“Careful, now. You begin to sound like a revolutionary,” Stoker teased.
“If it could eliminate all the arrogant ne’er-do-wells I have seen in my time, I would build the guillotine with my bare hands,” she said darkly. “But as to your question, the guards are bachelors and live in a sort of dormitory within the palace walls. In order to marry Yelena, Durand needs a house and they don’t come cheaply in Hochstadt. It is a very small place and when it is crowded with mountaineers, the prices are steep as their blasted mountain. Well, Durand has served the Crown, loyal and true, since the princess was scarcely out of pinafores. He was promised a sort of grace-and-favor house on the castle grounds.”
Julien looked puzzled, so I hastened to explain. “Grace-and-favor lodgings are given at the behest of the monarch in most countries, a sort of perquisite for faithful service. They are provided free of charge or for a peppercorn rent.”
He nodded and J. J. resumed her tale. “But just as he was set to make an honest woman of Yelena and carry her over the threshold, the house was taken back again.”
“For what purpose?” Stoker inquired.
She paused, holding the moment to heighten the drama with all the practiced theatricality of a Duse. “So that the house could be given to Alice Baker-Greene.”
“Alice!” Stoker exclaimed. “Why on earth should the Alpenwalder Crown give her a house at the expense of the loyal Captain Durand?”
“Because of Duke Maximilian,” I guessed.
J. J. slanted me a curious glance. “What do you know of Duke Maximilian?”
“I know he was friends with Alice Baker-Greene. Close friends,” I added, waggling my brows in imitation of Julien.
“Ah,” he said. “They were lovers.”
J. J. shrugged. “I do not know what they were. I only know that Duke Maximilian was very keen to befriend her when she arrived in the Alpenwald, and after her death he has all but disappeared.”
“Disappeared?” My voice sharpened with interest. “He is a member of a Continental royal family. How can he simply disappear?”
“A minor member of a minor family,” J. J. corrected. “And he has not disappeared in the proper sense of the word. He has been spotted at his usual haunts—casinos and theatres and the odd house party. But he has kept a very low profile since Alice’s death.”
“That sounds rather suspicious,” Stoker mused aloud. I was pleased to see he was taking a proper interest in the investigation, but I hoped he was not going to change his choice of murderer from the chancellor to the duke. I rather liked the duke as the villain and hoped it would earn me a sovereign.
J. J. prickled like a hedgehog. “Rubbish,” she said succinctly. “He has nothing whatsoever to do with Alice’s death. Nothing,” she repeated with emphasis.
“How do you know?” I asked.
“Because I spoke with him and he was standing with Captain Durand during Alice’s fall,” she replied with a swiftness that seemed almost rehearsed. “Both of them swore to it in the inquest testimony as well.”
“A good enough alibi,” I said thoughtfully. “Of course, I do not imagine there is a guardsman alive in any country who would swear a member of his royal family was a liar,” I added.
Her expression did not change, but her hands curled into fists, twisting her skirts. “Duke Maximilian had nothing to do with Alice’s death. I would stake my life on it.”
“Then who do you think did?” I asked. She hesitated and I went on. “I know you believe her death was not accidental and neither do we—no matter what the inquest verdict said. Stoker and I have come to the conclusion that Alice was murdered.”
She choked a little and Julien hastened to bring her a glass of water. She drank it down, giving him a puzzled look. “It tastes odd.”
“Mint,” he said. “It adds a little something special.”
“Water ought to taste like water.” She thrust the glass back into his hands. She patted her lips with her apron. “It is a shock to hear it said aloud. I half thought I was going mad after that inquest. There were just so many things, peculiar things, and nobody in the Alpenwald seemed to care.” She enumerated them on her fingers. “Why was Alice given Durand’s house? Who was the moustachioed man on the mountain the day she died? Why was she climbing alone? Why was the inquest held so hastily?”
“Is that why you came here?” Stoker asked in a gentle tone.
She nodded. “My father was a writer, you know. He wrote for the London Eagle,” she said with unmistakable pride. Although not as prestigious as the Times, the Eagle was a solidly respectable newspaper that prided itself on impeccable standards. Liberal politicians subscribed to it; Radicals adored it; Conservatives gave it to their servants for the wrapping of fish and use in the privy. “Forty years he wrote, chasing stories like a lurcher after a hare. And he always said the best journalists have a sense for it, nose as keen as a hound’s for game. I had to keep after this because I smelt a story.”
“And you thought you could discover something from the princess’s entourage?” Stoker encouraged.
She shrugged and her entire demeanor seemed evasive. “My editor would not pay for another trip to the Alpenwald. There was no other way to pursue the story.”
“What have you discovered?” I demanded.
Her gaze shifted only slightly. “Nothing of note,” she said, studying her fingernails. “It is a private visit, not a state occasion, so there are no grand official events involving our royal family or politicians. A good deal of shopping and some private dinners is as exciting as it gets,” she added.
“And have you been in the princess’s suite every day?” I asked.
She pulled a face. “As much as I dare. The work rota is jealously guarded, especially when there is royalty about. I have managed to slip into her suite twice, once yesterday and once this morning when you lot arrived.” She narrowed her eyes. “And what exactly is your business with foreign royalty?” she inquired.
“We are assembling the exhibition at the Hippolyta Club meant to honor Alice Baker-Greene’s life and achievements,” I said quickly. “The Alpenwalders have taken a keen interest, naturally, and they sent for us to discuss a few details of the event.”
She seemed contented with that, and I only hoped Stoker would not take it in his head to confide in her our real purpose in coming to the Sudbury.
To my immense relief, he steered her back to the subject of murder.
“Who do you think the moustachioed man was? The one on the mountain the day of Alice’s death?”
J. J. gave him a narrow look. “Why should I tell you?”