The Adventuress (30 page)

“How?”

“Slipped under my bedchamber door.”

Irene’s eyes lifted from the paper. “You were alone?”

“Yes, but—”

“But the blackmailer wishes you to see how close at hand he may be. What does he refer to, ‘the royal expedition’?”

Alice sighed and sat down, thereby permitting the rest of us to sink onto whatever seat was near. “Albert is always poking around underwater—or, rather, mounting expeditions to do so. He had planned next to visit Corsica.”

“This communication instructs you to see that he goes to Crete.”

“How can I? Oceanography is Albert’s pastime, as balls and good works are mine. If I were to venture my opinion, if I were to
insist
in this matter, Albert would... well, he is not about to heed a woman in such an area as science. I cannot even think of a plausible reason to give him.”

“Oh, there are always reasons,” Irene said absently, “plausible or not. You can blame your charming feminine whimsy and declare an immediate need for a sea voyage. Corsica is too close, you require a greater change of atmosphere. You are becoming quite mad with the predictable social rounds, the delay in your nuptials, et cetera, et cetera. I believe you know the speech if you would but put your mind to it.”

“Albert is stubborn about some things,” she said.

“So are you,” Irene answered with a smile. “No, I do not think the difficulty is in persuading Albert, by hook or by crook, to go where he is wanted. The problem is
why
should he? Why should
we
let this anonymous correspondent force us in his direction?”

“The revelation of my past,” said Alice bitterly.

“What Irene means,” Godfrey put in, “is that this letter proves that the blackmail is a side issue, a means rather than an end. It comes from one who has no personal wish to destroy your happiness, but one who only wants to use you to move the prince to a particular point at a particular time. Why? What will the blackmailer gain by Prince Albert’s arrival on Crete?”

“Or removal from here?” the doctor put in suddenly. Irene smiled at him. “Splendidly put, Doctor. Is our oceangoing prince a mere pawn on the board, or the point of the game?”

“It is not a game!” the duchess burst out. “It is my future.”

“The blackmailer cares naught for your future,” Irene said, “only for the whereabouts of the prince. That is what you should consider.”

In the silence, I found myself speaking. “Do you imply, Irene, that the prince could be a target?”

Alice paled as Irene answered, “We have such a thorny knot of disparate odds and ends in hand that not one skein seems to join another; all are loose ends. Something more deeply sinister than anything we have guessed may underlie these puzzling events.”

“Speak more frankly,” the doctor urged, drawing his chair closer.

Irene frowned. “Consider your position, Alice. You are the pivotal figure in a political dispute. Although the prince would wed you in a minute, the true civil power in this principality, his father, Prince Charles, forbids it, as does the religious authority that governs Monaco, the bishop. Despite this, you persist in an unlawful relationship. I see opportunities here for many plots—the death of the elderly prince, of the bishop, of yourself, of Prince Albert.”

“That is ridiculous! This is civilized Europe. I am a well-known and wealthy woman, with a title that commands great weight in France. We will merely wait until Prince Charles dies—he is not well. No one would gain by assassinating any figure in such a tiny principality as Monaco.”

“It is a principality, Alice; it is European, not American, as I was reminded regarding another kingdom and another prince.” Irene paused to direct a tight smile at me. “You are a woman following her heart, not her head. The elixir of love makes you feel superior to all obstacles. You forget that you are at the center of a perplexing political dispute and that even tiny principalities may play politics on the grand scale... for keeps.”

“Then you think,” asked the doctor, frowning, “that Alice is in personal danger?”

“Not necessarily.” Irene laughed at her own apparent inconsistency. “I think that she should keep in mind that she may be. What most concerns me is, why Crete?”

“That’s simple,” I burst out. “Because it is not Corsica!”

Alice and the doctor gazed at me with exquisite politeness, as if they thought me mad but were far too well-bred to show it.

Irene clapped her hands. “Excellent, Nell! ‘Because it is not Corsica’ indeed. But what is Corsica?”

“An... island,” Alice answered.

“As is Crete. That must mean something. Has the prince shown any desire to explore Crete?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Then we must manufacture a reason.” Irene turned inquiringly to Godfrey, who nodded.

“I will add a visit to the local archaeologist to my agenda, along with the registry of ships.” he said. “Is the prince intrigued by past seafaring feats, or is he purely interested in the possibilities afforded by modern methods?”

Alice shook her head. Her face and hair today seemed the same pallid wheat color, a sign to me of blond women’s insipid appeal. Such women fade into old age without a fight.

“I confess that I have paid scant attention to Albert’s oceanographic exploits, although he plans to christen a ship after me. When his father dies, of course,” she added with irony.

“No matter,” said Godfrey kindly. “I will discover the best approach.” He turned to Irene. “I trust that if further investigation of a seafaring nature is required, I can go as a yachtsman rather than as a deckhand.”

The doctor and the duchess stared at this—to them— non sequitur.

Irene smiled. “We shall see,” she said, “what the times require.”

Chapter Twenty-three

O
F
S
HIPS AND
S
EALING
W
AX

Louise and
Caleb returned, on being summoned that afternoon, to discover Irene, myself, and the disreputable sailor, Black Otto, plying our separate oars at fever pitch. We made an unlikely quintet around the table in Irene and Godfrey’s parlor suite as we reported our individual triumphs of the day.

“Louise’s uncle,” said Godfrey, “has taken a room in the same hotel that Dr. Hoffman occupies and shows no suspicion of Louise’s presence here, or even of her survival. He lounges about the bistros interrogating sailors, save for an afternoon spent at the registry of ships in the unwitting company of Black Otto. He searches, but has small knowledge of what it is he seeks. As long as Louise can restrain herself from patronizing the bistros, she is safe from discovery.”

“She will be even more secure,” Irene put in, “after I accomplish some alterations upon her appearance—in the name of beautification, of course. You will not have to be banished to the country again, my dear.”

Louise and I exchanged a look. Banishment did not properly describe our delightful sojourn in the hills, although our busy-bee friends would never understand. “What success have you had in locating the British sailor and his Indian companion?” Irene asked Godfrey.

He scratched his crooked nose, augmented with sticking plaster, and smiled a crooked Black Otto smile. “I hope to see friend Gerry at Le Cochon Qui Fumar this very night.”

“I am tempted to join you at The Smoking Pig,” Irene said with genuine regret. “However, my singing debut at the casino ball has garnered an invitation to perform privately for the prince’s closest friends.”

“I trust one of them is not Sherlock Holmes,” I put in.

Irene’s magnificent topaz eyes narrowed. “Of the elusive Mr. Holmes no trace has been heard or seen. Perhaps the rumor of his presence is just that. I shall have to take my chances. He is not expecting to see me, surely, and that is already to my advantage. Besides, Mr. Holmes has no reason to begrudge me life and limb, even if he
has
heard of my supposed death in the train wreck. No, the least of our problems is Mr. Sherlock Holmes.”

Privately, I disagreed. If Irene had stumbled onto a plot that webbed all of Monte Carlo, a detective of Mr. Holmes’s reputation could hardly fail to discern it as well. However, Irene had little opportunity to perform; I was not about to discourage one of the few harmless pursuits in which she indulged.

“Godfrey,” Irene said with a mock shiver, “you have played Black Otto for too long. You sound quite bloodthirsty. Perhaps Mr. Winter should accompany you to The Smoking Pig tonight. Separately, of course.”

“Capital!” exclaimed the American. “I can’t speak this French lingo to save my Aunt Agatha, but I’m keen to see one of these local waterfront saloons. And if it looks like Mr. Norton needs a helping hand, why, fists speak any language, ma’am.”

“I shall,” Irene said, “sing my high C’s serenely, with you on watchdog duty, Mr. Winter.”

“And I and Louise?” I inquired.

“Will join me at the palace. We separate this evening: ladies to culture in the salon, gentleman to manlier entertainments in the saloon.”

“This puzzle again sorts itself by extremes,” said Godfrey, placing the briarwood pipe that Black Otto affected between his rot-festooned teeth. “High and low, prince and sailor boy, clues hot and cold.”

At this moment there came a knock on the parlor door. We kept silent as Irene rose to answer it. She returned slowly, a box and a missive in hand.

“From Alice. A posy for tonight’s concert, and an envelope.”

As Irene opened the box, Louise gasped at the sight of the “posy”—a florid entwining of orchids, roses and gold lace—and then took charge of its container. Irene put the corsage on the table and opened the missive, p
ullin
g a folded sheet of thick pink paper from the envelope.

“Ah, an invitation to tonight’s recital, on the palace stationery. Alice wished me to have a memento; how deliciously thoughtful. ‘His Royal Highness, Prince Albert Grimaldi of Monaco, requests the pleasure of your attendance for the Monte Carlo debut of Madame—‘Madame’ does sound so professional!—‘Madame Irene Norton, mezzo-soprano, singing selections from the Schumann Leider.’ If I must be pseudonymous, in a fashion,” Irene said, “at least I perform for a rarefied circle.”

She shuffled the invitation into its blank envelope and cast it facedown on the table.

“Now I must rest for this evening,” she said, picking up the corsage and moving toward the bedchamber, already rapt in envisioning the night’s presentation. “The rehearsal with the pianist this morning was most arduous. I am no longer used to the rigors of performance—”

“Irene!” She was nearly out of the room. “Irene!” She turned back to me with an incurious air.

“The invitation!” I stared at the tabletop as if I saw before me, incredibly, poor Singh’s escaped reptile.

The rest were equally tardy to observe the great anomaly in our midst. It lay before our very eyes, and we all had overlooked it.

“Irene, are you not fond of a certain story of Mr. Poe’s, about a purloined letter? One that was sought in every conceivable hiding place?”

“Except in plain sight,” she said, “among the other letters upon a desk. It illustrates that the most obvious clue is often the most vital. What is your point, Penelope?”

“There. That is my point.” And I rather impolitely pointed.

Eyes all around the table focused on the abandoned invitation, then narrowed in sudden comprehension, for there it lay like one of Dr. Jamac’s overblown blood-red roses: an untidy blot of crimson sealing wax, the Grimaldi coat of arms pressed into its smooth, hard surface.

The palace wax was black and crimson, wafting the faint odor of sandalwood.

The Duchess of Richelieu, aglow with diamonds, came swooping through the door on the heels of her light rap, into the chamber assigned to Irene as a dressing room. Louise and I, attending our diva friend, had little to do but watch admiringly as she completed her toilette.

Irene wore sapphire-blue velvet and the Marie Antoinette diamond solitaire at her throat. The ornate corsage was cradled on the swell of her décolletage. Even orchids could not outbloom her beauty. Urns of additional floral tribute filled the chamber.