An Unexpected Peril (Veronica Speedwell #6)(4)

And I was not unacquainted with her. “It is a very good likeness,” I remarked to Stoker.

He came to look over my shoulder. “Good climbing hands,” he said, nodding towards them, crossed as they were over the head of her ice axe. They were broad of palm and long of finger, surprisingly elegant. “You met her, then?”

“Once,” I said. “Here at the club—it must have been more than a year ago. She gave a lecture on climbing in Bolivia. She was, quite simply, one of the most remarkable people I have ever met.”

I paused and looked again at the photograph. As I had observed, it was a good likeness, but could any image capture the vivacity, the bright spark of courage and animation that drew one’s attention like a moth to a candle flame in the darkness?

It had been a chill and wintry evening, I recalled, when I made my way to the Curiosity Club in the company of Lady C. I had attended other, smaller, events at the club, but this was my first “occasion” and I was conscious of a buzz of anticipation the moment I stepped over the threshold. As chair of the events committee, Lady C. bustled away to attend to a few last-minute details whilst I amused myself by inspecting the paintings hung in the main hall. Life-sized and rendered in oils, each depicted a different founding member of our organization. One in particular captured my imagination. The woman was sharp-eyed and sharp-chinned, and while most of the subjects had been painted looking off to far horizons, this explorer stared directly out of the canvas, as if to dare the viewer to take up the mantle of discovery for herself. She was clearly a mountain climber—holding an alpenstock, with one hand resting lightly upon a coil of rope—but she was dressed in the style of the early lady alpinists, with heavy skirts and thick plaits of hair bundled into a knitted snood. A boa of ostrich feathers softened the neckline of her tailored jacket, and I could detect the gleam of pearls in her ears. At the bottom of the frame, a small brass plaque identified her as the renowned climber Pompeia Baker-Greene.

“It is a dreadful painting,” came a gruff voice at my side. I turned to see an imposing old woman in a Bath chair, her hands lightly gripping the wheels as she came to a halt.

“I like it,” I said.

She jerked her chin at me. “Then your sight is defective or you are lacking in taste,” she pronounced.

“Grandmama.” A woman stepped forward, resting her own hand lightly on the older woman’s shoulder. There was a touch of reproof in her voice, but she was smiling.

“You will have to forgive her. Grandmama’s manners are not what they used to be.”

“Feathers,” said the old woman. “My manners were never very good to begin with. Most of what passes for politeness is simply a waste of time.” She patted the hand at her shoulder fondly as she gave me a searching look. “What do you like about it?”

I tipped my head and considered the painting. “She is not a woman who would step back from a challenge,” I said finally. “I suspect she is a kindred spirit.”

The old woman nodded slowly. “A kindred spirit. I like that.” Her gaze sharpened. “I am Pompeia Baker-Greene, alpinist,” she told me, flicking her gaze to the small brass plate affixed to the frame of the painting. It was the custom at the club to introduce oneself with a mention of one’s field of expertise. She turned her hawk’s eyes back to me as she put out her hand. “What is your name?”

“Veronica Speedwell, lepidopterist,” I told her, extending my hand. She shook it gravely and I could feel the strong sinews and slender bones even though the years had not been particularly kind. The knuckles were swollen and red, and her skin was heavily blotched with liverish spots.

“The indignities of age,” she said, sketching a vague gesture. “And if you think those are regrettable, you ought to see what has become of my bosom.”

“Grandmama,” the younger woman said, but she was grinning outright and I smiled.

“Gravity comes for us all in the end,” I remarked.

The older woman gave a bark of laughter as she eyed my own décolletage. “Mind you enjoy those whilst you can. Make the most of them before they make their descent.”

“I will,” I promised her. She gave me another nod and rolled herself away, but her granddaughter lingered.

“Thank you,” she said quietly. “She is a little too revered sometimes, and people forget to speak to her as if she was a human being. It can be lonely on Olympus.”

“I would have enjoyed speaking with her longer,” I said truthfully. “I mean to be a tremendously outrageous old woman in due course and I might learn a thing or two from her.”

She laughed, her grandmother’s quick, sharp laugh. “Indeed, you would.” She put out her hand. “Alice Baker-Greene, alpinist.”

“And tonight’s guest of honor,” I finished. “I am very excited to hear your talk.”

She pulled a rueful face. “I dread these sorts of occasions,” she confided. She glanced around as if to make certain we were not overheard. “I would far rather sit in my study with a good glass of cognac and write up my climbing notes than stand up in front of a group of people and talk about myself. Still,” she said, brightening, “at least I will not be asking you lot for money.”

“Is that the normal course of affairs?” I inquired.