An Unexpected Peril

by DEANNA RAYBOURN

  “Well, you did hit me first,” I pointed out.

  He had the grace to look embarrassed. “You surprised me. And I am not exactly experienced at breaking and entering.”

  “Good,” Stoker said, hauling him to his feet. “Then you will not mind coming with us for a little conversation on the matter.” With one hand on Norton’s collar and the other on his belt, he propelled the fellow forward and around the corner—in the direction whence he had come as I had been busily flinging myself down a drainpipe. Stoker stopped next to a green cabman’s shelter, one of the tidy little chalets that had been built for the comfort and security of the city’s drivers to keep them from cold and wind and the lure of drink whilst they waited for fares. The chimney smoked gently and there was a convivial sound of scraping cutlery and manly conversation within. Gas lanterns hung outside over window boxes that must have bloomed with good cheer in warmer months. Now they were empty and forlorn, but the shelter provided a little respite from the wind and the lanterns illuminated our strange party.

  “We cannot take him in there,” I protested. “The shelters are for cabmen only. They are quite strict upon the matter.”

  “I know,” Stoker said, pushing Norton up against the wall of the shelter. The thump of Norton’s body hitting the wall must have echoed inside, for the door opened and a round, ruddy face wreathed in ginger whiskers peered out.

  “Back again, are you, Mr. Stoker?”

  “I am, Tom. I need a few minutes’ private conversation with the gentleman, you don’t mind?”

  The fellow flapped a meaty hand. “Lord love you, no. If you need a hand, I’ll bring the lads, I will. Otherwise I shall leave you to get on with it.” He gave a nod and withdrew into the snug warmth of the cab shelter, taking with him the aroma of bacon and new bread and horse.

  Stoker turned to Norton, who had been furtively examining his pockets.

  “You took it, didn’t you?” Norton’s expression was a mask of fury.

  “Of course we did,” I told him. “And there is no purpose in trying to get it back. We will only strike you again.”

  He held up his hands as if to ward us off. “I think we’ve had enough fisticuffs for one night. But what do you want with Alice’s journal?”

  “What do you want with it?” I countered.

  “If you know who I am, you will know what I want with it,” he said flatly.

  “Her professional notes,” Stoker guessed. “Her routes up and down the most challenging climbs in the world. All the secrets of one of the most accomplished alpinists ever to set foot on a mountain.”

  Norton’s expression struggled between anger and misery. “You’ve no idea what it’s like, trying to make a name for yourself as a climber these days. You’ve either got to have family money or a rich sponsor to pay the way, and those are scarce as hen’s teeth.”

  “Alice Baker-Greene managed to secure a few,” I reminded him.

  “She did,” he said with real bitterness. “She had only to smile at a camera and they came flocking to her. It took me two years to find a sponsor of my own—a Colorado miner who had struck it rich and liked to spread his money around. He gave me a partial share for a season and said he would give me enough for the Karakorum if I distinguished myself. Distinguished! That’s a laugh.”

  “What happened?” Stoker asked.

  “I went climbing with Alice Baker-Greene and lost my sponsor because she kicked up a fuss and said I beat her to the summit in violation of our agreement.” He rubbed at his jaw, drawing his fingers away to look at the blood streaming from his chin.

  “Did you? Or did she lie?” I demanded.

  His gaze met mine and then shifted. “I hardly like to say. It was a difficult and dangerous time on that mountain. A storm had risen. We were out of provisions and Alice was faltering. She wanted to rest and I thought she meant to turn back afterwards. She said later that she made it plain she intended to try for the summit, but I never heard that. It was screaming blue murder with wind on that mountain,” he added. “Impossible to hear anything, really.”

  “So your climbing partner was, you believed, in difficulty and without provisions, in dangerous conditions, and your solution was to abandon her in order to secure your own glory?” I made my tone as pleasant as possible, but he bristled.

  “When you put it like that, it sounds bad.”

  “It is bad,” I assured him. “And your reputation suffered accordingly. So much so that you have scarcely been on a mountain since. Unless you count the Alpenwald.”

  He flinched as if I had hit him again. “I was never in the Alpenwald.”

  “Really?” Stoker said. “I seem to recall a newspaper piece suggesting you were.”

  “That is slander,” he said stoutly. “Or libel. Whichever. It is a filthy lie.”

  In spite of the cold, tiny beads of perspiration beaded his hairline. “Attempting to summit the Teufelstreppe in order to prove your merit as a climber seems a perfectly reasonable and worthwhile thing to do,” I suggested. “And nothing worth flinging accusations of libel and slander about. Unless you were really in the Alpenwald for a more nefarious purpose.”

  “Like cutting Alice Baker-Greene’s rope and pushing her to her death,” Stoker finished.

  Douglas Norton’s eyes rounded and his mouth fell slack. “What are you talking about?”

  “We are talking about the murder of Alice Baker-Greene,” I said.

  “Murder! It was an accident,” he said, thrusting his hands through his hair. His cap fell off and he left it on the pavement. “Oh no.” His voice fell to a series of soft, desperate murmurs. “No, it cannot be.”

  “I assure you it is,” Stoker told him.

  “I cannot believe it was murder,” Norton said. “The inquest—”

  “The inquest was not privy to certain evidence we have uncovered,” I replied. “Evidence that makes it quite clear Alice was murdered. And most likely by a slender man with moustaches,” I added, flicking the end of his with a finger. “Moustaches just like these.”

  He drew back sharply. “I had nothing to do with her death,” he said. “I didn’t even know she had been murdered until just this minute.”

  “And I suppose you also had nothing to do with another burglary of the club,” Stoker said, nodding towards the direction of the club.

  Norton blinked. “What burglary?”

  “Two nights ago,” I said. “Someone broke in and stole the rope which Alice was using the day she died—a rope that had been deliberately cut.” I did not mention the badge. It seemed best to hold back at least a little of the story.

  “And a rope which was the single best indicator that she was murdered,” Stoker added.

  “I had nothing to do with that either,” Norton said, his eyes darting desperately.

  “And yet here you are,” I told him in a pleasant tone. “Playing the thief, and stealing something that belonged to Alice Baker-Greene. What else have you stolen, Mr. Norton?”

  It was a mistake, I reflected, as he thrust himself suddenly away from the wall of the shelter and took off as if the hounds of hell were after him, his nailed climbing boots striking sparks on the pavement as he ran.

  Stoker heaved a sigh. “Shall I fetch him back?”

  I shook my head. “We have the notebook and that is all that matters.” I bent to the pavement and retrieved Norton’s cap. Inside the band, there was a small card bearing the name of a rather unsavory lodging house in Clerkenwell. “Besides, we know where to find him if we want him,” I added.

  “Just as well,” Stoker said with a broad yawn. “I doubt he is our miscreant of two nights’ past.”

  I whirled on him. “How on earth can you think him innocent?”

  “Because I had a delightful little chat with Ginger Tom.”

  “Ginger Tom?”

  “The cabman. He u
sed to be a draftsman, driving wagons for the circus. He took his brother’s hackney when he died and moved his family to London. Our paths occasionally cross,” he told me. “I knew this was his favorite shelter, so I thought I would look in on the chance he might be here.”

  “You were supposed to be keeping watch outside the club,” I reminded him coldly.

  “Empires have fallen in the time it took you,” he replied. “I meant only to ask him a question or two about the night Alice’s rope and badge were stolen from the club.”

  “And?”

  He shook his head. “I know you would dearly love for him to have driven the guilty party to their breaking and entering and provide us with a solid description, but I am afraid he was not here that night.”

  I swore fluently, bringing a smile to Stoker’s lips.

  “However,” he said, holding up a hand, “no chambermaid ever gossiped as much as a cabman. One of his mates was bringing a fare back late that night and saw two people on the pavement. There is nothing to indicate they had anything to do with the theft of Alice’s things, but they were behaving quite furtively, the fellow said.”

  “Two people?” I considered this. “I suppose it might have been Norton working with someone. Maximilian? Captain Durand?”

  Stoker shook his head. “I am afraid not. The man was wearing his collar turned up to his cheekbones, he told me. Impossible to describe him at all. But the second . . .” He paused to heighten my interest. “The second was a woman.”

  We discussed this development at length as we made our way back to Bishop’s Folly courtesy of Ginger Tom. He dropped us at the gate, neatly catching the coin Stoker flipped and saluting us with his whip as he whistled softly to the horse to walk on. We entered the grounds just as the clock above the stables was chiming the hour.

  I gave a broad yawn. “Heavens, that’s half the night gone,” I murmured.

  Stoker’s reply was a few words of Keats nuzzled into my temple as he walked me to the door of my chapel. He left me there, saluting with the hand still wrapped in his handkerchief, and I stared after him, conscious of a rush of emotion the likes of which I could never remember feeling before.

  You are all that I want and more than I deserve, and I will go to my grave thanking a god in whom I do not believe for bringing me to you.

  I was still smiling when I fell asleep.

  * * *

  • • •

  The next day I slept rather later than was my custom—not unusual given our nocturnal adventures. The morning was well advanced and bitterly cold by the time I had washed and dressed and applied an ointment of arnica to my bruised chin. Stoker was already in the Belvedere surrounded by the bevy of dogs looking hopefully at the heap of bacon on his plate. He was reading the Daily Harbinger and breaking off bits of rind to throw to them. His finger was neatly bandaged and only a little swollen, I saw with relief.

  “Good morning,” I said brightly. “Anything of interest?”

  Amusement twitched the corners of his mouth. “Only this.” He lifted the newspaper to show me the front page—princess attacked by prankster outside opera house, trumpeted the headline. It was accompanied by a few lurid sketches of the pandemonium outside the opera house and an official portrait of Gisela complete with crown and royal orders.

  “Prankster!” I exclaimed as I leant forward to read the article. It was a breathless account of the entire evening from the triumph of Mademoiselle Fribourg in her début as Atalanta to the enthusiastic reception of the Princess of the Alpenwald. After a full page of this, the story turned to the drama that had played out upon the pavement.

  It went on at great length describing the event and quoting Inspector Mornaday of Special Branch of the Metropolitan Police, who characterized the event as nothing more than an ill-timed and nasty joke perpetrated by a japester who had vanished into the crowd. It concluded with a statement from the Alpenwalder delegation that they were perfectly content that this had been a prank and not a serious attempt upon the princess’s life.

  “It seems Mornaday has come to the same conclusion you did,” I said, tossing the newspaper back to Stoker.

  “There were no injuries and little damage apart from a few torn garments and broken feathers in the jostling from the panic,” he replied. “It was the obvious conclusion—even Mornaday could not fail to draw it. And the chancellor’s statement would prevent him from investigating further, even if he were so inclined.”

  “He will not like that,” I mused. I produced the card from the chocolate box and examined it again. “‘Prepare for your end.’ Ominous.”

  “And timely,” Stoker added, forking up a kidney for Huxley. “A threat like that appearing around the same time as her disappearance and the bomb at the opera house? Not a coincidence, I think.”

  “A squib,” I reminded him. “As you so cleverly deduced. It would have no doubt made a powerful effect, receiving a threat like that coupled with the fright of the explosion.”

  “Did she bolt because she received it?” he wondered aloud as Huxley nibbled daintily at the fork.

  I shook my head. “I had a good think and remembered something I ought to have recalled earlier. The seal on the chocolates was unbroken when the baroness offered the box to me. Gisela never saw the threat.”

  “So, she did not disappear because it unnerved her,” he said, offering a titbit to Betony. Under his elbow, Nut sidled up to his plate and lifted off a poached egg. “Why then did she leave? And why is the chancellor so certain there is no cause to worry about her?”

  “Perhaps he knows where she is,” I ventured. “He does seem the least anxious of the lot of them.” I helped myself to a piece of toast from the rack and spread it liberally with quince preserves. “So what can we infer?”

  “That Gisela is being threatened but not harmed. The chocolates carry only a paper threat, but no real danger, it seems,” Stoker said, scratching Vespertine gently behind the ears. “Of course, the chocolates I ate seemed fine, but I suppose we ought to investigate the rest in case any have been tampered with.”

  I shook my head. “I examined them carefully first thing this morning. There is no sign they have been adulterated—no discoloration, no peculiar odors. No marks of hypodermic syringes or seams where the chocolates may have been opened and put back together.”

  “Very well, we will assume the chocolates and the squib were meant to frighten, but nothing more. To what end?”

  “To force her to leave?” I guessed.

  “Which she has.”

  “But she never saw them,” I pointed out.

  “Perhaps they were not the first.” He shook his head. “It’s a damnable puzzle. The only thing we can be certain of is that they are being perpetrated by someone who does not know Gisela has vanished.”

  “Because otherwise, why carry them out?” I agreed. “So, someone outside the Alpenwalder entourage. And that might be anyone—including our favorite investigative journalist.”

  He grunted his agreement and pushed his chair back, slapping his thighs for Nut to jump onto his lap before giving me a searching look. “You do not really believe J. J. would do such a thing?”

  “I do not know what to believe,” I said evenly.

  “Veronica, I know she is a difficult person to like at times, but I find it hard to believe she would stoop to such depths.”

  “Do you? I wonder. She is ambitious and intelligent and her career has been thwarted by the mediocrity of lesser men. What if she felt pressed to produce a story so gripping that her editors were forced to take her back? It mightn’t feel like much of a crime to introduce a small card with a few words into a box of chocolates. She must know any number of miscreants willing to hurl a small explosive, particularly if she stressed that the thing was to be harmless. And she is on hand.”

  He sighed, rubbing Nut’s ears gently until the dog gave a little si
gh of contentment. “You are correct in that it is a good theory, but I cannot believe it.”

  I rose and dropped a kiss to his head. “Your trouble, Revelstoke Templeton-Vane, is that you are too sweetly naïve where women are concerned.”

  His laughter was still ringing in my ears when I left him.

  * * *

  • • •

  As soon as I had finished my toast and dealt with the most pressing of our correspondence, I turned my attention to Alice Baker-Greene’s notebook. I might have had to fight Stoker for the privilege, but he had been the delighted recipient of a gift. His brother Tiberius, taking his leisure in Paris, had paid a visit to Deyrolle, the temple of natural history on the Left Bank, where he encountered a rare trophy of a roseate spoonbill—“Platalea ajaja,” Stoker happily informed me. “I have not seen one of these beauties since I was in South America.” He fell at once to studying the quality of the mount and would likely not have noticed had I divested myself of all my garments and done a dance to shame Salome. So I quietly collected the notebook and retired to my desk with a good reading lamp and a quantity of paper for taking notes.

  The notebook was far denser than I had realized, the leaves being the thinnest vellum imaginable, and each page written in a tiny hand quite unlike Alice’s usual bold style. She had devised a sort of shorthand for herself that took many pages to decipher, and even then much of it was unintelligible to anyone not familiar with the intricacies of alpinism. There were coordinates and materials lists, sketches of routes and notes on traverses and conditions. It was as thorough a record as I had ever seen, both scientific and personal, and I vowed to see it returned to the Curiosity Club in perfect condition so that others might benefit from its contents. (I also roundly cursed the hide of Douglas Norton for very nearly making off with it, no doubt ensuring it would be lost to mountaineering history if he had been successful.)

  Most of this material I skimmed past, recognizing my own limitations in interpreting the data she had recorded. But I paused to read more closely her paragraphs on the people she encountered on her travels. She was unflinching in her assessments, detailing flaws and foibles as fluently as she did favors and virtues. From the dates inside the cover I deduced this was not the notebook she had carried during the expedition in which she made such an enemy of Douglas Norton—much to my irritation. I should have thoroughly enjoyed reading her acerbic comments about him. But it began some year and a half before, just about the time she had decided to settle in the Alpenwald. There were frequent mentions of trips from Hochstadt to various mountain towns in the vicinity in Switzerland and Italy, short climbing expeditions in small, out-of-the-way villages, often accompanied by the notation Climbing with D. or Lazy day with D. These mentions were always finished with a tiny sketch of a flower. I peered through my magnifying glass at the distinctive little petals and realized they were meant to be St. Otthild’s wort.