Gretel and the Case of the Missing Frog Prints

  For my brother, Trevor—

  exceptional pilot, inspirational instructor

  and most excellent storyteller.

  ONE

  Gretel frowned at the lifeless body of the messenger that lay sprawled in the hallway upon her best Turkish Kilim. Only minutes earlier he had been imploring her to accept his master’s case, and had passed to her, with trembling hand, a letter outlining the salient facts. She had been in the process of digesting these when he had uttered a strangled cry, turned an unbecoming shade of puce, and expired.

  “Gretel? Are you quite well?” Hans appeared in the kitchen doorway, spatula raised ready for action. “I heard curious noises. Thought you might have been bolting the treacle toffees again.”

  “Your concern is touching, brother dear, but I haven’t had so much as a sniff of a toffee in days, and the sounds you heard came not from me but from him,” she said, pointing at the cadaver.

  “Good grief. Poor fellow. Who is he? Was he? And why is . . . was . . . is he wearing that dreadful hat?” asked Hans, lowering his spatula.

  Gretel returned to deciphering the loopy lettering. The green ink appeared to have been applied by a man of shaky hand and feeble mind. Perfect client material, in Gretel’s experience. In her many years as a private detective she had learned that it was preferable by far to be in the employ of simpletons and nincompoops, for they were easily pleased, easily strung along, and, crucially, easily parted from their money.

  “I cannot shed light on his taste in millinery. I can tell you he is . . . was . . . a messenger acting on behalf of one Albrecht Durer.”

  Hans’s eyebrows did a little dance of confusion. “The artist chap? Ain’t he been dead a while?”

  “I believe you’re thinking of Albrecht Durer the Younger, and yes, in his grave some two hundred years, if memory serves. The writer of this letter still clings to life, though judging by his handwriting his grip is somewhat flimsy. He signs himself ‘Albrecht Durer the Much Much Younger.’”

  “Ah. A descendent. Good. Wouldn’t want to get a letter from a dead person. Ugh. Idea gives me the shivers. Though I suppose a client is a client. Can’t be too picky, amount of business you’ve been getting lately, eh?”

  “Hans, haven’t you a mushroom somewhere in need of stuffing?”

  “What? Oh, yes, more than likely.”

  “Then I suggest you go and stuff it.”

  “Consider it done. Not going to hold up lunch, is he?” he used his spatula to gesture vaguely at the late messenger.

  “When have you ever known me to let business get in the way of a good feed?”

  “Point taken. I’ll yodel when it’s ready,” he assured her, disappearing into the steamy gloom of the kitchen once more.

  Gretel watched until his bulk was swallowed up by the swirling vapors produced by the simmering cabbage within. It never failed to astonish her that she could maintain such ambivalent feelings toward her brother. Aside from the capacious circumference of his stomach acting as both a warning (look what will happen if you eat that third donut!) and an encouragement (at least you’re not as huge as Hans!), there were so many conflicting and significant memories and emotions attached to her sole surviving family member. If Hans hadn’t led her into the dark woods all those years ago, they would never have found the gingerbread house, ergo, they might not have spent the years since unable to pass an hour or two without craving sugar. If she hadn’t succeeded in freeing Hans from the witch’s clutches he wouldn’t be alive to idle his life away between the inn and the kitchen in such a carefree fashion. If Hans wasn’t alive, Gretel would be forced to enter the kitchen herself, which was a thing too terrible to contemplate. She would have to spend a great deal of money on dining out. But then, it cost her no small sum to keep Hans in the indolent and pointless existence he so enjoyed. If she insisted he find a place of his own in which to live, however, it was unlikely he would survive a month, he was such an innocent in the ways of the world. Which would condemn her to a lifetime of indigestion of the conscience, which was too high a price to pay for ridding herself of his irritating habits.

  Gretel steered her attention back to the messenger and his message. Before he had so inconveniently died, he had, albeit breathlessly, clearly told her that his master was inconsolable at having had some priceless works of art stolen from him. Word had reached him, many miles away in his home in the city of Nuremberg, regarding Gretel’s skills as a detective, and he wished to engage her services to recover the missing pictures. In the letter, Herr Durer had signed himself as a member of the Society of the Praying Hands, though no helpful explanation of this was given. The doomed courier had further stated that his employer was willing to pay whatever it took to effect the return of his precious art works. That Gretel knew next to nothing about art mattered not. What did matter were such things as “priceless” and “pay whatever it took.” Such motivation, both of Gretel herself and of her prospective client, made the likelihood of a satisfactory outcome very strong indeed. Much as Hans’s jibe regarding the paucity of cases coming Gretel’s way of late rankled, she had to admit there was some truth to the importance of accepting new commissions. Money seemed to flow out of the coffers so much more freely than it flowed in. But then, certain standards of living had to be maintained. Certain levels of luxury enjoyed. Certain wardrobes replenished.

  All of which brought Gretel to the single most attractive feature of the proffered case. It would necessitate a trip to Nuremberg, a city renowned for its culture, its famous artists and inventors, its style, its glamour, and therefore, wonderfully, gloriously, fabulously . . . its wigs! The thought of being able to wear an exquisitely coiffured and powdered wig gave Gretel such a frisson of pleasure that she felt the need for a little lie down. Fortunately, Hans sang out from the kitchen that luncheon was about to be served, so she could combine three of her favorite things all at once: reclining on her beloved daybed, dreaming of dressing in the latest and best fashions, and eating. Gretel stepped lightly over the cooling body before her, reasoning that he was in no hurry to go anywhere and that she would deal with him directly after she had dined all the more efficiently for not having attempted to do so on a partially empty stomach.

  After an hour of enjoying a particularly fine plate of braised cabbage, weisswurst, spicy stuffed mushrooms, and potatoes—naturally with lashings of mustard—Gretel found her mind far more clear. What Hans provided by way of nourishment, however, Hans took away two-fold in the realm of clarity of thinking and sensible planning.

  “So,” he began, settling back into his armchair, trouser waistband unbuttoned to allow his dinner to continue its journey unhindered, fresh cigar clamped between his teeth, “you’ll be sending for our dear friend Kingsman Kapitan Strudel directly, I should imagine. Another dead body for him. What will he make of that, I wonder? He might say ‘Ah-ha, what have we here, Fraulein Gretel? Another person just happening to die on what just happens to be your best rug, in what just happens to be your house?’ He might say that, might he not?”

  “He might.”

  “And he might think ‘Well, dash it all, Fraulein Gretel does seem to make a habit of this sort of thing. Corpses forever littering the place. What part did the good fraulein play in his death, eh?’ He might think all of that too, might he not?”

  Gretel narrowed her eyes at Hans. “Whatever the obnoxious Strudel might or might not say or think, I might be compelled to beat you about the head with the toasting fork if you don’t stop this ludicrous and pointless conjecture.”

  “Oh, hardly pointless. After all, he could decide you had something to do with the poor fellow dying. He migh
t take you away for rigorous and uncomfortable questioning. He would, at the very least, enjoy bothering and humiliating you for as long as possible, causing you no small personal embarrassment, preventing you from taking on the case and earning some decent dosh, and keeping you from attending that blessed ball you claim to be so excited about.”

  “Hans, you have a talent for wedding the obvious to conjecture to produce a marriage of the utmost inconvenience.”

  “Ha, that’s easy for you to say!”

  Gretel opened her mouth to further dismantle her brother’s hypothesis but instead filled it with one of the Kirsch-soaked cherries dipped in chocolate that sat on a plate temptingly within reach. As she chewed she considered the truth of what he had said. Kapitan Strudel resented Gretel’s very existence, not least because of her ability to succeed in solving cases where he failed to make even the smallest progress. He would indeed enjoy the opportunity to make trouble for her. She was certain the messenger had died of natural causes, after a long journey made at speed, and investigations would no doubt reveal him to be a man who had not enjoyed robust health. None of these facts would stop Strudel from making life difficult for Gretel for as long as possible, and she might well miss the chance of taking up Herr Durer’s commission.

  And then there was the ball. Her previous case had been long and arduous, but had resulted in a reasonable payment. The single most gratifying element of the whole exhausting and dangerous business, however, had been the invitation to Princess Charlotte’s birthday ball at the Summer Schloss, as the personal guest of Uber General Ferdinand von Ferdinand. Gretel allowed herself a little sigh of pleasure as she let the name of the dashing aide to King Julian the Mighty roll though her mind. She had spent many happy hours since receiving the invitation choosing a gown and silver slippers for the occasion. It was to be the event of the season, and she, for once, would be attending as a guest of some standing, dressed to impress. It was not to be missed.

  “The ball,” she told Hans, “is to be held this coming Friday. I can surely put off leaving for Nuremberg, and evade the worst of Strudel’s interference, until the day after.”

  “Nuremberg? I say. Haven’t been there for eons. What fun!”

  “Hans, this is business, not a holiday. I can’t possibly justify the expense of taking you with me.”

  “But, surely, I am your right hand man, your amanuensis, your person-a-person-cannot-do-without . . .”

  Gretel silently cursed herself for ever having allowed Hans to obtain such an inaccurate impression of himself.

  “Sadly, brother dear, funds will not stretch to an assistant on this occasion. The city is ruinously expensive, and then there are stagecoach tickets to be bought . . . etcetera, etcetera.”

  “Couldn’t I be part of the etcetera?” He attempted to make puppy-dog eyes at his sister.

  “Stop it, Hans, you’re putting me off my chocolate cherries.”

  “Huh, you won’t be getting any of those in Kapitan Strudel’s cell.” He folded his arms petulantly across his chest and pointedly closed his eyes. He puffed grumpily on his cigar for a minute or so before falling into a deep sleep, and was soon emitting a soft, purring snore.

  Gretel considered her options. She could send word that she accepted the case, pack, take the morning stage, avoid any unpleasantness regarding the dead messenger, and throw herself into the business of finding the missing art work, and therefore making some much-needed money. Or, she could book an appointment at Madame Renoir’s beauty salon to have herself buffed and polished, and order the most expensive wig money could buy. She could face Strudel, endure the inevitable questioning, do her utmost to regain her liberty before Friday, attend the ball, and then head off for Nuremberg. But the dour kingsman might not play fair, and she might end up languishing in some chilly cell for days, possibly weeks, miss the ball, lose the opportunity to be waltzed around the marble ballroom by Ferdinand, and have Durer look elsewhere for a private detective.

  What to do, what to do? She ate another cherry. Things began to look a little brighter. She moved the plate onto her lap and chomped on. Surely Strudel couldn’t keep her more than a night at most? Where was there evidence of foul play? She began to feel confident of a good outcome. By the time she had licked the last crumb of chocolate from the Delft patterned china she was certain all would be well in the best of all possible worlds.

  The next day, having sent something of a holding letter to her prospective new client, Gretel hurried to Madame Renoir’s establishment. She had informed Herr Durer about the demise of his messenger, expressing her sympathies, and telling him that the body would reside at the local undertaker’s until he sent for it. She had side-stepped the matter of dealing with the local law enforcement by arranging to be out when news of the corpse from out of town broke, which had necessitated putting off informing anyone until the morning dawned. Hans had jibbed at the idea of having a dead guest for the night, but Gretel had simply topped her brother up with schnapps and by the time he had headed for the stairs it was after midnight and he had forgotten all about the body in the hall. She had tried bribing him over breakfast to get him to agree to stay home and await the arrival of the undertaker and kingsman, but when he had resisted and she had argued he had become so confused that no inducement was necessary; in the end he merely complied because he was too baffled to do otherwise.

  The sun was shining in a pristine sky of such an attractive blue that Gretel made a note to order some Chinese silk of the same shade the minute she received payment for her new case. The thought of purchasing a gown cheered her immensely. She would employ the apothecary’s wife, Frau Klimt, to copy one of the very latest designs she had seen in a fashion plate at the salon. One day, she promised herself, she would be able to send to Paris for an original Gulley suit or dress. One day. For now, she would have to content herself with a copy brought into being by the considerable skills of Frau Klimt.

  As she made her way through the cobbled streets of her small home town Gretel tried her best, just this once, not to let the sugary tweeness of Gesternstadt wreck her mood. The wooden houses with their twiddly gables and generous eaves and floriferous window boxes and jolly paintwork, the rosy-cheeked children and the genial grandfathers and the bright-eyed young maids in their picturesque peasant attire, presented a picture of life so sweet, so cozy, so lovely, so unremittingly nice and relentlessly cheerful it made Gretel want to scream. Very, very loudly. For a full minute and a half. What bliss it would be to spend a week or two surrounded by the sophistication of Nuremberg.

  “Good morning, Fraulein Gretel!” sang out Frau Hapsburg from her garden.

  Gretel nodded her acknowledgement, not wishing to encourage an exchange that might, heaven forbid, develop into a full blown conversation given half a chance.

  “Beautiful day, Fraulein,” enthused Herr Schmitt from the door of his workshop.

  “Set fair for the week,” Frau Klein assured her as she passed the Kaffee Haus.

  “Spring is in the air, Fraulein Gretel,” declared a woman Gretel was certain she had never seen in her life before, and despite it being noticeably chillier than the preceding day. Would nothing ever dent the enthusiasm and cheeriness of these people, she wondered. If a calamity of the hugest proportions were to strike the entire town, would its inhabitants wait until they were shut away in the privacy of their own lovely homes before falling into despair? Were they all under some manner of spell which compelled them to grin like imbeciles during daylight hours, perhaps? Or was there something in the water that bubbled down from the mountains to the pumps and taps of Gesternstadt that kept everyone so maddeningly chipper? Whatever the answer, Gretel often felt she was alone in noticing the insanity of such dauntless cheer. Head down, she hastened to the sanctuary of Madame Renoir’s salon.

  “Aaah, Fraulein Gretel, bonjour and beinvenue!” Madame Renoir snapped her fingers and a girl removed her client’s jacket and took her hat. The aroma of expensive unctions and ointments had an immedia
te calming effect upon Gretel. She allowed herself to be conducted to a booth and submitted happily to the treatments she had booked. Her eyebrows were plucked and shaped, wax was applied to her bothersomely hirsute legs, her skin was pummeled and anointed with oils, her hair washed and trimmed. After two hours of hard work on the part of Madame Renoir’s girls, Gretel was seated on a pink velvet chair in front of a gilt-framed mirror. Her shiny new self gazed back at her. She picked up a pamphlet extolling the qualities and delights of wigs made by the renowned wigmaker of Nuremberg. That she should be about to visit the very birthplace of such high fashion thrilled her.

  Madame Renoir appeared at her shoulder, carrying a tall box that could only contain one thing. Seeing what Gretel was reading she exclaimed, “Oh! The wigs of Monsieur Albert—such creations! Alors, I am certain the fraulein will not be disappointed with our own range. More modest, oui, but still très elegant.” She removed the lid and, with a flourish, lifted out and held aloft the wig. It was a little under a yard high, a glorious confection of white and silver strands whipped into swirls and curls, piled one upon the other, and pinned here and there with tiny satin bows.

  Gretel struggled to catch her breath. Partly because of the cloud of powder drifting off the thing, but mostly because she thought it quite the most splendid apparition she had ever considered putting on her head.

  Recognizing rapture when she saw it, and being an astute saleswoman, Madame Renoir pressed home her advantage. “The workmanship is very fine, and the finish excellent quality. The silver threads . . . so delicate . . . so flattering to certain skin tones . . . Would the fraulein like to try it on?”

  The fraulein nodded fit to give herself whiplash. She readied herself. She closed her eyes. The beautician lowered the revered object upon her head as if it were a crown of high office. Gretel opened her eyes. The reflection before her had, it seemed to her, been transformed from workaday woman to Lady of Society. No matter that she was still in her salon robe. No matter that she was devoid of make-up. No matter that the face beneath the wig was that of a thirty-something woman with a fondness for food and a devotion to sloth that showed itself in the fullness of her jowls—in such a wig she was elevated, she was reborn high-born, the epitome of high fashion.