A Fatal Waltz

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