Chapter
1
London, 1889
Stoker, I cannot say that I care much for your goat. He is leering at me.“
Stoker
grunted by way of reply. The Honorable Revelstoke Templeton-Vane-Stoker
to friends and enemies alike-was my professional collaborator in
endeavors of natural history as well as murderous adventures. (The
solving of them, I should note, not the committing of them.) He was
also, as of the previous month, my bedmate. The fact that our
relationship, once an elevated meeting of the minds, had evolved to
include a rapturous commingling of our persons did not preclude him from
taking umbrage when I criticized his work. He was nothing if not
exacting in his practice of the taxidermical arts.
”Protest
all you like,“ I told him with my usual firmness, ”but that goat is
most definitely looking at me, and with an expression I can only
describe as unwholesome.“
Stoker
rose from where he had been brushing out the pelt of the animal in
question and gave me a pointed stare of his own. ”That goat, I will have
you know, is an example of Capra ibex, the European mountain goat.
Furthermore, this particular specimen is an extremely rare variety found
only on the slopes of the Alpenwald. You will note that the development
of the horn-“
It
was at this point that I stopped listening, letting the gentle tirade
flow over me like a burbling river. Stoker was never happier than when
imparting information, whether one asked for it or not. This, I had
observed frequently upon my travels, is common in the male of the
species. Did I hold forth at length on the details of Alpenwalder
lepidoptery? I did not, although, I reflected as I regarded the display
case before me, I had rather better cause than Stoker and his smelly old
goat. Alpenwalder butterflies-and one rather spectacular moth-were few
in number but charming, with a subtlety of color and line that only a
true connoisseur would appreciate. One in particular, Papilio athena,
sported a delicate blue coloration, its hindwings touched lightly with a
spot of white, like a tender bloom against an Alpine sky. I gently
adjusted the angle of a wing, showing it to best advantage against the
dark cloth I had pinned for a backdrop with as much care as a theatrical
impresario considering his leading lady.
”Are you listening, Veronica?“ Stoker demanded.
”Not in the slightest,“ I assured him cheerfully.
”I
was saying that it is no doubt the pupils which account for the
expression,“ he informed me. ”They are both square and horizontal, which
is decidedly uncomfortable for human sensibilities to appreciate. I
daresay another goat would find this fellow quite handsome.“
I flicked the goat a sidelong glance. ”Perhaps his mother.“
Stoker
went on as if I had not spoken. ”Besides which, the horizontal pupil
is, I suspect, a function of evolution. It may well provide a wider
aspect for a grazing creature, which is naturally subject to predation,
to be forewarned when a predator is about. If you consider the necessity
of passing such a trait to one’s offspring-“
”If you speak of Lamarck’s theory one more time, I shall scream,“ I warned him.
His expression was cool. ”I certainly do think that Lamarck had some perfectly sound ideas,“ he began.
I
opened my mouth to deliver the promised shriek when the door opened and
Lady Cordelia Beauclerk entered. ”Good morning to you both. Getting on
with the exhibition, I see?“ she greeted us. Her color was good and her
step firm, both of which I observed with real pleasure. In addition to
being the sister of our patron and employer, the Earl of Rosemorran,
Lady Cordelia was friend to both of us. The previous year had been a
trying one for her in every possible way, and she had consequently
suffered considerable lowness of spirits. I had attempted to counter
this malaise by the occasional evening spent in reading fashion papers
and drinking copious amounts of aguardiente, a potent South American
intoxicant-to mixed effect. But with a new project in hand, she seemed
invigorated. She had been chosen to oversee the installation of an
exhibition of mountaineering including Alpenwalder flora and fauna at
the Hippolyta Club, an establishment devoted to the edification and
fellowship of women of adventure.
To
those of us who were members, it was affectionately known as the
Curiosity Club, a private aerie where we might gather and discuss our
exploits and pursuits with like-minded women. We ran the gamut from
mathematical geniuses (Lady Cordelia) to world-traveled lepidopterists
(myself), with everything from botanists to zoologists in between. We
gathered for lectures and magic lantern shows, photographical exhibits,
musical evenings, scientific demonstrations, and the presentation of
academic papers.
And
we gathered to mourn. Ours was an intrepid and fearless group of
wanderers, and whilst some, like the academics, rarely traveled beyond
the shores of the British Isles, there were always those scattered about
the globe in pursuit of their passions. One such, a mountaineer by the
name of Alice Baker-Greene, had perished a few months previously on the
highest peak in the Alpenwald, a tiny country lodged precariously on the
border between Germany and France. Located somewhere vaguely north of
Switzerland, it boasted one impressive mountain, the Teufelstreppe, an
alp whose position on the map gave the impression that it had wandered
off from its brothers after a quarrel and taken up solitary residence a
little distance away.
The
Alpenwald as a country was aloof, seldom deigning to mix in the
quarrels of its neighbors, counting postage stamps-colorful and highly
collectible-and mountaineering as the pillars of its economy. The fact
that an English climber had lost her life on their alp had been a source
of keen embarrassment to them. They had shipped over Miss
Baker-Greene’s effects, which her grandmother, a noted alpinist herself,
had immediately forwarded to the club for an exhibition dedicated to
her granddaughter’s life and work. Lady C., who had known Miss
Baker-Greene and admired her, immediately volunteered to undertake the
arranging of the exhibition, recruiting Stoker’s assistance in creating a
diorama of mountain fauna as well as enlisting me to prepare the
butterfly mounts and attend to the rest of the preparations.
Lady
C. had taken a keen interest in every detail, supervising us with an
attentiveness that bordered upon the oppressive, but I could not find it
in my heart to begrudge her. It was the first real interest she had
shown in any project since our voyage to Madeira the previous year, and I
was delighted to observe her healthful appearance as she stepped close
to the wall, peering intently at a detailed watercolor map of the
Alpenwald that had been handsomely framed and hung at eye level. It
depicted the thick black evergreen forests that fringed the tiny
country, giving way here and there to fertile valleys that shimmered
with the silvery green tributaries of the Rhine. In the center, the
vertiginous peak of the Teufelstreppe hung above the tidy capital of
Hochstadt. A series of photographs next to the map showed narrow streets
little larger than alleyways, twisting beneath the overhanging upper
stories of half-timbered houses whose balconies were laden with colorful
blossoms and banners. All led eventually to a main square that fronted
the royal castle, a faery-tale eminence of grey stone and peaked turrets
that would have looked very much at home in any child’s storybook.
Lady
C. gave a cluck of approval. ”Very good. The average person has never
even heard of the place. This will provide a sort of context for the
rest of the exhibit,“ she remarked, more to herself than to us. She
turned to me. ”Butterflies next, I think. We ought to build up to
Stoker’s rather more arresting goat,“ she added with a nod towards the
alcove where Stoker continued to work on his mount. She tipped her head
thoughtfully. ”I cannot say that I like that drapery very much,“ she
said.
Stoker
poked at the thick folds of figured scarlet damask hung behind the
alcove. ”It does rather ruin the effect.“ He stepped back, stroking his
chin, leaving a trail of sawdust along the whisker-roughened jaw. ”What
if I painted a mountain scene, something simple, just to set the stage,
so to speak? I could position the canvas just behind the mount.“
Lady C. nodded. ”That could be quite effective indeed.“
”But
not with that carpet,“ I pointed out. The goat’s cloven hooves balanced
atop a gold-and-scarlet carpet woven with a running H pattern, much
like a mayoral chain. It had been specially woven for the club’s display
hall, adding a touch of grandeur to an otherwise staid room.
Stoker shrugged. ”I could sculpt a base and cover it with moss to give the effect of spring upon the mountain,“ he offered.
”Perfect,“ Lady C. pronounced. ”I think that will make Her Serene Highness very happy indeed.“
Stoker and I exchanged glances. ”Her Serene Highness?“ I ventured.
Lady
C. nodded. ”Her Serene Highness, Gisela Frederica Victoria Helena, the
Hereditary Princess of the Alpenwald and ruler of that country. We have
just received word that the princess herself wishes to open the
exhibition.“
”Why on earth would the Alpenwalder princess come here to open an exhibition honoring an English climber?“ Stoker demanded.
It
was Lady C.’s turn to shrug. ”Miss Baker-Greene’s greatest achievements
as an alpinist came on the Teufelstreppe. The mountaineering community
in the Alpenwald is very close and the princess is a casual climber
herself. Perhaps she simply wishes to pay her compliments to one of the
most accomplished mountaineers of the age. In any event, the princess
wants to be present and we can hardly refuse a head of state.“
”There
might be a more cynical reason,“ I proposed. ”The Alpenwalders derive a
good deal of their national income from the money spent by mountaineers
traveling to climb the Teufelstreppe. They must be desperately
embarrassed that Miss Baker-Greene died on their alp.“
”You
may indeed be right,“ Lady C. said briskly. ”Alpinists are a
superstitious lot and one of their contingent has already let slip that
the numbers of planned expeditions for the next season are decidedly
low. A bit of good publicity will certainly not hurt, if that is what
they are after. I only know that I have been instructed by Her Serene
Highness’s people to make certain the grand tradition of climbing in the
Alpenwald is sufficiently reflected in this exhibition to further
formal Anglo-Alpenwalder relations.“
”I wasn’t aware there were formal Anglo-Alpenwalder relations,“ I put in.
”God
yes,“ Stoker replied. ”Father used to do business with them. We do not
have a proper embassy in Hochstadt, but he acted as a sort of de facto
consul for a few years-well before I was born. He said it was the oddest
little place he had ever been. One mountain, one small city, one
castle, and seventy varieties of beer. He remembered it with great
difficulty,“ he finished with a grin. I was not surprised the late
Viscount Templeton-Vane had afforded himself of whatever libationary
charms the Alpenwald offered. He had not been a particularly abstemious
man, if his reputation was correct.
”And
one of our own royal family married into theirs a few generations
back,“ Lady C. put in. ”A sister of George III? Or was it George IV? In
any event, we have an entire exhibition to finish and less than a week
in which to do it. Do you think we can manage?“ A trace of worry touched
her brow, creasing it.
”Certainly,“ Stoker soothed. ”If I have to hold this blasted goat together with my bare hands while the princess walks by.“
She
smiled. ”Thank you. And naturally, you will both be expected to be here
for Her Serene Highness’s official opening of the exhibition. You will
be presented to the princess.“
Stoker
and I exchanged glances again. After a few of our more recent
adventures, I had had quite enough of princesses, but Stoker’s concern
was more pragmatic.
”Surely you do not mean to present me,“ he said gently.
Stoker’s
status as a man whose marriage had ended in divorce put him socially
beyond the pale. He could never be presented at Court, nor would any
member of the royal family or the highest circles of society recognize
him in public. This troubled him not at all; in fact, on more than one
occasion he observed he would have divorced his mildly homicidal wife
far earlier if he had known it would result in people leaving him in
peace.
Lady
C.’s expression was one she did not often adopt, but it was sternly
effective. She could not bear hypocrisy, and the notion that Stoker
should be ostracized for divorce when almost every member of refined
society was cheerfully committing adultery was one she found enraging.
”I
have spoken to the princess’s entourage and made it quite clear that
the dictates of the Hippolyta Club forbidding exclusion on the grounds
of marital status are to be honored, regardless of royal custom.“
I
grinned at him. ”You know the rules, Stoker. We do not discriminate
against the divorced here, but the fact that you are a man means you are
welcome only on sufferance.“
I turned back to Lady C. ”And I am to be presented as well?“
”As one of the official representatives of the club,“ she said, clearly expecting I would appreciate the honor.
I
thought of what would most likely be endlessly boring rules on protocol
and forced conversation with a princess who would most likely be dull
in the extreme if not actively stupid. I bared my teeth in a smile.
”What an unexpected delight,“ I told her. ”I cannot wait.“
Chapter
2
The
next few days were ones of frantic activity, with more boxes being
delivered from Alice Baker-Greene’s grandmother. That imperious old lady
sent each with lengthy instructions on how the memorabilia were to be
displayed written in a firm, bold hand. There was a small crate filled
with tiny belts and pickaxes-a child’s collection of climbing gear. I
brandished the murderous little things at Stoker.
”Can you imagine learning to climb as a child?“ I asked.
Stoker looked up from where he was applying lavish amounts of glue to a sculpted base. ”Did she?“
”She
did indeed. Her grandmother taught her. Have you not read Climbing in
the Peaks: A Lady Mountaineer’s Guide to the Pennines by Mrs. Pompeia
Baker-Greene?“
”I have not,“ he admitted.
I
curled a lip. ”She is a pioneer of the alpinist movement, a founding
fellow of the Hippolyta Club, and yet you haven’t read her magnum opus.
You are a dreadfully lax explorer.“
He
gave me a repressive look. ”I have had rather a busy time of it
lately," he reminded me. He was not entirely wrong. Between sleuthing
out murderers, cataloging the Rosemorran Collection, and allowing
ourselves to experience the rumbustious pleasures of the flesh, we had
had little time to spare for hobbies.
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