Gretel and the Case of the Missing Frog Prints (7 page)

When she looked for her glass of water she was surprised to find it empty and upturned onto a full carafe. She picked up the glass. Even in the low light it was clear it had been washed and polished. Sniffing, she detected that the water was freshly drawn. This struck her as inescapably odd. She was certain that when she had retired for the night the carafe had been empty and the glass half full. She even recalled sipping from it before blowing out the lamp. To her knowledge, neither Hans nor Wolfie had been in her room since. They were neither of them light on their feet, after all, and would have roused the soundest sleeper with their stomping about. What was more, however welcoming a host Wolfie might be, she had never seen him do anything remotely domesticated, and tiptoeing about the apartment in the small hours to tend to his guest seemed something utterly out of keeping with the man.

Gretel stood up slowly. As her eyes adjusted to the lamplight she scrutinized the room anew. Her undergarments, her petticoats and corset, had been picked up off the floor by some unseen hand and draped carefully over the back of the velvet-cushioned chair. The red silk dress hung happily on a hanger, instead of lying where she had cast it on the chaise longue. Her shoes, she was fairly certain, had been polished. There was, in general, a spickness and spanness about the place that the room simply did not have a few short hours earlier. It was then that Gretel became aware of a presence, close by, covert, and watching. Watching her. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled as if disturbed by ants.

“Who is it?” she asked in a voice that she hoped did not betray her anxiety. “Who's there? Step out and show yourself,
now. This is no way to behave,” she added, adopting the schoolmarm tone that so often worked on her brother. For a moment there was no response, then a gruff muttering was followed by a small shape emerging from beneath the escritoire. The shape strode into the pool of light cast by the lamp until it stood, hands on hips, directly in front of Gretel.

She knew at once what it was, and immediately the orderliness of the bedchamber made sense to her. There had been a resident hobgoblin at the boarding school she had attended, and though the creatures seemed not to adhere to any manner of breed standard, there were unmistakable features common to all. The height, for one. Or rather, the lack of it, for they did not generally stand more than three feet tall. This one was no exception. Then there were the ears—long, pointy, set low on the head, and expressive in their movement. This one's fell downwards and backwards, giving the creature a bad tempered look, rather like a horse Gretel once owned that was given to biting. Its face was neither human nor fiendish, but lay somewhere in between the two.

Some hobgoblins lived their whole lives naked. Mercifully, this one was rather smartly dressed, in a simple pageboy outfit with, Gretel could not help but notice, attractively buckled shoes. What stood out from the norm with this one—the thing that was evident before ever it opened its mouth and spoke—was the downbeat demeanor of the thing. Grumpiness oozed from its every pore. Since cheerful good humor was one of the commonest hobgoblin traits (providing, of course, that they were not insulted or tricked), the dark mood of this one set it apart.

“You're not going to start wandering about in the middle of the night, are you?” the hobgoblin wanted to know. Its voice had a nasal edge to it that infected every word with a grating whine. “I can't do my job if you lot are going to turn
all nocturnal on me now, can I? Hard enough as it is . . . unexpected visitors . . . overnight guests . . . I only have one pair of hands, you know? Only so many hours in a night. Don't start complaining if corners get cut. Won't be my fault if standards slip. Nothing to do with me how many freeloaders Herr Pretzel opens his doors to, just don't expect miracles. What can't be done in night-time hours won't get done and that's all there is to it.”

Gretel kept her tone level.

“Well, I do hope you feel better now you've got that off your brass-buttoned chest. If I promise to keep mess and interruptions to a minimum, might I reasonably hope not to hear the term “freeloaders” slung in my direction again?”

The hobgoblin continued as if she had not spoken.

“It's all very well filling up the beds without so much as five minutes' notice, but who is it makes those beds? Who is it launders the linen, turns the mattresses, beats the rugs, sweeps the floors, lays the fires, fills the lamps, dusts the shelves, airs the rooms, moves the slops, and empties the chamber pots?”

“A wild guess . . . your inestimable self, perchance?”

The hobgoblin stooped to straighten the fringe on the Indian rug. He whipped out a small comb from his pocket and attended to the tassels.

“It's not as if I get paid. Do I ask for an improvement in my conditions? No. Do I expect recognition and a pat on the back? I do not. Will I seek more space for myself and a new bed, perhaps? Not this side of Christmas.” He wandered off, fluffing his duster at dustless objects, minutely adjusting the position of the tapestry fire screen, muttering all the while until he had disappeared into the dark recesses of the flat.

Gretel sighed. She was familiar with the concept of sharing one's home with a hobgoblin. They were known to be diligent cleaners. It seemed unfortunate, however, that Wolfie had
acquired such a morose example of the species. There was something unsettling about sleeping in a room whilst someone so clearly discontent with his lot wielded a feather duster inches from her slumbering self. Still, there was nothing to be done about it. Wolfie's apartment was, as the downbeat cleaner had pointed out, free, and she had not yet secured any funds from her new client. As she climbed back into bed and pulled the covers over her head she resolved to part Herr Durer from a sizeable chunk of his money the very next day.

FIVE

B
reakfast time saw Gretel joining her brother and their host in the kitchen. Once again, the contents of the pantry appeared to have been emptied onto the table in the middle of the room. Hans was busy, apron on, frying eggs, humming happily if tunelessly. Wolfie was hacking into a dark loaf, producing generous slices.

“Ah! Good morning, Hans's baby sister! Please, take a seat. Help yourself,” he used his knife to flick a piece of bread onto a plate for her.

“I really can't let you go on calling me that,” Gretel told him.

“No? So, shall it be Gretiekins?”

“I think not.”

“Gretsums?”

“Not while I breathe.”

“Grettie-wettie?” Wolfie paused, hopeful, knife raised, moustache quivering as he waited for her response.

Gretel poured herself a cup of coffee and offered a hard stare as her answer.

Hans laughed. “Why don't you call her what I did when we were children?”

“A family nickname? Oh yes, I would be honored.”

“Shut up, Hans.”

“Oh go on, Gretel. Takes me back years just thinking about it. Such a sweet little thing to call you . . .”

“Hans, if you so much as start to speak that name aloud in my presence I shall wrest that carving knife from Wolfie and cut your tongue out with it.”

“Ha!” Wolfie thought the idea highly amusing. “Now I have to know what it is! Come along, Hansie, you
must
tell me!”

“Sugar Plum!” he blurted out before Gretel could stop him. She closed her eyes as the men's laughter filled the kitchen. “She was our little Sugar Plum fairy!”

Gretel seriously considered carrying out the threatened mutilation, but she knew it would do no good. The words were out now, loose and free, and Wolfie was just the sort of person who would make the most of them.

When he had recovered from his hilarity sufficiently to speak, he said, “Oh, Sugar Plum! The name suits you so very well. I can't think why Hansie does not use it for you all the time.”

“Because he knows if he tries I will be forced to turn him out of the house. Or kill him. Or both. Now, if you've quite finished ruining my morning before it has properly begun, brother dear, would you kindly hand over some of those eggs?”

They ate heartily, spicing the meal with rather too many sugar plums for Gretel's liking, but otherwise it was a companionable
breakfast. Hans told her that the previous day the two had sought out the organizers of the Uber Weisswurstfest and put themselves forward as volunteers. Their offer had been taken up, and they were both thrilled at the prospect of being a part of the giant sausage construction attempt that would be the climax of the festival.

“Were they very short of helpers?” Gretel asked.

Hans was oblivious to the slight.

“As usual you underestimate the allure of the weisswurst, sister mine. People were queuing up for the chance to join in.”

“Such a big sausage will require a large number of cooks and assistants,” Wolfie nodded.

“Even so,” Gretel went on, “they must surely have been looking for chefs, butchers, someone with a knowledge of charcuterie, that sort of thing.” She waved her fork at Hans. “I can just about imagine you convincing them of your expertise in the kitchen,” she said, “but
you
, Wolfie . . . Tell me, what fabrications did you come up with in order to secure a place on the sausage-building team?”

Wolfie shrugged, not in the least bit insulted by the suggestion. “Well . . .” he paused for effect and leaned close to Gretel so that his whiskers tickled her ear, “
Sugar Plum
. . . it was easy,” he giggled. “I told them all about the little restaurant I once owned in Rothenburg. Of how the house speciality was weisswurst, and how I personally supervised every dish that was made. The restaurant was immensely popular, and soon became the only place to go in the whole of Rothenberg.”

Hans ceased chewing for a moment. “I believe I've eaten there myself. Best sausage in town. Pretty place, too, as I recall. Didn't it have long wooden tables? And brass lamps? Any gingham, at all?” he asked.

Wolfie roared with laughter.

Gretel felt her appetite dwindling. Wasn't it enough that her night had been disturbed by the most miserable hobgoblin in existence? Now she must eat surrounded by simpletons and madmen. Just for once, she wished her day could contain some people of intellect. Someone who could match her razor-sharp mind. And would it be too much to ask for the company of people who knew their bustle from their peplum? There were times when she feared all her finer qualities were entirely wasted. Or at least, she consoled herself, they would be were it not for her work as a detective. In the realm of investigation, at least, her talents were recognized and appreciated.

Holding this thought tight to her, she pushed her plate away and dabbed at her mouth with a no doubt grudgingly-pressed linen napkin.

“I must leave you, gentlemen,” she said, getting to her feet. “Whilst you are up to your elbows in mincemeat and offal and breathing in sage fumes, I shall be at the Grand Hotel, surrounded by elegance and good taste, and enjoying the subtle scent of sophistication.”

For the second day running Gretel made her entrance into the Grand wearing her ruby silk dress. She had fought a brief skirmish with modesty and good sense, who had insisted that the yellow check suit was far more fitting both for the time of day and the nature of her business. In truth it had been but a tussle, nothing more, and one Gretel was always going to win. The feel of the gleaming silk beneath her fingers, its caress against her body, the way it swooshed as she moved . . . these were things worth fighting for. Besides, she considered she had shown restraint by not putting on her beloved wig.

The hotel was busy, with new guests arriving in numbers, presumably timing their visits to take in the wurstfest of the coming week. Gretel spied Herr Schoenberg clapping his hands at the porters and sending pages and maids hither and
thither. He was clearly relieved to see so much custom stepping through his doors. She saw that, however busy, he still managed to enforce the rule that no one unaccompanied be allowed to use the lift or take the stairs to the upper floors. And the place would have been considerably quieter and emptier late at night, so that anyone wishing to gain access to the suites would surely have been spotted at once. Gretel was about to approach Herr Schoenberg and ask for ten minutes of his time when she had the sensation she was being observed. Turning, she was astonished to find none other than Uber General Ferdinand von Ferdinand standing behind her. He was smiling his devilishly attractive smile. Not a huge grin, nor a mirth-filled beam, nor a slender smirk. Just a twinkle-eyed, salt-and-pepper-haired, lean and hungry, debonair and downright devastating little smile.

Gretel attempted to remain poised and aloof and greeted the general with a deft and gorgeous smile of her own. She was not some giddy schoolgirl to be sent into a blushing fluster at the sight of a handsome man. Even this particular handsome man, in his particularly becoming uniform. Still, she was glad to be wearing her most flattering gown. When he began walking toward her, however, she could feel warmth flushing her face.

“Fraulein Gretel,” Ferdinand treated her to a deep bow, doffing his feathered hat with a flourish, his burgundy cape sweeping back as he straightened up once more to reveal a glorious lining of golden Chinese silk.

Gretel reminded herself that she had, effectively, stood him up by not attending Princess Charlotte's ball as his guest at the Summer Schloss. There had not been time to send him a note, so that she had been forced to leave it to local gossip to inform him she had left Gesternstadt on business.

“Uber General, what a delightful surprise. I had not marked you down as given to frequenting sausage festivals.”

“Ordinarily I am not. However, the princesses expressed a wish to attend.”

“Ah.”

“Their Highnesses are recovered from the exertions of the ball, and cast about for a new diversion. A trip to Nuremberg was agreed upon, which, naturally, necessitated the way being paved, security being checked, rooms being booked. So, here I am.”