A Fatal Waltz

Chapter 21

I had glanced at the paper Mr. Harrison had given me as soon as I’d walked into the lobby, and looked at it again now as I sat with Jeremy. It contained a single sentence:

I will take great pleasure in destroying all your happiness.

“What are you going to do?” Jeremy asked, leaning over to read it with me.

“I don’t know,” I said, and quickly recounted for him all that had happened.

“You don’t need to worry about Hargreaves. No one’s going to kill him.”

“I’m not certain that’s a subject on which I can trust you.” I smiled.

“Well, I might kill him, certainly, if the circumstances were right. But seriously, Em. You can’t spend your life trying to save him from his work. You have to trust that he knows what he’s doing.”

“Schröder will assassinate him if I stop bringing him information.”

“Do you trust Kristiana to help you?”

“To a degree.” I rubbed my temples. “I’m just afraid. How can I leave him?”

“Harrison wants you to stay in Vienna. That’s why he’s orchestrated all this,” Jeremy said. “Have you forgotten that he’s your prime suspect for Fortescue’s murder? Don’t you think he wants you far away from any evidence that could implicate him?”

“Then who is trying to lure me back to England?” It all sounded reasonable when Jeremy said it, but I could not shake the feeling that he was absolutely wrong.

“I’ve not the slightest idea.” He let his eyes meet mine for a beat longer than he ought to have, then looked down. “I can hardly bear to look at you. I’m never going to forgive you for bringing angst to my life, Em.”

“Perhaps it’s the punishment you’ve earned for living such a profligate life.”

“It would help if you’d stop being so bloody charming.” He kissed my hand.

“I think my new mission will be to find you a wife. I can’t think of anything that would make me less appealing to you. Let’s see…whatever happened to Lettice Frideswide? She’s not yet engaged, is she?”

Two days later, Sissi came to us at the Imperial for tea. As one might imagine, the arrival of an empress at a hotel caused a furor. She came with two bodyguards, who stood at her side while the manager made an impromptu speech and presented her with an Imperial torte. She gave a faint smile to the crowd that gathered to watch (Meg alerted us to the excitement so that Cécile and I didn’t miss it) and looked relieved when we whisked her upstairs.

“I’m so tired,” she said, once we were ensconced in our suite. “But it’s such a relief to be out of the palace.”

“We’re glad you could come,” I said. “I can’t thank you enough for sending your guard.”

“I hope it’s helped,” she said.

“We’ve not been troubled inside the hotel since his arrival.” I had poured tea for all of us and was now cutting the Imperial torte.

“I can’t have that,” Sissi said, shaking her head at the piece I offered her.

“What’s your current slimming plan?” Cécile asked. “Are you eating nothing but celery broth?”

“Does it even matter? It’s clearly not working.”

“You’re ridiculous as always,” Cécile said. “You’re wasting away.”

“You’re too kind,” the empress said.

“It was not a compliment, Sissi.” Cécile put a plate with a slice of torte in front of her. “Eat.”

She took a single bite, but no more. “What is the amusement you’ve planned for me this afternoon?” she asked. “I was all curiosity when I read your note.”

“I’ve asked a friend to join us. I think you’ll find him excessively charming,” Cécile said. “He’s an artist, and I want you to let him sketch you.”

“Absolutely not,” she said. But half an hour later, when Friedrich at last joined us, Cécile had very nearly changed her mind with an artfully delivered series of cajoling compliments combined with a moving account of the obstacles the stood in the way of our young friends’ love.

“I do wish you had ironed your coat,” Cécile said as Friedrich sat down next to her. “How did you expect to make a good impression?”

“I had no expectation of Her Highness—Her Majesty—” He looked at Sissi, eyes full of confusion. “Forgive me, ma’am, I don’t even know how to address you.”

“There is something charming about him,” Sissi said, leaning towards Cécile. “You really think it will make a difference in his career if I do this?”

“Oui,” Cécile said. “Let him make your likeness and then give the picture to me. I want something to remember you by other than portraits from your youth. You were beautiful then, but you’ve character now.” Her hair—said to be ankle-length—was still thick and surprisingly free of gray, though not as lustrous as I suspected it had been in her youth. An olive complexion that must have once glowed was now dull and pale, but this did not detract from the delicate beauty of her chiseled features and wide eyes. Cécile looked at her closely. “I much prefer this version of you. Perfection, chérie, is not so charming as people believe. It’s bland.”

“I’ve no energy to argue with you.” Her voice was listless, but her eyes showed the slightest hint of a sparkle. “Go ahead. Do I have to sit still?”

“I’d rather you didn’t,” Friedrich said. “I need to see the life in you to capture it.” So we ate Imperial torte—layer upon layer of the most exquisite chocolate cake and almond paste—and drank tea while his fingers flew. He worked quickly, charcoal gliding over the paper with remarkable speed. It was like watching someone dance. Before long, he stopped, placed his pencil on the table, and held his sketchbook at arm’s length. “Ja. It is you.”

He stood and crossed over to Sissi, handing her the pad so that only she could see it. She looked at it, and tears streamed down her pale face. “I am no longer this lovely.”

“You are to all who see you,” he said. “It is not always wise to believe mirrors.”

“I think I will give this to my husband.” She had not taken her eyes off the paper. “He will recognize me in it.”

“Will you show it to us?” I asked.

“No.” She handed it back to Friedrich, who rolled it into a tube and tied it with a bit of string that he pulled from his jacket pocket. “Danke,” she said.

“Bitte,” he replied.

“I almost wish I were wearing a gown that showed off my tattoo,” she said.

“Tattoo?” Friedrich asked.

“Yes. An anchor. On my shoulder.” Then she laughed, and the smile that moved from her lips to her eyes made her face come alive and I saw, just for an instant, how beautiful she had been before grief ravaged her. She rose from her chair, and as I watched her prepare to leave us, I found that I could not resist approaching her.

“Your Highness?” My voice was tentative as I stepped close to her. “May I speak to you privately?”

“I suppose. What is it?” She had switched to speaking Greek.

“I share your suspicions about Mayerling.” My command of the modern language was lacking; I hoped that she could make sense of what I said. “There is an Englishman in Vienna right now who may know something about your son’s death.”

“Who?”

“A man you’re already familiar with. Mr. Harrison.”

“What does he know?”

“I’m only suspicious of him. I don’t know details.”

“I know that there was a plot—I know they assassinated my darling Rudolf.”

“Have you any evidence that I might be able to use to convince him to speak to me? Even a small fact might make him think that I know more than I do.”

“I’ve had everyone I can think of looking for evidence. It was all destroyed. But I do know this: the gun that killed my son was fired six times. He was an excellent shot. Why would it have taken so many attempts for him to kill the Vestera girl and then himself? It makes no sense. And there were bruises on his body. He must have been struggling with someone.” She clutched my arm. “If you can learn anything, you must tell me. I’m certain my husband knows more than I do, and I must find out what he’s hiding.”

“I will do all I can,” I said.

“What were you discussing?” Cécile asked after Sissi had left, surrounded by the bodyguards who had waited for her outside the door.

“Mayerling,” I said. “She deserves to know the truth.”

New Ear’s Eve had arrived, and the entire city was in a festive mood. People all but waltzed as they walked through the town, anticipating the evening’s balls. Musicians lugged their instruments, ready for a long night, while florists delivered heaping mounds of flowers to fill the city’s ballrooms, the occasional stray petal floating to the snowy street, a bright spot against dirty gray. Young ladies beamed, heads tilted together, laughing voices predicting full dance cards and stolen kisses. The streets even smelled festive: pine garlands left from Christmas mingling with baking bread and mulling spices.

Colin’s work had taken him to a small town outside Vienna, and he would not return until the next day, but Cécile, Jeremy, and I had tickets to the opera, where Strauss’s Die Fledermaus would be performed. After that, we planned to go to the Imperial Ball. But before I could give myself over to revelry, I had to meet Herr Schröder.

“I don’t know how I’m going to manage to stay awake tonight,” Jeremy said as we walked down the stairs at the Imperial.

“You look exhausted. You should take a nap.”

“This city is taking its toll on me. I’m thinking of wiring my uncle and telling him to start planning what he’d like to do with my house once I’m dead.”

“After we’re done at the cathedral, you should take a nap. I will not tolerate you dozing during the opera.”

“Perhaps I’ll go to the Griensteidl. I could use some coffee.”

“Nap.”

“It’s useless to argue with you.”

“I’m glad you’ve finally realized that,” I said. We were about to exit the hotel when the concierge called to Jeremy.

“Sir! This was just delivered for you.” He handed my friend an envelope that Jeremy opened at once, squinting as he read it, his hand reaching up to his forehead.

“Is something wrong?” I asked.

“It’s Rina. She’s asking me to come to her at once. Something terrible has happened. She gives no details, only says that Harrison is involved and that she’s in immediate danger.”

“You must go to her,” I said, seeing the hesitation on his face.

“I can’t leave you alone. Perhaps we could go to her first?”

“We’ll get a fiacre. You’ll drop me off at the Stephansdom. Schröder won’t wait for me if I’m late, and I can’t risk missing him.”

“I won’t leave you alone.”

“I’m perfectly safe with Herr Schröder. Mr. Harrison’s the one who’s dangerous. You can escort me inside if you insist, make sure that he’s there, and then continue on.” I buried my hands deep in a fur muff as we stepped out of the hotel. The temperature had been warmer yesterday, melting a great deal of the snow, but a cold night had hardened what was left to ice.

“I’ll have the driver wait for you outside the cathedral,” Jeremy said, helping me into the carriage.

“And how will you get to Rina?”

“I’ll be able to hire another one easily enough. But I don’t want to risk you not finding one the moment you need it.”

Jeremy did not relax for a moment on our drive. He tapped his walking stick rapidly on the floorboard and was too distracted to meet my eyes. I squeezed his hand, surprised to find it trembling. When we reached the Stephansdom, he insisted on accompanying me inside. The church was eerie in its silence, the nave empty. The stream of tourists that ordinarily filled it must have been in search of more secular delights for the New Year. As we approached Saint Valentine’s chapel, I could see Herr Schröder sitting on a pew in the back row, head bent forward, clearly asleep.

“I think I’m safe,” I whispered to Jeremy, smiling. “Go, Rina needs you.” He kissed my cheek and rushed out, disappearing into the light that spilled through the church’s door when it opened. I turned back to the chapel and walked towards Herr Schröder.

“I do fear for your soul,” I said as I came up behind him. “First blasphemy, now sleeping in church. You really ought to—” I stopped. Something was wrong. He hadn’t moved at all when I started talking. I reached the edge of the pew and saw a thick liquid pooling on the bench, soaking his clothes. I felt light-headed, but stepped closer and saw that the liquid—blood—was coming from his throat.

I could not bring myself to look any further. I did not want to see his face. I turned and started to run from the chapel, calling for Jeremy, only to find my exit blocked.

“Is something wrong?” Mr. Harrison asked, gripping my wrist.

“Unhand me.” I’d never been so frightened, yet was surprised to find my limbs perfectly steady. It was as if my body recognized the gravity of the situation and was able to steady itself in spite of my spinning brain.

“Unfortunate that Schröder chose to end his life. But then, Vienna is a city of suicides.”

“You murdered him.”

“Can you prove it, Lady Ashton? It seems you’re having trouble enough trying to exonerate Robert Brandon. I shouldn’t waste my time on Schröder if I were you.”

“You’re despicable,” I said. The words rang hollow, not nearly strong enough. I looked around, hoping that someone would come to my aid.

“There’s no one here. Don’t think you’ll be rescued. I cleared the cathedral before Schröder arrived. Told everyone the church was closed until mass tonight. Locked all the doors after your friend left. You’re in a rather bad situation, Lady Ashton.” He stepped closer to me. “Give me the papers you brought for Schröder.”

“No.” I tightened my grip on the notebook I was carrying with the papers folded inside.

“You should worry more about your fiancé.” He wrenched my arm and tore the notebook out of my hand. “After I’m done with you, I’ll go straight for him.”

I know not how I managed to form a coherent phrase at that moment, only that suddenly I was speaking. “I know what happened at Mayerling. I know about the six shots, the bruises on the crown prince’s body. He struggled, didn’t he? Did you kill them yourself, or do you prefer to hire out your unpleasant jobs?”

“If you were a man, I’d call you out for saying that. As it is—” He raised his hand and slapped me. Pain exploded through my cheek. I could hardly see, but resisted the urge to bring my hand up to my face. “It was a mistake to tell me you know these things. I’ve nothing further to say. Now I only have to act.”

He started for me, a knife in his hand. “I think I may enjoy this.” My heart felt as if it would explode, my lungs paralyzed. The only part of my body over which I still had control was my eyes, and I kept them focused on my enemy. I steeled myself, certain that death was upon me. I’d like to say I faced it bravely, but the truth is, I was seized with terror, unable to form a clear thought. I tried to picture Colin’s face, wanting it to be the last thing I remembered, but I could see nothing save Mr. Harrison’s knife.

Knowing there was no hope of overpowering him, I decided to run. He grabbed for me as I started, managing only to get the sleeve of my coat. He jerked me towards him, hard, then let go as we both heard the sound of the church door opening and voices filling the nave. Three priests and two altar boys walked in, the oldest priest, keys in hand, wondering aloud why his cathedral was locked.

Harrison twisted my arm violently, then let it go. “I will come for you,” he said, then stalked away.

The instant he was gone, I started to shake. I ran towards the priests, shouting for help, feeling with every step I took that Herr Schröder was right behind me, soaking my clothes with his blood.

25 December 1891

Berkeley Square, London

Dear Emily,

What a Christmas this has turned out to be. When I woke this morning, Ivy was gone. She’d taken it upon herself to send for the carriage and set off for Newgate, bent on seeing Robert. She returned in tears. He’d refused, again, to come to her. But the warden, taking pity on her, offered to bring him a note from her. She sat in his office for nearly an hour writing him a five-page letter. The warden delivered it and waited for a reply. And what do you think dear Robert sent our poor girl?

“Happy Christmas to my darling wife.”

He’s lucky he’s behind bars. If I saw him, I would throttle him myself.

So it was a miserable morning. Robert’s parents spent the day with us—and heavens, they are deadly dull—but I suppose that’s to be expected given their son’s circumstances. Things did improve steadily over the course of the afternoon, though. Your cook stuffed us with an obscene meal—I don’t think I’ve ever had superior roast beef—and Davis clearly liked his gift. He very nearly smiled when he opened it. I suggested that he try it out with one of Philip’s cigars, but he said that would be presumptuous and that he’d never do such a thing without the express permission of the lady of the house.

I’m thinking that it would be amusing if you were to wire him and give him permission.

Mr. Michaels was with his mother today—she lives near Kew Gardens—but he stopped by this evening unannounced to bring me a small present. I was caught completely off guard and had nothing for him. So forgive me, Emily, I took a copy of the Aeneid from your library, wrapped it in newspaper, and gave it to him. I’ll replace it next week. I’d rather hoped he’d give me a book—the package looked promising—but it was note cards instead. Still, the sentiment, as it were, is appreciated.

I do hope you’ve found some joy this holiday, Emily, and that you’ll be able to come home soon.

Margaret