“She has completely removed herself from Austrian politics.”
“But she may be able to find out if there’s concern for the safety of anyone in the royal family. This is not like dredging up her concerns about Mayerling.”
“You think your anarchists are planning an assassination?”
“Possibly.”
“I will speak to her after Christmas.”
“I can’t wait that long. Can you see her today?”
“Impossible. She’s with her family.”
“You could write her a note.”
CÉCILE HAD ORDERED our maids and several members of the hotel staff to decorate our rooms for Christmas, and the end result was stunning. We had an enormous tree covered with candles and ornaments, a garland hung across the mantel, wreaths on every door. But despite this, our holiday celebrations lacked any heartfelt enthusiasm. Friedrich was sullen because he couldn’t see Anna. Rina had refused our invitation without explanation, and of course I had never invited Herr Schröder. Jeremy did all he could to avoid speaking to me, and Colin appeared to have taken up brooding as a hobby. The only person with anything to say was Klimt, who proved immensely amusing when discussing the merits of his cats.
“I’m so glad you managed to smuggle this in,” I said, taking another bite of the Sacher torte Friedrich had brought for us. The specialty of the Hotel Sacher, its dark chocolate icing and apricot filling perfectly complemented our vintage port.
“I wouldn’t say I smuggled it. I don’t think the staff at the Imperial would dare stop anyone from bringing whatever they’d like to this suite,” Friedrich said. “Even if it does come from a rival hotel.”
“I prefer the Imperial to the Sacher,” Klimt said, his eyes meeting Cécile’s. “I’ve a better time here.”
“I would hope so,” she replied. “From what I’ve heard, the rooms here are much more comfortable.”
“Let me assure you, they are.”
I began to feel that I was watching a conversation that ought to have been private. Colin drained his glass and rose from the table. He looked as if he was going to begin pacing. Cécile must have noticed this, too. She rose from her chair, whispered something to Klimt, and then threaded her arm through Colin’s.
“Come,” she said. “We’re overdue for a game of chess.”
Once they were gone, Friedrich turned his attention to Klimt. “I very much admire the murals you did in the Court Theater.”
“Dreck! Schweinsdreck!” the painter exclaimed. “I do not wish to discuss them.”
“Apologies,” Friedrich said, the slightest quaver in his voice.
“Cécile tells me you are an artist,” Klimt said. “Do you have a sketchbook with you? I’d like to see it.”
“It’s in the other room,” Friedrich said, leaping from his seat and racing towards the door. Klimt followed, leaving me alone with Jeremy, who was idly swirling the port in his glass.
“Do you need me tomorrow?” he asked.
“I don’t know. Jeremy, I—”
“I’ve plans for the afternoon. If you want me to cancel them, could you please let me know before two o’clock?”
“You don’t have to do any of this,” I said.
“But you know I will. I must tell you—” He stopped as Colin came back into the room.
Colin handed me a small envelope. “This was delivered for you.”
I opened it at once. Inside were two articles clipped from newspapers. The first was Albert Sanburne’s obituary as it appeared in the London Daily Post. The second, the article I’d already seen from the Neue Freie Presse about the duel and suicide. Across the top of the obituary someone had scrawled, “Answers hide where lies are told.”
“This is Sir Julian’s paper,” I said, holding up the piece from the Post. “I wonder what he could tell us about Mr. Sanburne’s death. Would he know who fabricated the story of the influenza?”
“Anyone in the family might have done that.” Jeremy pulled out a cigar and lit it. “Standard operating procedure to protect his sister.”
“But there was no one left in the family,” I said. “His title reverted to the Crown.”
“There was no heir, but there were relatives through the female line,” Jeremy said. “Why does it matter?”
“I’m not sure.” I looked at the articles again. “I wonder who Robert’s second was in the duel. Perhaps Margaret can find out, if only he’d agree to see her.”
“He’s a fool if he refuses to talk,” Colin said. “But I’m not convinced any of this is relevant to his current situation.”
“Perhaps not. But I wonder…” I grasped at the elusive strains of a thought trying to take cohesive shape in my head. “It’s easy to believe that Fortescue’s death was political. Who stood to lose more than Robert at Fortescue’s hand?”
“It’s time you return to England,” Colin said. “Harrison’s plans may have been set in motion in Vienna, but the answer to who killed Fortescue isn’t here. You’ve found what Robert wanted to learn, but there’s no testimony that Kristiana can offer that’s going to help him. It’s time to go home.”
“You know I can’t do that,” I said.
“You must.” His eyes met mine, but they were cold.
SUNLIGHT POURED OVER the streets on Boxing Day, but the cold air was too much for Cécile, and she insisted that we take a fiacre to the Hofburg, where Sissi had summoned us after reading my friend’s letter. She met us in a dark sitting room, the curtains drawn, hardly a lamp lit. She crossed directly to Cécile and they embraced, her thin, fragile body looking as if it might snap.
“I don’t know that I can be of any help to you,” she said, wafting to a papier-mâché chair inlaid with mother-of-pearl and sitting with the lightness of a dragonfly. “I’m not allowed to have useful information. They won’t even tell me how my son died.”
Cécile took her hand. “You know enough.”
“I don’t.” Her face, her shoulders, and her neck appeared perfectly placid, but her fists were clenched so tightly that her nails could have drawn blood from her palms. “My husband knows more.”
“And his knowledge will change nothing, chérie. You must not upset yourself.” Cécile bent close to her and whispered something in her ear. The tight fists relaxed.
“You want my help, dear Cécile. I’ve spoken to my husband—no, I did not tell him why—I let him think I was curious about our official schedule. He told me nothing of particular note. Once the Fasching balls start, it’s party after party.”
“Was there anything, Your Highness, that if disrupted could cause a considerable commotion?” I asked.
“Aren’t the Fasching balls commotion enough?” she asked.
“Perhaps,” I said. “But what of political meetings? Will you be hosting any state visits?”
“Kaiser Wilhelm will be here in a few weeks, but not for a state visit. He and the emperor will meet privately, but I’ve no idea what they’ll discuss. You’d do better to ask Katharina Schratt if you want detailed information.”
It was an open secret that the actress had become the emperor’s closest confidante. They breakfasted together daily, and he’d gone so far as to have his villa connected to the one belonging to the woman with whom he shared what he called a “soul friendship.” Because she was not of high rank, her presence caused no political difficulties. She cooked for Franz Joseph, gossiped with him, kept him happy in a grounded, bourgeois way. “I’m sorry, I never meant—”
The empress waved a slender hand. “It is nothing. I’m pleased he has her.”
“Did he tell you anything else planned for the kaiser’s visit?” I asked.
“Nothing of significance. Wilhelm will only be here a few days. They’re going to attend mass, and then a reception for the boys in the court choir.”
“An unlikely spot for anarchists,” Cécile said, shrugging.
I opened my mouth to speak but stopped myself, and was instantly horrified by my motivation. A reception wit
h innocent choirboys sounded like a perfect target for anarchists to me. But I wasn’t about to tell the empress that. If I did, she might do something to cancel the engagement and derail Herr Schröder’s plans. I could not risk that, could not risk losing Colin.
“How I long to return to Corfu and be away from all this,” the empress said, her voice heavy with exhaustion. “Anarchists, violence, suicide. This city reeks of death.”
“I can’t think of a happier escape than Greece,” I said.
“Yes, you study Greek, do you not, Kallista?” the empress asked.
“I do. I’ve only just finished reading the Odyssey in Greek.”
“Do you know the modern language as well as the ancient?”
“Not so well as I would like. I’ve a villa on Santorini, and my cook’s son does his best to teach me, but I haven’t spent the time necessary to become fluent.”
“It’s a wonderfully passionate language. How long will you be in Vienna? Perhaps we could meet and practice our conversational skills while you’re here.”
“That would be lovely,” I said.
“My instructor in the ancient language, Monsieur Rhoussopholous, is incomparable.” She fluffed her skirts, a flighty gesture that was at odds with the rest of her. “And the best classicists in the world come to me. Although not so often as they used to.”
“You have been entirely negligent of your needs since the death of your son,” Cécile said.
“Isn’t it enough that I manage to stay alive? Even that requires more effort than I’m inclined to expend. My poor dear boy. I miss him terribly.”
“I can’t imagine a pain greater than that felt by a mother who has lost her child,” I said. “I’m so very sorry.”
We all sat very still, no one speaking, until the empress shook her head. “I will never believe that he killed himself.” She looked at Cécile. “You know he and his father had radically different political views. The French and the English both would have been happy to see Rudolf on the throne instead of my husband. He might have been persuaded to transfer Austria’s allegiance away from Germany.”
“Which means they would never have wanted Rudolf dead,” Cécile said. “This is a fruitless line of thought, Sissi. You must stop.”
“I’m sorry if we’ve distressed you,” I said.
“I no longer remember what it is not to be distressed.” She closed her eyes and said nothing further for a long moment. “I do have one other thing to tell you,” she said, opening her eyes and looking directly at me. “I’ve a friend who’s still…active…in political matters. He knows about you, and told me that you’re in danger.”
“Did he say how he knew?” I asked.
“No, only that you’ve drawn the attention of one of your countrymen, a very undesirable man.”
“Mr. Harrison,” I said.
“You must tell Monsieur Hargreaves at once,” Cécile said. “He will arrange to have you protected. He can—”
“No, Cécile. It’s fine. I’ll be careful. Don’t worry. Please let’s not discuss it any further right now. Tell us about Klimt. Are you going to see him tonight?”
“YOU THINK THEY WILL STRIKE against these children?” Cécile asked after we’d left the palace.
“How did you know that’s what I suspect?”
“You entirely abandoned questioning her once she’d told you about the emperor’s plans. You would never have let go of the topic if you were not satisfied with the information before you.”
“I shall have to learn to be less obvious,” I said. “But yes, I do think that’s where they’ll attack. Mr. Harrison wants to start a war. If he could assassinate the rulers of Austria and Germany simultaneously, as well as a group of innocent boys—”
“People would be angry, but I do not see how that would lead to war.”
“What if it leaked out that the attack was supported by the British government?” I asked.
“Mais ce n’est pas possible.”
“Mr. Harrison is part of the government.”
“You must inform Monsieur Hargreaves at once.”
“Yes.” I was paying attention only to the snow falling outside the window.
“Kallista? Are you listening? We must do something about this threat at once.”
“We don’t have credible information about a threat,” I said. “All we’ve done is trust that the empress knew what to look for in her husband’s diary. She could have missed something.”
“You don’t believe that. Be careful, Kallista. You will never feel right if you sacrifice even one life in an attempt to save Colin’s.”
“You’re quite wrong about that. For him, there is nothing I would not sacrifice.”
27 December 1892
London
Dear Lady Ashton,
I was quite taken aback by your letter. Although I suspect your condolences were not heartfelt, they were appreciated nonetheless. My dear Basil was a man of incomparable talent, and all of Britain will feel the loss of him. He was not well understood by his peers—that, I suppose was the price levied on him for greatness.
I was rather amused by your request. Surely you are not so naïve that you would believe, even for an instant, that I would share with you such sensitive information? But I will admit that after you drew my attention to Robert Brandon and his family difficulties last summer when you were investigating the murder of David Francis, I found myself growing more than a little fond of the man, although he lacks the callousness required to be a truly extraordinary politician. Even without this scandal, he would never have survived in politics.
He’d already been cut from Basil’s inner circle, and knew that his career was hopeless. Regardless, I don’t believe he committed murder. Mainly because he’s not cold-hearted enough to do such a thing.
There is very little I can offer you in assistance other than to tell you candidly that Brandon was not the only man with political aspirations on the dueling field in Vienna the day Schröder died. But Brandon is, unfortunately for him and his lovely wife, far less significant to the government than his colleague.
I am sorry to say it, but it seems utterly unlikely that any verdict other than guilty will be returned when at last he goes to trial. So far as I have learned (and you know my connections enable me to learn whatever I want), there is no evidence that would exonerate Brandon or lead the police to consider another suspect. I’m afraid it’s a hopeless business.
I do feel, however, that I should warn you before you delve further into all of this. Basil’s enemies were an unsavory bunch. Should it be that any of them was involved in his murder and you came close to exposing the truth, your own life would be at risk. Harrison in particular is not someone with whom you should trifle.
I am yrs., etc.,
D. Reynold-Plympton
Chapter 19
Herr Schröder was not waiting for me in the Stephansdom at our appointed time the next day. I knelt at the altar railing for a quarter of an hour, wondering what saint to petition for protection against hired assassins, but could conjure up no one save Saint Jude, patron of hopeless and desperate causes. My knees began to hurt. I moved to a pew and opened the battered copy of the Odyssey that I’d brought with me.
“Reading pagan authors in a Christian church?” Herr Schröder slid along the bench next to me. “You would make a lovely martyr.”
“You’ve reversed things entirely. It was the Christians who were martyred.”
“Until the Crusades.” His arm rested uncomfortably close to me along the back of the pew. “I saw your chaperone in the nave. Does he like following you?”
“Not particularly,” I said.
“What do you have for me today?”
“You’re enjoying this rather too much.” I handed him a slim envelope. “He knows about the kaiser.”
“What about the kaiser?” Herr Schröder would never be Colin’s equal in the realm of spying; he lacked the ability to freeze emotion out of his eyes.
�
�The visit, the reception…”
He opened the envelope, read the contents, and handed it all back to me. “How does he know?”
I shrugged. “I can’t imagine. You’ve assured me repeatedly that your ‘organization’ is sound.”
“How is he planning to stop us?”
“For today you must be content with knowing that he’s aware of your plan.”
“I need more.” He leaned too close, and I pushed back from him. “You need more, unless you’re fond of widow’s weeds. Although you’re not his wife. A funny position, that of fiancée. Nothing official, nothing real. If he were to die before your wedding, it would be as if you’d never been connected.”
“An entirely irrelevant observation,” I said.
“You’re overconfident. If he is in a position to stop what I am planning, I will kill him.” His arm was once again inching closer to my shoulder. “You, Kallista, must do more than bring me information. You must convince him that my plot is something altogether different.”
“That’s ridiculous. He’d never believe I would have knowledge of such things.”
“He knows you’re an intelligent, resourceful woman.”
“Who he does not expect to begin playing spy,” I said, gripping my book.
“I don’t trust you.” He was almost touching me. “You love this man. Perhaps you are double-crossing me, not him.”
“He’s betrayed me.”
“Kristiana tells me he’s come to her only once since he’s been back in Vienna.”
Words that I didn’t believe ought not to have stung so much. “She’s lying.”
“Undoubtedly. Theirs was a passion not so easily sated.” His eyes narrowed. “This makes you uncomfortable?”
A Fatal Waltz Page 19
