An Unexpected Peril (Veronica Speedwell #6)(8)
“A tragic accident,” I began.
Stoker held up the end of the rope. Instead of a broken collection of frayed fibers, it was taut and neat, cut straight across.
“Stoker, you cannot think—”
“That someone deliberately cut her rope? That is exactly what I think.”
CHAPTER
3
I put out my hand for the rope. “Show me.”
He did, bending near enough for me to smell the delectable scent of honey drops on his breath as he explained. “This rope, like all good climbing and rigging ropes, is—”
A sympathetic reader will understand that I regarded Stoker’s subsequent explanation as so much background noise as I examined the rope. He held forth at some length about hempen fibers and tensile strength and spiral braiding and all manner of technical details whilst I raised the rope at eye level, noting the single strand of scarlet in the middle and inspecting the end with care. It was perfectly, brutally straight.
Stoker, detecting my lack of attention to his remarks, gave a sigh and retrieved a short length of rope from his pocket with his clasp knife. “Here. I will demonstrate.”
He always carried a bit of narrow rope in his pocket to amuse himself in idle moments with the tying of elaborate knots, a holdover from his days in Her Majesty’s Navy. His nimble fingers made quick work of the knots he had tied, and he folded the rope over the blade of his knife. He sawed once or twice and the rope snapped in two. He held the cut ends against the larger sample from Alice Baker-Greene’s climbing apparatus. “My rope is smaller in diameter, but the principle is the same. A cut rope will present a sharp, flat plain to the eye,” he said. “A frayed rope will not.”
I peered closely at the ropes but there was no arguing with his hypothesis. Still, I turned over all the possibilities in my mind. “Ropes are sold by the length. Perhaps this is the end that was cut when she purchased it.”
He shook his head. “For mountaineers, the fresh-cut ends are whipped with twine to keep them from fraying. There is no twine in evidence and the cut is obviously new.”
“Then perhaps Miss Baker-Greene cut it herself because it proved too long or there was a spot of weakness?” I suggested.
“Again, she would have secured the end immediately by whipping it with twine. No experienced climber would go out with a rope that has not been whipped. This is fresh,” he added, pointing to the brighter color of the exposed rope compared to the weathered hue of the rest.
I nodded slowly. “Very well. The rope was deliberately cut. We must inform the Hereditary Princess that Alice Baker-Greene was murdered.”
Stoker blinked slowly at me. “I beg your pardon?”
“It is the only logical conclusion,” I began.
“It bloody well is not! I can think of a dozen other explanations,” he countered.
“I will wait.” I tipped my head to the side, adopting a patient expression.
After a long moment, Stoker exhaled gustily. “She might have cut the rope herself.”
“I already suggested that,” I reminded him. “And you said it was not possible because the rope has not been whipped.”
“Perhaps it became tangled on the climb and she had to cut it free,” he said, his eyes glinting with possible triumph.
“No, I think you were quite correct the first time,” I said cheerfully. “This is a case of murder.”
“I reject this,” Stoker said in a tone that bordered on desperation.
“Stoker, as you well know, murders happen,” I told him.
“But why must they happen to us?”
I patted his shoulder kindly. “Because Fate knows we will always rise to the occasion, for we are the servants of Justice.”
“Even servants have the occasional month off,” he said in some bitterness.
“Do not look so downcast,” I chided. “We have once more the opportunity to test our mettle, to pit our wits against those of a killer. Do you not find it exhilarating? We will apply ourselves to this latest puzzle and emerge triumphant,” I assured him. “But our first task must be to inform the authorities that Alice Baker-Greene was murdered.”
A gasp cut through the silence that followed my pronouncement. So intent had we been upon our discussion, we had neither of us noticed the trio standing in the doorway. Lady C., accompanied by a pair of ladies I did not know. One was shorter, a little inclined to stoutness, although it was well concealed by her expensive walking suit of dark blue. She would never see forty again—and perhaps not fifty—and would have been an interesting-looking woman were it not for her companion, an arrestingly comely young woman near to my own age. Her hair, black as a raven’s wing, was piled atop her head in an enormous and elaborate coiffure secured with jeweled pins. Her eyes, a peculiar dark violet, were bright with interest as she stared from Stoker to me and back again. It was her companion who had gasped, the older woman’s mouth still rounded with astonishment.
“Who is this person?” the older woman demanded of Lady C.
Lady C. stepped forward, turning to address the younger lady. “Your Serene Highness,” she said, her demeanor unruffled despite the strangeness of the moment, “may I present the pair working most closely to assemble the exhibition, Miss Veronica Speedwell and Mr. Revelstoke Templeton-Vane. Miss Speedwell is a member of the club, a renowned lepidopterist, and Mr. Templeton-Vane is the younger brother of Viscount Templeton-Vane.” She turned to us. “Veronica, Stoker. Her Serene Highness, the Princess Gisela of the Alpenwald and her lady-in-waiting, the Baroness von Wallenberg.”