“I know you do, and you really ought to examine that, but now is not the time,” I said. “Excellency, you and Mr. Templeton-Vane will not duel because if you do, I will not impersonate your princess.”
“That sounds like a win on both counts for me,” Stoker began.
I held up a hand. “I will take on the role of the princess on the condition that you be permitted to accompany me,” I told Stoker. He rocked back on his heels, thinking.
“Why would I agree to that when I can put an end to the whole bloody mess?”
“We both know you will not do that. You are too fine a gentleman to ruin a young woman’s career because of trifling matters. Mademoiselle Fribourg is depending upon this performance, and I daresay the composer is as well. Your concern is for my safety. Very well. You will come along and see to it personally. This meets with your approval, I take it, Excellency?” The chancellor gave a grudging nod as he returned his handkerchief to his pocket.
“But do not forget, the challenge has been issued and may be accepted at any time,” he told Stoker darkly.
“I will remember that,” Stoker promised.
“We are in agreement,” the baroness said in obvious relief.
“Excellent,” the chancellor said, rubbing his hands together. “There is much preparation to be done. I suggest you return here no later than teatime—”
“I think,” Stoker broke in, “that Miss Speedwell and I may be permitted a few moments to discuss the matter. In private.”
The chancellor looked as though he would like to protest, but the baroness gave him a long look and he nodded. “We will withdraw and you may have until the mantel clock chimes,” he told us. He pointed to the clock, a hideous affair of folksy wooden carving that could only have been crafted from some Bavarian nightmare. It was a sort of cottage or chalet, lavishly embellished with fruits and animals and great flowers picked out in garish paints. The door of the cottage was a particularly lurid shade of scarlet.
“How very unusual,” I said, attempting a polite smile.
“It is an example of our native Alpenwalder work,” the chancellor said with unmistakable pride. “I shall make you a present of one. But only if you are successful in this endeavor,” he added firmly.
He nodded brusquely to the baroness as he withdrew, and shedarted us an apologetic glance. “Take whatever time you need,” she urged. “We will not trouble you until you call.”
She closed the door softly behind them and I turned to face Stoker.
“I will not point out the peril of this undertaking,” he said slowly. “I know you too well to believe that is any sort of deterrent to you.”
“You raised the subject with the chancellor,” I reminded him.
“Because I rather hoped he had more sense.” The words might have stung but for the gentle mournfulness of the tone. My insistence upon this rash scheme had obviously struck a stretched nerve.
“It is the best opportunity to discover more about Alice Baker-Greene’s death,” I told him. “We believe someone in the Alpenwald wanted her dead, and someone in the royal entourage might know something.”
“‘Someone,’ ‘something,’” he mimicked. “I think the connection is tenuous at best.”
“Did you not mark the name of the guard captain? Durand. It is he who witnessed Alice’s fall.Andhe has a rather impressive set of moustaches—as does the chancellor, who, I would like to point out, also sports a summit badge of the Teufelstreppe. We have been here a quarter of an hour and already discovered two potential suspects.”
“Suspects! You really believe one of them pushed an Englishwoman off a mountain?”
“Not necessarily,” I countered smoothly. “But at the very least, Captain Durand has knowledge of Alice’s final climb—knowledge we will have the opportunity to extract if we spend time amongst these Alpenwalders. We might even be able to persuade them to reconsider opening a proper investigation, for I believe in my bones one of them is guilty of her murder.”
“I highly doubt that,” he said.
“Would you care to wager upon the fact?” I challenged. “We used to do so. I believe the stakes were a pound.”
He drew his watch chain from his pocket. From it dangled a single sovereign coin, pierced to make a sort of charm of it. That coin had passed between us and back again as we had exchanged winnings on the wagers of our investigations. As a joke, Stoker had had the thing adapted to hang from his watch chain, a gesture of arrogance, I decided, as it meant he never intended I should win again. It was only in a moment of tender intimacy that he had admitted to wearing it because it was the one possession he had that I had also owned, and in the darkest days, when he dared not hope I would return his love, it was his consolation.
Now he gently removed it from the chain and pressed it into my palm. “Take it. You believe you are correct and I have lost the will to argue the point.”
The metal was warm still from where it had nestled in his pocket, near his body. My fingers reached nearly closed around it, but I pushed it back into his hand. I would win it fairly or not at all. After a moment, he returned it to the chain.
“It is not like you to be so acquiescent,” I said mildly. “Are you ill?”
“Not ill, but neither am I naïve. I understand why you are driven to do this thing and I will not fight you.”
