Once Upon a Crime Read Online Free

Bavarian gentleman she had ever met—though, mercifully, he drew the line at lederhosen. More important, his knack for tangential reasoning had, bizarrely, on several occasions, illuminated dark corners of cases Gretel had been struggling to solve. It irked her to even consider the idea that she needed him, however. She had simply persuaded herself that having saved his miserable neck all that time ago, it would make no sense to abandon him now.
    â€œAll I know,” said Gretel, having finished excavating around her molars, “is that I don’t want Frau Hapsburg getting wind of what I’ve found. One brass bell doesn’t prove anything.”
    â€œAnd you don’t want to have to give her back her money.”
    â€œThere are three potentially abducted cats to consider here, and only one bell.”
    â€œAnd you don’t want to have to give her back her money.”
    â€œAnd in any case, the cat may have wriggled out of its collar and made off before the fire started.”
    â€œAnd you don’t—”
    â€œStop it!”
    Hans puffed smoke donuts pointedly.
    â€œThings are never as obvious as they seem, in my experience,” Gretel went on. “Least I can do for the old trout is ask a few questions. See what I can see.”
    â€œStrudel won’t like that.”
    â€œStrudel will be far too busy trying to find out who was barbequed in Hund’s yard.”
    Hans shrugged. “You’d better go and talk to Agnes, then.”
    Gretel groaned.
    Hans shook his head. “It’s no good being like that; you know how useful she can be. She knows stuff. She sees stuff. Get her to read your cards.” He laughed throatily, pausing only just intime to prevent himself swallowing his cigar stub. “You’d like that!” He chortled. “Go on, treat yourself!”
    â€œOh, ha very ha ha , Hans. You are so much less funny than you think you are. Your therapy sessions may have cured you of your fear of witches; mine, sadly, did not. As you very well know.”
    â€œNow, now, Agnes is not a witch, she’s a crone.”
    â€œYou don’t have to tell me.”
    â€œThere is a difference.”
    â€œNot a big enough one to make me want to spend time with the creature.”
    Hans raised his eyebrows. Gretel knew he was right. If there was tittle being tattled, the Old Crone (to give her her official title) would know about it. And she was unnervingly good at reading the damn cards.
    â€œVery well.” Gretel plumped up her cushions and wriggled into a more comfortable position. “Agnes it is. Right now, however, I intend fitting in a pre-bedtime nap, if you’ve finished filling the room with those toxic tobacco fumes.” She settled into the goosefeather embrace of her bedding. “I’ll get myself up to Crooked Cottage first thing in the morning. Very first thing, in fact.”

TWO
    T hree days later Gretel set off to consult the Old Crone. She wore one of her favorite outfits, a skirt and jacket combination in the finest yellow and dark gold wool check, with exquisite tailoring that made even Gretel’s figure look at least structured. She had agonized over her choice of footwear. It was a crooked mile to the Old Crone’s cottage, and the road was stony and uneven. Gretel’s hand had hovered above a pair of tan leather buttoned boots, which would have managed the terrain excellently. But it was spring, and her newest court shoes, in honey brown with elegant three-inch heels, were just crying out to be shown off in the April sunshine. Besides, the walk would wear them in nicely. Gretelcompleted the look with a miniature top hat in toning bronze, fixed jauntily to the side of her head, her hair having first been tamed by industrial quantities of pins and lacquer.
    By the time she reached Crooked Cottage, she was all but crippled by blisters.
    â€œHah!” the Old Crone cackled at the sight of her.