Weighed in the Balance Read online

  He wondered now if Florent were, in his own way, fighting for the independence again of Venice, and what part Friedrich’s life or death might play in that. In the last few days he had heard whispers, jokes from the ignorant, of Italian unification also, a drawing together of all the different city-states, the brilliant, individual republics and dukedoms of the Renaissance, under one crown. Perhaps that also was true? How insular one could be, wrapped in the safety of Britain and its empire—an island world, forgetful of changing borders, the shifting tides of nations in turmoil, revolution and foreign occupation. Britain had been secure for nearly eight hundred years. An arrogance had developed unlike any other, and with it a lack of imagination.

  He was there as Zorah’s guest. It was long past time he did all he could to serve her interests—or, at the very least, the interests of her country. Perhaps that was why she had made this absurd, self-sacrificing accusation—to expose the murder of a prince and awaken her countrymen to some sense of loyalty before it was too late.

  “I could fall in love with Venice very easily,” he said aloud. “But it is a hedonistic love, not a generous one. I have nothing to give it.”

  Florent turned to look at him, his dark brows raised in surprise, his lips in the torchlight twitched with humor.

  “So does almost everyone else,” he said softly. “You don’t think all those people are here, the dreamers and the would-be princes of Europe, except to live out their own personal charades, do you?”

  “Did you know Friedrich well?” It was not an answer, but Florent could not have expected one.

  “Yes. Why?” he asked.

  Out on the water, someone was singing. The sound of it echoed against the high walls and back again.

  “Would he have gone back if Rolf, or someone else, had asked him?” Monk said. “His mother, perhaps?”

  “Not if it meant leaving Gisela.” Florent leaned over the stone parapet and stared into the darkness. “And it would have. I don’t know why, but the Queen would never have allowed Gisela back. Her hatred was boundless.”

  “I thought she would have done anything for the crown.”

  “So did I. She’s a remarkable woman.”

  “What about the King? Wouldn’t he allow Gisela back if it was the only way to persuade Friedrich?”

  “Override Ulrike?” There was laughter in Florent’s voice, and the tone of it was answer in itself. “He’s dying. She is the strength now. Perhaps she always was.”

  “What about Waldo, the Crown Prince?” Monk pressed. “He can’t want Friedrich home!”

  “No, but if you are thinking he had him killed, I doubt it. I don’t think he ever wanted to be king. He stepped into his brother’s place only reluctantly, because there was no one else. And that was not affected. I know him.”

  “But he will not lead the battle to keep independence!”

  “He thinks it will mean war, and they will still be swallowed up in Germany anyway, sooner or later,” Florent explained.

  “Is he right?” Monk shifted his weight to turn and look more directly at him.

  On the canal, a barge went by with pennons flying, music floating behind it, and torchlight glittering on the dark water. Its wake surged and lapped over the steps of the landing with a soft sound, whispering like an incoming tide.

  “I think so,” Florent answered.

  “But you want Venetian independence.”

  Florent smiled. “From Austria, not from Italy.”

  Someone called out, his voice echoing over the water. A woman answered.

  “Waldo is a realist,” Florent went on. “Friedrich was always a romantic. But I suppose that is rather obvious, isn’t it?”

  “You think a fight to retain independence is doomed?”

  “I meant Gisela, actually. He threw duty aside and followed his heart where she was concerned. The whole affair had an air of high romance about it. ’All for love, and the world well lost.’ ” His voice dropped, and his banter died. “I am not sure if you can really love the world and keep love.”

  “Friedrich did,” Monk said quietly, but he thought even as he spoke that perhaps he meant it as a question.

  “Did he?” Florent replied. “Friedrich is dead—perhaps murdered.”

  “Because of his love for Gisela?”

  “I don’t know.” Florent was staring over the water again, his face dramatic in the torchlight, the planes of it thrown into high relief, the shadows black. “If he had stayed at home, instead of abdicating, he could now lead the struggle for independence without question. There would be no need to plot and counterplot to bring him back. The Queen would not be making stipulations about whether his wife could come, or if he must leave her, set her aside and marry again.”

  “But you said he wouldn’t do that.”

  “No, he wouldn’t, not even to save his country.” Florent’s voice was flat, as if he were trying to be objective, but there was condemnation in it, and looking at him, Monk saw anger in his face.

  “That would be a very romantic thing to do,” he pointed out. “Both personally and politically.”

  “And also very lonely,” Florent added. “And Friedrich was never one to bear loneliness.”

  Monk thought about that for several minutes, hearing the hum of laughter and conversation behind them as a group of people came out of the theater and hailed a gondola, and the splash of water as its wake slurped over the steps.

  “What are Zorah’s feelings?” Monk asked when they had moved away. “For independence or unification? Could this charge she has made be political?”

  Florent considered before he replied, and then his voice was thoughtful.

  “How? What could it serve now? Unless you think she is trying to suggest someone else is behind Gisela. I can’t see that as likely. She never kept any affiliations to anyone at home.”

  “I meant if Zorah knew Friedrich was murdered, not necessarily by Gisela at all, but felt accusing her would be the best way of bringing the whole issue out into the open,” Monk explained.

  Florent stared at him. “That is possible,” he said very slowly, as if still mulling it over in his mind. “That hadn’t occurred to me, but Zorah would do something like that—especially if she thought it was Klaus.”

  “Would Klaus kill Friedrich?”

  “Oh, certainly, if he thought it was the only way to prevent him from going home and leading a resistance which could inevitably result in a war of independence which we would lose, sooner or later.”

  “So Klaus is for Waldo?”

  “Klaus is for himself,” Florent said with a smile. “He has very considerable properties on the borders which would be among the first to be sacked if we were invaded.”

  Monk said nothing. The dark waters of the canal lapped at the marble behind him, and from inside came the sound of laughter.

  The autumn days continued warm and mellow. Monk pursued Evelyn because he enjoyed it. Her company was delightful, making every event exciting. And he was flattered because she obviously found him interesting, different from the men she was used to. She asked him probing questions about himself, about London and the darker side of it he knew so well. He told her enough to tantalize her, not enough to bore. Poverty would have repelled her. He mentioned it once and saw the withdrawal in her eyes. The subject required an answering compassion, even a sense of guilt, and she did not wish either of those emotions to cloud her pleasure.

  Also, since she was Klaus’s wife, he was able to ask just as many questions of her. In the pursuit of truth he needed to know as much as possible about Klaus and his alliances with either Waldo or any other German power.

  He saw her at dinners, theaters and a magnificent ball thrown by one of the expatriate Spanish aristocrats. He danced till he was dizzy and slept until noon the following day.

  He drifted in the lazy afternoon along quiet backwaters, hearing little but the lapping of the tide against the walls, lying on his back and seeing the skyline slip past, exquisite t
owers and facades, lace carved in stone against the blue air, holding Evelyn in his arms.

  He saw the Doge’s palace, and the Bridge of Sighs, leading to the dungeons from which few returned. He thought of going back to the winter in London, to his own small rooms. They were quite agreeable by most standards, warm and clean and comfortably furnished. His landlady was a good cook and seemed to like him well enough, even if she was not at all certain if she approved of his occupation. But it was hardly Venice. And inquiring into the tragedies of people’s lives which led to crime was a very different thing from laughter and dancing and endless charming conversation with beautiful women.

  Then, when walking up a flight of stairs, he had a jolt of memory, one of those flashes that came to him now and again, a sense of familiarity without reason. For an instant he had been, not in Venice, but going up the stairs in a great house in London. The laughing voices had been English, and there was someone he knew very well standing near the newel post at the bottom, a man to whom he was immeasurably grateful. It was a feeling of warmth, a comfortable sort of certainty that the friendship required no questioning, no constant effort to keep it alive.

  It was so sharp he actually turned and looked behind him, expecting to see … and there the image broke. He could bring no face into focus. All that remained was the knowledge of trust.

  He saw the large, rather shambling figure of Klaus von Seidlitz, his face lit by the massed candles of the chandeliers, its broken nose more accentuated in the artificial light. The people beyond him were all speaking a medley of languages: German, Italian and French. There was no English anymore.

  Monk knew who it was he had expected to see, the man who had been his mentor and friend, and who had since been cheated out of his good name and all his possessions, even his freedom. Monk could not remember what had happened, only the weight of tragedy and his own burning helplessness. It was that injustice which had caused him to leave the world of investment and banking and turn instead to the police.

  Had he been good at banking? If he had remained with it, would he now be a wealthy man, able to live like this all the time, instead of only on Zorah’s money and on Zorah’s business?

  What had caused the overwhelming gratitude he felt towards the man who had taught him finance and banking? Why, in the moment when he turned on the stairs, had he felt such a knowledge that he was trusted and that there was an unbreakable bond between himself and this man? It was more than the general relationship he already recalled. This was something specific, an individual act.

  It was broken now. He could not even remember what it had been, except the sense of debt. Had their relationship been so unequal? Had he been given, in money, friendship, faith, so much more than he was worth?

  Evelyn was talking to him, telling him some story of Venetian history, a doge who had risen to power in a spectacular way, over the ruin of his enemies.

  He made an appropriate remark indicating his interest.

  She laughed, knowing he had not heard.

  But the feeling remained with him all evening, and would not be shaken, that he had owed something profound. The harder he tried to recapture it, the more elusive it was. And when he turned away to think of something else, it was there, touching everything.

  The following day, as he drifted along a canal with Evelyn warm beside him, it still crowded his mind.

  “Tell me about Zorah,” he said abruptly, sitting upright as they moved out of a byway into another of the main canals. A barge with streamers rippling in the breeze moved across their bow, and they were obliged to wait. Their gondolier rested his weight, balancing with unconscious grace. He made it look as if it were quite natural to stand with the shifting boat beneath him, but Monk knew it must be difficult. He had nearly lost his own footing and pitched into the water more than once.

  “Why are you so interested in Zorah?” Evelyn was equally blunt. There was a sharp light in her eye.

  Monk lied perfectly easily. “Because she is going to make an extremely unpleasant scene, but it might bring you back to London, and I shall like that, but not if she has the power to hurt you.”

  “She cannot hurt me,” Evelyn said with conviction, smiling at him now. “But you are very charming to worry. People at home don’t take her as seriously as you imagine, you know.”

  “Why not?” He was genuinely curious.

  She shrugged, sliding a little closer to him. “Oh, she’s always been outrageous. People with any sense will simply think she is trying to draw attention to herself again. She’s probably had an affair die on her, and she wants to do something dramatic. She gets bored very easily, you know. And she hates to be ignored.”

  Thinking of Zorah as he had seen her, he could not readily imagine anyone ignoring her. He could understand finding her intimidating, or embarrassing, but never boring. But perhaps even eccentricity could become tedious in time, if it were contrived for effect rather than springing from genuine character. Was Zorah a poseur after all? He would be surprisingly disappointed if it should prove to be true.

  “Do you think so?” he said skeptically, touching her hair, feeling its softness slide through his fingers.

  “I have no doubt. Look across the lagoon, William. Do you see the Santa Maria Maggiore over there? Isn’t that marvelous?” She pointed across the great stretch of blue-green tide to the distant marble of the domed church which seemed to be floating on the water’s face.

  He saw it with a sense of unreality. Only the breeze on his skin and the slight movement of the boat made him realize it was not a painted scene.

  “Last time Zorah had an affair which went wrong, she shot him,” Evelyn said casually.

  He stiffened. “What?”

  “Last time Zorah had an affair and the man left her, she shot him,” Evelyn repeated, twisting around to look up at Monk with wide, pansy-brown eyes.

  “And she got away with it?” Monk was incredulous.

  “Oh, yes. It was all quite fair. Dueling is accepted in our country.” She regarded his amazement with satisfaction. Then she started to laugh. “Of course, it is normally men who duel, and then with swords. I think Zorah chose a pistol deliberately. She used to be quite good with a sword, but she’s getting slower as she gets older. And he was quite young, and very good.”

  “So she shot him!”

  “Oh, not dead!” she said happily. “Just in the shoulder. It was all very silly. She was furious because he appeared at a ball and made much play with this other woman, who was very pretty and very young. It all degenerated into a quarrel a few days later. Zorah behaved appallingly, striding into his club wearing boots and smoking a cigar. She challenged him to a duel, and without looking a complete coward, he had to accept, which made him seem a fool when she won.” She nestled a little closer to him. “He never really got over it. I’m afraid people laughed. And, of course, the story grew in the telling.”

  Monk had some sympathy with the man. He had had his fill of overbearing women. It was an extremely unattractive trait. And it required more courage than many have, especially the young, to withstand mockery.

  “And you thought she might have made this accusation simply to become the center of attraction again?” he asked, smiling down at her and tracing his finger over the curve of her cheek and neck.

  “Not entirely.” She was smiling. “But she has little compunction where she feels strongly.”

  “Against Gisela?”

  “And against unification,” she agreed. “She spends very little time at home, but she is a patriot at heart. She loves individuality, character, extremes, and the right to choose. I doubt she will see the benefits of trade and protection of a larger state. It is unromantic, but then most people lead very unromantic lives.”

  “And you?” he asked, kissing her cheek and her throat. Her skin was soft and warm in the sunlight.

  “I am very practical,” she said seriously. “I know that beauty costs money; you cannot have great parties, lovely works of art or theater,
horse races, operas and balls if all your money is going into arms and munitions to fight a war.” She pushed her fingers gently through his hair. “I know land gets trampled, villages destroyed, crops burned and men killed when a country is invaded. There is no point whatever in fighting against the inevitable. I would rather pretend it was what I wanted all along and give in to it gracefully.”

  “Is it inevitable?” he asked.

  “Probably. I don’t know a great deal about politics. Only what I overhear.” She pulled back a little and stared up at him. “If you want to know more, you’ll have to come home with me when we go, next week. Perhaps you should?” There was laughter in her face. “Discover if there was really a plot to bring Friedrich back to the throne and someone murdered him to prevent it!”

  “What a good idea.” He kissed her again. “I think that will be absolutely necessary.”

  6

  RATHBONE SEIZED THE LETTER Simms was holding and tore it open. It was from Venice, and that had to mean Monk. It was not as long as he had hoped.

  Dear Rathbone,

  I believe I have exhausted the opportunity to gain information here in Italy. Everyone speaks well of the devotion between Friedrich and Gisela, even those who did not care for them, or specifically for her. The further I examine the evidence, the less does there appear to be any motive for her to have killed him. She had everything to lose. No one believes he would have left her, even to go home and lead the fight for independence.

  However, it does seem possible that others may have wished him dead for political reasons. Klaus von Seidlitz is an obvious choice, since apparently he had personal and financial interests in unification, which Friedrich’s return might have jeopardized. Although no one seems to think Friedrich would have gone without Gisela, and the Queen would not have had Gisela back even if it were to save the country’s independence. I should like to know why the Queen nurtures such a passionate hatred after more than a decade. I am told it is out of her character to allow any personal emotion to stand in the way of her devotion to duty and patriotism.