Stoker blinked slowly at me. “I beg your pardon?”
“It is the only logical conclusion,” I began.
“It bloody well is not! I can think of a dozen other explanations,” he countered.
“I will wait.” I tipped my head to the side, adopting a patient expression.
After a long moment, Stoker exhaled gustily. “She might have cut the rope herself.”
“I already suggested that,” I reminded him. “And you said it was not possible because the rope has not been whipped.”
“Perhaps it became tangled on the climb and she had to cut it free,” he said, his eyes glinting with possible triumph.
“No, I think you were quite correct the first time,” I said cheerfully. “This is a case of murder.”
“I reject this,” Stoker said in a tone that bordered on desperation.
“Stoker, as you well know, murders happen,” I told him.
“But why must they happen to us?”
I patted his shoulder kindly. “Because Fate knows we will always rise to the occasion, for we are the servants of Justice.”
“Even servants have the occasional month off,” he said in some bitterness.
“Do not look so downcast,” I chided. “We have once more the opportunity to test our mettle, to pit our wits against those of a killer. Do you not find it exhilarating? We will apply ourselves to this latest puzzle and emerge triumphant,” I assured him. “But our first task must be to inform the authorities that Alice Baker-Greene was murdered.”
A gasp cut through the silence that followed my pronouncement. So intent had we been upon our discussion, we had neither of us noticed the trio standing in the doorway. Lady C., accompanied by a pair of ladies I did not know. One was shorter, a little inclined to stoutness, although it was well concealed by her expensive walking suit of dark blue. She would never see forty again—and perhaps not fifty—and would have been an interesting-looking woman were it not for her companion, an arrestingly comely young woman near to my own age. Her hair, black as a raven’s wing, was piled atop her head in an enormous and elaborate coiffure secured with jeweled pins. Her eyes, a peculiar dark violet, were bright with interest as she stared from Stoker to me and back again. It was her companion who had gasped, the older woman’s mouth still rounded with astonishment.
“Who is this person?” the older woman demanded of Lady C.
Lady C. stepped forward, turning to address the younger lady. “Your Serene Highness,” she said, her demeanor unruffled despite the strangeness of the moment, “may I present the pair working most closely to assemble the exhibition, Miss Veronica Speedwell and Mr. Revelstoke Templeton-Vane. Miss Speedwell is a member of the club, a renowned lepidopterist, and Mr. Templeton-Vane is the younger brother of Viscount Templeton-Vane.” She turned to us. “Veronica, Stoker. Her Serene Highness, the Princess Gisela of the Alpenwald and her lady-in-waiting, the Baroness von Wallenberg.”
Stoker inclined his head to the princess, but I merely stood. I had long ago given up any form of genuflecting.
The princess came closer, leveling an assessing look at us. I had the oddest sensation that I had seen her somewhere before, but I could not place her amongst my acquaintance. I had not included the Alpenwald on my travels—the butterfly population, as previously noted, was pretty but hardly worthy of a special expedition—nor did I collect postage stamps or pungent cheeses, the other two principal attractions of the Alpenwald.
The princess spoke, her English fluent and only lightly touched with a very faint German accent. “You have shocked my companion, Miss Speedwell. You believe Miss Baker-Greene was murdered? This is a most distressing accusation.”
“Observation, Your Serene Highness,” I corrected quickly. “Not an accusation.”
She lifted one fingertip in a gesture of dismissal. “Semantics, I think. In order to observe that a murder has been committed, there must be a murderer, must there not.” It was phrased as a question, but without the upward inflection that would have invited a response. She put out her hand for the rope.
Wordlessly, Stoker gave it to her, and she spent a long moment studying it. “You believe this rope is proof of something nefarious?” she asked, frowning.
“Mr. Templeton-Vane has some experience with ropes,” I said demurely.
Stoker shot me a look but stepped forward. “With your permission, Your Serene Highness.” He took the rope back, pointing to the significant marks. “Here and here, you can clearly see the effect of a blade.”
“I see the end of a rope,” the princess said coolly. She turned to her companion. “Margareta, what do you see?”
The Baroness von Wallenberg lifted the monocle pinned to her collar and fitted it into place. She bent to peer through the lens, shaking her head after a long moment. “I suppose it is possible,” she added with an apologetic little glance towards Stoker. “This gentleman is doubtless more learned than I on the subject of ropes.”
The princess looked at Lady C., who hurried to supply Stoker’s bona fides. “Mr. Templeton-Vane spent the years of his youth in a traveling circus, madame. He was responsible for rigging the tents as well as the lines for the tightrope walkers. He later served for several years in Her Majesty’s Navy as a surgeon’s mate.”
The princess’s ebony brows rose slightly. “A surgeon’s mate. Not a sailor?”
“Not a sailor,” Stoker admitted.
The princess pressed the matter. “And you worked in your youth in a circus.” She surveyed him from tousled hair to scuffed boot tips. “I think it is perhaps a few years since your youth?”
“I am more than thirty,” he agreed.
“And do you have experience with climbing ropes?” she asked in the same blankly conversational tone.
“I regret that I do not. I have done very little climbing in my travels, and never for sport.”
“For what purpose, then?” she asked, her frown deepening.
“Mr. Templeton-Vane is a natural historian,” Lady C. offered. “He has traveled extensively in Amazonia.”
The princess flicked her a glance, then returned her gaze to Stoker. “Amazonia. There are not many mountains there, I believe.”
“There are not,” Stoker said, his mouth tightening a little. “But ropes are ropes.”
“And mountains are mountains,” the princess returned coolly. “It was very warm on the Teufelstreppe this year. The step from which Miss Baker-Greene fell had almost no snow, and the stone is quite sharp.”
“Which would have frayed the rope,” I put in. “And this rope was clearly cut through with a blade.”