“Impressive. And have you ever visited my country?” she inquired pleasantly.
“I regret I have not, but the Alpine clime is not the most agreeable for butterflying. There are a few perfectly charming Lassiomata and Erebia at altitude, of course, and the Papilio athena is quite pretty, but in the main it is an unsatisfactory environment for such activities.”
The princess bared her teeth in a smile. “I am sorry we disappoint you, Miss Speedwell. And I am sorry that I must disappoint you again. But I see no reason to believe in such sinister things as murder on the Teufelstreppe.” She made a melodramatic little gesture of dismissal.
“Naturally we see no reason to trouble Your Serene Highness personally with such a matter,” I began. “But surely there is someone to whom the matter can be referred—”
The princess paused, then flicked a glance to her lady-in-waiting. They exchanged a few quick, muted words in their language.
The princess gave me a long look. “I will speak with my chancellor of this matter. I do not believe he will be inclined to take action, but I will ensure he knows of it.”
I opened my mouth to speak but Stoker stepped neatly upon my foot. “Certainly. And thank you for your time, Your Serene Highness. Would you care to see what has been assembled thus far? I am certain Lady Cordelia would be only too happy to show you.”
The princess nodded graciously, permitting Stoker and Lady C. to guide her to where the sinister mountain goat was to be displayed. The baroness stayed behind, putting a hand to my sleeve.
“Miss Speedwell, your indulgence, please,” she said softly. “The princess is quite correct. You do not understand us. Permit me to help you. We are a small country.” She gestured towards the map hanging on the wall. “You see where we are situated? We are nestled just beyond the Swiss border, between France and Germany, a tiny jewel set in a remote and isolated place. But we are not so isolated anymore,” she said, her expression darkening. “The world wishes to come to us, and it must be so. We cannot survive unless we throw open the gates of our city, invite the foreigner onto our mountain. We need the visitors who will come and fill our pockets, and we need the allies we have come to England to meet.”
“Allies?”
She gave me a confused look. “Perhaps I chose the wrong word. English is my fourth language,” she said apologetically.
“Friends?” I suggested.
“Friends, yes. Friends. We wish to make friends in England who will come to visit us and climb on our mountain. It is essential to our economics,” she explained, rather more forthrightly than I would have expected.
“You must be very frightened with that behemoth on your doorstep,” I observed, pointing towards the glowering bulk of the German Empire hovering just at the edge of the map.
Her mouth was a thin, sober line. “You have no idea, Miss Speedwell. I grew up in a different world—dozens of tiny German principalities and duchies, each vying with the others. And then this,” she said, jerking her chin angrily towards the map. “All of them swallowed up by Bismarck in his mad dash to power. And now they are under the rule of your queen’s grandson and the rest of us are afraid, desperately afraid.”
I wanted to console her, but in good conscience I could not. Count von Bismarck, the German chancellor, had spent the better part of a few decades cobbling the small independent states into a German confederation that had eventually been consumed by the gaping maw of the German Empire. Reactionary, conservative, and deeply militaristic, the new German Empire looked back to the grandeur of the bygone Prussian days of glory, longing to rival the power of the Russian and British thrones that hemmed it in. The new emperor, Kaiser Wilhelm, was the grandson of our own Queen Victoria and desperate to prove himself more than a match for his aging grandmother. His enthusiasm for violence was matched only by his ambition and neither by his intelligence. He was a brute, thirsting for glory but lacking the humanity or wisdom to govern well. Continental Europe was rapidly becoming a powder keg, and it was little wonder the Alpenwalders were afraid.
“I am sorry,” I told the baroness truthfully.
She spread her hands. “It is as God wills it,” she said, crossing herself. Like Bavarians, Alpenwalders were nominally Catholics, I remembered, often mingling religion with a hefty dose of fatalism and Germanic superstition. “But we will do all that we can,” she added, her expression briefly fierce.
“In other words, you want no scandal,” I finished for her.
She had the grace to look apologetic again as she touched my arm in an imploring gesture. “Please, do not think too badly of us. I will speak with the chancellor. If there is anything I can do to persuade him, you may rest assured that I will do so.”
She glanced towards the coil of rope, her expression thoughtful. “If it is possible that this is evidence of some misdeed, it would perhaps not be wise to display it.”
“Perhaps not,” I agreed. “What do you suggest we do with it?”
She lifted her hands as if to ward off any talk of authority. “You must not think me more elevated than I am!” she protested, a small smile touching her lips for the first time. “I am merely the lady-in-waiting. It is my task to attend Her Serene Highness, one I am failing at present,” she added with a rueful look. She tipped her head, light glinting off her monocle as she studied my face. “The resemblance is most remarkable,” she said at length.
“What resemblance?” I asked.
Her mouth rounded in astonishment. “Between you and my princess,” she told me.
“Is there one? I had not noticed.”
The baroness seemed inclined to press the matter, but the princess approached us then. “You have done very well indeed,” she said, sweeping her gaze over the mountain tableau that Stoker was creating. “I can see how it will be when you have finished, and it conveys the magnificence of our Teufelstreppe,” she told him, a note of unmistakable pride in her voice.
“Thank you, madame,” Stoker replied.
She looked at her lady-in-waiting. “Why have you gone red in the face, Margareta?”
“Forgive me, madame,” the older woman murmured. “I was surprised to find that Miss Speedwell does not notice the resemblance between you.”
The princess studied me a long moment. “I confess, I do not see it,” she said.
“I must be mistaken,” the baroness told her smoothly. “Has Your Serene Highness seen this part of the exhibition?” she asked, guiding her mistress to the collection I had been unpacking when Stoker discovered the cut rope. The princess stood a long moment and stared, taking in the toilet articles and books and garments, her expression inscrutable.
“A very personal collection of Alice Baker-Greene’s effects,” Lady C. observed. “If Your Serene Highness does not think it appropriate, we do not have to make them available for viewing.”
The princess said nothing a long moment, then shrugged. “It makes little difference to the dead,” she said at last. She clasped her hands together. “Still, I would not like for this to become an exercise in the sentimental. She was a climber, an explorer. That is the story you must tell. That is what will bring other visitors to the Alpenwald.”
I produced the badge I had unearthed from the box of Alice Baker-Greene’s personal effects. “Like this?” I suggested. “A significant piece of Miss Baker-Greene’s climbing memorabilia, I think.”
“Memorabilia?” Her mouth twitched with suppressed amusement. “This is the badge of the Alpenwalder Climbing Society. The usual badge is plain silver, but for those who summit the peak of the Teufelstreppe this enameled version is presented. It is a very great honor.” She turned it over and studied the reverse a long moment, frowning as she noticed the nick on the edge. No doubt the damage to such a prestigious badge of merit was a matter of some annoyance, but I suddenly felt quite protective of Alice Baker-Greene and could not bear the notion that the Alpenwalders mig
ht think she had been careless.
“She was, I believe, very proud of the achievement,” I ventured.
The princess’s expression was one of acute displeasure. “It is a source of much pain and embarrassment to our society that a climber as famous as Miss Baker-Greene should be lost on our mountain,” she said, pushing the badge back into my hands as if to rid herself of it.
She glanced around at the boxes and piles of excelsior and unsorted oddments. “There are a few things I have brought from the Alpenwald that will perhaps make good additions to your display,” she offered. “A native costume, a few stuffed birds, a horn which is unique to our music. It will give a little more flavor of our country.”
And a little less emphasis on a dead mountaineer, I thought wryly.
“We can certainly find room for such a generous contribution,” Lady C. assured her.
The princess nodded. “Very well. I have seen enough.” She inclined her head towards us and swept from the room, the baroness gliding in her wake.
Stoker sighed. “Well, so much for your theory,” he said, picking up the rope.
I took it from his hands. “Do not touch the evidence,” I instructed. “I have a plan.”
CHAPTER
4
As soon as the royal party left and we were alone with the exhibition, we embarked upon a spirited discussion on the advisability of presenting the rope to Scotland Yard. The fact that we were well acquainted with the head of Special Branch, Sir Hugo Montgomerie, was a point in our favor. The fact that I was the natural daughter of the Prince of Wales with a semi-legitimate claim to the throne was another. Sir Hugo knew my antecedents and knew exactly how much trouble I could make if I chose to make my parentage public. That I had not done so counted very much towards the quality of my character, I reminded Stoker. And our recent exploits in helping Sir Hugo during a particularly nasty case meant that, all things considered, he rather owed us a good turn.
“He bloody well won’t see it that way,” Stoker objected.
“Then we must make him see it,” I replied, wrapping the rope in a parcel of brown paper.
“The baroness told you she would speak to the chancellor,” he reminded me.
“And I have precious little confidence he will act if his princess is against it. Alice Baker-Greene was a British citizen. If she was murdered, she deserves justice from the British authorities.”
“The British cannot simply go and investigate a possible crime in an autonomous nation,” he protested.
“No, but we can. We simply need to make quite certain that Sir Hugo knows what we are about so that—”
“So that when we provoke an international incident, he will be ready with the cavalry to ride to our rescue?”
“Something like that.”
Stoker snorted. “You are the most maddeningly delusional woman I have ever known.” He took the rope parcel from my hands and looped his arms about my waist. “Can we, for just the next few hours, put this aside?”
I slipped neatly from his grasp. “Murder? You wish to put murder aside?”
He slanted me a curious look. “You seem rather more certain than when I suggested it was murder,” he said.
I shrugged. “You caught me unawares.”
“And now that you have had time to think on it—”
“I agree with you.”
His mouth twitched. “Do not make a habit of it. It is upsetting to see you so quiescent.”
“I will always agree with you when your arguments are based upon sound common sense and scientific fact,” I said smoothly.
“Leave it,” he urged. He picked up the parcel and slipped it behind the draperies of the diorama. “There. No one will disturb it, and if the chancellor decides to take up the matter, we can hand it over.”
“And if he doesn’t?” I inquired hopefully.
“Then we will revisit the subject of Sir Hugo,” he said with a heavy sigh.
I grinned and he tipped up my chin, kissing me, quickly and firmly. “Do not gloat, Veronica. No one loves a boorish winner.”
* * *
• • •
That evening, Stoker amused himself with the earl’s latest purchase for the Rosemorran Collection—an enormous walrus that had required the combined strength of numerous porters to wheel into the Belvedere, the freestanding ballroom that had been given over to the various artifacts and works of art hoarded by seven generations of earls. It was, in due course, to serve as a museum once the contents were properly sorted and arranged for the edification of the general public. The fact that Stoker and I were the only two people working to organize the thousands of items meant that the museum was projected to open sometime in the middle of the next century. The Belvedere was a place of unending magic and mystery, crammed to the rafters with every variety of trophy—jewels, statues, fossils, paintings, coins, suits of armor, one or two moldering mummies, and natural history specimens of all descriptions. The acquisition of the walrus had long been a pet dream of Stoker’s and its arrival had kindled in him an enthusiasm akin to that of a child on Christmas morn. He had fallen upon the massive crate with a pry bar and single-minded determination. The fact that it smelt strongly of rotting fish had done little to dampen his ardor.
“It wants cleaning out,” he explained happily, anticipating with real pleasure many hours spent raking bits of decaying filler from its imperfectly preserved insides.
“Your tastes will ever surprise me,” I remarked dryly. I expected some vigorous rejoinder, but he was already peering intently into the creature’s mouth, neatly eluding the long, menacing ivory tusks.
“Amazing!” he exclaimed. “Do you realize that this is the largest single specimen of Odobenus rosmarus ever to be seen on English shores? Two thousand two hundred and forty-five pounds. And a half,” he added with all the pride of a new father observing his offspring for the first time.
“You don’t say,” I murmured. Stoker’s dogs, Huxley and Nut, and his lordship’s enormous Caucasian sheepdog, Betony, sat patiently at his heels, waiting for the destruction of the trophy to begin. Stoker had—upon several occasions and in exhaustive detail—explained that the fashion for stuffing specimens had been discarded for the more aesthetically pleasing and accurate method of mounting them. Older examples of the taxidermical arts had been stuffed with sawdust, newspapers, old book pages, rags, whatever was to hand when the job was in progress. Stoker had even unearthed a foul nest of dead kittens in one particularly vile specimen. It was his practice to take such trophies and deftly unstuff them, if one may be permitted to use such a word, removing the putrefying fillers and cleaning the various hides and skins to restore them to lustrous life. He fashioned his own eyeballs after intensive research into the proper shape and color and pupillary details, and he sculpted his own armature to hold the refurbished exteriors. It was a gift, of that there could be little doubt, to bring these creatures back to life, resurrecting them so perfectly that one could easily imagine they had been alive only a moment before—indeed might still be alive, only arrested in mid-breath. More than once I had glanced quickly back at one of his trophies, certain I had caught movement in the tail of my eye. I was not surprised the walrus had diverted him. I had met him when he was engaged in assembling an elephant of dramatic proportions, and with Stoker size was always a consideration.
I took myself up the narrow twisting stair of the Belvedere into the gallery that provided a snuggery of sorts. It was furnished with low bookshelves and a campaign bed once belonging to Wellington as well as a few other cozy comforts. My own dog, Vespertine, trotted obediently behind, coming to rest lightly at my feet with a hopeful glance. The poor fellow had lost his mistress a few months previously and had taken to following me about with persistent devotion. He was a Scottish deerhound, tall and elegant, and had a habit of looking down his aristocratic nose at Huxley the bulldog and Nut the pharaoh houn
d. Huxley had belonged to Stoker when I met him, but Nut—like Vespertine—was the souvenir of an investigation, and it occurred to me, not for the first time, that Stoker and I were going to have to be a little more judicious in our acquisitions of animals unless we meant to start a dog circus.
I rootled through the stacks of newspapers until I found the ones I wanted: issues of the Daily Harbinger from the previous October. The front pages were covered in lurid illustrations from the murder scenes of that fiend popularly known as Jack the Ripper, but in the latter pages of one edition, I saw a mention of Alice Baker-Greene. It was the merest snippet, a paragraph only, stating that the renowned climber had died upon the slopes of the Teufelstreppe in an attempt to summit the mountain out of season. There was no byline on the piece, and I flapped it aside in irritation. I rummaged through a few more issues until I found a proper tribute. This one was more informative, detailing Miss Baker-Greene’s history as part of the noteworthy Baker-Greene climbing family. Her grandparents had begun the tradition, using the Pennines as their training ground. They took along their son, who soon distinguished himself as one of the youngest men ever to summit the Matterhorn. He was an ambitious youth, determined to gain access to peaks previously unchallenged by Englishmen—notably the Himalayas. There was a brief mention of his demise in the Karakoram and his father’s later death in an avalanche in the Andes. The only surviving member of the family was the elder Mrs. Baker-Greene, who had taken charge of her orphaned young granddaughter. She had curtailed her climbing in order to raise the child, but when she discovered the girl perched atop a substantial deposit of talus, she realized that it would be futile to think she could keep young Alice from mountaineering. The elder Mrs. Baker-Greene had resumed her travels, taking the girl with her when school terms permitted, teaching her everything she knew about the pursuit.
By the time she was twenty, Alice Baker-Greene had surpassed her family’s achievements, becoming the first woman to summit Coropuna. She gained fame for never shying from a challenge, setting herself impossible tasks and working doggedly at them until she achieved them. She was the first to climb without male porters or guides on the grounds that her accomplishments would never be recognized if there was the slightest possibility that a man might be credited with the work. She led teams of amateur lady climbers around the world in order to finance her solo climbs upon the more demanding peaks. She was outspoken, arguing forcefully for admission to the various mountaineering clubs that refused her entry on the grounds of her sex.
An Unexpected Peril Page 4