“That is slander,” he said stoutly. “Or libel. Whichever. It is a filthy lie.”
In spite of the cold, tiny beads of perspiration beaded his hairline. “Attempting to summit the Teufelstreppe in order to prove your merit as a climber seems a perfectly reasonable and worthwhile thing to do,” I suggested. “And nothing worth flinging accusations of libel and slander about. Unless you were really in the Alpenwald for a more nefarious purpose.”
“Like cutting Alice Baker-Greene’s rope and pushing her to her death,” Stoker finished.
Douglas Norton’s eyes rounded and his mouth fell slack. “What are you talking about?”
“We are talking about the murder of Alice Baker-Greene,” I said.
“Murder! It was an accident,” he said, thrusting his hands through his hair. His cap fell off and he left it on the pavement. “Oh no.” His voice fell to a series of soft, desperate murmurs. “No, it cannot be.”
“I assure you it is,” Stoker told him.
“I cannot believe it was murder,” Norton said. “The inquest—”
“The inquest was not privy to certain evidence we have uncovered,” I replied. “Evidence that makes it quite clear Alice was murdered. And most likely by a slender man with moustaches,” I added, flicking the end of his with a finger. “Moustaches just like these.”
He drew back sharply. “I had nothing to do with her death,” hesaid. “I didn’t even know she had been murdered until just this minute.”
“And I suppose you also had nothing to do with another burglary of the club,” Stoker said, nodding towards the direction of the club.
Norton blinked. “What burglary?”
“Two nights ago,” I said. “Someone broke in and stole the rope which Alice was using the day she died—a rope that had been deliberately cut.” I did not mention the badge. It seemed best to hold back at least a little of the story.
“And a rope which was the single best indicator that she was murdered,” Stoker added.
“I had nothing to do with that either,” Norton said, his eyes darting desperately.
“And yet here you are,” I told him in a pleasant tone. “Playing the thief, and stealing something that belonged to Alice Baker-Greene. What else have you stolen, Mr. Norton?”
It was a mistake, I reflected, as he thrust himself suddenly away from the wall of the shelter and took off as if the hounds of hell were after him, his nailed climbing boots striking sparks on the pavement as he ran.
Stoker heaved a sigh. “Shall I fetch him back?”
I shook my head. “We have the notebook and that is all that matters.” I bent to the pavement and retrieved Norton’s cap. Inside the band, there was a small card bearing the name of a rather unsavory lodging house in Clerkenwell. “Besides, we know where to find him if we want him,” I added.
“Just as well,” Stoker said with a broad yawn. “I doubt he is our miscreant of two nights’ past.”
I whirled on him. “How on earth can you think him innocent?”
“Because I had a delightful little chat with Ginger Tom.”
“Ginger Tom?”
“The cabman. He used to be a draftsman, driving wagons for the circus. He took his brother’s hackney when he died and moved his family to London. Our paths occasionally cross,” he told me. “I knew this was his favorite shelter, so I thought I would look in on the chance he might be here.”
“You were supposed to be keeping watch outside the club,” I reminded him coldly.
“Empires have fallen in the time it took you,” he replied. “I meant only to ask him a question or two about the night Alice’s rope and badge were stolen from the club.”
“And?”
He shook his head. “I know you would dearly love for him to have driven the guilty party to their breaking and entering and provide us with a solid description, but I am afraid he was not here that night.”
I swore fluently, bringing a smile to Stoker’s lips.
“However,” he said, holding up a hand, “no chambermaid ever gossiped as much as a cabman. One of his mates was bringing a fare back late that night and saw two people on the pavement. There is nothing to indicate they had anything to do with the theft of Alice’s things, but they were behaving quite furtively, the fellow said.”
