An Unexpected Peril

by DEANNA RAYBOURN

  “D. is an Alpenwalder,” I murmured to Vespertine. My hound had taken up his post next to my chair, laying the broad weight of his head upon my feet as I worked. Whenever I spoke to him, he raised his shaggy brows before subsiding again into a deep slumber.

  “But who?” I wondered. “Durand? Possible, but he is meant to marry Yelena. Unless he found his attentions wandering. And surely she does not mean Douglas Norton,” I said with a snort. Vespertine snuffled in his sleep as if to agree. I reached for the Rosemorran copy of Twistleton’s Continental, a compendium of European nobility that ran to some forty volumes. The Alpenwald was in the first, and it took only a moment to find the entry for Duke Maximilian.

  “‘Maximilian Detlef Reinhardt Luitpold von Hochstadt, Duke of Lokendorf,’” I read aloud to Vespertine. Detlef. Or duke. Either began with a “d.” On a whim, I turned a few pages to the entry for the chancellor, running my finger down the page until I came to his paragraph. “Dagobert,” I said, snapping the book closed decisively. “It appears every man who knew Alice is a candidate.” I replaced the volume and returned to the notebook with a sigh of irritation. As I reached for it, the book slipped a little and my fingernail caught on the endpaper, tearing the corner. It was marbled stuff, Florentine and heavy, and I swore under my breath for damaging it. But when I inspected it more closely, I could see that I had not torn it at all. Rather, my nail had slid beneath the edge of the endpaper where it had been pasted down, cracking it free of the spine of the book.

  I took it nearer the lamp to assess how easily I might glue the endpaper back again, but as I held it to the light, I noticed the endpaper stood very slightly proud of the cover in the center. Something had been pasted inside it, I realized. I took up my paper knife, a dagger I had liberated from the Rosemorran Collection. It had once stabbed a Venetian nobleman, but I employed it for a far more quotidian purpose. I slipped the blade beneath the edge of the endpaper, levering it gently, ever so gently. The paper resisted, then came away, bit by bit, until I laid it back, revealing a single page, folded carefully. I extracted it and opened it cautiously.

  I had expected a letter, perhaps. Something romantic, maybe a bit of poetry or a few sentences of passionate declaration. Instead it was a sketch, detailed and done with skill and exquisite care. Noted at the bottom was the word “Dolcezza,” and I laughed aloud. The word meant “sweetness” in Italian, and suddenly I understood the reason for all the climbs in Italy and Switzerland. D.

  I studied the sketch for several minutes, realizing I was doubtless the first person to have seen this since Alice had pasted it into her notebook—the notebook she had carried with her everywhere, the notebook that had been with her when she died. “I am glad,” I said quietly. “I am glad you had a little happiness.”

  I was still looking at the sketch when Stoker left off playing with his spoonbill and came to look over my shoulder. He glanced, then peered closely with astonished eyes. “Veronica, why is there a nude sketch of you in Alice Baker-Greene’s notebook?”

  “Because that is not me,” I told him. “It is Princess Gisela.”

  CHAPTER

  17

  Stoker brewed us a strong pot of tea whilst we considered the implications of the sketch. I retrieved a stack of newspapers from the Germanic section of the Belvedere and pointed him to the relevant dates whilst I took over the chore of making the tea. His German was rough but much better than mine, and with the assistance of a German-English dictionary—not quite as good as an Alpenwalder-English dictionary but such a volume has yet to be written—he managed to decipher the broad strokes of the Hochstadt Court Circular for the dates in question.

  By the time the last of the tea had been drunk and the better part of an entire tin of Cook’s candied ginger shortbread consumed, he was finished. “I have compared the dates of Gisela’s absences from the Alpenwald to Alice’s expeditions when she climbed with ‘D.’ You are correct. They tally in every particular.”

  “That is why she was making her home in the Alpenwald,” I said, still not entirely believing how blind we had been to the possibility of Alice’s affections being fixed upon Gisela.

  “How devastated she must have been!” I added.

  “What do you mean?” Stoker’s brow furrowed.

  “They clearly spent much time together, cared deeply for one another—Gisela must have been distraught when Alice died. And yet, as princess, she could never publicly reveal her grief. Imagine her, forced to conceal her emotions all this time.” I fell silent as a growing horror dawned swiftly upon me.

  Stoker was quick to intuit my thoughts. “And then we told her that the woman she loved was murdered. Worst of all, she overheard it! It was not put to her gently or kindly. It was a passing piece of gossip and we discussed it as if it were an academic matter rather than a tragedy of the most intimate variety.”

  And then a new horror introduced itself, a crawling, wriggling, nasty little doubt. “Unless . . .” I let my voice trail off uncertainly.

  “Unless?” he prompted.

  “Unless Gisela is the one who murdered her,” I finished grimly.

  “You cannot be serious,” Stoker said in a tone which did not invite argument.

  But I would not be deterred. “We are investigating this matter. As logical thinkers, we cannot ignore the possibility of Gisela’s guilt.”

  He folded his arms over the breadth of his chest. “I am listening. Lay out the argument.”

  “Very well. Most murders are committed within the confines of a domestic relationship. For all its unorthodoxy, this attachment falls within that frame. In fact, I would argue that it does so even more than a conventional relationship.”

  “How so?”

  “Those whose love is not sanctioned by society are forced to hide their affections. Such a situation can draw people closer together, heightening both passions and tensions. There may be no one in whom they can confide if there are troubles, no one who might advise or give them wise counsel on how to manage such a situation. It is easy then for matters to simply move beyond their control.”

  “Are you speaking from personal experience?” he asked, one corner of his mouth quirking up.

  “Some might say I am engaging in such an experience now,” I returned tartly. “Our liaison is not sanctioned by society. Neither the law nor the church will give us a veneer of respectability. If we were to find ourselves frustrated by one another, there are precious few to whom either of us might turn for succor.”

  “Are you?”

  “Am I what?”

  “Frustrated with me?”

  “At the moment, yes. Wildly so. We are speaking of a murder investigation and you have turned the tables to make this conversation about us.”

  He seemed about to offer a rejoinder, then shrugged instead. “All right. Carry on.”

  I resumed the thread of my argument. “Without the possibility of loving openly, Gisela and Alice would be forced to conduct their affair in secret, stealing time together.” I gestured towards the list of dates and scribbled names of villages. “A handful of expeditions together, no doubt with Gisela incognita, and each time she leaves the Alpenwald, she must . . .” I foundered. “She must what? How did she leave? I know they said she slipped away from her royal duties, but she is the head of state. She has guards, ladies-in-waiting. Someone must have helped her. Someone must have known about Alice.”

  “Not necessarily.” Stoker crossed one booted ankle over the other. “She might have made some sort of excuse—taking the waters at a spa town or needing a rest. She might have pleaded ill health or nerves, neither of which the Alpenwalder court would want to publicize. It is always bad for business when a head of state is in ill health, a holdover from the mediaeval belief that the body of the king was connected to the welfare of the country itself. Healthy king, healthy land.”

  “And you think the Alpenwalders would have b
een content to let their princess fob them off with such stories?”

  “It is one possibility. They are her subjects, Veronica. They would not pry too deeply even if they suspected she was off on an assignation—and if they did suspect it, they would never tell us,” he pointed out. “Every one of the Alpenwalders we have spoken to has been evasive on the subject of Gisela’s absences. Whatever story she spun them, they trust that she can manage her own affairs and will always return. Except that this time, she has not. She left, no doubt of her own accord, after learning that Alice was most likely murdered. Perhaps she simply needed time to come to terms with the possibility.”

  “Or she realized she was about to be unmasked as a murderess,” I said.

  He rolled his eyes heavenwards. “And what was her motive to kill the woman she loved?”

  “Exposure,” I told him quickly. “If Alice decided to reveal the affair, it would be catastrophic for Gisela. People are intolerant enough of Sapphic practices amongst private citizens. What would the conservative Alpenwalders have to say about their princess loving another woman? It could spark a revolution.”

  “And why would Alice do that?”

  I spread my hands. “A quarrel, perhaps. People do strike out against the ones they love when they are disappointed and hurt. What if Alice threatened her in a moment of anger? Gisela would have been frightened out of her wits.”

  “You almost sound sorry for her,” Stoker said coldly.

  “Pity and empathy are not the same,” I replied. “I can understand her actions if that is what happened. She would have been terrified of the affair coming to light, the scandal it would have caused. So she could have determined that Alice would have to die.”

  “Why not simply send her away with a sum of money?” Stoker suggested.

  “Alice would never be bought,” I told him. “She had a peculiar sort of integrity. No, she would never have taken a penny of Gisela’s money if the princess tried to purchase her silence.”

  Stoker thought a moment. “There are two rather gaping holes in the fabric of your theory. First, Gisela was not in the Alpenwald when Alice died. I seem to remember you saying she was abroad at the time. And second, the only one seen on the mountain that day was a moustachioed man, so even if you are about to suggest that Gisela made a pretense of leaving and came back, she does not fit the description of the possible murderer.”

  I gave him a withering stare. “She was disguised, of course.”

  “As a man with moustaches,” he finished in a voice dripping with scorn. “It sounds like a penny dreadful, Veronica. I refuse to believe that Her Serene Highness, the Hereditary Princess of the Alpenwald, pasted on false moustaches and climbed a mountain to murder her lover.”

  “She would not have to,” I said slowly. “She would not have to be there at all. The princess could have had an accomplice. And who better than the man who intends to marry her? Duke Maximilian of Lokendorf,” I finished in triumph.

  Stoker stared at me a long moment. “Bloody bollocks,” he muttered.

  My smile was one of purely feline satisfaction. “It is a very good theory,” I told him.

  “It is not the worst you might have fashioned,” he said with a grudging nod. “It does at least tick every box.”

  “Indeed it does,” I said, smoothing my skirts. “Now we have only to find proof.”

  “Proof? How in the name of seven hells do you intend to do that?”

  “We must gain access to the Alpenwalder suite,” I told him.

  “Absolutely out of the question,” he replied.

  I blinked at him. “Whyever not?”

  “Whyever not? Let me enumerate the reasons,” he said, holding up each finger in turn. “First, a possibly homicidal princess who has gone missing. Second, her possible accomplice, a potentially murderous aristocrat who is a little too free with his admiration of your person. Third, courtiers who may or may not have knowledge of the princess’s liaison with a murder victim and who could have easily conspired with her to commit the crime. Did it never occur to you, Veronica, that they might all have done it? What if they plotted together, all of those bloody Alpenwalders, to remove Alice from the scene? The chancellor and the baroness would do anything for Gisela, they adore her. And Durand is captain of her guard. I do not know if he would draw the line at murder, but there is every chance he would not. And Yelena’s entire world is bound up in her employer. There is not one member of that retinue that would balk at killing for her or covering it up if she ordered someone killed, of this I have absolutely no doubt.”

  As he finished his impassioned speech, a lock of long black hair fell over his brow. His nostrils were flaring like a stag’s, and I realized we had taken positions in opposition to one another, squared off like combatants, our hands curled into fists.

  “You are, of course, correct,” I told him. My humble reply caught him off guard and he dropped his arms, unclenching his fists.

  “I am?”

  “Naturally,” I said in the same soothing tone. “But I am afraid your opposition, while well considered, is not enough to keep us from continuing this investigation.”

  “What makes you say that?” he demanded.

  “Because George has just come in behind you, and from the envelope in his hand, I believe we have been summoned once more to the Sudbury.”

  CHAPTER

  18

  Stoker sulked all the way to the hotel whilst I tried very hard not to gloat. And failed.

  “Smugness does not become you, Veronica,” he told me in icy tones as we alighted at the curb. I said nothing. I merely favored him with my most dazzling smile and swept inside the hotel, careful to keep my veiled face averted from any of the reporters or detectives who were no doubt loitering in the lobby.

  The Alpenwalders received us warmly. The baroness answered the door herself, and as we moved into the drawing room of the suite, I could see the chancellor sitting behind the desk, but of Duke Maximilian there was no sign. “Thank you so much for coming,” the baroness said in a fervent tone as she pressed my hands.

  “Your note only asked us to call,” I told her. “Have there been any developments? Has the princess returned?”

  “Not yet,” she replied, her mouth set in a serious line. “But I know she will come soon. She must.”

  The chancellor rose from the desk, gesturing towards a stack of newspapers. “There have been many reports about the bomb, naturally,” he told us. “And we had a call very early this morning from an Inspector Mornaday.”

  At the mention of Mornaday’s name, my heart skipped an uncomfortable beat. I exchanged a quick glance with Stoker. “Oh?”

  “He came to tell us that it was as Mr. Templeton-Vane surmised—the bomb was no bomb at all, really only a glorified firecracker,” he said. “He wished to pay his respects and apologize personally to the princess, but the baroness and I were able to prevent this by saying Her Serene Highness was in need of rest after the upset of last evening. We also made a statement canceling all official engagements today, which will work quite well, I think, since we are still without a princess,” he added with a moue of regret. He turned to me. “You have done well, Fraulein. So well, in fact, that I am afraid I must prevail upon you once more.”

  Beside me, I felt Stoker stiffen like a pointer.

  “I think Miss Speedwell has accommodated your schemes quite enough,” Stoker began.

  The chancellor held up a hand. “Please,” he said, nearly choking on the word. So startled were we by his pleading that we fell silent and let him continue. He did so with obvious difficulty, speaking slowly, as if extracting each word cost him pain.

  “How much do you know of the situation on the Continent?” he asked, but it was apparent the question was rhetorical as he launched into a discussion that echoed the one I had enjoyed with the baroness on our first meeting. “If I told you it
was a powder keg, it would not be an exaggeration. Matters are so delicate that all it wants is the slightest spark and—” He spread his fingers upwards, making the gesture of an explosion. “Loyalties are so conflicted and convoluted that if Germany went to war, it would plunge the rest of Europe into chaos.” He paused and went to rummage in a folio of papers, extracting a large map of the Continent. “Look here,” he urged, pointing towards the middle of the map. “The German Empire is colored in blue. You see the change from only a few decades ago?” He laid another map beside it. “With the unification of the German states, the empire has become powerful. Too powerful,” he added under his breath. I surveyed the maps. The earlier one looked like a broken plate, colorful bits strewn across the breadth of Europe, each representing a different tiny German-speaking principality or duchy. The current one was a single terrifying monolith collected under one banner and ruled by the Hohenzollerns from Berlin.

  “This was the work of Bismarck,” he said. “But he is a fool. He argued that knitting the German states together under the rule of the empire would make them more powerful, but the only one who has gained from it is the emperor himself.”