It was Saturday and, cases or no, Werthen was determined to spend time with his family at his country home in Laab im Walde.
The morning dawned with clear skies, and the smell of fresh earth coming through the open bedroom window. Werthen got up early, leaving Berthe and Frieda to sleep in. Donning his lederhosen and a linen shirt, he took a walk around what locals referred to as ‘the farm’. The rye grass that Stein – his father’s steward at Hohelände – had planted several weeks earlier was shooting up through the black soil: eager green spears of life so fragile-looking yet so hardy. The sight of the grass growing filled him with a sudden pride in his property.
Perhaps a lawn tennis court would not be such a bad idea after all, he thought. Perhaps his parents building nearby would also be less than the disaster he feared.
The warm sun was making an optimist of him. He filled his lungs with morning air, and walked back to the house to prepare breakfast. He was becoming a dab hand in the kitchen with these weekends spent away from the ministrations of Frau Blatschky. A five-minute egg was his specialty; and coffee that was surprisingly drinkable.
Fresh Semmeln were waiting, nestled in a gingham napkin in a basket on the doorstep as he came back to the house. He put his hand to the crusts: they were still warm. The local gasthaus at the crossroads delivered the breakfast rolls each morning they were in occupancy.
Life was good, he thought, as he picked up the basket and went inside.
For the next ten minutes he occupied himself so thoroughly with breakfast preparations that he was quite unaware of the arrival of visitors, until an insistent knocking at the kitchen door brought him out of his reverie. He wiped his hands on the apron he loved to wear, a gift from Berthe purchased from the kitchen of the Hotel Imperial.
He opened the door and there stood Gross, cheeks flushed red and bowler in hand. His balding pate glistened in the morning sun.
Gross’s discerning eyes went from the lederhosen to the apron, and a wry smile appeared.
‘Sorry to interrupt this lovely domestic scene.’
‘Good morning to you, too, Gross. What brings you to the countryside? I thought you were allergic to fresh air.’
‘Invite me in, Werthen,’ he replied. ‘I need a cup of coffee.’
Over Gross’s shoulder Werthen could see a pferdelose Kutsche, horseless carriage, chuffing exhaust in the early morning air.
‘Nor did I think you were a fan of modern transport.’
‘Coffee, Werthen, please. I will explain.’
They sat at the pine table, both sipping at the coffee. Gross, learning that Werthen had brewed it, eyed it with suspicion, but was soon won over.
‘I have a feeling you are going to ruin my weekend,’ Werthen finally said.
‘It was not my intention. Events, however, outpace us.’
‘I thought I heard voices.’
Werthen and Gross turned to see Berthe standing in the doorway between the sitting room and kitchen, wearing a fashionable Japanese kimono as a bathrobe.
‘Frau Meisner.’ Gross stood and nodded his head at her.
‘Please sit, Gross. You haven’t come to ruin our weekend, have you?’
Accused twice of the same crime, Gross was human enough to hang his head guiltily.
‘I assure you—’
‘It’s alright, Gross,’ Werthen said. Then to Berthe, ‘Coffee?’
‘Mmm.’
He took this as assent, and filled a cup for her. A sleep wrinkle scarred her left cheek. She yawned as she sat to join them.
‘Frieda could sleep through a hurricane,’ she said, taking the cup happily. ‘Whatever are you doing riding in one of those machines, Gross? The stink woke me up.’
Gross sighed. ‘I am simply the messenger, good folk. Please do not kill me.’
‘The messenger of what?’ Werthen said. ‘And how are we outpaced by events, as you say?’
‘All will be explained,’ Gross said. ‘But meanwhile we have been summoned.’
‘The weekend, Gross. I will have a weekend with my family.’
‘Archdukes do not respect weekends.’
‘No.’ Berthe said it as if it were an expletive.
‘Franz Ferdinand?’ Werthen said in wonder.
‘The very same.’ Gross once again eyed the apron and lederhosen. ‘You might want to change for the occasion.’
Their driver turned out to be the loquacious type, which was fine by Werthen, for even though he and Gross sat on the back bench of the open carriage, anything they said could be overheard. Instead, they listened to Private Ferdinand Porsche as he extolled the virtues of the machine carrying them at a brisk pace along the dirt roads of the Vienna Woods towards Vienna.
‘She’s a beauty of a vehicle, and that’s for sure,’ the young man enthused. ‘What we call a hybrid. Runs on both gas and electricity.’
‘Ingenious,’ Gross said through tight lips as he held on to the side rail of the bench with a fearful grip.
‘The very word, sir,’ Porsche said, glancing back at them from time to time, his youthful face made to look older by a wide hussar’s moustache. ‘She’ll do upward of sixty kilometers an hour if I let her loose.’
Which statement made Gross audibly gulp.
‘Perhaps we can save the high speeds for the race track,’ Werthen advised. ‘This is a comfortable pace.’
Werthen soon understood why Gross’s cheeks were red when he arrived this morning. Sitting high above the road as they were, the wind played at their faces as they sped along the lanes. A pair of goggles would not go amiss, he thought. They both soon took their hats off, to stop them blowing away.
‘I was none too pleased when I got my call-up notice,’ Porsche said. ‘That’s not to say I am not a loyal Austrian, born in Bohemia. “Ferdinand,” I said to myself when I saw the notice, “Ferdinand, you’re off to the Balkans to some lonely outpost for two years.” Instead, I became the chauffeur to the Archduke himself. Quite an honor.’
‘It is indeed,’ Werthen said, enjoying the young man’s enthusiasm. ‘Had you much experience with such vehicles?’
This brought a honking laugh from the private. ‘Sorry, sir. Not to be rude, but yes, I have a fair amount of experience. I designed this little buggy myself.’
‘You did?’ Gross spluttered.
‘The Lohner-Porsche system, it’s called. Porsche. That would be yours truly.’
Werthen had, of course, heard of Jacob Lohner, who produced carriages for Franz Joseph as well as various other European royals. Lohner had also begun production of an electric horseless carriage in his Floridsdorf factory. Lohner was naturally the name one remembered. Just as with Martini & Rossi’s vermouth. Who ever remembered the Rossi part? Poor Porsche, Werthen thought. Destined to obscurity because his name came second.
‘Bravo for you,’ Werthen said with gusto, as if to make up for the man’s eventual anonymity.
‘It’s the future, I always say. We are riding into the future.’
Gross, Werthen noticed, closed his eyes briefly at this comment, as if he desired a time machine traveling in the opposite direction.
Before they realized it, they had reached macadamized roads leading to Vienna’s fourth district and the Belvedere, where Franz Ferdinand made his office. They had made the Archduke’s acquaintance once before, in 1898, when investigating a case that took them to the very doors of the Hofburg, the Habsburg seat of power.
Werthen wondered what the Archduke could have in mind for them this time.
Soon their vehicle pulled into the long circular drive of the Lower Belvedere. Franz Ferdinand, as heir apparent to the Austrian throne, was eager to assume some leadership position and impatient with his uncle, Franz Josef, who seemed to be living for ever; the old man had already been ruling for over half a century. The Archduke had therefore installed at this former palace of Prince Eugene of Savoy what was often referred to as ‘the Clandestine Cabinet’ – a sort of shadow General Staff, formally known as the Military Chancellery, ready to assume power when his uncle stepped down or died. Thus, he kept his hand in both military and diplomatic matters, often at odds with his uncle and with the General Staff, and always an enemy of the Court Chamberlain, Prince Montenuovo, who protected court etiquette and greatly disapproved of Franz Ferdinand’s morganatic marriage to a ‘commoner’. The Archduke’s wife, Sophie von Chotek, was a mere countess with just sixteen quarterings of major nobility in her blood line, far too few to make an adequate Habsburg match, according to the Court Chamberlain, who himself was the product of a less than appropriate marriage between the Habsburg Archduchess Marie Louise and an officer of her guard. All of Vienna followed this enmity with the eager expectancy of an audience at a Lehar operetta. What new indignity would the Court Chamberlain submit the Archduke and his wife to next? Would Franz Ferdinand ever get his own back on Montenuovo? Thus far, the Archduke had sought revenge simply by spending as much time away from Vienna as he could, ensconced in his Bohemian castle of Konopiste.
A liveried servant awaited them at the columned entrance to the Lower Belvedere. They descended from the horseless carriage, bid adieu to the resourceful Private Porsche, and followed the servant not inside to the Archduke’s offices but along the side of the massive building to the gardens. Just as with their first meeting with Franz Ferdinand, they once again met in his rose garden. The Archduke, in addition to being a frustrated heir apparent to Franz Josef’s extreme longevity and an ardent hunter, was an enthusiastic gardener; and roses were his specialty.
Just as last time, Franz Ferdinand was at work in the rose beds, in a light-blue cavalry tunic and red breeches. His secateurs snipped at the long-stemmed tea roses while a liveried servant gathered the stems into a basket for bouquets.
Missing today was the array of medals the Archduke had worn last time, Werthen noticed as they approached. He was still amazed at the diminutive size of the man; in photographs he always appeared larger than life.
As they drew nearer, Franz Ferdinand turned to face the pair. His rather bulging oversized bright-blue eyes twinkled as he recognized them.
‘Ah, so you have accepted my invitation.’
‘One hardly refuses an Archduke, your Imperial and Royal Highness,’ Gross said.
A sardonic grin softened the Archduke’s features, making his moustache quiver. ‘So you know the proper address for a Crown Prince? Court etiquette from a criminalist. Bravo, Doktor Gross. And you, Herr Advokat,’ he said, turning his glistening eyes on Werthen. ‘None too worse the wear I see for your duel.’
‘No, your Highness.’
‘An interesting solution to our little problem,’ Franz Ferdinand said, referring to Werthen’s desperate gambit several years ago.
A tall, lanky figure appeared out of the shadows deeper in the garden.
‘Yes, Duncan. Please join us. You two remember my bodyguard, I am sure.’
Both Gross and Werthen nodded.
Duncan had saved their lives more than once in that earlier adventure. The scar down his cheek gave the Scotsman a ferocious appearance, though in actuality it was merely the result of a terrier bite and the subsequent ministrations of an incompetent surgeon when he was a boy.
‘Gentlemen,’ Duncan said, tipping his hat to them. He managed to place a thick glottal stop into the English word, imbuing it with a heavy Scots accent, which reminded Werthen that Duncan came into the Archduke’s service after saving Franz Ferdinand’s life on a Highland hunting expedition.
‘I never had a chance to thank you for your service,’ Werthen said.
‘No need to mention it, sir,’ the wraith-like Scot responded.
‘But to business,’ Franz Ferdinand said, handing the secateurs to a servant, who departed, leaving the four of them alone in the garden.
Franz Ferdinand waited until the servant was well out of earshot. He cleared his throat. ‘Feels like rain.’
The sky overhead was still radiantly blue.
‘The weather can be changeable this time of year, your Highness,’ Gross replied. There was, however, a sarcastic edge to his voice that did not escape the Archduke.
Franz Ferdinand smiled again. ‘Yes, quite right. I should get to the matter at hand. After all, it is the sacred weekend, is it not? I understand that the populace has grown quite fond of its weekends. Leisure time, I believe it is called. I shall soon return you to your weekend, never fear. But, as with the last time we met, I have information that you might want.’
Which meant, Werthen translated, the Archduke wanted to use them to do some of his own dirty work.
‘I understand that you are looking into the death of the unfortunate Count Joachim von Ebersdorf.’
‘That we are,’ Gross said.
‘May I inquire why?’
Both Gross and Werthen paused a moment, glancing at one another.
‘Is it such a great secret?’ Franz Ferdinand asked.
‘His death pertains to inquiries we are making, your Highness,’ Gross said.
‘That is self-evident. What inquiries?’
‘The death of a young . . . woman.’ Gross was obviously searching for a euphemism appropriate to an archduke’s sensibilities. ‘Of a certain persuasion.’
‘You mean a tart,’ Franz Ferdinand said bluntly.
Werthen continued to let Gross take the lead; he enjoyed seeing the great man stumble.
‘Yes,’ said Gross, as if confessing to a crime.
‘Should I surmise that the connection between Joachim and this girl was of a professional sort?’
The Archduke’s use of the Count’s Christian name did not go unobserved by either Werthen or Gross.
‘That would be a sound surmise, your Highness.’
Franz Ferdinand sighed, returning to his roses for a moment and gently cupping an elegant bud as one might lovingly lift the head of an infant.
Turning back to them, he said, ‘The death was reported as natural. Why do you suspect foul play?’
Gross had regained his equilibrium, and puffed out his chest as he replied. ‘I find it quite curious, your Highness, that no one else at the banquet was afflicted by this tainted shellfish. I also question the propinquity of events. The Count died just days after the murder of the young woman in question.’
‘Propinquity and causality are two quite distinct things, Doktor Gross.’
Gross thumped his sternum, a most uncharacteristic thing for him to do.
‘I feel it. Here. The result of decades of working with murder and mayhem. One has an instinctive sense of these things, your Highness.’
It was a surprisingly impassioned speech for Gross, Werthen thought. This case was affecting them both in a most personal way.
‘If I may,’ Werthen said. ‘There is a straightforward way to determine this.’
‘Exhumation,’ Gross added.
‘Was there no autopsy done at the time of death?’
‘None,’ Gross said. ‘The medical chaps took it as a clear case of food poisoning from tainted shellfish. Arsenic poisoning exactly mimics acute gastroenteritis.’
‘But it’s been what – a month?’
‘Three weeks, your Highness,’ Gross said. ‘Count von Ebersdorf died three weeks ago today. Because arsenic is a metallic poison, it can be detected in the body even years after death. There is a test—’
‘Yes, the Marsh test,’ the Archduke said, amazing them both. ‘A method for converting arsenic in body tissues and fluids into arsine gas. I had my suspicions, as well, you see.’
Franz Ferdinand paused to consider this information. As with the first time he was in the presence of the Archduke, Werthen was impressed with the difference between the man’s mannered, thoughtful behavior and his reputation for bellicosity and posturing. Those at Court who did not like him, Prince Montenuovo foremost among them, had done their work well, filling the press and the people’s imagination with a caricature ogre of a man, a slaughterer of animals and a warmonger to boot. Werthen saw no traces of such characteristics, mostly left behind in the Archduke’s youth.
‘I sense the Count was a personal friend,’ Gross said, interrupting the Archduke’s ruminations. ‘I assure you, I do not make these assertions lightly.’
‘I wish to spare his family unnecessary distress.’
‘I am sure you also wish them to see justice done.’
‘The young woman . . .’
Again, Werthen spoke up. ‘This can be handled delicately.’ But he knew such a promise was impossible to keep; once an investigation was initiated, there was no controlling the direction it would take. One thing only was certain: the Count was not Fräulein Mitzi’s killer. He was long dead by the time of Fräulein Fanny’s death, and it was abundantly clear that both deaths were by the same hand.
‘I sh-shall see about permission for exhumation,’ Franz Ferdinand finally said.
The Archduke was clearly moved, Werthen could see, even reverting to the stuttering of his youth, a condition that he had largely cured, along with tuberculosis, as a young man during the course of an around-the-world voyage.
‘You say you had suspicions of foul play, your Highness,’ Gross said. ‘May I ask why?’
‘Of course,’ the Archduke said, seeming to find cheer now that a decision had been made. ‘That is part of why I brought you here today. You of course know that our empire is protected by two intelligence services, one military and one, shall we say, civilian.’
Werthen and Gross nodded.
‘One would hope that such services would cooperate with one another, would act in the best interests of the country. Unfortunately, that is not always the case. Petty jealousies and feuds intrude.’
‘You mean,’ Gross said, ‘there is a battle for primacy between the General Staff’s Intelligence Bureau and the Foreign Office.’
‘Precisely,’ Franz Ferdinand said. ‘Only, the Foreign Office officially has no such agency.’
‘A deadly battle?’ Werthen asked.
‘I was hoping you gentlemen could answer that question. If, as you suspect, Joachim was poisoned, then I hope you will follow all possible avenues of inquiry.’
The Archduke’s response sent a chill down Werthen’s back. It was one thing to jockey for position and pride of place, but quite another to kill a member of the opposing side and fellow countryman simply out of interagency pique. Treason might not be too harsh a word to describe such actions.
‘I shall once again provide quiet support,’ Franz Ferdinand said, nodding toward the stoically silent bodyguard, Duncan. ‘But you of course understand that such an investigation is not without risk to those asking the questions.’
Neither Werthen nor Gross spoke for a moment.
‘I would quite understand if you refused such a commission. In which case, this conversation never took place.’
‘But of course we accept—’ Gross began.
‘I need to consider this,’ Werthen said quickly, interrupting him.
‘Sensible of you, to be sure,’ Franz Ferdinand said. ‘With a child and wife, a man has responsibilities. Perhaps you wish to discuss it with Frau Meisner first. I would do the same with my wife.’
Franz Ferdinand’s knowledge of his private life did not surprise Werthen. Indeed, there was most probably a third intelligence network at work in Austria that the Archduke did not mention: his own.
‘I will have my driver return you to your respective abodes. Shall we say Monday, then? That should give you sufficient time to make an informed decision. At that point we can discuss your fee.’
‘Fine,’ Gross muttered, obviously displeased at Werthen’s delay.
‘Yes, most obliging, your Highness,’ Werthen said.
As they were about to take their leave, Franz Ferdinand fixed them again with his startlingly blue eyes.
‘As a sign of trust, I would like to pass on certain information. I am sure it will go no further.’
‘Yes?’ Werthen said.
‘It concerns your wife, Herr Advokat. It comes to my attention that she has been keeping watch on one Baron Arthur Gundaccar von Suttner.’
Werthen felt a sudden protective heat at this and blurted out, ‘And just how has this come to your attention?’
Werthen’s sharp tone made Duncan stir.
‘Do not misunderstand me, Advokat Werthen. This is not some sort of veiled threat. Rather it is offered more in the hope of reciprocity, tit for possible tat. I know what your wife and her young friend – I believe she is your legal secretary? – are doing because, as I understand it, our intelligence service is also thus engaged.’
Just as Gross had surmised, Werthen thought.
‘Baroness von Suttner is a client,’ Werthen said flatly.
Franz Ferdinand raised his eyebrows. ‘And has engaged you to investigate her husband?’
‘That is privileged information, your Highness.’
‘Werthen,’ Gross began, ‘perhaps—’
‘No, your colleague is correct, Doktor Gross. Private Inquiries is the business you are engaged in, and such inquiries should remain private.’
‘Are you warning us off von Suttner?’ Werthen said, tired now of politesse.
‘Not at all. I simply supply this information. You do with it as you see fit.’
‘Is Frau von Suttner such a threat to the empire?’
‘Pacifism is a powerful message. For my part, I rather like it that she organizes for peace, that there is a voice against the rush to war. But there are others who are not quite so broad-minded.’
‘Thank you for this information, your Highness. It confirms what we already suspected. You might also tell whichever intelligence service is at work that their man needs a refresher course in tradecraft. My wife spotted him within ten minutes.’
‘What do you make of that?’ Gross said, as they climbed on to the passenger bench of the Archduke’s horseless carriage.
But Private Porsche then joined them and there was no further chance for discussion.
‘Where to first, gentlemen?’ the driver asked.
‘You had best come to the country house for the weekend,’ Werthen said. ‘We need to talk things over.’
Gross did not demur at this invitation. After stopping briefly at Gross’s hotel, where he packed a valise, Porsche drove them, mostly in silence, back to Laab im Walde.
En route, Werthen had time to mull over their meeting with Franz Ferdinand. It was apparent to Werthen that the Archduke had a special relationship with the Foreign Office, or at least with Gross’s old schoolmate, Minister Brockhurst. It was obviously Brockhurst who let Franz Ferdinand know about their investigation of von Ebersdorf’s death. But it also appeared that Brockhurst was perhaps prudishly less than forthcoming about the reason for their interest: Werthen did not think Franz Ferdinand was feigning surprise when he learned that Fräulein Mitzi was a prostitute.
‘Beautiful countryside,’ the private said once they reached the farm. ‘I intend to buy myself such a place once I have made my first million.’
Standing in the drive, Gross clucked disapprovingly as Porsche put the motorcar into gear and sped off back down the country lane.
‘Jumped-up carriage driver,’ he muttered.
‘Ambition, Gross. The mainspring of the new century. I’d put my money on that private making a million.’
Another plosive sound of disgust from Gross.
They were not able to discuss matters until Frieda had been put to sleep at eight that evening, complaining that it was still light outside and time to play. The complaints were short-lived.
Now they were gathered at the dining table.
‘Why would he tell you that?’ Berthe said, for out of all the startling information imparted by Franz Ferdinand, she had fixed on his revelation that Frau von Suttner was being watched.
‘He made it fairly clear,’ Werthen said. He poured himself a measure of slivowitz and offered the bottle to Berthe and Gross, both of whom declined. ‘It was a sort of fair exchange. He hopes we take the von Ebersdorf matter forward.’
‘Well, hadn’t you planned to anyway?’
‘On a practical level,’ Werthen said, ‘we have no reason to. After all, Frau Mutzenbacher has dispensed with our services, and the death of von Ebersdorf was important to us only as it might or might not be connected with that of Fräulein Mitzi.’ He paused, and added, ‘Also, we were unaware of certain facts before – such as the possible involvement of feuding intelligence agencies.’
‘Such an investigation can be dangerous,’ said Gross, ‘just as the Archduke implied.’
During the course of the day Gross had obviously given some thought to the matter and now saw it somewhat more from Werthen’s point of view and the need to protect his wife and child. It pleased Werthen to see his old friend taking others into consideration and he cast him a warm smile.
‘After all,’ Gross added, ‘my good lady wife, Adele, must be consulted. She relies on me. I must think of my safety as it affects her.’
Werthen’s smile disappeared. ‘How good of you, Gross,’ he said with a sarcastic edge that made Berthe raise her eyebrows.
‘Are you holding back from taking the Archduke’s commission on my account?’ asked Berthe.
‘Yes, of course I am. And Frieda’s. She hasn’t asked to be involved in such matters.’
‘So,’ Berthe said, stiffening her back, ‘if von Ebersdorf actually was poisoned and the Intelligence Bureau of the General Staff was responsible for it, they would not like people nosing around making accusations, is that the theory?’
‘In a nutshell,’ Werthen said. ‘Though we cannot be sure it was the Intelligence Bureau at work.’
‘It stands to reason,’ she said. ‘If there are internecine battles, that means the Foreign Office is pitted against the General Staff. Von Ebersdorf worked for the Foreign Office, ergo—’
‘Ergo nothing,’ Werthen interrupted. ‘It could just as easily be some competitor in the Foreign Office eager for advancement.’
‘Then we give ourselves insurance,’ she said, ‘just as we did in the Grunenthal case.’
She was referring to Werthen’s first case involving those close to the Emperor. In that instance, Werthen had let it be known that the information he gathered was waiting to be sent off to the foreign press in case anything untoward happened to him.
‘They may very well decide to strike before we have damning proof,’ Gross said.
Which comment brought a pall of silence over the table, punctuated only by the ticking of the pendulum wall clock. During this pause, Werthen recalled how that first case had put Berthe into deadly danger. How could he do the same again?
Berthe finally broke the silence. ‘But what if it really was just a case of bad shellfish? Aren’t we getting ahead of ourselves? First the exhumation and autopsy, and then the wringing of hands.’
Another moment of silence.
‘I for one say we proceed,’ she added. ‘I know that I am going to go ahead with Frau von Suttner’s investigation. And Karl, you know that you are not going to give up investigating the death of that poor young girl. Not after what you have found out. Not after visiting her family.’
Werthen felt a surge of pride in his wife, a warmth that engulfed him and made him want to embrace her.
‘Most persuasive, Frau Meisner,’ said Gross. ‘I shall let you put the case to my dear wife, as well. And indeed, you are right. Though my instincts tell me otherwise, von Ebersdorf’s death may turn out to be from natural causes.’
‘And even if it is not,’ Werthen added, in turn infected by Berthe’s fighting spirit, ‘who is to say that these deaths involve the intelligence agencies or even that they are connected? We still have a basket full of suspects who need vetting.’
‘That’s my man,’ Berthe said.
‘One concession,’ Werthen said.
Berthe nodded. ‘Yes, I know. Next time I shall leave Frieda with Frau Blatschky.’
They lay in bed later, haunches touching through their thin linen night apparel. She placed her head on his shoulder, threading her finger through the neck opening of his nightshirt and teasing the few hairs on his chest. The steady thrum of Gross’s snores rattled through the house from the distant guest room.
‘I’m awfully proud of you,’ Werthen said.
She placed a forefinger on his lips.
‘But I am,’ he insisted.
‘And I am proud of you – we’re a proud family, and by the sound of the good Doktor’s snores we could be a pride of lions.’
‘Just how do you intend to proceed with the von Suttner matter?’ he finally asked. ‘It would seem you have accomplished what you set out to do.’
‘I haven’t notified her yet.’
‘Are you going to warn her?’
She breathed in and then let out a warm sigh of breath on his chest.
‘If you reported the conversation correctly, the Archduke requested that his information go no further.’
‘But I’ve already told you—’
‘That was before you decided to take him on as a client. Now it seems we have an ethical conundrum – clients with competing needs.’
‘I didn’t know I married a philosopher.’
‘It must be my father’s Talmudic influence at work.’
‘I don’t think we need to let that worry us too much,’ Werthen said. ‘After all, Franz Ferdinand also said he appreciates her work.’
‘Amazing that he of all people should think so!’
They said nothing for a time.
‘Well?’
She ignored this for a moment, then sighed again. ‘I will deal with it – though it may take some thought.’
‘She is the client. She has a right to know about her husband.’