinched face darkening further, feather duster raised in a manner that Gretel found almost threatening.

“I am sorry to disappoint you.”

“Makes my job harder, you know, cleaning around people. Much better for me if I can have a clear run at things, left to get on, no interruptions or interference . . .”

“I have never in my life felt the desire to interfere with anybody's cleaning, I assure you.”

“ . . . enough to do without having to wait and wonder, are people staying in? Are they going out? When are they coming back? A washed floor has to dry. A bed has to air. Linen has to soak. There is an order and a method to these things, they don't just happen any old how.” The hobgoblin flicked at a nearby ormolu clock in a desultory fashion. Gretel could not help thinking that if the creature attempted to engage with the humans he came into contact with, instead of simply seeing them as obstacles, he might feel less morose. Wolfie might be infuriating, and long exposure to him was indeed inclined to give one a headache, but he was, if nothing else, upbeat.

“Have you worked for Herr Pretzel long?” she asked.

“I am appended to the apartment, not the person residing in it.”

“Quite so. In which case, as this was his childhood home, you must know him fairly well.”

“Not my business to converse with humans, unless they get in the way of my work,” he said pointedly.

“I can see that you are extremely conscientious in that respect. I only ask because, well, your employer is of a relentlessly sunny disposition. You might find his company . . . cheering.”

The hobgoblin stopped dusting and stared hard at Gretel. “I can be cheerful when I want to be.”

“I don't doubt it, but when ever
do
you want to be?”

“When something gives me cause.”

“Something like . . . ?”

Herr Hobgoblin hesitated, as if on the brink of revealing something of his inner self. But the moment passed. He
busied himself combing the rug tassels and said only, “Not being delayed in my work would be a start. Nothing cheering about falling behind when there's beds to make, floorboards to polish, silver to clean, windows to wash, bed-knobs to dust, wicks to trim, coal to fetch . . .” He was still listing tasks as he made his way out of the room and was lost to the gloom of the hallway.