Once Upon a Crime (19 page)

“Hell's teeth,” she cursed, feeling the package slip away from her scrabbling fingers. She tried to extend her arm farther, her body pressed hard against the ice now, the front of her dress soaked. She consoled herself with the thought that she was at least cool for the first time in days. She cast about the gloomy space for something to use to get at the evasive bundle, and spotted the little pick they kept for chipping ice off the block. She wriggled free, took hold of it, and was just about to employ it when a violent hammering startled her so much she almost dropped the thing.

“Open up!” a voice yelled from the front porch. “Kingsmen's business. Open the door!”

Gretel was confused. That wasn't Kapitan Strudel's voice, and anyway, it was barely nine o'clock. He surely wouldn't be sending out furious search parties for her already?

The hammering grew louder, the voice more insistent.

“Open up! We are kingsmen from Bad am Zee and have orders to arrest Gretel of Gesternstadt for murder!”

Bad am Zee! Now Gretel understood. Bechstein had come back to haunt her. She had to get away. But the door wasn't locked, and in any case, Hans was sure to meekly let them in. There was no time to lose. Gretel rammed the pick down the crevice, snagged the package, and hauled it out. Stuffing it in her corset, gasping at the ice against her bosom, she swung around to find Hans standing before her holding out the front door key. She stared at him in amazement.

“Thought you might not want them coming in,” he said calmly.

“Hans, you are the best brother a person could have,” said Gretel.

She dashed back into the house, threw a sturdy cape about her shoulders, and grabbed her case from the hall. The hammering had become battering and Roland's fine workmanship was beginning to splinter under the onslaught.

“Here!” Hans pressed a food parcel upon her. “You'll need your snack.”

She smiled, hesitating, for a moment worrying that she was leaving him to face unfair odds. As if reading her mind, Hans steered her through the French windows, giving her a little smile before he disappeared back toward the hall. As she clambered through the gap Peterson-Muller had left in his wake, she could dimly hear the final moments of her new front door, and Hans's placatory tones as he stalled the kingsmen.

Gretel tucked her provisions under one arm and her suitcase under the other, kept her head low, and scuttled down the alley, heading west toward the ford.

NINE

T
he leaden sky belched thunder as Gretel hurried toward her rendezvous. At last the sultry weather broke and long-overdue rain fell heavily onto the dusty streets of Gesternstadt. By the time she reached the ford, the water levels were high enough to give a timid traveler pause. But Gretel was not, had never been, and would never be, timid. She positioned herself beneath a sweet chestnut tree, which provided some modicum of shelter. The town clock could be heard striking ten. Where was Roland? For one dreadful moment she contemplated the thought that he might fail her. If he did not show up as promised, then things were looking very bad for Gretel. And for Hans, whom she had abandoned to
give muddled excuses for her absence. It was becoming increasingly urgent she bring home not only Frau Hapsburg's cats but proof that both she and Hans were blameless in the matter of any of the recent murders, both in Gesternstadt and Bad am Zee. Rainwater fought its way through the broad leaves of the tree and assaulted Gretel's straw hat, quickly reducing it to a floppy mess. She considered removing it, but at that moment she heard hooves clattering along the stony lane. Reluctant to give herself away in the event that someone other than Roland was charging down the road, she flattened herself against the tree as best she could, peering out through the relentless weather. Seconds later, a bright chestnut horse pulling a racing gig tore round the corner and came to a slithering halt at the ford. Roland struggled to restrain the restless animal. Gretel crept out from her hiding place, appalled at what she saw.

“My apologies for being late, fraulein,” said Roland. “I had a little difficulty getting the gig hitched.”

“Are you completely mad?” asked Gretel. “A wagon, I said. Some sort of sensible conveyance.”

“This was all I could find at such short notice.”

“A racing gig? And look at that animal—is it even broken in?”

The young stallion, for such it was, foamed at the mouth, shaking its head in fury at the bit between its teeth. He pawed the ground restlessly.

“Better climb aboard, fraulein. He doesn't like standing still.”

The gig was equipped with sufficient seating for driver and a slender, lightweight passenger. Gretel hauled herself onto the alarmingly flimsy contraption and forced her ample posterior into the inadequate space. The horse, spooked by Gretel's clumsy struggles, attempted to turn in its traces for a better look at what was going on behind it. Roland was forced to urge the beast forward to avoid it getting entangled. With a “Yah!” and a flick of the reins, they were away, powering
through the fast-flowing ford, and galloping out of Gesternstadt. Gretel clasped her suitcase and provisions to her bosom with one arm, the other instinctively hanging on to Roland. To begin with, she was reassured by the fact that she was so tightly wedged into her seat she could not easily be dislodged. After half an hour, however, a worrying numbness overtook her lower extremities. Her hat had long since blown off her head and into a field of goats that were no doubt now feasting upon it. Mud splashed up from beneath the frame of the gig with every stride the horse took, so that her skirts were coated with the stuff. Conversation was impossible, as was snacking. All she could do was cling on, close her mind to images of crashing, and focus on the tasks ahead. At least at this speed, she reasoned, none of the kingsmen would stand a chance of catching up to her.

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 snatch 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.