Lady C. gave a single pointed shake of the head, but I ignored her and pressed my point. “If Stoker says that Miss Baker-Greene’s ropes were tampered with, you would do well to believe him.”
The baroness gave a little gasp, which she covered with a cough. “We do not speak so directly in the Alpenwald,” she murmured helpfully in my direction.
“Well, in England, we do,” I replied with as much firmness as I could muster.
The princess gave me a long look. “You are forthright, Miss Speedwell. And a—what was it? Lepidopterist? This is a word I do not know in your language.”
Her lady-in-waiting stepped forward and gave a quick explanation in the native dialect—a form of German mixed with French and what sounded like the odd Italianate phrase. The princess’s expression turned from puzzled to mildly amused. “A butterfly hunter? You chase wingy insects for a living?”
“I do.”
“You must travel widely,” she observed.
“I have been round the globe four times,” I said.
“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.