“Thank you, madame,” Stoker replied.
She looked at her lady-in-waiting. “Why have you gone red in the face, Margareta?”
“Forgive me, madame,” the older woman murmured. “I was surprised to find that Miss Speedwell does not notice the resemblance between you.”
The princess studied me a long moment. “I confess, I do not see it,” she said.
“I must be mistaken,” the baroness told her smoothly. “Has Your Serene Highness seen this part of the exhibition?” she asked, guiding her mistress to the collection I had been unpacking when Stoker discovered the cut rope. The princess stood a long moment and stared, taking in the toilet articles and books and garments, her expression inscrutable.
“A very personal collection of Alice Baker-Greene’s effects,” Lady C. observed. “If Your Serene Highness does not think it appropriate, we do not have to make them available for viewing.”
The princess said nothing a long moment, then shrugged. “It makes little difference to the dead,” she said at last. She clasped her hands together. “Still, I would not like for this to become an exercise in the sentimental. She was a climber, an explorer. That is the story you must tell. That is what will bring other visitors to the Alpenwald.”
I produced the badge I had unearthed from the box of Alice Baker-Greene’s personal effects. “Like this?” I suggested. “A significant piece of Miss Baker-Greene’s climbing memorabilia, I think.”
“Memorabilia?” Her mouth twitched with suppressed amusement. “This is the badge of the Alpenwalder Climbing Society. The usual badge is plain silver, but for those who summit the peak of the Teufelstreppe this enameled version is presented. It is a very great honor.” She turned it over and studied the reverse a long moment, frowning as she noticed the nick on the edge. No doubt the damage to such a prestigious badge of merit was a matter of some annoyance, but I suddenly felt quite protective of Alice Baker-Greene and could not bear the notion that the Alpenwalders might think she had been careless.
“She was, I believe, very proud of the achievement,” I ventured.
The princess’s expression was one of acute displeasure. “It is a source of much pain and embarrassment to our society that a climber as famous as Miss Baker-Greene should be lost on our mountain,” she said, pushing the badge back into my hands as if to rid herself of it.
She glanced around at the boxes and piles of excelsior and unsorted oddments. “There are a few things I have brought from the Alpenwald that will perhaps make good additions to your display,” she offered. “A native costume, a few stuffed birds, a horn which is unique to our music. It will give a little more flavor of our country.”
And a little less emphasis on a dead mountaineer, I thought wryly.
“We can certainly find room for such a generous contribution,” Lady C. assured her.
The princess nodded. “Very well. I have seen enough.” She inclined her head towards us and swept from the room, the baroness gliding in her wake.
Stoker sighed. “Well, so much for your theory,” he said, picking up the rope.
I took it from his hands. “Do not touch the evidence,” I instructed. “I have a plan.”
CHAPTER
4
As soon as the royal party left and we were alone with the exhibition, we embarked upon a spirited discussion on the advisability of presenting the rope to Scotland Yard. The fact that we were well acquainted with the head of Special Branch, Sir Hugo Montgomerie, was a point in our favor. The fact that I was the natural daughter of the Prince of Wales with a semi-legitimate claim to the throne was another. Sir Hugo knew my antecedents and knew exactly how much trouble I could make if I chose to make my parentage public. That I had not done so counted very much towards the quality of my character, I reminded Stoker. And our recent exploits in helping Sir Hugo during a particularly nasty case meant that, all things considered, he rather owed us a good turn.
“He bloody well won’t see it that way,” Stoker objected.
“Then we must make him see it,” I replied, wrapping the rope in a parcel of brown paper.
“The baroness told you she would speak to the chancellor,” he reminded me.
“And I have precious little confidence he will act if his princess is against it. Alice Baker-Greene was a British citizen. If she was murdered, she deserves justice from the British authorities.”
“The British cannot simply go and investigate a possible crime in an autonomous nation,” he protested.
“No, but we can. We simply need to make quite certain that Sir Hugo knows what we are about so that—”
“So that when we provoke an international incident, he will be ready with the cavalry to ride to our rescue?”
“Something like that.”
Stoker snorted. “You are the most maddeningly delusional woman I have ever known.” He took the rope parcel from my hands and looped his arms about my waist. “Can we, for just the next few hours, put this aside?”
I slipped neatly from his grasp. “Murder? You wish to put murder aside?”
He slanted me a curious look. “You seem rather more certain than when I suggested it was murder,” he said.
I shrugged. “You caught me unawares.”
“And now that you have had time to think on it—”
“I agree with you.”
His mouth twitched. “Do not make a habit of it. It is upsetting to see you so quiescent.”
“I will always agree with you when your arguments are based upon sound common sense and scientific fact,” I said smoothly.
“Leave it,” he urged. He picked up the parcel and slipped it behind the draperies of the diorama. “There. No one will disturb it, and if the chancellor decides to take up the matter, we can hand it over.”
“And if he doesn’t?” I inquired hopefully.
“Then we will revisit the subject of Sir Hugo,” he said with a heavy sigh.
I grinned and he tipped up my chin, kissing me, quickly and firmly. “Do not gloat, Veronica. No one loves a boorish winner.”
* * *
• • •
That evening, Stoker amused himself with the earl’s latest purchase for the Rosemorran Collection—an enormous walrus that had required the combined strength of numerous porters to wheel into the Belvedere, the freestanding ballroom that had been given over to the various artifacts and works of art hoarded by seven generations of earls. It was, in due course, to serve as a museum once the contents were properly sorted and arranged for the edification of the general public. The fact that Stoker and I were the only two people working to organize the thousands of items meant that the museum was projected to open sometime in the middle of the next century. The Belvedere was a place of unending magic and mystery, crammed to the rafters with every variety of trophy—jewels, statues, fossils, paintings, coins, suits of armor, one or two moldering mummies, and natural history specimens of all descriptions. The acquisition of the walrus had long been a pet dream of Stoker’s and its arrival had kindled in him an enthusiasm akin to that of a child on Christmas morn. He had fallen upon the massive crate with a pry bar and single-minded determination. The fact that it smelt strongly of rotting fish had done little to dampen his ardor.