Gretel and the Case of the Missing Frog Prints (27 page)

“Enough for me to believe you might need a little help.”

“So you knew it was me all along? Right from the start? You might have said! Have you any idea how painful it is being tied up so tightly for so long? No! Don't answer that. I'd rather not know if you do.”

“I'm sorry for that, Fraulein. I would have released you myself, but, well, the madam's henchman looked a dangerous type. I judged it best not to antagonize him whilst you were so . . . indisposed.”

“That what you call it?”

“But, as ever, you were exceptionally resourceful. I have never myself employed an army of mice, but they worked very well for you in that instance, I think.”

“At some cost,” she told him, reminding herself she still had a wig to buy.

Ferdinand stepped away. “Well, I shall leave you to your shopping. I was anxious that you understood. Can't have you thinking badly of me, can I?”

Before Gretel could form a suitable reply he was gone. There was a brief pause for good manners and then the dressmaker and her girls came scurrying in to the dressing room, giggling behind their hands.

“Oh, Fraulein,” she said, “such a handsome beau.”

“I assure you, he is not my
beau
.”

“Not yet, perhaps, but with a little more lace, a slightly lower neckline on that scarlet velvet, an inch or two off the hem, maybe, one more pull on the stays . . . who knows?”

Gretel thought about the shop owner's words. She thought about the velvet dress in particular. But when she considered tightening the stays, she recalled how it seemed Ferdinand
had enjoyed toying with her, rather than simply releasing her from her bonds straight away. She pulled back her shoulders, reluctantly slipping off the Swedish Silver Wolf and handing it back to the nearest assistant.

“I'll take the red velvet. And the small clothes. And a new underskirt. And those two day skirts—the chocolate and the mint—and the woolen jacket. And if you throw in spare feathers I'll have that green hat. Seems appropriate, somehow. The black shoes with the silver buckles I will definitely need, seeing as my own are worn beyond repair. And you'd better find me a new nightgown. And I'll have the cream silk bodice. But you can forget tightening anything. There is a generous slice of record-breaking sausage out there with my name on it.”

Back in her room, Gretel enjoyed dressing in her new clothes. She chose one of her smart skirts, cut in a slimming line, just short enough to show the delightful buckles of her shoes. It was warm enough to do without a jacket, so she selected a new white blouse with plenty of lace. She secured the wide hat with a silver-beaded pin and headed outside.

The square had been swept and spruced, leaving no trace of the revelry of the night before. Fresh flowers had replaced any that had not stood the pace, and bunting took the place of the lanterns. On the stage yards of gingham covered the trestle tables that awaited the great wurst. Thousands had turned out to witness the record-breaking attempt. Officials were taking up their positions on the platform, and the mayor of Nuremberg was given the prime spot. The orchestra had been swapped for a shiny brass band, so that tubas and trombones formed a guard of honor approaching the stage. Gretel moved slowly toward the front of the crowd. A special dais had been erected just to the right of the stage, to accommodate the princesses. At that very moment a trumpet blast—mercifully at some remove from Gretel's ear—heralded the arrival of the
royal party. The crowd cheered and waved their hats loyally as the young women and their followers took their places, but the true reason for their being there was yet to come. It amused Gretel to think that Princess Charlotte was playing a supporting role in this particular pageant, with the lead being taken by a monster tube of minced pork and onions. From where she stood she had a good view of the proceedings, and spotted Valeri wheeling Herr Durer into a small space at the front. They acknowledged Gretel with cheery waves, and she replied with an inclination of her head, causing the feathers on her hat to flutter in what she was certain was a most becoming manner. Once the princesses were seated, Ferdinand appeared and came to stand beside them. Gretel did her utmost not to look in his direction.

A cheer went up. A cry went out.

“The wurst is coming! It's on its way!”

The crowd jostled and craned their necks for their first glimpse. Two vigilant kingsmen bustled a small pack of salivating dogs out of the way. The band struck up a rousing march, as round the corner of the Grand Hotel came the butchers, the volunteers, and their precious cargo. Gretel had to admit that they made an impressive sight. All the men were dressed in a uniform of dark blue breeches, crisp white shirts, and long stripy aprons. On their heads they sported natty white butcher's hats, bearing the emblem of the Worshipful Company of Butchers and Charcutiers. Even Hans and Wolfie looked quite the part. They were positioned about halfway along the wurst, opposite each other, both wearing smiles a mile wide. The procession progressed, the great beast of a sausage slowly emerging into the square. Gasps followed its progress. The thing had been cooked to perfection, allowing no splits or ruptures, and was now cooled, though it still gave off a delicious, herby aroma as it made its way through the crowd. The band
played on. With great care the massive wurst was maneuvered up the steps and onto the stage. It was so long that it had to be gently coiled once again in order to have the whole thing fit on the trestle tables.

The butchers and their company stood back. The band fell silent. The officials stepped forward, lengths of string and measures in hand. A hush descended. There was a sense of collective breath being held. Figures were written down. Calculations were made. The mayor was shown the notes and gave his approval. At last, the official recorder moved to the front of the stage.

“Your Royal Highnesses, my lords, ladies, and gentlemen, the weisswurst has been measured, and those measurements independently verified. I can confirm to you, that, at fifty-four feet and four and a half inches long, and with a circumference of six feet precisely, the Nuremberg Wurst is confirmed as the longest and biggest ever!”

The crowd erupted into joyous cheers and enthusiastic applause. Hats were thrown in the air. Small children were swung around. Kisses were exchanged. On stage, hands were shaken. The mayor was handed the ceremonial knife to be used expressly for this purpose and none other. He stepped forward and held up his hand, asking for quiet. When the excitable crowd had hushed, he spoke.

“Friends, it is a great honor to be the one to cut the festival wurst. An honor I have been privileged to enjoy for three years now. On this occasion, however, I would like to pass this special task on to another. To one who has, by their diligence and hard work, over these past few days, made an invaluable contribution, thereby upholding the honor of the city of Nuremberg.”

Gretel began to feel a pink flush rising from her neck, spreading upwards and outwards across her cheeks. She knew the retrieval of the frog prints had made her popular, and the
city was glad to have Phelps's murderer caught, but this . . . this was something special. She tried to concentrate on what the mayor was saying and determined not to allow herself to look flustered. She must aim for elegant. Serene, even.

“And so, without further ado,” the mayor was enjoying stringing the thing out, “it gives me great pleasure to step aside and call on that person to slice this splendid, record-breaking, weisswurst.” He turned, and with a flourish, presented the knife to Hans. “I give you our new and invaluable chef, Hans of Gesternstadt!”

“Hans!” Gretel's mouth fell open. So did Hans's. And Wolfie's. For a moment her brother was so shocked he looked as if he might faint.

“Go on, Hansie,” Gretel heard Wolfie urge him. “You have earned the right. Cut the wurst!”

Hans tottered forward a little unsteadily. He attempted to find a few words of thanks, but none came. He saw Gretel. She flapped her hands at him, keen he should get the deed done before he keeled over from a surfeit of pleasure and embarrassment.

Hans took a deep breath.

The crowd took a deep breath.

He lifted the knife.

He brought it down with a deft, slicing motion.

As the keen blade pierced the sausage, there was a tiny fizzing noise, swiftly followed by an enormous, teeth-jarring, window-rattling bang. A blast. An explosion that knocked everyone within twenty yards off their feet. Those further back lost their hats, wigs, and dignity, as hundreds of pounds of sausage meat rained down upon them. The air was filled with the scent of sage and onions.

The royals were being ineffectually aided by their aides, who were attempting to wipe off the worst of the wurst. The
mood of the crowd changed swiftly to one of both despair and anger. Children wailed. Fists were raised and shaken. Hans and Wolfie, once they had picked themselves up, looked deeply shocked. Someone near Gretel shouted, “Sabotage!” and another gave a cry of, “The record will not stand!” Others joined in with, “The town will be a laughing stock!” and, “Who is responsible?” This last question caused several people to look fiercely in Hans's direction. Gretel had some experience of witnessing the way a large body of people can turn nasty, and she did not care for the way the crowd was pushing forward toward the stage. Toward Hans. He may or may not have been responsible for the volatile nature of the wurst—only time and investigation would tell. For now, all that mattered was that a scapegoat be found, and Hans was suddenly looking very goatish indeed.

Snatching up her hat from where it had landed on the ground beside her, Gretel sprang forward and hauled herself up onto the stage. She stood up and held up her new hat, trying not to think about how she was ever going to get the stains out of the thing. From the top of it she extracted a generous helping of freshly exploded weisswurst. In front of the baffled onlookers, she nibbled a piece. “Delicious!” she declared loudly. “A triumph. Ladies and gentlemen, free wurst for all! Help yourselves! Free wurst for all!”

The crowd hesitated. A tall man near the stage found a piece of sausage on his lapel and tried it. He nodded his approval, and passed some to his wife. A small child called out, “Mama, I want some.” Soon everyone was trying it. Now that they looked properly, they saw that sizeable chunks of the thing dangled from bunting, and awnings, and brass instruments, and lampposts, and all manner of places. The scramble to secure as much as possible of this tasty bounty quickly intensified, so that soon every man, woman, and child—with the exception of Baroness
Schleswig-Holstein, naturally—was filling their hats, bags, and pockets with the stuff.

Gretel stepped over to Hans and placed a hand gently on his arm.

“Come along, brother mine. It is time we took our leave.”

Upon her return Gretel found Gesternstadt smaller than she remembered, if no less twee and floriferous. When the stagecoach had deposited herself and Hans onto the cobbled street in the center of the little town, she had resisted the call of the Kaffee Haus and shoved Hans passed the door of the inn so that they might arrive home as quickly as possible. Nuremberg had been all that she had hoped it might be; glamorous, sophisticated, elegant, fattening, and expensive. She had felt she fitted there, and that there were people there who would have shared and understood her love of the finer things life had to offer. In the city she could be the person that, deep down, she believed she should have been. She did not wish to be reminded that she came from a small provincial town with small provincial tastes and small provincial ambitions.

The single thing that Gesternstadt had in its favor, as far as Gretel was concerned, was that here was her house, where she could shut her front door on the rest of the world. And inside her modest dwelling, here was her beloved tapestry daybed, cushioned and waiting for her. An hour after arriving home, she was settled upon it, snuggly supported by bolsters and swathed in rugs. Two days later, she was still there. She succeeded in cajoling Hans into lighting the fire and keeping it fed with logs. He had left Nuremberg numb with shock at the calamity that had befallen his precious weisswurst. He was at a loss to explain the cause of the explosion. Gretel had her own
theories, and most of them involved Hans's own input into the construction of the thing—not least the “special ingredient” he had added to the recipe—but she was certain he had acted only out of love for the sausage, and thought it best not to allow him to dwell on any whisperings of “blame,” much less “sabotage.” He had quickly recovered his natural good humor when installed in his own kitchen once more. For two days, he had enjoyed preparing light meals, putting together a light snack or dumplings and cheese fondue, before getting fully back into his stride and producing full blown feasts.

Word reached them, in the form of a somewhat unreliable letter from Wolfie, and a more reliable one from Herr Durer, of the changes that had occurred in Nuremberg since their departure.