CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: IMPERIAL OBSEQUIES

“What?” I exclaimed in considerable shock. “I thought I was the principal witness. Why are you arrestin’ me?”

“I’m afraid I can’t tell you that at present.”

“Then I demand to see the British Consul and to speak to a lawyer.”

“That is your right, Colonel, but you must first come with me.”

Without further ado, he led me forcibly out of the hotel into a waiting Black Maria and off to the police station. There, after being photographed and finger printed, I was thrust into a stinking cell where I languished for the best part of the rest of the day. I demanded my rights on a regular basis, but not even Fahran was allowed in to bring me a change of linen (or palm me the warder’s key to my cell). Then it emerged that our Consul was on holiday with his Austrian counterpart and, as it was a Sunday, no lawyer was available. I was about to insist upon the right to get a message to our Embassy in Berne when Virieux reappeared.

“My apologies, Colonel, you may go. It seems that an Italian anarchist, a former valet called Lucheni,160 who we have been following for some time and who we brought in for routine questioning this morning, has not only confessed to the assassination of Her Imperial Majesty but demands to be executed for it! In consequence, you are free to go.”

“I should damned well think so too, Virieux,” I said as I brushed past him and headed for freedom and fresh air. “You can be sure that I will be havin’ a word with our Ambassador and Emperor Franz-Josef about my outrageous treatment – and, if I’ve got anythin’ to do with it, your next assignment will be guarding goats in the high Alps.” Before he could reply I spotted my valet waiting for me in one of the hotel’s carriages. “To the Beau-Rivage, Fahran, and tell the driver not to spare the horses!”

It took several glasses of Baron Otard’s best grande champagne, a particularly fine cognac I’d earlier discovered in the Beau-Rivage’s cellar, to restore my composure - and several more before I felt able to resume my duties as Franz-Josef’s representative in Geneva. This role came down to getting Sisi out of the clutches of the Swiss authorities, who insisted that she be carved up to determine the cause of death, then out of the morgue and onto the Imperial Train. I achieved all this by late on Tuesday afternoon thanks to the help of several members of the Geneva Gendarmerie, who were detailed off for the task by my erstwhile captor; he seemed keen to ingratiate himself with me, as well he might.

With Sisi safely ensconced in the luggage van of the Imperial Train I thought that would be it and I could resume my journey to Paris and London. Not a bit of it. I was standing in the hotel’s lobby having just returned from the station, surrounded by my luggage which Fahran was about to see loaded onto a waiting wagonette, when a woman sheathed from head to foot in a black lace veil appeared and made a bee line for me.

“Colonel Speedicut,” the black crow said: it was Countess S in Habsburg mourning, “I’m so pleased to have caught you before you left.” That was ominous. “I have received a communication from the Emperor commanding me to put Her Imperial… I mean… Her Late Imperial Majesty’s jewellery into your care.”

“Why me?” I couldn’t help asking. “What am I supposed to do with it?”

“The Emperor’s telegram only said that I should give the jewels to you and that you should return them to His Imperial Majesty after the funeral.”

“But that means I’ll have to go to Vienna.”

“I can only presume that the Emperor thought that you would be attending the State Funeral on Friday.”

“I haven’t been invited,” I said, desperately looking for an excuse.

“As a member of the Imperial Household, albeit temporary,” she sniffed, “you don’t require an invitation: it will be your duty.”

“I thought that my appointment as the Imperial Representative in Geneva ended when the corpus delicti boarded the Imperial Train this afternoon.” Countess S let out a gasp of outrage at my levity.

“Clearly the Emperor thinks differently,” she said with an air of finality. Then I had a brain wave.

“But I have nothing suitable to wear: my Dress uniform and all my decorations, including that of the Order of Franz-Josef, are in London.” Knowing what sticklers the Austro-Hungarian monarchy was for the correct dress for every occasion, I assumed that would get me off the hook.

“In that case, Colonel, you will just have to wear a frock coat. Now, if you will come with me to the hotel safe.” Clearly I was beaten, so I meekly followed her.

I’m not sure that I really knew what to expect as far as the jewels were concerned. C-G once told me that Alix always travels with a trunkful of sparklers and a fresh tiara for every dinner, but Sisi had been travelling privately and, anyway, had been in mourning since Rudolf topped himself. Perhaps it would be only a small box of trinkets. I prayed that would be the case, for looking after an Imperial ransom in rocks was a daunting prospect, even if I was going to be closeted on the Imperial Train with Fahran riding shotgun. In the event, the swag amounted to half-a-dozen jewellers’ cases in morocco leather containing necklaces, earrings and bracelets in onyx and jet (well-made but valueless junk) and Sisi’s fabled graduated pearl and diamond stars in a box marked Köchert & Pioté.161 These last baubles were the hair decorations that Winterhalter had painted her wearing and, although she hadn’t worn them for years, Countess S said that Sisi carried them around for sentimental reasons because they were Rudolf’s favourites.

In total, the boxes were too bulky to put into the attaché case I was carrying, so I sent for Fahran and told him to free up one of my smaller bags. With this clasped firmly in my left hand, I made my way back to the hotel’s telegraph office from where I sent two telegrams to Stratton Street: one to C-G explaining my delayed return and the second to Searcy asking if he could send my kit to Vienna in time for the funeral on Friday. Then, with Fahran in close attendance – well, the streets of Geneva could hardly be described as safe given the events of the previous Saturday – we drove off to the railway station where my Gendarmes were standing guard over Sisi and the other bags.

The compartment in which we were travelling was itself like a coffin: it was impossible to see out of the windows, because they were covered in black crêpe, as was the interior. I don’t think that I’ve ever been in a gloomier environment – unless, that is, I except most (but not all) of the various dungeons in which I’d been incarcerated over the years. Oh, well, I thought, it can’t take that long to get to Vienna and I’ll be fast asleep in my bunk for most of the journey anyway. Some hope. We left Geneva that evening, but the bloody engine driver had been ordered to travel at the pace appropriate to the train’s role: if I could have looked out of the window I’m sure I’d have seen snails overtaking us. Consequently, it wasn’t until early on Thursday morning that we pulled into Vienna.

The whole of the Hauptbahnhof had been sealed off and draped in black. Franz-Josef, thousands of troops and the biggest hearse you’ve ever seen were waiting to take Sisi off to the Hofburg where, before being stuffed and dressed, surgeons were to remove her heart and her entrails. These had to be lodged, respectively, in a silver urn in the Augustinian Church and in a copper pot in St Stephen’s Cathedral. What remained of her was, after pickling, to be carted off in State on the Friday morning to the Church of the Capuchins where the double coffin was to be placed in a vast metal sarcophagus in the Imperial burial crypt. Please note that I’m not making any of this up. Anyway, despite being a Wittlesbach, at least she didn’t have to be examined and proclaimed insane, post mortem, as had her wretched son. Unlike suicide, being murdered was apparently no bar to a burial using the full rites of the left footers. Thinking about it, it was probably a qualification…

As I handed Countess S down onto the platform, a Court official sidled up to her and spoke in her veil-covered ear. She nodded her head at me and the fellow, who was dressed like a circus ring master, gave me a deep bow.

“Colonel Speedicut, His Imperial Majesty has commanded me to convey to you his thanks and to inform you that you have been granted an Audience with him tomorrow afternoon at the Hofburg. You should bring the late Empress’ jewels with you so that you can return them to His Imperial Majesty at that time - and not before.”

“Why not now?” I asked in the hope that, if I could, I would be able to catch a train to Paris the following day.

“It would be too painful for His Imperial Majesty; besides which, he does not have the time to receive you before the obsequies.”

So, between supervising Sisi’s transfer from the luggage van to the hearse and attending the State Funeral (along with eighty other monarchs, Princes and high ranking aristos who’d hurried to Vienna from the four corners of the continent) I had nothing much to do except twiddle my thumbs in the Sacher. There were, of course, worse places in which to be idle.

That evening before dinner, whilst sampling a rather good champagne in the drawing room, I fell into conversation with a delightfully pretty and un-chaperoned girl who said she was waiting for her ‘uncle’. Of course, she wasn’t. For a moment I was surprised that the bulldog-loving and cigar-smoking Madam Sacher was so modern in her approach to the comforts of her male guests,162 then I remembered Johnny Dawson telling me that, under the Widow Sacher’s management, there was a great deal more on offer in the hotel than Sachertorte. Needless to say, the girl’s uncle never did show up, so I invited her to join me for dinner.

She was quite reserved and demure during the foie gras but, as she munched her way through the baked carp, she told me that she worked in the chorus at the State Opera. Over the inevitable veal schnitzel, she let drop that the wages were so low she was obliged to sing for her supper off stage as well as on. However, it was only once she’d polished off a plate of apple strudel that she made it quite clear that she was used to using her lips, tongue and throat for more than just trilling. Although I had an early start the following day, I could see no harm in inviting the chit up to my room for a night cap and I wasn’t surprised – although, at seventy-six, I was reasonably gratified - when she eagerly agreed. Fahran was waiting for me when we got to the room and gave me a broad grin when I dismissed him.

“I have hidden the Empress’ boxes in the bathroom cabinet,” he said to me quietly.” Then, in a rather louder voice, “sleep well, huzoor.”

For once, I’m not going to relate a blow-by-blow account of the next hour, except to say that my dinner companion – I never did get her name – was not only an expert but also extremely athletic and considerate. I say that because, although at one point she practically swung from the chandelier, all that she required me to do was to lie on my back - and stay at the Salute - whilst she performed some extraordinarily pleasurable tricks that I’d previously only read about. And, unlike many of her profession, when we’d done she didn’t haul up her drawers and head for the door clutching the sovs I’d given her when I’d recovered my breath. Instead, she cuddled up next to me under the by-now very crumpled linen and she was still there when, early the following morning, Fahran woke me with a cup of brandy-laced tea.

“It might be an idea, huzoor,” he said to me with a rather wicked gleam in his eye, “if you were to suggest to,” he pointed to the bump in the bed, “that you have an engagement this morning and that, even though she may have something else in mind, it is perhaps time for her to leave.”

“Good thinkin’, Fahran. It wouldn’t do for me to turn up to a State Funeral lookin’ as though I’d spent the entire night rogerin’ m’brains out, now would it?”

“No, huzoor, it would not.”

I reached over, gave the bump a playful slap and told her in German that it was time to be about her business. With a giggle she climbed out of bed, scooped up her earnings and her togs off a chair - but left her shoes where they were - and headed for the bathroom with her naked rump swaying quite delightfully.

“I will now fetch your breakfast, huzoor.”

“Bring two cups, Fahran. I can’t let Miss Watsername go without at least a cup of coffee.

“As you command, huzoor.”

It seemed only moments later, with Miss W still engaged in whatever it is that tarts do first thing in the morning in a gentleman’s bathroom, that Fahran hurried back into my room, a look of considerable concern on his dusky phiz.

“Hasn’t my trunk arrived?”

“It has, huzoor.”

“So why are you lookin’ so glum?”

“Uncle Fred’s brought it.”

“But that’s excellent news; where is he?”

“Downstairs in the lobby.”

“Then tell him to come up.”

“… with mother – and Her Ladyship.”

“What!”

This was such unexpected news that I asked him to repeat what he’d just said. Before he could, the door opened again and there loomed the imposing – no, on this occasion, terrifying - figure of Charlotte-Georgina. She was wearing a massive hat, a fur-trimmed travelling coat and Searcy was just behind her.

“Good morning, Jasper. I hope you are pleased to see me.” I was speechless and anything but pleased. “You didn’t expect me simply to consign your uniform and decorations to the care of a – sniff - foreign railway, did you? After we’d received your telegrams, Mr Searcy,” she nodded her head in the direction of the door, “consulted Bradshaw’s Continental Railway Guide and informed me that it would be possible to ensure that you were properly dressed for the late Empress’ funeral, providing only that passenger trains were used and that he left immediately with your trunk. But I said that we should both go – so that I could attend the funeral with you.”

That was Charlotte-Georgina for you: if there was the slightest chance that she could have a ringside seat for a royal or Imperial event she’d travel half-way around the globe without rest and, clearly, had done so on this occasion.

“I think you might show some gratitude, Jasper. At the very least you could offer me…” At that moment we all heard someone singing, although only Fahran and I knew its source.

“How charming,” said Charlotte-Georgina, “unless I’m much mistaken that’s Musetta’s Waltz from Mr Puccini’s new opera – and it’s coming from your bathroom, Jasper.”163

“Nonesense, m’dear…” I babbled, “quite impossible… I don’t have one… that’s the suite next door… the walls are shockin’ly thin is this hotel… it may even be comin’ from the Opera House across the way… opera singers have great range, y’know…” I ended rather lamely, whilst praying to myself that Searcy would once again ride to the rescue, but he had disappeared. C-G, who knew a damned sight more about opera than I did, didn’t look convinced and was about to stride over to the bathroom door but Fahran got there first. As my heart headed for the Augustinian Church to join Sisi’s, he tried the handle.

“It’s locked, huzoor. Shall I go and ask the management to have the noise stopped?”

“No, Fahran, I’d far rather you took Her Ladyship and Mr Searcy back to reception, arranged for the hotel to change my room for a suite and then see Her Ladyship into it. Once you’ve done that, come back here with my uniform and help me get dressed.”

As I said this, Miss Watsername stopped singing. Christ, I thought, she’s finished bathing and will be headed back into the room any second now.

“We have to be at the Church of the Capucins in an hour, m’dear,” I said to C-G in desperation, “will that be enough time for you to bathe, change and breakfast?”

“Barely, Jasper.”

“Well, you wouldn’t want to be late so you’d better get on with it now.”

I could see from the look on her face that C-G was wrestling with conflicting prospects: moral outrage, if she’d caught me in a lie, and social embarrassment if she was late for the funeral. She took a step towards the bathroom but was interrupted by a cough from the direction of the corridor.

“You Ladyship,” it was Searcy, “your room is ready, Miss Prissy is laying out your clothes and has drawn you a bath…” C-G still looked undecided. If she’d taken just two steps forward, she would certainly have seen the tart’s trotters lying by the chair.

“If we’re late, m’dear,” I said in desperation, “we’ll be barred from the church.” C-G took another step towards Fahran. “And,” I gabbled, “if that happens you certainly won’t be able to accompany me to my Audience with the Emperor after the funeral.” Would that be enough to halt the wretched woman in her tracks? It was.

“Very well, Jasper. Please collect me in forty minutes from my room.”

She turned on her heel and swept imperiously from my chamber, leaving the door open and with Searcy trailing behind her. I heard the bathroom handle turn and prayed that Fahran wouldn’t let go until C-G was out of earshot. He did better than that. Bending down whilst holding the handle he picked up the girl’s shoes, then opened the door and slipped inside. He was there for some time. Eventually, he re-emerged looking a little dishevelled.

“I have persuaded the young lady, huzoor, to leave the hotel via the fire escape.”

“Thank God there was one outside the bathroom window. But what took you so long?”

“She didn’t like heights, huzoor, and would only do as I asked after I, err, steadied her nerves…”

“Say no more, Fahran. Thank you for your excellent efforts on my behalf, but we ain’t got much time and you know how long it takes to get me shaved, bathed and changed into Full Dress. Cut along to the lobby, get my trunk sent up and ask Mr Searcy to return with you. With both of you helping I might just make it in time.”

It was a close run thing, but a smelly fiacre got us to the church only to find that, instead of a place in the pews, I’d been assigned a seat outside, next to the church door. Thank heaven it wasn’t raining or I’d never have heard the end of it. That said, there wasn’t a seat for C-G so I put her on my allocated place and stood slightly to one side. There we waited – and waited - as street-liners struggled to hold back the army of gawpers who were already much in evidence when we arrived. You never saw such a crush. It was a full hour later when the enormous cortege hove into view, headed by several Regiments of dismounted Guards, followed by dozens of Court officials, the glass-sided hearse hung with black and silver and drawn by eight black plumed horses, then the Imperial Family with the foreign royals and, behind them, yet more Guards. What happened next was so extraordinary and unexpected that I’m going to report it in full. Indeed, had I not witnessed it myself I wouldn’t have believed it.

As the hearse rocked to a halt in front of the church doors, the bearer party stepped forward, with some difficulty lifted down the coffin and, headed by the Grand Chamberlain in a gold encrusted coat and swan’s feather-trimmed hat, marched slowly towards the church doors which were slammed in his face. The Chamberlain raised his silver-headed cane and, in much the same way as Black Rod demands admission to the Commons, struck three times.

“Who is there?” called back a voice from behind the oak. The Grand Chamberlain consulted a piece of paper and replied in a level and somewhat incongruous voice:

“I am Elizabeth, Empress of Austria, Queen of Hungary, Bohemia, Dalmatia, Croatia, Slavonia, Galicia, Lodomeria, of Illyria, and Queen of Jerusalem, Archduchess of Austria, Grand Duchess of Tuscany and Cracow, Duchess of Lorraine, Salzburg, Styria, Carinthia, of Carniola and Bukovina, Grand Princess of Transylvania, Margarvine of Moravia, Duchess of Upper Silesia, Lower Silesia, of Modena, Parma, Piacenza and Guastalla, of Auschwitz and Zatora of Ticino, Friuli, Ragusa and Zara, Princess of Conde-Habsburg and Tyrol, of Kyburg, in Goritz and Gradisca, Princess of Trent and Brixen, Margarvine of Upper and Lower Lusatia and Istria, Countess of Hohenembs of Feldkirch of Brigance, in Sonnenburg, Lady of Trieste, of Cattaro and Marche, Great Voivoda of Serbia…” I thought the list of Sisi’s honorifics would never end but eventually the Chamberlain ground to halt.

“I do not know you,” replied the voice. The Chamberlain appeared unperturbed by this and again beat on the door three times.

“Who is there?” the voice rather annoyingly asked.

“I am Her Imperial and Royal Majesty the Empress and Queen,” intoned the Chamberlain without a hint of irritation.

“I do not know you.”

At this point I was minded to yell ‘well, bloody well open the doors anyway’, but the Chamberlain continued with the ritual.

“I am Elizabeth, a poor mortal and a sinner.” This time the voice changed its tune.

“Come in.”

The double-doors swung open and the coffin was carried in. I didn’t see what followed after, but a man standing next to me in the gaudy uniform of an Hungarian Hussar said that there would be a funeral oration followed by the interment in the crypt, an event which would be signalled by a twenty-one gun salute.

As the last boom died away, C-G and I walked back to the Sacher for luncheon. We were due to be collected from there by a coach from the Imperial Mews at two-thirty and so neither of us bothered to change, although I shed temporarily my sabretache, sword and crossbelt. Over luncheon I brought C-G up to date on events in Geneva - and my task as the keeper of Sisi’s baubles – whilst taking care to avoid eating anything that might splash down the front of my tunic.

At the appointed time we were back on the pavement with Searcy in attendance carrying the jewel cases. For some reason, Fahran was nowhere to be seen. An open carriage and pair bearing the Imperial arms drew up, C-G and I clambered in and Searcy handed me the boxes. I don’t quite know why I did it but, as the coach headed for the Hofburg, I felt impelled to check on the pearl and diamond stars. I flipped the catch on the case and lifted the lid: bare velvet stared back at me.