Weighed in the Balance Page 3

  “Gisela was there?” he interrupted.

  “No. She doesn’t ride if she can avoid it, and then only at a walk in some fashionable park or parade. She is a woman for art and artifice, not for nature. Her pursuits all have a very serious purpose and are social, not physical.” If she was trying to keep the contempt out of her voice she did not succeed.

  “So she could not conceivably have caused the accident?”

  “No. So far as I am aware, it was truly mischance, not aided by anyone.”

  “You took Friedrich back to the house?”

  “Yes. It seemed the only thing to do.”

  “Was he conscious?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “I can’t think of any reason. He must have been in great pain.”

  “Yes.” Now there was unmistakable admiration in her face. “Friedrich may have been a fool in some ways, but he never lacked physical courage. He bore it very well.”

  “You called a doctor immediately, of course?”

  “Naturally. Gisela was distraught, before you ask me.” A faint smile flickered across her mouth. “She never left his side. But that was not unusual. They were seldom apart at any time. That seemed to be his wish as much as hers, perhaps more. Certainly no one could fault her as the most diligent and attentive nurse.”

  Rathbone returned the smile. “Well, if you could not, I doubt anyone else will.”

  She held up one finger delicately. “Touché, Sir Oliver.”

  “And how did she murder him?”

  “Poison, of course.” Her eyebrows rose in surprise that he should have needed to ask. “What did you imagine, that I thought she took a pistol from the gun room and shot him? She wouldn’t know how to load it. She would barely know which end to point.” Again the contempt was there. “And Dr. Gallagher might be a fool, but not so big a one as to miss a bullet wound in a corpse that is supposed to have died of a fall from a horse.”

  “Doctors have been known to miss a broken bone in the neck before now,” Rathbone said, justifying himself. “Or a suffocation when a person was ill anyway and they did not expect him to make an easy recovery.”

  She pulled a face. “I daresay. I cannot imagine Gisela suffocating him, and she certainly wouldn’t know how to break a bone in his neck. That sounds like an assassin’s trick.”

  “So you deduce that she poisoned him?” he said quietly, making no reference to how she might know anything about assassins.

  She stopped, staring at him with steady, brilliant eyes.

  “Too perceptive, Sir Oliver,” she conceded with a sting. “Yes, I deduce it. I have no proof. If I had, I would not have accused her publicly, I would simply have gone to the police. She would have been charged, and all this would not have been necessary.”

  “Why is it necessary?” he said bluntly.

  “The cause of justice?” She tilted her head a little to one side. It was quite definitely a question.

  “No,” he said.

  “Oh. You don’t believe I would do this for the love of justice?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  She sighed. “You are quite right; I would leave God or the devil to take care of it when it suited them.”

  “So why, madam?” he pressed. “You do it at very great risk to yourself. If you cannot defend your claim, you will be ruined, not only financially but socially. You may even face criminal charges. It is a very serious slander, and you have made it highly public.”

  “Well, there’s hardly any point in doing it privately!” she retorted, wide-eyed.

  “And what is the point in doing it at all?”

  “To oblige her to defend herself, of course. Is that not obvious?”

  “But it is you who have to defend yourself. You are the one accused.”

  “By the law, yes, but she is accused by me, and in order to appear innocent to the world, she will have to prove me a liar.” Her expression suggested that hers had been the most reasonable of acts, as should be plain enough to anyone.

  “No, she doesn’t,” he contradicted. “She simply has to prove that you have said these things about her and that they have damaged her. It is you who have the burden of proof as to whether they are true. If you leave any doubt, the case is hers. She does not have to prove them untrue.”

  “Not in law, Sir Oliver, but before the world, of course she does. Can you see her, or anyone, leaving court with the question still open?”

  “I confess it is unlikely, although it is possible. But she will almost certainly counter by attacking you, accusing you of motives of your own for having made the charge in the first place,” he warned. “You must be prepared for a very ugly battle which will become as personal to you as you have made it to her. Are you prepared for that?”

  She took a deep breath and straightened her thin shoulders.

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Why are you doing this, Countess?” He had to ask. It was bizarre and dangerous. She had a unique and reckless face, but she was not foolish. She might not know the law, but she certainly knew the ways of the world.

  Her face was suddenly totally serious, naked of all humor or contention.

  “Because she has used a man to his destruction, and that man, for all his folly and self-indulgence, should have been our king. I will not allow the world to see her as one of the great lovers, when she is an ambitious and greedy woman who loves herself before anyone, or anything, else. I hate hypocrisy. If you cannot believe I love justice, perhaps you can believe that?”

  “I can believe it, madam,” he said without hesitation. “So do I. And so, I profoundly believe, does the average British jury.” He meant that with a passion and total sincerity.

  “Then you will take my case?” she urged. It was a challenge, defying his safety, his correctness, his years of brilliant but always appropriate behavior.

  “I will.” He accepted without even hesitating. There was the moral point that if the case were to be tried in an English court, then for the reputation both of Gisela, if she was innocent, and, more precious to him, of the law, both sides must be represented by the best counsel possible. Otherwise the issue would never be settled in the public mind. Its ghost would arise again and again.

  There was a danger in it, certainly, but of the kind which quickened the blood and made one aware of the infinite value of life.

  Zorah had left her card with him. He called upon her in her London rooms the following afternoon, having sent a note in advance to inform her of his intention.

  She received him with an enthusiasm most well-bred ladies would have considered unbecoming. But he had long ago learned that people who are facing trial, civil or criminal, frequently wear their fear in ways that might lie outside their usual character. If one looked carefully, it was always a facet of something that was there, perhaps hidden in less stressful times. Fear was the most universal stripper of disguise and the self-protection of contrived attitudes.

  “Sir Oliver! I am delighted you have come,” she said immediately. “I took the liberty of asking Baron Stephan von Emden to join us. It will save having to send for him, and I am sure you have no time to waste. If you should wish to speak privately, I have another chamber where we may do so.” And she turned and led him through a vestibule of rather formal and uninteresting character into a room of so extraordinary a decor he drew in his breath involuntarily. The farther wall was hung with a gigantic shawl woven in russets, Indian reds, bitter chocolate browns and stark black. It had a long, silk fringe which hung in complicated woven knots. There was a silver samovar on an ebony table, and on the floor a series of bearskin rugs, again of warm browns. A red leather couch was swamped in embroidered cushions, each different.

  By one of the two tall windows stood a young man with fair brown hair and a charming face, at the moment filled with concern.

  “Baron Stephan von Emden,” Zorah said almost casually. “Sir Oliver Rathbone.”

  “How do you do, Sir Oliver.” Stephan bowed from the waist and br
ought his heels together, but almost silently. “I am enormously relieved that you are going to defend the Countess Rostova.” The sincerity of this remark was apparent in his face. “It is an extraordinarily difficult situation. Anything I can do to help, I will, gladly.”

  “Thank you,” Rathbone accepted, uncertain if this was merely a show of friendship or if there could be anything whatever the young baron might achieve. Remembering Zorah’s own candor, he spoke directly. It was a room in which it was impossible to be halfhearted. One would either be honest, whatever the consequences, or else be appalled and retract entirely. “Do you believe the Princess to be guilty of having murdered her husband?”

  Stephan looked startled, then a flash of humor lit his eyes.

  Zorah let out her breath in a sigh, possibly of approval.

  “I’ve no idea,” Stephan replied, his eyes wide. “But I have no doubt whatever that Zorah believes it, so I expect it is true. I am sure she did not say it either lightly or maliciously.”

  Rathbone judged he was in his early thirties, probably ten years younger than Zorah, and he wondered what their relationship might be. Why was he prepared to risk his name and reputation supporting a woman who made such a claim? Could it be that he was sure, not only that she was correct, but also that it could be proved? Or had he some more emotional, less rational motive, a love or a hate of someone in this tragedy?

  “Your confidence is very assuring,” Rathbone said politely. “Your help will be greatly appreciated. What have you in mind?”

  If he had expected Stephan to be thrown off balance, he was disappointed. Stephan straightened up from the rather relaxed attitude he had adopted and walked towards the chair in the center of the room. He sat sideways on it and looked at Rathbone intently.

  “I thought you might wish to send someone—discreetly, of course—to the Wellboroughs’ to ask questions of all the people who were there at the time. Most of them will be there again because of this furor, of course. I can tell you everything I can remember, but I imagine my evidence would be considered biased, and you’ll need a great deal more than that.” He shrugged his slim shoulders. “Anyway, I don’t know anything useful, or I would have told Zorah already. I don’t know what to look for. But I do know everyone, and I would vouch for anyone you cared to send. Go with him, if you wish.”

  Rathbone was surprised. It was a generous offer. He could see nothing in Stephan’s hazel-gold eyes but candor and a slight concern.

  “Thank you,” he accepted. “That might be an excellent idea.” He thought of Monk. If anyone could find and retrieve evidence of the truth, good or bad, it would be he. Nor would the magnitude of the case and its possible repercussions frighten him. “Although it may not be sufficient. This will be an extremely difficult case to prove. A great many vested interests lie against us.”

  Stephan frowned. “Of course.” He regarded Rathbone very seriously. “I am most grateful you have the courage, Sir Oliver. Many a lesser man would have balked at trying. I am completely at your service, sir, at any time.”

  He was so utterly serious Rathbone could only thank him again and turn to Zorah, who was now sitting on the red sofa, leaning back against the arm of it, her body relaxed amid her billowing, tawny skirts, her face tense, her eyes on Rathbone’s. She was smiling, but there was no laughter in her, no brilliance or ease.

  “We will have other friends,” she said in her slightly husky voice. “But very few. People believe what they need to, or what they have committed themselves to. I have enemies, but so has Gisela. There are many old scores to settle, old injuries, old loves and hates. And there are those whose only interest will be in the politics of the future, whether we remain independent or are swallowed up in a greater Germany, and who will win the profits of that battle. You will need to be both brave and clever.”

  Her remarkable face softened till she looked more than beautiful. There was a radiance in her. “But, then, if I had not believed you to be both, I should not have come to you. We shall give them a great fight, shall we not? No one shall murder a man, and a prince, while we stand by and allow the world to think it an accident. God, I hate a hypocrite! We shall have honesty. It is worth living and dying for, isn’t it?”

  “Of course,” Rathbone said with absolute conviction.

  That evening in the long summer twilight he went out to see his father, who lived to the north of London in Primrose Hill. It took him some time, and he did not hurry. He traveled in an open gig, light and fast, easy to maneuver through the traffic of barouches and landaus as people took the air in the dappled sunlight of tree-lined avenues or made their way home after the heat of a day in the city. He seldom drove, he had not the time, but he enjoyed it when he did. He had a light hand, and the pleasure was well worth the price of the hire from a local stable.

  Henry Rathbone had retired from his various mathematical and inventive pursuits. He still occasionally looked through his telescope at the stars, but merely for interest. On this evening, when Oliver arrived he was in his garden, standing on the long lawn looking towards the honeysuckle hedge at the bottom and the apple trees in the orchard beyond. It had been rather a dry season, and he was pondering whether the fruit would swell to an acceptable quality. The sun was still well above the horizon, blazing gold and sending long shadows across the grass. He was a tall man, taller than his son, square-shouldered and thin. He had a gentle, aquiline face and farsighted blue eyes. He was obliged to remove his spectacles to study anything closely.

  “Good evening, Father.” Rathbone walked down the lawn to join him. The butler had conducted him through the house and out of the open French doors.

  Henry turned with slight surprise. “I wasn’t expecting you. I’ve only got bread and cheese for dinner, and a little rather good pâté. Got a decent red wine, though, if you feel like it.”

  “Thank you,” Oliver accepted immediately.

  “Bit dry for the fruit,” Henry went on, turning back to the trees. “But still got a few strawberries, I think.”

  “Thank you,” Oliver repeated. Now that he was here, he was not quite sure how to begin. “I’ve taken a slander case.”

  “Oh. Is your client plaintiff or defendant?” Henry started to amble gently back towards the house, the sun casting long shadows in the gold-green grass and making the spires of the delphiniums almost luminous.

  “Defendant,” Oliver replied.

  “Who did he slander?”

  “She,” Oliver corrected. “Princess Gisela of Felzburg.”

  Henry stopped and turned to face him. “You haven’t taken up the Countess Zorah’s defense, have you?”

  Oliver stopped also. “Yes. She’s convinced Gisela killed Friedrich and that it can be proved.” He realized as he said it that that was rather an overstatement. It was a belief and a determination. There was still doubt.

  Henry was very grave, his brow wrinkled.

  “I do hope you are being wise, Oliver. Perhaps you had better tell me more about it, assuming that it is not in confidence?”

  “No, not at all. I think she would like it as widely known as possible.” He started to walk again up the slight slope towards the French doors and the familiar room with its easy chairs by the fireplace, the pictures and the case full of books.

  Henry frowned. “Why? I assume you have some idea of her reasons for this? Insanity isn’t a defense for slander, is it?”

  Oliver looked at him for a moment before he was quite sure there was a dry, rather serious humor behind the remark.

  “No, of course not. And she won’t retract. She is convinced that Princess Gisela murdered Prince Friedrich, and she won’t allow the hypocrisy and injustice of it to pass unchallenged.” He took a breath. “Neither will I.”

  They went up the steps and inside. They did not close the doors; the evening was still warm, and the air smelled sweet from the garden.

  “That is what she told you?” Henry asked, going to the hall door and opening it to tell the butler that Oliv
er would be staying to dinner.

  “You doubt it?” Oliver asked, sitting in the second-most comfortable chair.

  Henry returned. “I take it with circumspection.” He sat down in the best chair and crossed his legs, but he did not relax. “What do you know of her relationship with Prince Friedrich, for example, before Gisela married him?” he asked, looking gravely at Oliver.

  Oliver repeated what Zorah had told him.

  “Are you sure that Zorah didn’t want to marry Friedrich?”

  “Of course she didn’t,” Oliver said. “She is the last sort of woman to wish to be restricted by the bounds of royal protocol. She has a hunger for freedom, a passion for life far too big for …” He hesitated, aware from the look in his father’s eyes that he was betraying himself.

  “Perhaps,” Henry said thoughtfully. “But it is still possible to resent someone else taking something from you, even if you don’t especially want it yourself.”

  2

  MONK RECEIVED THE LETTER from Oliver Rathbone with interest. It came with the first post when he had only just finished breakfast. He read it still standing by the table.

  Rathbone’s cases were always serious ones, frequently involving violent crime, intense emotions, and they tested Monk’s abilities to the limit. He liked finding the outer limits of his skill, his imagination, and his mental and physical endurance. He needed to learn about himself far more than most men because a carriage accident three years before had robbed him of every shred of his memory. Except for the flickers, the remnants of light and shadow which danced across his mind, elusively, without warning every now and then, there was nothing. Occasionally those memories were pleasant, like the ones from childhood of his mother, his sister, Beth, and the wild Northumberland coast with its bare sands and infinite horizon. He heard the sound of gulls and saw in his mind’s eye the painted wood of fishing boats riding the gray-green water, and smelled the salt wind over the heather.