Her gaze shifted only slightly. “Nothing of note,” she said, studying her fingernails. “It is a private visit, not a state occasion, so there are no grand official events involving our royal family or politicians. A good deal of shopping and some private dinners is as exciting as it gets,” she added.
“And have you been in the princess’s suite every day?” I asked.
She pulled a face. “As much as I dare. The work rota is jealously guarded, especially when there is royalty about. I have managed to slip into her suite twice, once yesterday and once this morning when you lot arrived.” She narrowed her eyes. “And what exactly is your business with foreign royalty?” she inquired.
“We are assembling the exhibition at the Hippolyta Club meant to honor Alice Baker-Greene’s life and achievements,” I said quickly. “The Alpenwalders have taken a keen interest, naturally, and they sent for us to discuss a few details of the event.”
She seemed contented with that, and I only hoped Stoker would not take it in his head to confide in her our real purpose in coming to the Sudbury.
To my immense relief, he steered her back to the subject of murder.
“Who do you think the moustachioed man was? The one on the mountain the day of Alice’s death?”
J. J. gave him a narrow look. “Why should I tell you?”
“Because if you do, we might have something to share in return,” he said.
“Stoker,” I hissed by way of warning. He did not so much as look at me.
“J. J.?” he coaxed.
She stared at him a long, level minute. “Very well. I think it was Douglas Norton. I believe he was in the Alpenwald at the time of Alice’s death, but I cannot prove it.”
“This is nothing new,” I protested. “You suggested as much in your last piece.”
“For which I was let go from theHarbinger,” she burst out. “Norton threatened the newspaper with a slander suit and they told me my services were no longer required. I have not been able to find proper work since then.”
I looked at her work-roughened hands and the marks of fatigue under her eyes. And I thought of the story she knew—a story so explosive it might have detonated a revolution all on its own—and she had not sold it in spite of her necessity. She knew exactly who I was and only her promise kept her from exposing me to the world. She had given her word and would not go back on it, but only then did I realize how much it might cost her and how much she might resent me for it. I thought of my own circumstances as a lepidopterist and what choices I might make if I learnt of the choicest hunting grounds for the rarest of species and could never visit. What a poisonous secret that would be!
She must have intuited my thoughts, for she gave me a sharp look. “I have kept my word, you know. I haven’t printed anything I oughtn’t.”
In spite of myself, I softened a little. I gave Stoker an almost imperceptible nod.
“J. J., we are not here on behalf of the exhibition. You will have gathered that we, too, believe there was foul play in Alice’s death.” He stopped just short of sharing with her the clues we had discovered—the duplicate climbing badge and the cut rope.
“We came here hoping to persuade the Alpenwalders to embark upon an investigation into Alice’s death, but we have been unsuccessful,” I temporized. J. J. Butterworth might have proved herself an able ally—and even a possible friend—in the past, but ours was an uneasy partnership, and I still hesitated to trust her fully.
“Is there anything else you can tell us that might help bring her murderer to justice?” I asked.
J. J. thought a moment, then shook her head. “I am afraid I cannot help you.” She rose, smoothing her apron as she gave us a brittle smile. “I must take my leave of you now. The bathtubs will not scrub themselves, you know.”
She left then without a backwards glance. Julien sighed softly. “Such a waste of those hypnotic eyes,” he said.
“How so?” Stoker reached for another choux bun.
“I have never met a woman so inflexible, so incapable of succumbing to pleasure,” Julien lamented.
“You mean you were unsuccessful in luring her to your bed?” I asked.
“One of my few failures,” he said with a mournful expression. “She thinks I am too fancy, too French. She likes plain words and plain deeds and I am not a plain man. She would be just the woman for you, my friend,” he added with a laugh at Stoker.
I did not join in his amusement. Instead, I thought of her parting words.
Stoker looked at me. “She did not say she did not know. She said she cannot help.”
“She knows something,” I agreed. “But never mind J. J. Butterworth. We have no need of her,” I added, collecting another bun to slip into my pocket for the next time Stoker felt peckish. “The devil helps those who help themselves.”
CHAPTER
