A Fatal Waltz

Chapter 22

I can hardly recall what happened next. Everything swirled around me, pulling me down to murky depths of terror and sadness. The police came, and someone tried to bundle me off to the British Embassy, but I refused, preferring instead to return to the Imperial. I wanted neither to be alone nor in the company of others, and the crowded streets of the city called to me, offering an uneasy sort of anonymous comfort. I asked the sturdy officer who had carefully written down my answers to his questions about finding the body and Harrison’s threats if he would walk me there.

He refused, insisting that we take a carriage. He rode with me back to the hotel, escorting me all the way to my room, where Cécile reached for me the moment she saw my face. I think she spoke to the policeman, but I didn’t particularly notice. I walked over to the window and stared out of it, focusing on nothing. The door closed, the officer was gone, and my friend embraced me.

“Kallista, we must leave this city.”

“I have to find Colin,” I said. I wanted to cry, to scream, something. But all I felt was an enormous void engulfing me. Cécile rang for Meg and Odette and ordered them to begin packing our things.

I did not leave the window.

I didn’t hear Jeremy come in. He’d found Rina curled up at her house, reading a book. She had not sent him the note and was completely astonished to see him. Knowing instantly that he’d been tricked, he returned to the Stephansdom, only to learn that someone had been murdered inside. I hardly heard him speak as he told the story.

My friends did not try to convince me to come away from the window. Eventually, Jeremy pressed a glass of port into my hand, guiding it with his up to my mouth. I drank, but tasted nothing. I handed the glass back to him and dropped into a chair.

“We will leave on the Orient Express tomorrow,” he said, sitting across from me. “Do you know where Hargreaves is? We can send him a wire if you’d like. I’ve no doubt he’ll return before our departure.”

Colin didn’t come back. I had not the slightest idea of where he’d gone—only that he’d traveled by train, wasn’t terribly far from Vienna, and had expected to return before the end of the day. We waited as long as we could, sending our baggage to the station ahead of us and not leaving until we were in danger of missing the train. The last thing I did was write two letters: one to Colin and one to the empress.

The trip was a hideous one. I did not sleep at all, images of Herr Schröder and Harrison’s knife haunting me whenever I closed my eyes. I did not want to know how much worse my dreams would be. I staggered onto the ferry at Calais, and was barely cognizant of anything around me when we arrived at Victoria Station the next morning. The yellow fog was back again, shrouding London in an unholy veil. Margaret was waiting for us at the platform—Jeremy must have wired her—and the moment I saw her, I snapped out of my morose trance.

“Are you all right?” she asked almost before I’d stepped off the train.

“I wouldn’t know how to even begin to answer that question,” I said. “But I’m glad you’re here.” She looped her arm through mine, and we bent our heads together. A silent friend can offer untold comfort. I knew not how to begin to cope with what had happened, only that I could not bear to stop and think about it. Keeping occupied was the only solution. Robert’s trial was fast approaching; I could not let him run out of time. I would focus on him and later think about the rest. Margaret understood this well.

Once outside the station, our party split. Jeremy took a cab to his club while Cécile, and the maids returned to Berkeley Square in my carriage. Margaret and I had other plans: we were going to Windsor to descend unannounced on the estate of the Reynold-Plymptons.

If the lady of the house was surprised to see us, she hid the emotion with the skill of an artisan. She welcomed us into her drawing room, which was filled with souvenirs from the time she and her husband, who had been an ambassador, spent abroad: ivory from India, Egyptian glass bottles, an elaborate Turkish coffee set. On the walls were stuffed and mounted animal heads—the ambassador must be a hunter—most of them African, all of them staring down upon us with looks of reproach.

“What a lovely room,” Margaret said, the corners of her mouth twitching as she tried not to smile. “I understand that you’ve quite a flair for home redecoration.”

“It’s always been a hobby of mine,” Mrs. Reynold-Plympton said.

“I recognized your touch at Beaumont Towers,” I said. “I particularly liked the Merchant of Venice murals in the drawing room.”

She gave me a catlike smile. “You did not come here to discuss the drawing room at Beaumont Towers.”

“No, I did not. You were kind enough to tell me that there was someone else on the dueling field in Vienna with an interest in British politics. Would you please tell me who?”

“Lady Ashton, you know that I, more than anyone, want to see my dear Basil’s murderer brought to justice. But I have looked into this matter of the second—a man for whom I have no personal liking. Regrettably, he was not involved.”

“Tell me his name,” I said.

“It’s irrelevant.”

“I’d still like to speak with him.”

“Emily is incorrigible,” Margaret said. “She’ll never rest unless she finds out for herself. Can’t you humor her?”

“I don’t see what good could come of it.” Her smile was implacable.

“But surely it would lead to nothing bad. I’m not going to accost him in public.”

“I simply don’t see the point,” she said.

“You should have no objection to me wasting my time,” I said.

“You are remarkably persistent, a quality I admire.” She put on a pair of spectacles and peered at me. “I did not much like you when we first met, but I should perhaps excuse your naïveté as a thoroughly unoriginal sin of youth.”

“I admit freely that we started off in a less than desirable manner.”

This made her laugh. “You accused me of having an affair with Robert Brandon.”

Margaret leaned forward in her chair. “I’ve always thought Emily should write fiction. She has such a flair for narrative.”

“Yes, well, I assure you my decision to confront you stemmed from the best of intentions,” I said. “But what has always impressed me about you, Mrs. Reynold-Plympton, is that you have forged for yourself real political power. I can’t think of another lady of my acquaintance who’s managed to do such a thing. It’s common knowledge that Lord Fortescue depended on your advice.”

“An astute observation.” She pulled her shoulders back just a bit and sat taller in her chair.

“And one that should be shared by gentlemen in the government.” I was gambling. Was she sensitive to the fact that the majority of men would have dismissed her expertise?

“Hmpf.” She whipped off her spectacles with a flourish. “We ladies are forced to operate entirely behind the scenes—and that’s unlikely to change in my lifetime.”

“I have…” I paused, smiled, and wrung my hands, hoping that I looked like someone in search of a mentor. “I’ve taken some steps to assist my fiancé in his work. I confess that you’ve been my inspiration. I know I’m an absolute novice, but perhaps someday you and I could combine forces.”

“Are you trying to manipulate me?” she asked.

“No, of course not.”

“Of course you are.” She studied me for a moment and then laughed again. It sounded like music. “I may have just begun to like you, Lady Ashton. It’s possible you would make a useful ally.”

“Will you tell me his name?” I asked.

“James Hamilton. He works in the office of the chancellor of the exchequer and is very likely to be prime minister one day.”

“Thank you.”

“I’m hoping that you’re a more dependable confederate than the typical gentleman. I don’t like being disappointed.”

“You’ve no cause for worry on that count,” I said. “I’m at your disposal should you require my assistance.”

“Of course you are.” She returned her spectacles to her face. “You owe me. I won’t forget that.”

“Can I beg one more favor?” I asked.

“You can beg anything you’d like,” she said.

I told her, as succinctly as possible, about Mr. Harrison’s threats towards Colin. “Lord Fortescue was able to keep him in check. Can you do the same? You don’t have to tell me how, just please, please stop him.”

She shook her head, her eyes lowered. “He never showed me what he had on Harrison. It was too sensitive even for my eyes. I’m sorry. You’ll have to hope your fiancé is capable of avoiding the worst. I know Harrison’s methods well enough to be afraid for you.”

“I never suspected you ladies of being so debauched,” Jeremy said. “Drinking port in the middle of the afternoon? Hedonistic.”

Margaret and I had returned from Windsor, and we were all in my library at Berkeley Square. Davis had decanted a port for us, and I’d insisted that he returned Philip’s cigars to the room so Margaret could smoke them. He did this not so much because I ordered him to, but because Odette was back in the house. It could never be said that Davis was giddy, but there was an extra crispness in his efficiency today, and I had no doubt what emotion was fueling it.

“It’s never too early for port,” Margaret said.

“You must tell us what you learned in Windsor,” Ivy said. “I can’t say that I’m much fond of Mrs. Reynold-Plympton.”

“Well, I certainly don’t trust her,” Margaret said.

“Nor do I,” I said. “I can’t help but wonder whether Lord Fortescue ever disappointed her. He was quite devoted to her for years and years.”

“And what did his wife think of this?” Cécile asked.

“Which one?” Margaret asked, choosing a cigar from the box. “Not that it matters. I don’t think any of their feelings much concerned him.”

“He wouldn’t have cared, but regardless, she—his second wife, that is—never seemed to mind it in the least,” I said. “After all, the more time he spent with his mistress, the less his wife had to deal with him. As I remember it, theirs was a marriage completely devoid of emotion.”

“A happily matched couple, then?” Margaret asked.

“Apparently.” I held up my glass towards the fire. The tawny liquid glowed in front of it.

“I never would have guessed ladies could be so cynical,” Jeremy said, lighting a cigar. “I’m astonished. I feel like I’m in possession of an invaluable secret.”

“You are,” Margaret said. “And if you ever disclose it, we’ll murder you.”

“What of Fortescue’s current wife?” Cécile asked.

“Widow. I don’t know her well at all, but she seemed content enough,” I said.

“They’d been married less than a year,” Ivy said. “Certainly she’s grateful to have been returned to her family’s estate, but beyond that, I’ve no idea what her feelings are.” There was no hint of her usual rosy hue left in my friend’s complexion. “I did think it was odd, though, that Mrs. Reynold-Plympton was not at the party. Lord Fortescue always used to make a point of insisting on her presence. Would refuse invitations if she weren’t invited.”

“He was clearly carrying on with Flora Clavell at Beaumont Towers,” I said. “I wonder if Mrs. Reynold-Plympton knows what was going on between them?”

“Oh, I can’t imagine!” Ivy said.

“Of course she knew,” Margaret said. “She would have made it her business to.”

“Margaret is right,” Cécile said.

“You don’t think she was involved in the murder?” Ivy asked.

“She was at the party at Highwater with me,” Jeremy said. “She could have come to Beaumont Towers as easily as I did.”

“I can’t believe she would have harmed him,” Ivy said. “Despite their…immorality…she loved him.”

“Ivy, you are too good,” I said, glancing up at the clock. “I’m off to the Treasury to see Mr. Hamilton.”

“Want me to come with you?” Jeremy asked. “I rather miss skulking about with you on nefarious errands.”

“And I very much enjoyed having you with me, my dear, but it won’t be necessary today,” I said. “Perhaps another time.”

Ivy snapped to attention. “Hamilton! Of course. That’s why it seemed familiar. Isn’t his mother Mr. Reynold-Plympton’s mistress?”

“I thought he was ancient,” Margaret said.

“He is. But you’re right, Ivy. My mother told me that they were childhood sweethearts and weren’t allowed to marry,” I said. “She’s been taking care of him in his old age.”

“Rather sweet, really,” Ivy said. Margaret rolled her eyes.

“Does it matter?” Cécile asked. “Apart from Monsieur Reynold-Plympton being pleased that someone’s tending to his needs as he reaches the age of infirmity? I don’t see how any of it’s relevant to Lord Fortescue’s murder.”

“Perhaps it’s not. Mrs. Reynold-Plympton was awfully quick to give up his name despite her initial refusal,” I said.

“And here I thought it was simply a matter of you cleverly convincing her to trust you,” Margaret said. “I’m crushed.”

“I wasn’t even there, and I’m devastated,” Jeremy said.

“You know I adore your confidence.” I finished my port. “But she set it up beautifully, didn’t she? Made us think that she was telling us something valuable.”

“So you think Hamilton is useless?” Margaret asked.

“I think Mrs. Reynold-Plympton is as capable as anyone of overlooking a significant detail.”