An Unexpected Peril (Veronica Speedwell #6)(23)

I thought a moment, then gave him a triumphant look. “Douglas Norton could not have known the badge and rope would be in the effects sent to the club. Only someone in the Alpenwald would have known that.”

He rolled his eyes. “The exhibition is a celebration of Alice Baker-Greene’s lifetime as an alpinist. It is a reasonable expectation it would include artifacts from her last climb.”

“Possibly.”

He grinned again. “So, we are in agreement insofar as we believe it is possible that Alice was the victim of a calculated and deliberate murder, carried out by a man with moustaches and climbing experience.”

“Correct.”

“But how does that fit with the theft of the items from the club?” he asked, stroking his chin thoughtfully. He had shaved, imperfectly as usual, and there was a blue-black shadow at his jaw. With his long, tumbled ebony locks and the glint of gold hoops in his ears, he bore a striking resemblance to an Elizabethan buccaneer, even more so when he donned the eye patch he occasionally wore to rest the eye that had been injured in a dispute with a jaguar. (Stoker, I should mention, emerged wounded and scarred from the fight but very much alive, which is more than one can say for the jaguar.)

In any event, surveying his physical charms was a distraction I could not afford, I told myself sternly. I had a murderer to catch.

I clipped the last article I had unearthed and placed it with the other cuttings, bundling them neatly into a file while Stoker continued to muse.

“It might have been anyone,” he said finally.

“How can you possibly think so?” I demanded. “The only people in the room were the Alpenwalder delegation of the princess and her lady-in-waiting, Lady C., and the pair of us. In case it has escaped your notice, none of us is a moustachioed man of superlative climbing ability.”

“No, but we were not the only ones to see those particular items,” he pointed out. “Someone recovered Alice’s things. Someone packed and shipped them.”

“Surely if the murderer was involved in conveying her things, they would have removed them,” I protested.

“Perhaps they could not,” he theorized. “Perhaps they were never alone with her possessions. They might have bided their time until now when they were relatively easy to retrieve from the club.”

“It would take an audacious murderer to do such a thing,” I said slowly.

“More audacious than attacking a world-class climber on a mountain? If this is indeed how she was murdered, then the killer is a man of tremendous nerve and excellent timing—both skills that a mountaineer must possess, in any event. And if it was,” he went on, “there is always the possibility that the killer never intended to retrieve the rope and badge at all. Think of it, if some of Alice’s things go missing, it draws attention to them. But a bit of rope and a badge that everyone already knew she owned? By themselves they are unremarkable. Far safer to leave them be and let everyone get on with burying the dead.”

“But then you discovered that the rope had been cut,” I said, “suggesting murder had been done and leaving the killer open to exposure for the first time. Which leads us back to the people in that room at the club.”

“Except that we were not the only ones who would have known about it,” he countered. “You and I have mentioned it to no one, but Lady C. has told Hestia and the board. The Alpenwalders have most likely discussed it amongst themselves.”

“They have,” I said heavily. “I had a letter last night from the baroness.” I told him what the note had said and he gave a nod of satisfaction.

“Well, there it is. Nothing more to be done.”

“Nothing more to be done! You just agreed there is most likely a murderer walking free.”

“And we can do nothing without the cooperation of the Alpenwalders except provoke an international incident, which I, for one, do not intend to do. We can do nothing,” he repeated firmly as he poured a fresh cup of tea for himself.

I thought of the last flutter of Hercules’ wing as it brushed against my skin. I had given Stoker my word we would not pursue the matter of Alice Baker-Greene’s death. But in the cold light of morning, I regretted it.

I regarded him over the breakfast table as he stirred in his sugar and considered my options carefully. We were in the throes of a relationship that was perilously new. Neither of us was accomplished at such things, and I found myself suddenly resisting the compromise and cooperation that were the obvious cornerstones of such endeavors. Was I always to be biting my tongue, squelching my most intrepid impulses in the name of keeping the peace? Was he?

It was a chilling thought and one I rebelled against instantly.

I raised my chin and gave him my most defiant look. “Can’t we?”

“Veronica,” he said in a dangerously low voice, “you promised.”

“A promise made under duress is not binding,” I said with cool detachment.

“Duress! What duress?” he demanded. “I did not exactly hold you at swordpoint.”

“No, but our relationship is one of an intimate nature. Such things can be coercive upon the weaker sex,” I said demurely.

“Weaker?” He choked and only recovered himself when he had drunk half a cup of tea. “My dear Veronica, any person who would consider you an exemplar of any variety of weakness wants his head examined.”