“Because she was blinded by her idealism—idealism instilled in her by that creature! Every day our Gisela became more radical in her opinions, wanting to change things, to make it all different and modern,” she said, her mouth twisting bitterly. “Every day she moved further away from us.”
“And you realized Gisela was thinking of renouncing her throne,” I said suddenly. “I saw the passages she had highlighted in the biography of Queen Christina about abdication. Your princess was considering the unimaginable—giving up her royal destiny. You could not have that, could you? You could not take the risk that Alice would take her away from the Alpenwald forever.”
“Gisela belongs to her people,” she said. “The crown is her right but also her responsibility. She has a duty to perform.”
“And you were going to see that she did it, no matter what. So Alice had to die, to remove the distraction she had become, the dangerous ideas she had instilled in your princess. Her influence over Gisela threatened your own.”
Something flickered in her expression and I seized upon the hunch. “Because that was the real problem, wasn’t it? You couch your confession in terms of destiny and service to the people of the Alpenwald, but it is much simpler and dirtier than that, is it not? If Gisela abdicated, your post as lady-in-waiting would be at an end. All the opportunities to profit from your court appointment, the lavish lifestyle you enjoyed in the castle, the influence—all of it would vanish in the snap of the fingers.”
“I will not dignify such an accusation,” she said loftily.
“You do not have to,” I said. “I am convinced of it. You murdered Yelena as well. As close as she was to the princess, she must have guessed something of her feelings for Alice and your resentment as well. Or did she find the mask and put the pieces together herself? I imagine she was blackmailing you. Poor stupid Yelena! All she wanted was a little money so she and her captain could marry. And she was mercenary enough to think she could risk making an enemy of you, not realizing that you are every bit as calculating. It was not sentiment or loyalty to your country that drove you to murder Alice Baker-Greene. You meant to keep Gisela under your guidance. With Alice gone, she would have turned back to you, leant upon you for support—and of course she would have rewarded that support, would she not? You intended that your princess should never leave the Alpenwald so that you could continue to feather your nest as you have for all these years. So simple a motive and so venal.”
She turned her shoulder towards me and faced into the wind once more. “You understand nothing,” she told me.
“On the contrary,” I said. “I understand everything.”
CHAPTER
28
At last, just as dawn was breaking over the horizon, we reached the docks at Greenwich. Stoker and I had, after a spirited exchange of views, decided to hand the baroness over to the authorities.
“You’ve no call to summon the police, do you?” Corrigan asked nervously.
“It would be no more than you deserve,” Stoker replied with a narrow look.
Corrigan ducked his head. “C’mon, guv. You know what it’s like for a sailor, trying to make an honest shilling. Sometimes the work just isn’t there, and I’ve seven mouths to feed at home, I do. And Weaver there has nine.”
“Remind me to have an instructive discussion with your wives on the precautionary arts,” I told them.
“Come again?”
“Family planning,” Stoker explained dryly. “It would keep your wives from being subjected to more expectations and you lot from having more children than you can reasonably support.”
“That’s not natural, that isn’t,” Corrigan protested.
“And starvation is?” I put in tartly. “I shall send along pamphlets. Promise to read them and we will not refer this matter to the police.”
Corrigan relaxed visibly. “That’s mighty kind of you, miss.”
He gave me an address to direct the pamphlets to as Weaver took up the bound form of the baroness and set her onto the dock. Her hair had been whipped free of its plaits, and it hung in great silvering hanks about her face. She looked older, but there was still a trace of defiance in her eye.
“You cannot possibly think that you will get away with handling the lady-in-waiting to the Hereditary Princess of the Alpenwald in such a fashion,” she said, lifting her chin to an imperious angle. “I demand that you release me.”
“Oh, we will,” Stoker assured her. He pointed behind her. “Into their care.”
Coming down the dock were a number of figures, cloaked and hooded against the chill, but each wearing the distinctive dark blue of the Alpenwalder wool—Captain Durand, his head wrapped in a considerable bandage, flanked by the chancellor and the duke, their expressions grim with purpose. And leading them all, Her Serene Highness, Princess Gisela.
The princess spoke in a low voice that commanded attention. “Baroness von Wallenberg, according to the authority of the laws of the Alpenwald, you are to be taken into custody by the chancellor’s men and transported back to our country, where you will stand trial for the murder of Alice Baker-Greene.”
The baroness gambled all in one last throw of the dice. “You will never find me guilty! You cannot. You have no proof.”
“No, they do not,” said a new voice. From behind the chancellor came a creaking noise, and he stepped aside to permit an elderly woman in a Bath chair to propel herself forward. “But I do,” she said.
“Pompeia Baker-Greene!” I exclaimed softly to Stoker.
She held up a small, familiar medal. “‘Alpenwalder Kletterverein Gipfelabzeichen,’” she read in halting German. “Your summit badge, Baroness. Buried with my granddaughter. And the climbing rope cut by your hand.”
The baroness looked around wildly, but there was no mercy to be found.
“There is also the body of Yelena and a mask that matches the description of the figure seen on the Teufelstreppe the day Alice died,” the chancellor said. “You cannot escape this,” he added sternly. “You will answer for what you have done.”
At this, the baroness gave a deep groan and seemed to fold in on herself. The chancellor signaled and Captain Durand came forward slowly to take her in hand. As he led her away, the figure in the Bath chair pushed herself towards us.
“Mrs. Baker-Greene,” Stoker said, inclining his head.
“One and the same. Mr. Templeton-Vane, I presume? Miss Speedwell, it is good to see you again,” she said, giving me her hand. It was cold and rough, the flesh tempered by decades of pitting herself against the unforgiving granite of the world’s most demanding mountains.