An Unexpected Peril (Veronica Speedwell #6)(34)

Her expression did not change, but her hands curled into fists, twisting her skirts. “Duke Maximilian had nothing to do with Alice’s death. I would stake my life on it.”

“Then who do you think did?” I asked. She hesitated and I went on. “I know you believe her death was not accidental and neither do we—no matter what the inquest verdict said. Stoker and I have come to the conclusion that Alice was murdered.”

She choked a little and Julien hastened to bring her a glass of water. She drank it down, giving him a puzzled look. “It tastes odd.”

“Mint,” he said. “It adds a little something special.”

“Water ought to taste like water.” She thrust the glass back into his hands. She patted her lips with her apron. “It is a shock to hear it said aloud. I half thought I was going mad after that inquest. There were just so many things, peculiar things, and nobody in the Alpenwald seemed to care.” She enumerated them on her fingers. “Why was Alice given Durand’s house? Who was the moustachioed man on the mountain the day she died? Why was she climbing alone? Why was the inquest held so hastily?”

“Is that why you came here?” Stoker asked in a gentle tone.

She nodded. “My father was a writer, you know. He wrote for the London Eagle,” she said with unmistakable pride. Although not as prestigious as the Times, the Eagle was a solidly respectable newspaper that prided itself on impeccable standards. Liberal politicians subscribed to it; Radicals adored it; Conservatives gave it to their servants for the wrapping of fish and use in the privy. “Forty years he wrote, chasing stories like a lurcher after a hare. And he always said the best journalists have a sense for it, nose as keen as a hound’s for game. I had to keep after this because I smelt a story.”

“And you thought you could discover something from the princess’s entourage?” Stoker encouraged.

She shrugged and her entire demeanor seemed evasive. “My editor would not pay for another trip to the Alpenwald. There was no other way to pursue the story.”

“What have you discovered?” I demanded.

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 the Harbinger,” 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.