An Unexpected Peril

by DEANNA RAYBOURN

  “Exquisite,” I told him.

  He preened. “You say such delightful things to me, ma chère Veronique.”

  I fluttered my lashes a little and he puffed out his chest before plying me with dark chocolate bonbons topped with sugar-dusted violets. I ate two, emitting a tiny moan of pleasure as I did so.

  Julien beamed at me in satisfaction. “For you it is a pleasure to create. You have the Gallic appreciation of the senses.”

  Stoker snorted at him, but Julien waved him away. “All Englishmen are philistines,” he pronounced sternly before turning back to me. “You would do better with a Frenchman who would appreciate your subtleties.”

  He waggled his eyebrows at me in a sort of invitation, and I plucked another guimauve from the tray, licking the marshmallow from my fingers when I finished.

  “You are very good to me, Julien,” I said. “And perhaps you would be better still and tell us if the manager of the Sudbury, Mr. Lovell, has recently taken on a new chambermaid. Tall, slender, clever eyes?”

  Stoker darted me a look, and I mouthed a name at him. He suppressed a groan and stuffed another choux bun into his mouth.

  “Ah! What Frenchman could resist those eyes?” Julien asked, rolling his own heavenwards. “So knowing, so full of promise.”

  “I thought you were attached to another maid, Birdie or Billie or some such,” Stoker pointed out.

  Julien’s expression was pained. “Attached? ‘Attached’ is not a word that I like. It means to be tied, restricted, imprisoned. No, my friend. I prefer to think of my dalliances as larks, as light and dainty as the pastry in your mouth.”

  Stoker snorted and I sighed. “Julien, I do hope you are not seducing chambermaids and then leaving them unprotected in the world.”

  “I am shocked that you would suggest such a thing,” he told me in an aggrieved tone. “Julien d’Orlande is a gentleman. Besides, I take always the precautions.”

  I held up my hands. “I have no wish to hear more. Now, what name did the chambermaid give you?”

  “Jane,” he said promptly. “I call her Jeanne, the French is nicer, no?”

  “Did she give you a surname? Did she give you any hint as to her purpose in coming here?”

  His brows drew together. “Surnames are so impersonal! Why would I wish to know such a thing when I could be discussing the shape of her lips instead? And her purpose in coming to the hotel is to work. I presume she is in need of wages.”

  “Has she given you any indication that she has another purpose?” Stoker inquired, taking up the thread of interrogation. “Asked any indiscreet questions? Particularly about the princess?”

  “Now that you mention it,” Julien said slowly, “she does ask quite a lot about the princess’s tastes and habits, but this is because she wishes to do her job well. She must serve the princess, and perhaps she will receive a gratuity if she is quick and capable.”

  “Or because she wishes to write about her,” I told him.

  His mouth rounded in astonishment. “To write? She is a journalist, this Jane?”

  “She is. Her name is J. J. Butterworth,” Stoker supplied. “She writes for a filthy little rag called the Daily Harbinger.”

  “I know this newspaper,” Julien said, his mouth curving in disgust. “It is an abomination. Always with the ugly pictures and the sensational headlines. But they do have a very nice little column on the basic cooking,” he added. “I did save a receipt for a perfectly adequate roast of the pork. It calls for a sauce made of apples which might be easily improved with a little freshly ground cardamom—”

  “Julien,” I said sternly. “To the matter at hand. Where might we find this Jane?”

  “There is a sort of sitting room for the chambermaids when they are not about their business,” he told us with a shrug.

  “It will be full of other maids,” Stoker said. “We need privacy in order to speak with her.”

  “Julien,” I said, sweetening my voice. “We could use your assistance.”

  Julien quickly summoned one of the hotel pages to deliver a message, and within a very few minutes there was a low knock at the door of the workroom. Julien called a greeting and the door opened and closed swiftly. A slim figure, wrapped in a long white apron, and topped with a mobcap, had entered. The maid took one look at us and whirled, her hand on the knob, until Stoker clamped his firmly over the top and propelled her back to where Julien and I stood. He pushed her down onto a stool and folded his arms, looming just a little.

  “Stay there,” he ordered.

  J. J. Butterworth looked up at him with sullen eyes. “I have work to do, you know. Those beds will not make themselves.”

  “It is lovely to see you as well, J. J.,” I said politely.

  “What do you want?” she asked, folding her arms over her chest.

  “You wrote a piece on the death of Alice Baker-Greene,” I began. “I presume you actually conducted interviews with the witnesses in question?”

  “Of course,” she said, tipping her nose into the air. “I would never write such a piece without a proper source.”

  “Why did you take on employment as a maid in this hotel? Surely it was a risk, given that you have spoken to Captain Durand. Were you not afraid he would recognize you?”

  She snorted. “He has eyes only for the princess’s little Slav maid, Yelena. They are betrothed but there has been trouble.”

  “What sort of trouble?” Stoker asked.

  She shrugged. “A member of the guard doesn’t earn much—not even the commander. And Yelena works for pennies. The Alpenwalders do not pay well on the grounds that it is an honor to serve them which is a heaping pile of rot. I mean, they dirty their sheets and fill their wastepaper baskets same as the rest of us.”

  “Careful, now. You begin to sound like a revolutionary,” Stoker teased.

  “If it could eliminate all the arrogant ne’er-do-wells I have seen in my time, I would build the guillotine with my bare hands,” she said darkly. “But as to your question, the guards are bachelors and live in a sort of dormitory within the palace walls. In order to marry Yelena, Durand needs a house and they don’t come cheaply in Hochstadt. It is a very small place and when it is crowded with mountaineers, the prices are steep as their blasted mountain. Well, Durand has served the Crown, loyal and true, since the princess was scarcely out of pinafores. He was promised a sort of grace-and-favor house on the castle grounds.”

  Julien looked puzzled, so I hastened to explain. “Grace-and-favor lodgings are given at the behest of the monarch in most countries, a sort of perquisite for faithful service. They are provided free of charge or for a peppercorn rent.”

  He nodded and J. J. resumed her tale. “But just as he was set to make an honest woman of Yelena and carry her over the threshold, the house was taken back again.”

  “For what purpose?” Stoker inquired.

  She paused, holding the moment to heighten the drama with all the practiced theatricality of a Duse. “So that the house could be given to Alice Baker-Greene.”

  “Alice!” Stoker exclaimed. “Why on earth should the Alpenwalder Crown give her a house at the expense of the loyal Captain Durand?”

  “Because of Duke Maximilian,” I guessed.

  J. J. slanted me a curious glance. “What do you know of Duke Maximilian?”

  “I know he was friends with Alice Baker-Greene. Close friends,” I added, waggling my brows in imitation of Julien.

  “Ah,” he said. “They were lovers.”

  J. J. shrugged. “I do not know what they were. I only know that Duke Maximilian was very keen to befriend her when she arrived in the Alpenwald, and after her death he has all but disappeared.”

  “Disappeared?” My voice sharpened with interest. “He is a member of a Continental royal family. How can he simply disappear?”

  “A minor m
ember of a minor family,” J. J. corrected. “And he has not disappeared in the proper sense of the word. He has been spotted at his usual haunts—casinos and theatres and the odd house party. But he has kept a very low profile since Alice’s death.”

  “That sounds rather suspicious,” Stoker mused aloud. I was pleased to see he was taking a proper interest in the investigation, but I hoped he was not going to change his choice of murderer from the chancellor to the duke. I rather liked the duke as the villain and hoped it would earn me a sovereign.

  J. J. prickled like a hedgehog. “Rubbish,” she said succinctly. “He has nothing whatsoever to do with Alice’s death. Nothing,” she repeated with emphasis.

  “How do you know?” I asked.

  “Because I spoke with him and he was standing with Captain Durand during Alice’s fall,” she replied with a swiftness that seemed almost rehearsed. “Both of them swore to it in the inquest testimony as well.”

  “A good enough alibi,” I said thoughtfully. “Of course, I do not imagine there is a guardsman alive in any country who would swear a member of his royal family was a liar,” I added.

  Her expression did not change, but her hands curled into fists, twisting her skirts. “Duke Maximilian had nothing to do with Alice’s death. I would stake my life on it.”

  “Then who do you think did?” I asked. She hesitated and I went on. “I know you believe her death was not accidental and neither do we—no matter what the inquest verdict said. Stoker and I have come to the conclusion that Alice was murdered.”

  She choked a little and Julien hastened to bring her a glass of water. She drank it down, giving him a puzzled look. “It tastes odd.”

  “Mint,” he said. “It adds a little something special.”

  “Water ought to taste like water.” She thrust the glass back into his hands. She patted her lips with her apron. “It is a shock to hear it said aloud. I half thought I was going mad after that inquest. There were just so many things, peculiar things, and nobody in the Alpenwald seemed to care.” She enumerated them on her fingers. “Why was Alice given Durand’s house? Who was the moustachioed man on the mountain the day she died? Why was she climbing alone? Why was the inquest held so hastily?”

  “Is that why you came here?” Stoker asked in a gentle tone.

  She nodded. “My father was a writer, you know. He wrote for the London Eagle,” she said with unmistakable pride. Although not as prestigious as the Times, the Eagle was a solidly respectable newspaper that prided itself on impeccable standards. Liberal politicians subscribed to it; Radicals adored it; Conservatives gave it to their servants for the wrapping of fish and use in the privy. “Forty years he wrote, chasing stories like a lurcher after a hare. And he always said the best journalists have a sense for it, nose as keen as a hound’s for game. I had to keep after this because I smelt a story.”

  “And you thought you could discover something from the princess’s entourage?” Stoker encouraged.

  She shrugged and her entire demeanor seemed evasive. “My editor would not pay for another trip to the Alpenwald. There was no other way to pursue the story.”

  “What have you discovered?” I demanded.

  Her gaze shifted only slightly. “Nothing of note,” she said, studying her fingernails. “It is a private visit, not a state occasion, so there are no grand official events involving our royal family or politicians. A good deal of shopping and some private dinners is as exciting as it gets,” she added.

  “And have you been in the princess’s suite every day?” I asked.

  She pulled a face. “As much as I dare. The work rota is jealously guarded, especially when there is royalty about. I have managed to slip into her suite twice, once yesterday and once this morning when you lot arrived.” She narrowed her eyes. “And what exactly is your business with foreign royalty?” she inquired.

  “We are assembling the exhibition at the Hippolyta Club meant to honor Alice Baker-Greene’s life and achievements,” I said quickly. “The Alpenwalders have taken a keen interest, naturally, and they sent for us to discuss a few details of the event.”

  She seemed contented with that, and I only hoped Stoker would not take it in his head to confide in her our real purpose in coming to the Sudbury.

  To my immense relief, he steered her back to the subject of murder.

  “Who do you think the moustachioed man was? The one on the mountain the day of Alice’s death?”

  J. J. gave him a narrow look. “Why should I tell you?”

  “Because if you do, we might have something to share in return,” he said.

  “Stoker,” I hissed by way of warning. He did not so much as look at me.

  “J. J.?” he coaxed.

  She stared at him a long, level minute. “Very well. I think it was Douglas Norton. I believe he was in the Alpenwald at the time of Alice’s death, but I cannot prove it.”

  “This is nothing new,” I protested. “You suggested as much in your last piece.”

  “For which I was let go from the Harbinger,” she burst out. “Norton threatened the newspaper with a slander suit and they told me my services were no longer required. I have not been able to find proper work since then.”

  I looked at her work-roughened hands and the marks of fatigue under her eyes. And I thought of the story she knew—a story so explosive it might have detonated a revolution all on its own—and she had not sold it in spite of her necessity. She knew exactly who I was and only her promise kept her from exposing me to the world. She had given her word and would not go back on it, but only then did I realize how much it might cost her and how much she might resent me for it. I thought of my own circumstances as a lepidopterist and what choices I might make if I learnt of the choicest hunting grounds for the rarest of species and could never visit. What a poisonous secret that would be!

  She must have intuited my thoughts, for she gave me a sharp look. “I have kept my word, you know. I haven’t printed anything I oughtn’t.”

  In spite of myself, I softened a little. I gave Stoker an almost imperceptible nod.

  “J. J., we are not here on behalf of the exhibition. You will have gathered that we, too, believe there was foul play in Alice’s death.” He stopped just short of sharing with her the clues we had discovered—the duplicate climbing badge and the cut rope.

  “We came here hoping to persuade the Alpenwalders to embark upon an investigation into Alice’s death, but we have been unsuccessful,” I temporized. J. J. Butterworth might have proved herself an able ally—and even a possible friend—in the past, but ours was an uneasy partnership, and I still hesitated to trust her fully.

  “Is there anything else you can tell us that might help bring her murderer to justice?” I asked.

  J. J. thought a moment, then shook her head. “I am afraid I cannot help you.” She rose, smoothing her apron as she gave us a brittle smile. “I must take my leave of you now. The bathtubs will not scrub themselves, you know.”

  She left then without a backwards glance. Julien sighed softly. “Such a waste of those hypnotic eyes,” he said.

  “How so?” Stoker reached for another choux bun.

  “I have never met a woman so inflexible, so incapable of succumbing to pleasure,” Julien lamented.

  “You mean you were unsuccessful in luring her to your bed?” I asked.

  “One of my few failures,” he said with a mournful expression. “She thinks I am too fancy, too French. She likes plain words and plain deeds and I am not a plain man. She would be just the woman for you, my friend,” he added with a laugh at Stoker.

  I did not join in his amusement. Instead, I thought of her parting words.

  Stoker looked at me. “She did not say she did not know. She said she cannot help.”

  “She knows something,” I agreed. “But never mind J. J. Butterworth. We have no need of her,” I added, c
ollecting another bun to slip into my pocket for the next time Stoker felt peckish. “The devil helps those who help themselves.”

  CHAPTER

  10

  We spent the early afternoon at the Natural History Museum, bickering happily over the quality and position of the specimens, before presenting ourselves back at the Sudbury, where the baroness whisked me immediately into the princess’s private rooms. The next few hours were deeply instructive. As the semi-legitimate daughter of the Prince of Wales, I might have had my own claim to a throne—at least in Ireland, where my father’s marriage to my mother according to Catholic rites might have been recognized. But if this was what it meant to wear the purple, I had no inclination for the life. The baroness set to work as if she were planning a military operation and I was her objective. She hurried me into the bedchamber, where a young woman dressed in a simple blue gown with an enormous lawn apron waited at attention.

  “This is Yelena, the princess’s personal maid,” the baroness told me. “She is Russian. Her Alpenwalder German is passable but the accent grates upon the ear and her English is nonexistent. You might try a little French if you must speak with her but I do not encourage it.”

  I said a polite hello but the girl merely looked at me with enormous, slightly blank eyes. Her face had the broad, high-boned look of the Slav, and her blond hair was neatly plaited and coiled at the nape of her neck. I recalled what J. J. had said about Captain Durand’s interest in the girl and I was not surprised. She was quietly pretty with the watchful look of all good servants. The baroness rattled off a series of instructions at her in the peculiar Alpenwalder dialect, and the girl bobbed a curtsy to show she understood.

  I glanced about the room, taking in my surroundings. Furnished in the same quiet luxury as the rest of the suite, the bedchamber was a study in tastefulness. Yelena might not have been the most articulate of servants, but she kept the room neat as a pin. No stray articles of clothing, no traces of face powder or trimmed threads, were to be seen. The books on the bedside table had been stacked in order of size, squared off at a precise angle. The pillows on the bed were plumped to an exact sameness, and the chairs tucked in the embrasure of the French windows were as rigidly correct as the sentry outside. Even the recamier of dark raspberry velvet had been positioned exactly in the center of a faux bois screen stretched across one corner of the room. The only unexpected note came from the plump Persian cat sitting majestically upon the dressing table. It regarded me with a long, unblinking stare.