Trouble in the alps, p.1
Trouble in the Alps, page 1
TROUBLE IN THE ALPS
Miss Ashford Investigates
VIVIAN CONROY
One More Chapter
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First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2025
Copyright © Vivian Conroy 2025
Cover design by Lucy Bennett © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2025
Cover illustration © Gary Redford / Meiklejohn
Vivian Conroy asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
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This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
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Source ISBN: 9780008737092
Ebook Edition © November 2025 ISBN: 9780008737085 Version: 2025-08-26
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
To be continued…
Acknowledgments
Thank you for reading…
More Miss Ashford Adventures
Extract from Death on the Rhine
We think you will also love…
About the Author
Also by Vivian Conroy
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About the Publisher
Chapter One
April 1931
Miss Atalanta Ashford leaned slightly forwards in her seat and gazed out of the train window at the impressive mountain view. Even in summer those peaks were covered in snow and now, in early spring, the white was especially copious, reflecting the sunshine with an almost blinding glare. She reached into her purse and extracted her sunglasses, slipping them on without taking her eyes off the view.
Most other people on the train were also staring out of the windows, enchanted by this breathtaking panorama, but if anyone had been looking at her, they would have concluded that she was simply mesmerised. The truth was that she was close to tears and eager to hide her volatile emotions. She would rather have spent these moments alone, hiding away from curious looks and speculative whispers, but it wasn’t possible. She had to travel, had to keep going from place to place to find him.
Raoul.
Merely letting his name whisper through her mind elicited a shiver of pain across her spine. Her breathing caught and she clenched her hands in her lap. Ever since the news had reached her, she had been unable to calm down, the anxiety in her chest building to near intolerable heights. She had always known how dangerous his profession was, how, as a race car driver, he gambled with his life, taunted death every time he got into his car. But she had soothed herself with the idea that he knew what he was doing, that he was good at his passion.
The best.
But apparently even the best could be caught off-guard.
Or take too much risk to prove themselves to a new team owner?
Late last year, Raoul had been ruffled when rumours had started to spread that his old team was about to dismiss him in favour of a younger driver – a hot new talent with whom they’d rather work in place of the man who had proved himself and risked his life for them countless times. It was unfair indeed, but logical in a cutthroat sports environment. More and more money was going into racing with wealthy benefactors starting to sponsor the sport; benefactors like the Italian businessman Vincenzo Dulce who had signed Raoul for a new team with a brand-new car imported from across the Atlantic. The offer had been too good to refuse, even if Raoul had not already been under pressure from his old team. But then, with dismissal imminent plus the humiliation associated with such a decision, it had become essential.
She knew all that without him having to explain it to her. She understood because they were friends. Because she knew what the racing meant to him and…
She swallowed hard. He should have stayed away from Dulce though. He wasn’t just a rich businessman who had made a fortune in diamonds in Africa. No. That story was merely a cover devised by his close associates to explain his lengthy absence from society and the origins of his wealth. There were no diamonds. His fortune was blood money from theft, extortion and even assassinations. He was a gang leader. A very dangerous man to associate with.
Deadly, when crossed.
And Raoul had signed away his future to that man. Two years, in a racing contract. Two years of smiling at the cameras, talking to journalists, and allowing Dulce and his criminals access to the highest circles for their covert dirty work. Raoul had allowed himself to become the charming cover for their deadly business. And he had known it full well. Had signed on the dotted line anyway to save his career.
Atalanta bit her lip. She would not cry on the train. She would not allow tears to leak from under her sunglasses and streak across her cheeks. She would not have people stare at her and wonder why a young woman with the means to travel was so unhappy that she cried in public.
No.
But she could tell herself whatever she wanted and still her heart wouldn’t listen. It was broken for Raoul’s sake. He had thrown himself headlong into a new adventure, like he always did, without thinking too much and blindly hoping for the best; trusting in his skill to manoeuvre himself out of danger should it occur. But this time he had overplayed his hand. There had been problems with the car, or one of the mechanics had been a criminal without the proper knowledge of caring for a high-performance engine. Whatever the truth, there had been an accident and Raoul was injured. Gravely.
It was hard to determine just how bad it actually was. The contact of her butler Renard, who had informed him of the events, had said it was so bad that Raoul might not make it. Renard had tapped into every connection he had to find information. One source claimed it was a head injury; another spoke of a broken shoulder. That would be terrible as it could cost Raoul this summer season, but it need not be fatal.
However, Renard had come back from another round of calls with a grave expression and fear had struck ice into her very core. She had asked him what it was and after some evasive answers, he had admitted one contact had spoken of a broken spine.
Would Raoul never walk again?
Worse than that, would he…?
Atalanta would not allow herself to think the word. Death was her enemy, both in the cases she worked to prevent or solve murders, but also in her personal life. She had lost her mother at a young age and had been raised by her father who had died when she was just out of school. She had also lost her grandfather who had left her the detecting business that had taken her to southern France and placed her into the company of Raoul in the first place. It seemed as if everyone she cared for, everyone who could give structure and meaning to her life, disappeared from it, leaving her all alone.
She forced herself to sit up straighter and take a deep breath. Raoul wasn’t dead yet. At least, she hoped he wasn’t. It was hard to be certain as they had not been able to find out where he was being treated. They had travelled from Germany, where she had been cruising the Rhine with a former colleague’s family, into northern Italy where Raoul had been training for a race. There they had learned that he had been moved to a private hotel but no one could tell them exactly where. It seemed to be very hush-hush for some reason.
Perhaps to conceal he was already—?
No. She would not believe it. He was alive, she would find him and she would nurse him back to health. She didn’t have the knowledge to heal physical injuries, but she would sit by his bedside and talk to him, put her hand on his and let him know he wasn’t alone in this. She would be there for him so he had an anchor as he floated in a sea of uncertainty about his health and his future. That was what friends were for.
More than friends, if he let her. Wasn’t this the time to admit what they truly meant to each other? That it was something special between them, not just attraction or having shared danger but…
; She cast a quick look at Renard who sat opposite her examining the view. His features were usually unreadable, calm and collected and professional, such as was expected of a man in his position. But now she noticed a little strain around his lips and a twitch at his left eyebrow. He was tense, sitting there like a coiled spring waiting to be released. He was worried. Anxious about Raoul. She knew he had never liked her associating with someone he considered not suitable to be a good friend to her; that he had worried she would get hurt. Renard’s concern now could mean but one thing. He wasn’t so much afraid for Raoul but for her, and what this blow would do to her. He had worried before, about her workload and her commitment to pursuing justice even at the cost of her own safety. He had not agreed with her decision to get involved with the Rabenhorst family and join them on their river cruise along the Rhine. He had blamed himself for the danger in which she had ended up, a danger from which he had barely been able to save her. He had probably wanted to advise her not to take new cases on for a while, but to travel for her own pleasure and to recuperate and enjoy herself before falling in to a new intrigue. But there was no respite for her now.
Everything she cared for was at stake.
For wasn’t it clear that nothing mattered anymore – her wealth, the opportunity to travel and see the world – if she lost Raoul?
It was ironic that his accident had brought her back to Switzerland, where she had taught at an exclusive boarding school for many years, aching to be able to travel, fantasising about the places she’d see and the things she’d do without having any real hope she could ever achieve them. But then her grandfather had left her his fortune and his life’s vocation: sleuthing discreetly for the elite of Europe. And suddenly she had been able to go wherever she wanted – explore Athens or Istanbul, go to the seaside or watch the stars in the desert. The whole world had opened up to her. She had known she’d come back to Switzerland someday as it was a beautiful country with awe-inspiring mountain views and much to do, but she had not expected it to be so soon or for such a dramatic reason.
The train started to lose speed and she checked her purse in her lap. Renard would take care of the luggage. She only had to look after her own personal belongings, and with her mind so distracted by Raoul’s fate, she had better pay attention to what she was doing.
What was she doing, anyway? Travelling here and there, following insubstantial information, acting like she was entitled to find him, see him, know how he was doing. She wasn’t his wife, nor even his fiancée. Her actions might draw attention and that would be embarrassing to him. She could just see the ironic expression on his handsome face as he told her how he had lost the chance to have dinner with a very wealthy would-be sponsor because the man had only sought him out as prospective son-in-law and all her questions had ruined the opportunity. He would tell her off but smile while doing so and she would just be happy that he was able to scold her; that he was still with her. She’d take anything he had to say to her if he were only well enough to speak it.
The train halted and passengers bustled to get out. She waited until the first rush was over, then stood up, clutching her purse. Her entire body hurt from the strain of short nights and the endless worry that she would be too late. Renard gently nudged her to move towards the door.
“The train will leave again in a few minutes and we do not want to be stranded on board.”
She got out onto the platform and stood for a moment, breathing the fresh air. The wind that came down from the mountains carried the cold of the snow, but in the sunshine it was nice and warm. The historic station building had the year 1875 laid out in colourful bricks and, right beside it, horse-drawn carriages waited to take passengers to the hotels in style.
Although there were cars around, traffic tended to be slower in these regions, with locals still using a lot of carts and the hotels consciously catering to the sense of history that pervaded everything. Winter sports might have come into vogue recently, but the benefit of thermal springs had been known for centuries. Even the Romans on their way through the Alps to conquer foreign territories had used the hot water to cure their soldiers and provide an attractive resting place for the commanders. She was hoping that Dulce and his cronies had sent Raoul here to recuperate, far from the glare of publicity. This had been Renard’s latest information: try Hotel Alpenrot. It was nestled against the side of a mountain, reachable only by funicular, a metal cable car tracking up and down the steep mountainside.
It was a remote location, originally run by a doctor from Basel who had treated lung patients with exposure to clean air and hot spring water. That is, until a rich businessman, who had visited his daughter there, had bought it to turn it into a luxury hotel for those seeking the thrill of winter sports. With spring coming, the season was drawing to an end and the hotel wasn’t full, she had been told, although the personal information about which guests were staying there was kept very confidential to protect their privacy. It was just the sort of location that Dulce would choose, she assumed, as he was a man who liked to be in control of his environment. Because the funicular was the only way up to the hotel, he could be certain no one would appear out of the blue or interfere with Raoul.
Once up there, she too would be cut off from the world. There was a telephone line at the reception desk, but all calls would probably be monitored by the hotel clerk.
The idea of this kind of isolation was a bit daunting. Renard had warned her that they were probably going up there in vain, as he had no way of confirming whether Raoul was actually there. She knew he wanted her to stop her search and return to Paris to wait for more reliable information about Raoul’s whereabouts and wellbeing, for it was not only unclear how seriously injured he was, but also under what circumstances he had sustained these injuries. She had immediately assumed it had been in a car accident as he had been testing his new vehicle, but Renard had a source who spoke of an avalanche catching him while skiing with friends.
“The funicular is that way,” Renard said beside her. He pointed to their left. “We can walk or take a carriage.”
“I prefer to walk.” Atalanta wanted to work the tension from her muscles and clear her mind. She pulled back her shoulders as she began to walk down the street, past a bakery and a souvenir shop. Normally she would have stopped to admire the offer and select a few items to purchase but now she simply wanted to get to the hotel to inquire whether Raoul was there. If he was not, they’d have to go back down and start all over again.
Her heart sank at the very idea. She didn’t know how long she could keep this up, looking for him, hoping, wishing she’d find him and be certain he was not dying. This search pushed her to keep going instead of sinking into a chair and sobbing. But each time she hit a dead end and had to try something else, another piece of her resolve shattered. She was just so tired.
Renard followed his mistress with heavy steps. He had asked a porter at the station to keep their luggage there until he sent word indicating to which hotel it should be taken. He doubted that it would be Hotel Alpenrot and as it was rather difficult to reach, he didn’t want to arrange for the luggage to be taken up only to discover half an hour later that Mademoiselle Ashford wanted to leave again.
His heart ached for her anguish. He could tell by the look on her face, the tension in her walk, that she was at breaking point. She had pursued this search with tenacity, never showing a sign of defeat, but always thinking of another place to go to, another logical location where an injured man might recuperate without the press buzzing about. She acted like she was certain she would be successful in the end, but she had to be aware that she was only grasping at straws. Raoul Lemont was in the hands of Vincenzo Dulce, a ruthless criminal, a gangster – someone the Italians would call Mafia. He had taken Raoul under his wing for his own selfish purposes, and he would continue to dangle him like a puppet on a string. If he wanted to keep the accident a secret, he would hide Raoul away so cleverly that no one could find him.
