Tasha Alexander - A Fatal Waltz

I, Mary Fortescue, confess to the murder of my husband, Lord Basil Fortescue.

DATED THIS 5 JANUARY 1892.

There was no sign of Albert’s letter. I pulled out the velvet interior, hoping there was something else in the box, but there was nothing. I looked back at Mary and fell to my knees next to her. I hesitated to touch her, but forced myself, and gently opened her clutched hand. She was holding the charred bits of paper I’d seen the first time I’d looked in the case. 

For the first time in my life, I felt more than a little inclined to faint, but managed to stay calm and called for help, directing the servants to send for the police, who arrived with astonishing speed. Or perhaps I was unaware of how much time had passed. An officer tried to remove me from the room, but I refused to be sent away until I could be certain every detail of the case had been addressed, certain that Robert would be released, and certain that someone other than one of Lord Fortescue’s children would arrange for Mary’s burial. 

I kept my voice steady as I answered the policemen’s questions, holding my hands tightly together so they wouldn’t shake. They said it was obviously a suicide, that they would check the handwriting on her note against other letters she was known to have written, that they would interview the servants again to ascertain whether she’d been seen leaving the house before her husband’s death. This was all perfunctory, of course, but procedure must be followed. 

Soon enough, they were satisfied. The body was removed, the servants set to cleaning the carpet. But I stood, still wondering how Mary came to possess the pistol. After Lord Fortescue’s murder, the police had put the murder weapon in the room they’d used to interview everyone in the house, locking the door whenever they left. Mary, who had keys to all the rooms, would have seen the gun when they questioned her—they’d shown it to each of us. She could easily have slipped back into the room to steal it. No one noticed it was missing until they’d been ordered to send their evidence to Scotland Yard.

As I watched the servants bustling to bring the house back to an ordinary state, I realized I was not capable of returning to mundane thoughts as quickly as those around me. I was relieved that Robert would be released and returned to Ivy, but could take only limited joy in the resolution. I should never have let Mary leave the room alone. I should have followed her, should have done a better job convincing her that I could help her. I could not accept the idea that to stop her would have been impossible. 

And although I knew that I was not culpable—not really—this was an instance when knowledge brought no comfort. Justice was being served, but in a most painful manner. Mary’s face wouldn’t stop haunting me.

I left Beaumont Towers as soon as I could, and within a few hours of my return to London, Robert was released from Newgate and came to Berkeley Square. My friends, understanding my melancholy, had left me to my thoughts in the library, where I was sitting alone on the window seat, staring out across the foggy park, when Robert opened the door.

“Emily…” He hesitated, then stepped forward and embraced me. “I shall never be able to thank you for what you’ve done.”

“Dear Robert,” I said. “I didn’t do it for thanks.”

“But you look sad. There’s no need for that now.” He was clearly exhausted, but the joy in his eyes knew no measure. He was radiant.

“I’ve still had no word from Colin.”

“Colin? Where is he?” he asked.

“Didn’t Ivy tell you?”

“I’ve not yet seen her. I thought I should come to you first because I owe you my life.”

“Go to your wife!” I stood up and practically pushed him out of the room. 

“First tell me about Hargreaves,” he said. “You must let me help you now.” 

As briefly as possible, I explained all that had transpired while he was in prison. 

“I’m not sure that I’ve contacts in the government anymore. We will go to Vienna ourselves and find him. Let me speak with Ivy, and then I will arrange everything.” 

He rushed off to see his wife, but I did not begin preparing for a trip. Whatever Mr. Harrison had planned would have happened today. I could not get there in time. And even if it were possible to do so, what could I do once there? I stayed on the window seat, trying to read a translation of Ovid’s Ars Amatoria that Margaret had left in the library, while my friends rejoiced in Robert’s return. 

“Madam?” Davis opened the door. “Mr. Brandon said to inform you that he’s booked you tickets to Vienna. You’ll need to be ready to leave within the hour. Meg has already packed your bags, but Madame du Lac and Miss Seward are arguing as to who will take the third ticket.” 

“Why on earth would you go back to Vienna?” My mother followed close on Davis’s heels. “Mr. Hargreaves will come here as soon as he’s able. Emily, it is time that you stop gallivanting about the Continent. If you must travel, come to Sandringham with your father and me. Prince Eddy’s birthday dinner is tomorrow.” 

“No, Mother, I’ve no desire to go to Sandringham. Nor Vienna, for that matter.” 

“And that is the first sensible statement I’ve had from you in I know not how long.” She stepped close to me and leaned into my face. “Good heavens, child, are you merely exhausted, or are you getting lines at the corners of your eyes?” 

I backed away while she pulled out her spectacles. “A bit of both, I imagine. But perhaps it’s time my face began to show some character. Perfection, I’m told, is tedious.” 

“Don’t be ridiculous. We must take action at once. Where’s Meg? She must make up a mixture of—” 

“No, Mother. I’ve no time for such things.” 

“And I’ve no time to argue with you if I’m to make it to Sandringham.” 

“Mother—” I knew the expression on her face well. There was no winning this battle. I handed her a piece of paper and pen from my desk. “Write down what I should do. I’ll take care of it tonight.” 

“See to it that you do. You don’t want Mr. Hargreaves seeing you like this. He’d be appalled.” 

“Yes, Mother.” 

Despite her insistence that she was in a hurry, she did not rush when writing the directions for whatever this miracle of beauty was. Every letter on the page was perfectly formed; she could never tolerate anything less. “Now, I’m off, but I must tell you that I’m quite concerned about Ivy. She tells me her parents are still in India, and I think that until they get back to England, she should come stay at Darnley House. I can make sure she’s getting the care she needs.” 

“I’m certain Robert’s perfectly capable of taking care of her.” 

“Child, I fear for you. Your expectations for husbands are positively wild. I’ve already arranged for her to come to me. Robert’s welcome as well, of course, now that this dreadful business of his is finished.” 

“I don’t—” 

“Nothing more. I must run.” She kissed me on the forehead and left for the train station. Not much later, Robert was back, holding my coat. 

“We must go, Emily. Bainbridge is coming, too. He’ll meet us at the station.” 

The argument over who would go to Vienna was a heated one. In the end, Cécile agreed to stay in London with Ivy, who obviously was in no condition to travel into such dangerous circumstances. Margaret, who felt it keenly that she had missed the finales of my last two adventures, insisted on accompanying us. She did, however, send a wire to Mr. Michaels in Oxford before we left. 

Robert’s parents came to the station with us, clearly displeased that their son was bent on traveling. Ivy clung to her husband’s arm, sorry to lose him again so soon after his return, but there was no trace of anxiety on her face. Her porcelain skin was perfectly smooth. She knew he would come back to her. 

“You must be delighted to be out of bed at last,” I said, hugging her as I was about to board the train. 

“It is a relief, I confess. But your mother was very kind to me in her way.” 

“Be careful, my dear,” I said. “She’s prepared to watch over you for the next six months.” 

“Wire us as soon as you have news,” Ivy said. “I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep until we hear from you. I hope—” She stopped. 

“So do I,” I said. 

“I don’t know why you’re all so worried.” Cécile kissed me on both cheeks. “Do you forget that Monsieur Hargreaves is not only devastatingly handsome, but exceedingly clever, too? This Harrison is no match for him. And keep your eye on Jeremy. I expect you to send me news of what is transpiring between him and Rina.” 

We’d barely reached our compartment when a telegram boy burst in, holding an envelope. My heart leapt, certain that it was news of Colin. 

It was not. 

It was for Margaret, from Mr. Michaels. She did not tell me what it said, but it made her blush, and after she read it, she buried herself in some poem of Ovid’s she was translating. 

My stomach lurched as the train started, and it felt as if every nerve in my body was charged with a nervous, biting energy. When I thought about how long it would take for us to get to Vienna, it seemed intolerable, and I wondered how I would survive. Jeremy had drifted off almost before we left the station. I envied him. If only I could sleep. 

Then Robert handed a book to me: Gerard; or, The World, the Flesh, and the Devil by Mary Elizabeth Braddon. “I believe it is her latest,” he said. 

“When did you have time to get it?” I asked. 

“I sent one of your footmen out while Meg was packing your things.” 

“Dare I hope that you’ve begun to see the value of popular fiction?” 

“Not as such. Worthless drivel, all of it, and quite corrupting. But you have convinced me that there are times when that’s precisely what the mind requires, and I think, my friend, that for you this is one of those times.” 

“You enjoyed Lady Audley’s Secret?” I asked. 

“Immensely.” He leaned close and spoke in a low voice. “But I’ll never admit that to anyone but you.” 

“There’s hope for you yet, Robert.” 

He squeezed my hand. 

The crossing to Calais was stormy, but the churning water had little effect on me. I was too lost in my thoughts and worries to take notice of anything short of a biblical gale. When we reached France, it was raining, a cold winter rain that with very little encouragement would turn to sleet. I stepped carefully down the ferry’s gangplank, grateful for Robert’s steady arm, Margaret and Jeremy walking in front of us. We were standing on the dock, prepared to head for the train that would take us to Vienna, when I saw him.

He was walking with purpose towards the ferry, carrying a satchel, a book tucked under his arm. All of it clattered to the wet ground when he looked up to see me running towards him.

“Colin!” I threw my arms around him, nearly knocking him over. His embrace engulfed me, and he kissed every inch of my face before pulling back to look at me. “You’re hurt,” I said, gently touching a ragged gash next to his eyebrow.

“Kristiana is dead.”

“I’m so sorry.”

I seemed unable to stop repeating the words. We had all gone straight back onto the ferry and were on our way to England, Margaret, Jeremy, and Robert leaving Colin and me alone in my cabin.

“I am too,” he said, his voice low and husky.

“Was it Harrison?”

“Yes. She had persuaded Kaufman—one of Schröder’s associates—to talk to her. When she went to meet him, Harrison was there instead.” He ran a hand through his hair. “The most awful part is that I already knew the details of their plans. She needn’t have met him at all. She didn’t know.”

“It’s not your fault,” I said, pulling his head onto my shoulder.

“When I left Vienna before New Year’s, it was to divert the shipment of explosives that was going to Schröder. His plan was to set off a series of bombs while the emperor and the kaiser were attending a performance of the court boys’ choir. I learned the details from the explosive carriers.”

“How?” I asked.

“When I realized I could infiltrate the group, I decided not to return to Vienna. The town we were in was remote. I couldn’t wire her.”

“Colin—”

“I hadn’t planned to be there so long, but it became clear that if I stayed, I’d have the opportunity not only to uncover the plot, but to sabotage the explosives.”