An Unexpected Peril (Veronica Speedwell #6)(2)
Lady C. had taken a keen interest in every detail, supervising us with an attentiveness that bordered upon the oppressive, but I could not find it in my heart to begrudge her. It was the first real interest she had shown in any project since our voyage to Madeira the previous year, and I was delighted to observe her healthful appearance as she stepped close to the wall, peering intently at a detailed watercolor map of the Alpenwald that had been handsomely framed and hung at eye level. It depicted the thick black evergreen forests that fringed the tiny country, giving way here and there to fertile valleys that shimmered with the silvery green tributaries of the Rhine. In the center, the vertiginous peak of the Teufelstreppe hung above the tidy capital of Hochstadt. A series of photographs next to the map showed narrow streets little larger than alleyways, twisting beneath the overhanging upper stories of half-timbered houses whose balconies were laden with colorful blossoms and banners. All led eventually to a main square that fronted the royal castle, a faery-tale eminence of grey stone and peaked turrets that would have looked very much at home in any child’s storybook.
Lady C. gave a cluck of approval. “Very good. The average person has never even heard of the place. This will provide a sort of context for the rest of the exhibit,” she remarked, more to herself than to us. She turned to me. “Butterflies next, I think. We ought to build up to Stoker’s rather more arresting goat,” she added with a nod towards the alcove where Stoker continued to work on his mount. She tipped her head thoughtfully. “I cannot say that I like that drapery very much,” she said.
Stoker poked at the thick folds of figured scarlet damask hung behind the alcove. “It does rather ruin the effect.” He stepped back, stroking his chin, leaving a trail of sawdust along the whisker-roughened jaw. “What if I painted a mountain scene, something simple, just to set the stage, so to speak? I could position the canvas just behind the mount.”
Lady C. nodded. “That could be quite effective indeed.”
“But not with that carpet,” I pointed out. The goat’s cloven hooves balanced atop a gold-and-scarlet carpet woven with a running H pattern, much like a mayoral chain. It had been specially woven for the club’s display hall, adding a touch of grandeur to an otherwise staid room.
Stoker shrugged. “I could sculpt a base and cover it with moss to give the effect of spring upon the mountain,” he offered.
“Perfect,” Lady C. pronounced. “I think that will make Her Serene Highness very happy indeed.”
Stoker and I exchanged glances. “Her Serene Highness?” I ventured.
Lady C. nodded. “Her Serene Highness, Gisela Frederica Victoria Helena, the Hereditary Princess of the Alpenwald and ruler of that country. We have just received word that the princess herself wishes to open the exhibition.”
“Why on earth would the Alpenwalder princess come here to open an exhibition honoring an English climber?” Stoker demanded.
It was Lady C.’s turn to shrug. “Miss Baker-Greene’s greatest achievements as an alpinist came on the Teufelstreppe. The mountaineering community in the Alpenwald is very close and the princess is a casual climber herself. Perhaps she simply wishes to pay her compliments to one of the most accomplished mountaineers of the age. In any event, the princess wants to be present and we can hardly refuse a head of state.”
“There might be a more cynical reason,” I proposed. “The Alpenwalders derive a good deal of their national income from the money spent by mountaineers traveling to climb the Teufelstreppe. They must be desperately embarrassed that Miss Baker-Greene died on their alp.”
“You may indeed be right,” Lady C. said briskly. “Alpinists are a superstitious lot and one of their contingent has already let slip that the numbers of planned expeditions for the next season are decidedly low. A bit of good publicity will certainly not hurt, if that is what they are after. I only know that I have been instructed by Her Serene Highness’s people to make certain the grand tradition of climbing in the Alpenwald is sufficiently reflected in this exhibition to further formal Anglo-Alpenwalder relations.”
“I wasn’t aware there were formal Anglo-Alpenwalder relations,” I put in.
“God yes,” Stoker replied. “Father used to do business with them. We do not have a proper embassy in Hochstadt, but he acted as a sort of de facto consul for a few years—well before I was born. He said it was the oddest little place he had ever been. One mountain, one small city, one castle, and seventy varieties of beer. He remembered it with great difficulty,” he finished with a grin. I was not surprised the late Viscount Templeton-Vane had afforded himself of whatever libationary charms the Alpenwald offered. He had not been a particularly abstemious man, if his reputation was correct.
“And one of our own royal family married into theirs a few generations back,” Lady C. put in. “A sister of George III? Or was it George IV? In any event, we have an entire exhibition to finish and less than a week in which to do it. Do you think we can manage?” A trace of worry touched her brow, creasing it.
“Certainly,” Stoker soothed. “If I have to hold this blasted goat together with my bare hands while the princess walks by.”
She smiled. “Thank you. And naturally, you will both be expected to be here for Her Serene Highness’s official opening of the exhibition. You will be presented to the princess.”