An Unexpected Peril (Veronica Speedwell #6)(62)
“‘Maximilian Detlef Reinhardt Luitpold von Hochstadt, Duke of Lokendorf,’” I read aloud to Vespertine. Detlef. Or duke. Either began with a “d.” On a whim, I turned a few pages to the entry for the chancellor, running my finger down the page until I came to his paragraph. “Dagobert,” I said, snapping the book closed decisively. “It appears every man who knew Alice is a candidate.” I replaced the volume and returned to the notebook with a sigh of irritation. As I reached for it, the book slipped a little and my fingernail caught on the endpaper, tearing the corner. It was marbled stuff, Florentine and heavy, and I swore under my breath for damaging it. But when I inspected it more closely, I could see that I had not torn it at all. Rather, my nail had slid beneath the edge of the endpaper where it had been pasted down, cracking it free of the spine of the book.
I took it nearer the lamp to assess how easily I might glue the endpaper back again, but as I held it to the light, I noticed the endpaper stood very slightly proud of the cover in the center. Something had been pasted inside it, I realized. I took up my paper knife, a dagger I had liberated from the Rosemorran Collection. It had once stabbed a Venetian nobleman, but I employed it for a far more quotidian purpose. I slipped the blade beneath the edge of the endpaper, levering it gently, ever so gently. The paper resisted, then came away, bit by bit, until I laid it back, revealing a single page, folded carefully. I extracted it and opened it cautiously.
I had expected a letter, perhaps. Something romantic, maybe a bit of poetry or a few sentences of passionate declaration. Instead it was a sketch, detailed and done with skill and exquisite care. Noted at the bottom was the word “Dolcezza,” and I laughed aloud. The word meant “sweetness” in Italian, and suddenly I understood the reason for all the climbs in Italy and Switzerland. D.
I studied the sketch for several minutes, realizing I was doubtless the first person to have seen this since Alice had pasted it into her notebook—the notebook she had carried with her everywhere, the notebook that had been with her when she died. “I am glad,” I said quietly. “I am glad you had a little happiness.”
I was still looking at the sketch when Stoker left off playing with his spoonbill and came to look over my shoulder. He glanced, then peered closely with astonished eyes. “Veronica, why is there a nude sketch of you in Alice Baker-Greene’s notebook?”
“Because that is not me,” I told him. “It is Princess Gisela.”
CHAPTER
17
Stoker brewed us a strong pot of tea whilst we considered the implications of the sketch. I retrieved a stack of newspapers from the Germanic section of the Belvedere and pointed him to the relevant dates whilst I took over the chore of making the tea. His German was rough but much better than mine, and with the assistance of a German-English dictionary—not quite as good as an Alpenwalder-English dictionary but such a volume has yet to be written—he managed to decipher the broad strokes of the Hochstadt Court Circular for the dates in question.
By the time the last of the tea had been drunk and the better part of an entire tin of Cook’s candied ginger shortbread consumed, he was finished. “I have compared the dates of Gisela’s absences from the Alpenwald to Alice’s expeditions when she climbed with ‘D.’ You are correct. They tally in every particular.”
“That is why she was making her home in the Alpenwald,” I said, still not entirely believing how blind we had been to the possibility of Alice’s affections being fixed upon Gisela.
“How devastated she must have been!” I added.
“What do you mean?” Stoker’s brow furrowed.
“They clearly spent much time together, cared deeply for one another—Gisela must have been distraught when Alice died. And yet, as princess, she could never publicly reveal her grief. Imagine her, forced to conceal her emotions all this time.” I fell silent as a growing horror dawned swiftly upon me.
Stoker was quick to intuit my thoughts. “And then we told her that the woman she loved was murdered. Worst of all, she overheard it! It was not put to her gently or kindly. It was a passing piece of gossip and we discussed it as if it were an academic matter rather than a tragedy of the most intimate variety.”
And then a new horror introduced itself, a crawling, wriggling, nasty little doubt. “Unless . . .” I let my voice trail off uncertainly.
“Unless?” he prompted.
“Unless Gisela is the one who murdered her,” I finished grimly.
“You cannot be serious,” Stoker said in a tone which did not invite argument.
But I would not be deterred. “We are investigating this matter. As logical thinkers, we cannot ignore the possibility of Gisela’s guilt.”
He folded his arms over the breadth of his chest. “I am listening. Lay out the argument.”
“Very well. Most murders are committed within the confines of a domestic relationship. For all its unorthodoxy, this attachment falls within that frame. In fact, I would argue that it does so even more than a conventional relationship.”
“How so?”
“Those whose love is not sanctioned by society are forced to hide their affections. Such a situation can draw people closer together, heightening both passions and tensions. There may be no one in whom they can confide if there are troubles, no one who might advise or give them wise counsel on how to manage such a situation. It is easy then for matters to simply move beyond their control.”