A Fatal Waltz

“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 with 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