A Fatal Waltz

“I don’t want him to think I doubt his fidelity.” 

“Do you doubt it?” 

“No.” 

“Then why do you feel threatened by the countess?” 

“Not because I think he would go back to her, but because I’m afraid that in comparison, he may find me a disappointment.” 

“Highly unlikely, darling.” 

“I’d very much like to believe you.” I glanced around, but saw no sign of Mr. Harrison. “Do you think it’s safe to leave?” 

“Impossible to say.” 

“Perhaps we should just return to the Imperial.” 

“Let’s stay here,” Jeremy said. “As you said, it’s good for my soul, and the morbid bit of me would like to see the relics.” 

“They have a piece of the tablecloth from the Last Supper.” 

“Right. Undoubtedly purchased from some dubious medieval merchant. Besides, I’m looking for bones.” 

“We could tour the catacombs,” I said, and took him by the hand. We walked past Saint Valentine’s chapel, which held the cathedral’s reliquary, and headed straight for the catacombs, which we found inaccessible to tourists. Inaccessible, that is, until Jeremy made it worth the while of a caretaker in possession of a useful set of keys. He admitted us for a fee, and we found them dank and gruesome and everything one would want such a place to be. 

“I hope my bones don’t wind up heaped in a stack under some church,” Jeremy said. “Or maybe I do. It’s rather romantic down here.” 

“Romantic? Hardly. And I don’t think you need fear for your bones. You couldn’t keep them out of the family vault if you tried.” 

“Unless I run through my fortune and die penniless in Vienna.” 

“You’re not profligate enough to manage that,” I said. “But if by chance you somehow do become that corrupt, I promise to see to it myself that you have a shelf of your own down here. I won’t have your skull piled in a heap.” 

“You are generosity itself. If only you’d be so kind to me while I’m still alive. Instead you’re bent on breaking my heart.” 

“I didn’t think you had a heart, Jeremy.” 

“Neither did I.” 

I caught no sign of Mr. Harrison when we left the Stephansdom. Even so, we returned to the Imperial before continuing our mission, taking extra care to be certain that he was no longer tailing us. While Cécile and I caught up on the events of the morning, Jeremy spoke to the manager of the hotel, who quickly agreed to increase security near our rooms. After a quick luncheon, we set off again. 

Before that afternoon, I had never seen neighborhoods like those found on the count’s list. As a girl, I had accompanied my mother when she visited tenants on my father’s estate, but their happy, well-tended cottages did nothing to prepare me for the dire conditions in which Vienna’s poor lived. The houses aspired to the finery of those in the city’s best neighborhoods, with corniced windows and elaborate decorative detail. But this did nothing to hide laundry hanging from windows, garbage strewn across sidewalks, the stench of decay defying the freezing temperatures, and gardens covered with soot from the factories that surrounded the area. Children dressed in little more than filthy rags ran through the streets when they should have been in cozy rooms eating something hot. 

It took several hours for Jeremy and me to find all six addresses, our task made more difficult by the heavy snow. And when we did find them, Herr Schröder’s compatriots, tucked in their dingy, cold houses, proved unwilling conversationalists. 

“It was naïve of me to think they would talk,” I said, stepping over a pile of hideous-smelling trash in an alley. “How could these people ever trust us when we allow them to live in these conditions?” 

“It’s hardly our fault.” 

“It will be should we do nothing to improve their plight.” I looked across the street at a girl who was leaning against a building. Her dingy coat barely covered a threadbare dress, and she wore no gloves. 

“Looking for someone, sir?” she asked, in English untouched by the slightest hint of an Austrian accent. 

Jeremy tightened his grip on my arm and walked towards her. “Do you know Franz Kaufman?”

“Maybe.” She winked at him. “But you’d have more fun with me.”

My breath caught in my throat as I tried to look nonchalant.

“Shock your friend, did I? Or is it your wife?” She crinkled her nose. “Imagine a gentleman wouldn’t bring his wife to this sort of neighborhood.” 

“Are you English?” I asked. 

“My mother was.” 

Without thinking, I handed her my muff. “You must be freezing.” She batted it away. 

“I don’t need no charity from you.” 

“Don’t be a fool.” Jeremy pushed it back at her. She smiled at him, revealing a surprisingly bright set of teeth. 

“Why’re you lookin’ for Kaufman? He in trouble again?” 

“What sort of trouble is he prone to?” I asked. 

“Don’t know that I could say,” she said, burying her hands deep in the muff’s fur. She stared at me for a moment, but the hardness in her eyes did not thaw. “Thank you.” 

“It’s nothing,” I said. “What’s your name?” 

“Rina.” 

“I’m Emily.” 

“Lady Emily Ashton?” she asked. I nodded. “There’s a gent been around here inquiring about you. Harrison was his name.” 

“What does he want?” I asked. 

“Best I know, he wants to find out who you’re looking for. Word’s gotten around that anyone who talks to you will face a heap of trouble.” 

“Are people scared of him?” 

She shrugged. “Not really. They’re more scared of Schröder. But I guess you know that. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?” 

“Did he send you to watch me?” I asked. 

She laughed. “I hate him more than anyone.” 

“Why?” I asked. 

“Don’t see why I should tell you.” 

“I’m looking for information that could save the life of an innocent man in England. Will you help me?” I asked. 

She pursed her lips and blew out a long breath, then motioned towards Jeremy. “Is he going to protect me if I do?” 

“Of course I will. You’ve my word as a gentleman.” Jeremy gave her a quick but smart bow. 

She laughed. “Don’t know what good that is, but I’ll take it just the same.” 

“Do you know Stefan Gross?” I asked. “I’m trying to find him. Or perhaps Jacob Reisner?” 

“You’re wasting your time with that crew. Schröder’s the only one who knows anything. Do you know a beisl called Ofenloch? It’s a restaurant two streets from here.” 

“Yes, I noticed it as we passed.” Jeremy tugged at his gloves. 

“He goes there most every night.” 

“Can you find out if he’ll be there tomorrow?” 

“I don’t talk to him,” she said. “He killed my father.” 

Jeremy was silent as we made our way back to the Imperial. “Are you all right?” I asked.