An Unexpected Peril (Veronica Speedwell #6)(9)

Stoker inclined his head to the princess, but I merely stood. I had long ago given up any form of genuflecting.

The princess came closer, leveling an assessing look at us. I had the oddest sensation that I had seen her somewhere before, but I could not place her amongst my acquaintance. I had not included the Alpenwald on my travels—the butterfly population, as previously noted, was pretty but hardly worthy of a special expedition—nor did I collect postage stamps or pungent cheeses, the other two principal attractions of the Alpenwald.

The princess spoke, her English fluent and only lightly touched with a very faint German accent. “You have shocked my companion, Miss Speedwell. You believe Miss Baker-Greene was murdered? This is a most distressing accusation.”

“Observation, Your Serene Highness,” I corrected quickly. “Not an accusation.”

She lifted one fingertip in a gesture of dismissal. “Semantics, I think. In order to observe that a murder has been committed, there must be a murderer, must there not.” It was phrased as a question, but without the upward inflection that would have invited a response. She put out her hand for the rope.

Wordlessly, Stoker gave it to her, and she spent a long moment studying it. “You believe this rope is proof of something nefarious?” she asked, frowning.

“Mr. Templeton-Vane has some experience with ropes,” I said demurely.

Stoker shot me a look but stepped forward. “With your permission, Your Serene Highness.” He took the rope back, pointing to the significant marks. “Here and here, you can clearly see the effect of a blade.”

“I see the end of a rope,” the princess said coolly. She turned to her companion. “Margareta, what do you see?”

The Baroness von Wallenberg lifted the monocle pinned to her collar and fitted it into place. She bent to peer through the lens, shaking her head after a long moment. “I suppose it is possible,” she added with an apologetic little glance towards Stoker. “This gentleman is doubtless more learned than I on the subject of ropes.”

The princess looked at Lady C., who hurried to supply Stoker’s bona fides. “Mr. Templeton-Vane spent the years of his youth in a traveling circus, madame. He was responsible for rigging the tents as well as the lines for the tightrope walkers. He later served for several years in Her Majesty’s Navy as a surgeon’s mate.”

The princess’s ebony brows rose slightly. “A surgeon’s mate. Not a sailor?”

“Not a sailor,” Stoker admitted.

The princess pressed the matter. “And you worked in your youth in a circus.” She surveyed him from tousled hair to scuffed boot tips. “I think it is perhaps a few years since your youth?”

“I am more than thirty,” he agreed.

“And do you have experience with climbing ropes?” she asked in the same blankly conversational tone.

“I regret that I do not. I have done very little climbing in my travels, and never for sport.”

“For what purpose, then?” she asked, her frown deepening.

“Mr. Templeton-Vane is a natural historian,” Lady C. offered. “He has traveled extensively in Amazonia.”

The princess flicked her a glance, then returned her gaze to Stoker. “Amazonia. There are not many mountains there, I believe.”

“There are not,” Stoker said, his mouth tightening a little. “But ropes are ropes.”

“And mountains are mountains,” the princess returned coolly. “It was very warm on the Teufelstreppe this year. The step from which Miss Baker-Greene fell had almost no snow, and the stone is quite sharp.”

“Which would have frayed the rope,” I put in. “And this rope was clearly cut through with a blade.”

Lady C. gave a single pointed shake of the head, but I ignored her and pressed my point. “If Stoker says that Miss Baker-Greene’s ropes were tampered with, you would do well to believe him.”

The baroness gave a little gasp, which she covered with a cough. “We do not speak so directly in the Alpenwald,” she murmured helpfully in my direction.

“Well, in England, we do,” I replied with as much firmness as I could muster.

The princess gave me a long look. “You are forthright, Miss Speedwell. And a—what was it? Lepidopterist? This is a word I do not know in your language.”

Her lady-in-waiting stepped forward and gave a quick explanation in the native dialect—a form of German mixed with French and what sounded like the odd Italianate phrase. The princess’s expression turned from puzzled to mildly amused. “A butterfly hunter? You chase wingy insects for a living?”

“I do.”

“You must travel widely,” she observed.

“I have been round the globe four times,” I said.

“Impressive. And have you ever visited my country?” she inquired pleasantly.

“I regret I have not, but the Alpine clime is not the most agreeable for butterflying. There are a few perfectly charming Lassiomata and Erebia at altitude, of course, and the Papilio athena is quite pretty, but in the main it is an unsatisfactory environment for such activities.”

The princess bared her teeth in a smile. “I am sorry we disappoint you, Miss Speedwell. And I am sorry that I must disappoint you again. But I see no reason to believe in such sinister things as murder on the Teufelstreppe.” She made a melodramatic little gesture of dismissal.