She led us into the sitting room, a luxurious chamber furnished in various shades of mossy green velvets and petal pink silks. A fire leapt merrily on the hearth, but there was no friendliness in the welcome. A gentleman stood stiffly at attention, his posture distinctly Teutonic, his uniform covered in medals from various honors. Like the guard captain’s, his moustaches were lavish and curled elaborately, but his head was bald as a new egg, shiny as the decorations on his chest. A second look told me that one of those decorations was a summit badge of the Alpenwalder Kletterverein Gipfelabzeichen, and I repressed a sigh of mild irritation. If every man from the Alpenwald sported moustaches and a summit badge, we should be overwhelmed by possible villains.
If I had to choose a likelier of the two men to prove the murderer, I should have selected this fellow without hesitation. A pair of long, narrow scars puckered his left cheek, and I was instantly reminded of my old friend the Baron von Stauffenbach, who sported identical marks as the relics of Bavarian duels fought in his youth. They lent dash and a certain devil-may-care air to a man, I always thought. But there was nothing of the baron’s warmth in this Alpenwalder, only a wary watchfulness as he clicked his heels and bowed from the neck. He fixed us with an icy blue stare, the hungry stare of a bird of prey assessing a small movement in the grass.
“Miss Speedwell. Mr. Templeton-Vane.”
Mindful of my manners, I raised my veil, then went forward, hand extended. “Chancellor von Rechstein, I presume?”
He regarded my hand with an expression akin to distaste, then took it, shaking only the fingertips. “Forgive me,” he said, inclining his head once more. “The shaking of hands is not a custom of our country.”
He overcame his disinclination to shake Stoker’s hand and waved us to a sofa that had been neatly placed in the center of the room, taking a chair opposite. The arrangement felt artificial until I realized it had been done quite deliberately to keep his face slightly shadowed while the light fell full upon ours. If I considered such a thought to be far-fetched, I had only to wait for his next remark to know it was not. He flicked a glance at Stoker but riveted his attention upon me, studying my features at some length before Stoker finally coughed, recalling the chancellor’s attention.
“Again, I must beg your forgiveness,” he said. He turned to the baroness. “You were quite right, Baroness. The resemblance is remarkable.” His expression was thoughtful. “But she would have to be intelligent for it to work. Uncommonly intelligent. The risks are too great otherwise.”
“I can vouch for Miss Speedwell’s gifts,” the lady murmured. “I have made inquiries.”
“Inquiries?” I asked. “What does this have to do with Alice Baker-Greene’s death?”
The chancellor’s pale blue eyes turned again to me. “Nothing whatsoever.”
“But isn’t that why you have asked us to come?” Stoker asked.
The chancellor pursed his lips. “The baroness related to me your observations about the rope, Mr. Templeton-Vane. It is my opinion that the rope was frayed on the climb and that Miss Baker-Greene’s death was an accident—a tragic and deplorable accident as was the verdict of our official inquest.” The note of finality in his voice made it clear he would brook no further discussion on the subject.
But I would not be discouraged by a little Teutonic forcefulness. I sat forward on the sofa. “Surely, Chancellor, you will agree—”
The baron turned to the baroness. “She is stubborn. Do you think it will present a problem?”
The baroness tipped her head, studying me like a zoological specimen. “I do not believe so.”
I exchanged glances with Stoker. “Do you know what they are talking about?” I murmured.
He shook his head. “Not in the slightest, but I have a very bad feeling I shan’t like it.”
I smiled at the pair of Alpenwalders. “Chancellor. Baroness. Perhaps we should begin again. If you did not summon us to discuss the death of Miss Baker-Greene, then why are we here?”
The chancellor said nothing but made a low, guttural noise of dismissal. He circled the sofa, surveying me slowly from all angles, as if inspecting a purchase. “She is shorter than Her Serene Highness,” he pronounced. “I noticed it at once when she entered.”
“High-heeled shoes will remedy that,” the baroness assured him. “And a high coiffure like the one the princess wears. The difference will not be detectable once I have finished with her.”
“Finished with what?” I demanded.
The chancellor scowled at the baroness. “You did not tell them?”
She dropped her eyes. “I thought it best coming from you, Excellency. I merely sent along your summons.”
He threw his hands heavenwards and muttered something in the Alpenwalder dialect. The baroness flushed a little, not unbecomingly, and I wondered how many decades they had been having these sorts of misunderstandings. He heaved a final sigh at the baroness and turned to address us. “Miss Speedwell. Mr. Templeton-Vane. My countrywoman has not done her duty by you,” he said with a faint note of reproof. The baroness flushed again but said nothing. He went on. “I have asked you here today on a matter completely unrelated to the death of Miss Baker-Greene. Two days ago, you made the acquaintance of Her Serene Highness, the Hereditary Princess. Today, I am distressed to relate to you that the princess cannot be found.”
I blinked at him. “I beg your pardon, Excellency?”
He looked at the baroness. “Is my English that poor? I thought I was perfectly clear.”
“You were,” she soothed. “The princess,” she repeated slowly, enunciating each syllable with care, “cannot be found.”
Stoker and I continued to stare blankly at the Alpenwalders. “Perhaps if we said it louder,” the baroness suggested.
The chancellor grunted in agreement. “THE PRINCESS,” he thundered, “CANNOT BE FOUND.”
My ears ringing, I held up a hand. “We heard you, Excellency. I am afraid we do not comprehend you. Do you mean your princess is missing?”
“Not missing,” the baroness said unhappily. “Just not here.”
“Do you know where she is?” Stoker asked.
“No,” was the reluctant answer.
“Then she is missing,” he replied flatly.
“And you want us to find her,” I finished, the familiar thrill of a quest thrumming in my veins.
“Not quite,” the chancellor corrected.
“You see,” the baroness interjected smoothly, “this is not the first time we have misplaced Her Serene Highness.”
“You mean she runs away?” Stoker suggested.