An Unexpected Peril (Veronica Speedwell #6)(24)
“That is very kind of you to say, I am sure,” I replied, “but the fact remains that I am not entirely comfortable with the promise I made to leave this investigation alone.”
“There is no investigation,” he reminded me.
“All the more reason to begin one. Perhaps a quick word with Sir Hugo,” I suggested.
He pushed aside his teacup with a sigh. “I repeat, what you propose has the potential to create an international incident. The crime, if there was one, occurred in another country, a sovereign country. We have no right, nor does Sir Hugo or any other member of Her Majesty’s government, to interfere in their system of justice.”
“Justice!” I rejoined in real bitterness. “Where is the justice in refusing to look into the murder at all?”
“I know this is a matter of frustration for you,” he said gently, “but you agreed enough with my arguments yesterday to give me your word. Unless you were crossing your fingers,” he added with a small smile—the smile one might give to a recalcitrant child.
Sudden rage boiled up within me, but I smothered it, determined to keep our conversation civil and not, as I was inclined to do, hurl the toast rack at his head.
Striving for patience, I attempted a different tack. “It is not for my own sake or even the sake of justice that I suggest such a thing,” I said, adopting a wistful tone. “It is only for that poor old granny.”
He furrowed his brow. “What granny?”
“Mrs. Baker-Greene, of course. Alice’s grandmother. She has lost so many people dear to her,” I said sadly. “Her husband. Her son. Now her granddaughter. All taken from her by the mountains she loves so desperately. I cannot imagine bearing up under that kind of loss.”
“All the more reason to leave her in peace,” he said sternly.
“She is very old, you know. Nearly seventy-five. And confined to a Bath chair,” I added.
“Poor old dear. All those decades of hauling herself up mountains in the coldest and most unforgiving of climates have left her victim to the most devilish rheumatism. I can imagine her now,” I went on, painting a picture of maudlin isolation, “sitting by the hearthside, praying just a little of the warmth of the fire will sink into her bones and ease her aching joints. And the long lonely hours with nothing but the wind for company as it blows in the lonely casement.”
Stoker looked baffled. “For all you know she lives in a modern building with steam heat and gaslights.”
“Of course she doesn’t,” I retorted. “She is a woman of advanced years. Women of advanced years always live in cottages. Usually with cats of malodorous appearance.”
“That is the most absurd statement,” he began.
“Your old nanny,” I hazarded, “probably lives in a cottage.” It was always a winning strategy to prod his overweening sense of chivalry.
He snorted. “My old nanny has a boardinghouse in Brighton that is fitted with an electric generator because she blackmailed my father into giving her half of my mother’s jewels.”
I blinked at him. “She what?”
He picked up his teacup again. “That is a tale for another time.”
I returned to the subject at hand only with great difficulty as I made a mental note to revisit the subject of his nanny at a more opportune moment. “But surely Mrs. Baker-Greene would want justice to be done,” I pointed out. “I know it.”
“You do not know anything of the sort,” he retorted. “Furthermore—”
He did not have the chance to finish that sentence because just then George the hallboy appeared, trotting quickly with a note that he waved like a crusader’s banner. “Miss!” he exclaimed, thrusting the missive into my hands. It was thick, creamy paper, sealed with blue wax marked with a complicated cipher and only slightly begrimed by his grubby hands. I cracked open the seal and noticed at once the elaborate crest at the top.
“What new intrigues?” Stoker asked, lazily breaking up the last of the oatcakes to fling to the dogs.
I skimmed the few lines. The hand was firm, the language formal. I brandished the page with a smile. “It is a summons. From a fellow called von Rechstein. Chancellor of the Alpenwald.”
He read over the note in obvious astonishment. “You cannot be serious.”
I shrugged. “It appears we are wanted. And I have kept my promise—I did not pursue this.”
Stoker swore then, an entirely new phrase I had not heard before.
“Some new addition to your vocabulary? Or did they teach you that in naval college?”
He repeated it as I folded the note. “Come along and don’t be sulky,” I instructed. “We are needed.”
CHAPTER
7
The note directed us to come with all haste to the Sudbury Hotel, a luxurious establishment located in the heart of London. It was new and furnished in the height of discreet good taste. Here were no gilded embellishments such as may be found in the more opulent hotels of New York, none of the silken debaucheries of Parisian enclaves. There was only a quiet richness of décor that whispered of excellent service and perfect comfort. I sighed as we crossed into the lobby, trading the sooty, befogged streets of the city for the glowing warmth of the hotel’s interior. Our journey had been lengthy and cold, traversing the frost-slicked streets in an imperfectly heated hackney with a driver who swore the air blue with his imprecations against the weather and the congested traffic.