Stoker’s crow of triumph broke into my narrative. Naturally, I ignored him and carried on, raising my voice only slightly.
“Say what you like but it fits the facts,” I protested. “The badge discovered in Alice’s hand was that of her murderer—and I know who he was.”
Stoker blinked in astonishment. “The devil you do.”
I gave a little sigh of pleasure. “The moustachioed man.” I nodded towards the newspaper. “Read on. Miss Butterworth was most thorough, but even she failed to deduce the likeliest explanation—that the mysterious man on the mountain was there for one purpose that morning: murder.”
“More likely her editors were afraid of drawing a costly lawsuit,” Stoker replied.
Stoker read through the piece, his brows drawing further and lower with every line. When he had finished, he prowled through the rest of the cuttings, laying them side by side in a sort of timeline as he came to the end of each. “All right, let us suppose, for just a moment, that what you have said is possible—that Alice was murdered and that the summit badge was stolen because it provides a clue. That gets us no closer to discovering who this person might have been.”
“Of course it does!” I enumerated the points on my fingers. “First, someone else’s badge in Alice’s dead hand means that the murderer must have been a climber, a proposition that is further confirmed by the presence of the moustachioed man on the mountain that day, our possible murderer. Second, only an experienced climber would have known how to tamper with the ropes at just the correct spot to ensure she fell to her death. Third, why else steal the rope and badge from the club if not to conceal the fact that it was murder and that the killer was a mountaineer? Altogether, this means that our villain must have been someone who not only climbs but knew of the existence of the badge and rope in Alice’s effects. In short, my dear Stoker, it was an Alpenwalder.”
“Not necessarily,” he said slowly.
“You are determined to be difficult.”
“It is a poor scientist who is so attached to her theory that she cannot entertain criticism of it,” he countered.
“Very well. Go on.”
“If it were an alpinist who killed her—and I do concede that only a skilled climber could have ascended to the devil’s staircase in order to dispatch her—then yes, the badge and rope might offer clues as to the murderer’s identity. But it does not necessarily follow that the murderer was an Alpenwalder.”
“The description fits Duke Maximilian,” I protested.
“The description of a man of mystery and moustaches also fits Douglas Norton.”
“Perhaps,” I admitted.
He gave a snort and produced the cutting with Norton’s photograph. “Moustaches. And slender.”
I pulled a face.
“Don’t pout, Veronica. It does not suit a woman of your age.” He grinned.
I thought a moment, then gave him a triumphant look. “Douglas Norton could not have known the badge and rope would be in the effects sent to the club. Only someone in the Alpenwald would have known that.”
He rolled his eyes. “The exhibition is a celebration of Alice Baker-Greene’s lifetime as an alpinist. It is a reasonable expectation it would include artifacts from her last climb.”
“Possibly.”
He grinned again. “So, we are in agreement insofar as we believe it is possible that Alice was the victim of a calculated and deliberate murder, carried out by a man with moustaches and climbing experience.”
“Correct.”
“But how does that fit with the theft of the items from the club?” he asked, stroking his chin thoughtfully. He had shaved, imperfectly as usual, and there was a blue-black shadow at his jaw. With his long, tumbled ebony locks and the glint of gold hoops in his ears, he bore a striking resemblance to an Elizabethan buccaneer, even more so when he donned the eye patch he occasionally wore to rest the eye that had been injured in a dispute with a jaguar. (Stoker, I should mention, emerged wounded and scarred from the fight but very much alive, which is more than one can say for the jaguar.)
In any event, surveying his physical charms was a distraction I could not afford, I told myself sternly. I had a murderer to catch.
I clipped the last article I had unearthed and placed it with the other cuttings, bundling them neatly into a file while Stoker continued to muse.
“It might have been anyone,” he said finally.
“How can you possibly think so?” I demanded. “The only people in the room were the Alpenwalder delegation of the princess and her lady-in-waiting, Lady C., and the pair of us. In case it has escaped your notice, none of us is a moustachioed man of superlative climbing ability.”
“No, but we were not the only ones to see those particular items,” he pointed out. “Someone recovered Alice’s things. Someone packed and shipped them.”
“Surely if the murderer was involved in conveying her things, they would have removed them,” I protested.
“Perhaps they could not,” he theorized. “Perhaps they were never alone with her possessions. They might have bided their time until now when they were relatively easy to retrieve from the club.”
“It would take an audacious murderer to do such a thing,” I said slowly.
“More audacious than attacking a world-class climber on a mountain? If this is indeed how she was murdered, then the killer is a man of tremendous nerve and excellent timing—both skills that a mountaineer must possess, in any event. And if it was,” he went on, “there is always the possibility that the killer never intended to retrieve the rope and badge at all. Think of it, if some of Alice’s things go missing, it draws attention to them. But a bit of rope and a badge that everyone already knew she owned? By themselves they are unremarkable. Far safer to leave them be and let everyone get on with burying the dead.”
“But then you discovered that the rope had been cut,” I said, “suggesting murder had been done and leaving the killer open to exposure for the first time. Which leads us back to the people in that room at the club.”
“Except that we were not the only ones who would have known about it,” he countered. “You and I have mentioned it to no one, but Lady C. has told Hestia and the board. The Alpenwalders have most likely discussed it amongst themselves.”
“They have,” I said heavily. “I had a letter last night from the baroness.” I told him what the note had said and he gave a nod of satisfaction.
“Well, there it is. Nothing more to be done.”
“Nothing more to be done! You just agreed there is most likely a murderer walking free.”
“And we can do nothing without the cooperation of the Alpenwalders except provoke an international incident, which I, for one, do not intend to do. We can do nothing,” he repeated firmly as he poured a fresh cup of tea for himself.
I thought of the last flutter of Hercules’ wing as it brushed against my skin. I had given Stoker my word we would not pursue the matter of Alice Baker-Greene’s death. But in the cold light of morning, I regretted it.
I regarded him over the breakfast table as he stirred in his sugar and considered my options carefully. We were in the throes of a relationship that was perilously new. Neither of us was accomplished at such things, and I found myself suddenly resisting the compromise and cooperation that were the obvious cornerstones of such endeavors. Was I always to be biting my tongue, squelching my most intrepid impulses in the name of keeping the peace? Was he?
It was a chilling thought and one I rebelled against instantly.
I raised my chin and gave him my most defiant look. “Can’t we?”
“Veronica,” he said in a dangerously low voice, “you promised.”
“A promise made under duress is not binding,” I said with cool detachment.
“Duress! What duress?” he demanded. “I did not exactly hold you at swordpoint.”
“No, but our relationship is one of an intimate nature. Such things can be coercive upon the weaker sex,” I said demurely.
“Weaker?” He choked and only recovered himself when he had drunk half a cup of tea. “My dear Veronica, any person who would consider you an exemplar of any variety of weakness wants his head examined.”
“That is very kind of you to say, I am sure,” I replied, “but the fact remains that I am not entirely comfortable with the promise I made to leave this investigation alone.”
“There is no investigation,” he reminded me.
“All the more reason to begin one. Perhaps a quick word with Sir Hugo,” I suggested.
He pushed aside his teacup with a sigh. “I repeat, what you propose has the potential to create an international incident. The crime, if there was one, occurred in another country, a sovereign country. We have no right, nor does Sir Hugo or any other member of Her Majesty’s government, to interfere in their system of justice.”
“Justice!” I rejoined in real bitterness. “Where is the justice in refusing to look into the murder at all?”
“I know this is a matter of frustration for you,” he said gently, “but you agreed enough with my arguments yesterday to give me your word. Unless you were crossing your fingers,” he added with a small smile—the smile one might give to a recalcitrant child.
Sudden rage boiled up within me, but I smothered it, determined to keep our conversation civil and not, as I was inclined to do, hurl the toast rack at his head.
Striving for patience, I attempted a different tack. “It is not for my own sake or even the sake of justice that I suggest such a thing,” I said, adopting a wistful tone. “It is only for that poor old granny.”
He furrowed his brow. “What granny?”
“Mrs. Baker-Greene, of course. Alice’s grandmother. She has lost so many people dear to her,” I said sadly. “Her husband. Her son. Now her granddaughter. All taken from her by the mountains she loves so desperately. I cannot imagine bearing up under that kind of loss.”
“All the more reason to leave her in peace,” he said sternly.
“She is very old, you know. Nearly seventy-five. And confined to a Bath chair,” I added.
“Poor old dear. All those decades of hauling herself up mountains in the coldest and most unforgiving of climates have left her victim to the most devilish rheumatism. I can imagine her now,” I went on, painting a picture of maudlin isolation, “sitting by the hearthside, praying just a little of the warmth of the fire will sink into her bones and ease her aching joints. And the long lonely hours with nothing but the wind for company as it blows in the lonely casement.”
Stoker looked baffled. “For all you know she lives in a modern building with steam heat and gaslights.”
“Of course she doesn’t,” I retorted. “She is a woman of advanced years. Women of advanced years always live in cottages. Usually with cats of malodorous appearance.”
“That is the most absurd statement,” he began.
“Your old nanny,” I hazarded, “probably lives in a cottage.” It was always a winning strategy to prod his overweening sense of chivalry.
He snorted. “My old nanny has a boardinghouse in Brighton that is fitted with an electric generator because she blackmailed my father into giving her half of my mother’s jewels.”
I blinked at him. “She what?”
He picked up his teacup again. “That is a tale for another time.”
I returned to the subject at hand only with great difficulty as I made a mental note to revisit the subject of his nanny at a more opportune moment. “But surely Mrs. Baker-Greene would want justice to be done,” I pointed out. “I know it.”
“You do not know anything of the sort,” he retorted. “Furthermore—”
He did not have the chance to finish that sentence because just then George the hallboy appeared, trotting quickly with a note that he waved like a crusader’s banner. “Miss!” he exclaimed, thrusting the missive into my hands. It was thick, creamy paper, sealed with blue wax marked with a complicated cipher and only slightly begrimed by his grubby hands. I cracked open the seal and noticed at once the elaborate crest at the top.
“What new intrigues?” Stoker asked, lazily breaking up the last of the oatcakes to fling to the dogs.
I skimmed the few lines. The hand was firm, the language formal. I brandished the page with a smile. “It is a summons. From a fellow called von Rechstein. Chancellor of the Alpenwald.”
He read over the note in obvious astonishment. “You cannot be serious.”
I shrugged. “It appears we are wanted. And I have kept my promise—I did not pursue this.”
Stoker swore then, an entirely new phrase I had not heard before.
“Some new addition to your vocabulary? Or did they teach you that in naval college?”
He repeated it as I folded the note. “Come along and don’t be sulky,” I instructed. “We are needed.”
CHAPTER
7
The note directed us to come with all haste to the Sudbury Hotel, a luxurious establishment located in the heart of London. It was new and furnished in the height of discreet good taste. Here were no gilded embellishments such as may be found in the more opulent hotels of New York, none of the silken debaucheries of Parisian enclaves. There was only a quiet richness of décor that whispered of excellent service and perfect comfort. I sighed as we crossed into the lobby, trading the sooty, befogged streets of the city for the glowing warmth of the hotel’s interior. Our journey had been lengthy and cold, traversing the frost-slicked streets in an imperfectly heated hackney with a driver who swore the air blue with his imprecations against the weather and the congested traffic.
But within the doors of the Sudbury all was calm and inviting. It was the newest and most luxurious of London accommodations, fitted with lifts and steam heat and modern plumbing in every room. A battalion of porters dressed in bottle green plush livery trimmed in gold braid moved swiftly and quietly through their appointed tasks as a harpist played softly in the corner of the hotel’s lobby—a selection of Brahms pieces, I realized, which only added to the atmosphere of gentle and satisfied wealth. Nothing ever truly dreadful could happen in this bastion of warmth and security. Everything, from the thick pile of the dark gold carpet to the heavy draperies of green silk and enormous green marble vases filled with hothouse blooms, had been designed to provide pleasure and serenity. I enjoyed the Sudbury for many reasons, not least that it was the site of employment for Julien d’Orlande, Stoker’s longtime friend and a pastry chef of immense talent and creativity. No matter the purpose of the chancellor’s summons, at the conclusion of our interview I had every intention of visiting the kitchens and sampling the latest of Julien’s creations.
As we entered the Sudbury, I was aware of a new atmosphere, a heightened sort of buzzing, like that of an agitated beehive. Porters moved more quickly, doors were closed with a decisive snap, and everywhere was a sense of purpose and watchfulness.
I had expected to give our names to a porter, but it was the manager himself who approached the moment we entered. “Miss Speedwell, Mr. Templeton-Vane,” he said, bowing from the neck. “I am Gerald Lovell, general manager of the Sudbury. Permit me to escort you to the princess’s suite.” He ushered us through the lobby, where I spied a number of what could only be policemen in plain clothes, unconvincingly pretending to read newspapers or hold conversations as they surveyed each new arrival in the hotel with a gimlet eye. I did not recognize any of them, but still I was grateful for the instinct that had caused me to pin a heavy veil to my hat, obscuring my features slightly. Stoker, I noticed, averted his face as we passed them. Whether any of our acquaintance at Scotland Yard had been assigned to the princess’s security detail, we had no desire to call attention to our presence. That was a complication we could ill afford.
Mr. Lovell led
us up the stairs and around a wide gallery to a set of double doors closed firmly against the hushed noises of the public areas. From here we entered a small private lift which carried us up a number of floors. Unlike the older hotels, where a grand suite would be located on a lower level for convenience, the Sudbury’s modern lifts ensured that their most august guests could be accommodated on the higher floors in rooms with more light and less noise from the bustling streets. Instead of a series of tiny, cramped rooms for maids tucked under the eaves, the Sudbury had given over the upper levels to their most exclusive and expensive suites, with enormous French windows and balconies installed to give the guests the impression they were on a vast sailing ship, gliding above the city below. The maids, I had been told, were stashed in a stark dormitory belowstairs.
The lift arrived with a gentle pause, and the operator, a young man garbed in more of the bottle green plush and a lofty sense of his own importance, opened the gilded gates, bowing stiffly as we exited. A guard in what I could only imagine was Alpenwalder livery stood outside another set of double doors, eyeing us with suspicion. He was well over six feet tall, perhaps nearly six and a half, with a set of wide blond moustaches that curled at the ends like the horns of a ram. He saluted smartly at the manager’s approach, clicking his boot heels together. But his gaze took careful note of us and his hand fell to the sword at his side as we passed. He might be a showy sort of protection, but he was clearly determined to defend the Alpenwald delegation from intruders. As we passed, I noticed the glint of an Alpenwalder summit badge on his uniform, polished as proudly as his military orders and insignia of rank.
“The princess’s private bodyguard, Captain Durand,” Mr. Lovell informed us as he escorted us through the doors. Durand! I resisted the urge to turn and study him, but I recognized the name at once from the Daily Harbinger. Durand was one of the eyewitnesses to Alice’s fatal climb. There had been no description of him in the newspaper, but I made a careful note to discuss his significant moustaches with Stoker upon the first opportunity.
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