Tasha Alexander - A Fatal Waltz

“Is this authentic or a copy?” 

My host shrugged. “For the price my grandfather paid, it had better be genuine. Do you read hieroglyphs?” 

“No, but I wish I did.” I reached up, longing to touch the worn stone, to feel the words carved by ancient hands. “Your grandfather was a collector?” 

“I don’t know. I never knew him.” 

“I’m sorry,” I said, and turned to take in the rest of the room, full of shades of gold and green. 

“You don’t like my house?” he asked. 

“Why would you say that?” 

“You have an odd expression on your face.” 

“I confess to not having expected to find an anarchist living in such luxury.” 

“I come from a good family.” 

“You’re a man of contradiction. It’s fascinating. What do your peers think of your wealth?” I asked. “I’m surprised they haven’t demanded that you renounce your fortune. Or at least divide it equally among them.”

“I’ll gladly renounce it the moment human beings are treated as equals in this world. Until that day, I need it to finance my work. Enough of this. What information have you brought me?” he asked. I handed him the papers Colin had sent to me. He gave them a cursory glance, then began looking at them more closely. “This is better than I could have hoped. Does he know you took this?” 

“Of course not. What do you take me for? I was…with him in his rooms last night and took them after he’d fallen asleep.” My cheeks felt hot as I said this. “I’ll need to return them before he gets home this evening. You’re free to copy whatever you want.” 

“Are you certain he hasn’t missed them?” 

“He hadn’t when he left this morning.” I watched him sit at a table and begin scribbling furiously in a notebook. “What do you have for me?” I asked. 

“I haven’t yet decided. You surprised me by being so successful with your acquisition. I confess to having had very little faith that you could do what you said.” 

“So will you give me what I want? Did someone in Vienna order Lord Fortescue’s murder?” 

“I will find out what I can. My ‘organization,’ as you call it, was not involved.” 

“What about Mr. Harrison?” 

“Give me twenty-four hours.” 

“You want to meet on Christmas Eve?” 

“Have you something more important to do?” 

“Not in particular. Shall I meet you here again?” 

“No. Go to the Stephansdom. I’ll come to you in Saint Valentine’s chapel at nine o’clock.” 

I agreed to the meeting, then stood up and started for the door. The sight of something hanging on the wall brought me to a dead stop: a dueling pistol embellished with the image of a griffin in profile, the arms of the Baron of Beaumont. I recognized it at once as the twin of the one used to murder Lord Fortescue. 

“Where did you get this?”

“This is one of the guns from the duel in which my brother was killed. I keep it to remind me why I continue to fight for justice in this world.” 

I went directly from Herr Schröder’s house to the offices of the Neue Freie Presse, towing Jeremy with me. He did not play unwilling companion on the journey, instead telling me in matter-of-fact tones what he’d seen while he waited for me in the hall: the Countess von Lange, wearing an evening gown in the middle of the afternoon, coming down the stairs. A friendly chat with a servant and a handful of change had confirmed his suspicion that she’d spent the night at the house. 

Once we arrived at the Neue Freie Presse, we did not emerge for nearly two hours, but when we did, I had with me an item cut from an old issue of the newspaper, full of details of a duel fought more than ten years earlier, in which it was reported a Mr. Robert Brandon had killed Josef Schröder. 

The duel that recently took place between Robert Brandon and Josef Schröder proves once again why this barbaric practice is illegal. Schröder was mortally wounded and Brandon fled the country immediately, but that was not the end of this tragic story. Schröder’s second, an Englishman, Albert Sanburne, was found dead yesterday morning, having killed himself with a single shot to the head. He used the same pistol that had ended the life of his friend. One can only suppose that the guilt he felt at not having been able to dissuade Schröder from fighting was overwhelming. 

But in a season of suicides, Sanburne’s is unremarkable when compared to that of the woman who jumped from a car on the Budapest express, ending up a tangled mess in her bloody wedding gown and veil. 

—NEUE FREIE PRESSE, 20 SEPTEMBER 1880

“This is very troubling,” Colin said, pacing in front of my fireplace at the Imperial, reading the article from the Neue Freie Presse over and over. “To have Brandon connected to this set of pistols more than once…Not good at all.”

“No one knows but us,” I said. “Unless it was part of the information Lord Fortescue was holding over Robert, and whoever is in possession of that now decides to come forward with it.”

“I can’t imagine that Fortescue would have missed such a detail. But unless we can find his private papers, we’ve no way of discovering what precisely he knew.”

“He was too sharp to keep them somewhere people would search. I’m going to write to Mrs. Reynold-Plympton. She was more of a wife to him than any of his three legal ones, and so far as I can tell, she exerted a great deal of influence over him politically. They were more than lovers.”

“I suppose now that Fortescue is dead she’d have no reason to keep his secrets hidden.”

“Unless she’s planning on using them herself,” I said. “She might not be ready to relinquish her political power.” 

“Perhaps, but she’d have a difficult time wielding it without Fortescue.” 

“Doesn’t that depend on how spectacular the information she knows is?” 

“To a degree. But the fact is that without him, she has very little clout.” 

“I had one other thought,” I said. “I think Fortescue was also having an affair with Flora Clavell. Could his murder be a simple case of jealousy?” 

“You think Flora Clavell killed him? I seem to remember you suspected her husband at one point.” 

“I don’t think either of them is guilty. But what about Mrs. Reynold-Plympton? She wouldn’t have ever felt threatened by Lady Fortescue, but Flora’s young and pretty and smart.” 

“An interesting theory. But she wasn’t in Yorkshire.” 

“She was. At Highgrove, attending the Langstons’ party,” I said. “Jeremy was there, too.” 

“You’re certain?” 

“I remember it distinctly.” 

“That’s a lead worth pursuing.” He tossed the newspaper article onto a table. “Damn Brandon for lying about this.” 

“He lied?” 

“He was shown the gun—held it in his hands—and denied ever having laid eyes on it before,” Colin said. 

“I can’t believe he’d do such a thing.” 

“He was in desperate circumstances, Emily, and he probably assumed that no one other than Fortescue could make the connection between the guns. In theory, it shouldn’t matter, but if it were to be exposed during the trial…” He shook his head. “What I don’t understand is how the pair of pistols was separated, and how one of them wound up back in England if their owner died in Vienna.” 

“Mr. Sanburne’s personal effects would have been returned to his family, wouldn’t they? And that must have included one of the pistols and perhaps their case.” 

“It’s odd they didn’t send both of them,” he said. 

“Perhaps Schröder stole it after his brother was killed. We can find out easily enough how he came to get it.” 

“Perhaps it doesn’t matter.” He was pacing again. 

“I don’t believe for a moment that Mr. Sanburne killed himself because he didn’t stop the duel. Did you know about his suicide? I thought he’d died of influenza.” 

“That was the story circulated by the family. His sister was in dire enough straits without having the stigma of suicide to contend with.” 

“I’ve one other distressing piece of news. Would you like it now, or shall I wait?” 

“May as well bludgeon me with all of it at once.” 

“I believe I know who warned Lord Fortescue.” 

“One of Schröder’s men?” 

“Not quite. Schröder is having an affair with a woman who is…connected with politics in England.” 

“Who?” 

“The Countess von Lange.” 

“Kristiana?” he asked. I nodded. “How do you know this?” 

“I was suspicious when I saw his reaction when I told him she was still romantically involved with you.” 

“But you have no firm proof?” 

“Jeremy confirmed it this afternoon.” Meeting Colin’s eyes was difficult. I was afraid of what I might see in them. “She is not an infrequent guest at Herr Schröder’s house.”

If he felt any emotion at that moment, he did a superb job of hiding it. His demeanor did not change in the least, but he did stop pacing. “I’ll speak to her at once. If it was she, and she’s been hiding it all this time…” He paused. “No. I can’t imagine she would do that. She’s unscrupulous in many ways, but she would never stand by and send an innocent man to his death.” 

“I’m sure you’re right,” I said, but I was skeptical, and not entirely pleased that he was so quick to defend her. “But if so, it doesn’t bode well for Robert unless there’s another part to the story that we’re missing.” 

“While we’re on the subject of illicit loves, have you talked to Bainbridge?” 

“What on earth do you mean?” I asked, hoping I looked imperturbable. 

“He’s in love with you, and I’m feeling a bit guilty for sending you around with him. He must be feeling supremely tortured. But I can’t go myself without neglecting my own work, and I can’t let you continue what you’re doing alone.”