Weighed in the Balance (2 page)

“Begin at the end, if it pleases you,” he said quickly.

“Bravo!” She made a gesture of approval with her hand. “Gisela realized the necessity of murdering him, and almost immediately was presented with the opportunity, as a calling
card is on a silver tray. All she had to do was pick it up. He had been injured in a riding accident. He was lying helpless.” Her voice dropped; she leaned forward a little. “No one was certain how ill he was, or whether he would recover or not. She was alone with him. She killed him. There you are!” She spread her hands. “It is accomplished.” She shrugged. “No one suspected because no one thought of such a thing, nor did they know how badly he was hurt anyway. He died of his injuries.” She pursed her lips. “How natural. How sad.” She sighed. “She is desolate. She mourns and all the world mourns with her. What could be easier?”

Rathbone regarded the extraordinary woman sitting in front of him. She was certainly not beautiful, yet there was a vitality in her, even in repose, which drew the eye to her as if she were the natural center of thought and attention. And yet what she was saying was outrageous—and almost certainly criminally slanderous.

“Why should she do such a thing?” he said aloud, his voice heavy with skepticism.

“Ah, for that I feel I should go back to the beginning,” she said ruefully, leaning back and regarding him with the air of a lecturer.

“Forgive me if I tell you what you already know. Sometimes we imagine our affairs are of as much interest to others as they are to us, and of course they are not. However, most of the world is familiar with the romance of Friedrich and Gisela, and how our crown prince fell in love with a woman his family would not accept and renounced his right to the throne rather than give her up.”

Rathbone nodded. Of course, it was a story that had fascinated and bewitched Europe; it was the romance of the century, which was why this woman’s accusation of murder was so absurd and unbelievable. Only innate good manners prevented him from stopping her and asking her to leave.

“You must understand that our country is very small,” she
continued, amusement on her lips as if she understood his skepticism completely, and yet also an urgency, as if in spite of her intellectual awareness it mattered to her passionately that he believe her. “And situated in the heart of the German states.” Her eyes did not leave his face. “On all sides of us are other protectorates and principalities. We are all in upheaval. Most of Europe is. But unlike France or Britain or Austria, we are faced with the possibility of being united, whether we like it or not, and forming one great state of Germany. Some of us do like it.” Her lips tightened. “Some of us do not.”

“Has this really to do with Princess Gisela and the death of Friedrich?” he interrupted. “Are you saying it was a political murder?”

“No, of course not! How could you be so naive?” she said with exasperation.

Suddenly he wondered how old she was. What had happened to her in her life? Whom had she loved or hated; what extravagant dreams had she pursued and won, or lost? She moved like a young woman, with an ease and pride, as if her body were supple. Yet her voice had not the timbre of youth, and her eyes had far too much knowledge and too much wit and assurance to be immature.

The response that rose to his lips was stiff, and he knew before he spoke that he would sound offended. He changed his mind.

“The jury will be naive, madam,” he pointed out, carefully keeping his face expressionless. “Explain to me—to us, the jury—why the princess for whom Prince Friedrich gave up his crown and his country should, after twelve years of marriage, suddenly murder her husband. It seems to me she would have everything to lose. What can you persuade me she has to gain?”

Outside, the dull rumble of the traffic was broken by a drayman’s shout.

The amusement faded in her eyes.

“We must go back to politics, but not because this was a political murder,” she said obediently. “On the contrary, it was highly personal. Gisela was a totally material woman. There are very few political women, you know? Most of us are far too immediate and too practical. Still, that is not a crime.” She dismissed it. “I need to explain the politics to you so you will understand what she had to lose … and to gain.” She rearranged herself slightly in the chair. Even the very small hoop of her skirt seemed to annoy her, as if it was an affectation she would sooner have done without.

“Would you care for tea?” he offered. “I can have Simms bring a tray.”

“I should only talk too much and allow it to go cold,” she responded. “I loathe cold tea. But thank you for the offer. You have beautiful manners, so very correct. Nothing ruffles you. That is the stiff upper lip you English are so famous for. I find it infuriating and charming at the same time.”

To his fury, he felt himself blushing.

She ignored it, although she undoubtedly noticed.

“King Karl is not in good health,” she said, resuming the story. “He never has been. And quite frankly, we all know that he will not live more than another two or three years, at the most. Since Friedrich abdicated, Karl will now be succeeded by his younger son, Crown Prince Waldo. Waldo is not against unification. He sees that it has certain advantages. Fighting against it unquestionably would have many disadvantages—such as the likelihood of a war, which we would eventually lose. The only people who would be certain to profit would be arms manufacturers and their like.” Her face was heavy with contempt.

“Princess Gisela.” He brought her back to the subject.

“I was coming to her. Friedrich was for independence, even at the price of fighting. There were many of us who felt as he did, most particularly in and about the court.”

“But not Waldo? Surely he had most to lose?”

“People see love of their country in different ways, Sir Oliver,” she said with sudden gravity. “For some it is to fight for independence, even to give our lives for it if necessary.” She looked at him very directly. “For Queen Ulrike it is to live a certain kind of way, to exercise self-control, mastery of will, to spend her whole life trying to connive and coerce what she sees as right. To make sure everyone else behaves according to a code of honor she holds dear above all things.” She was watching him closely, judging his reactions. “To Waldo it is that his people should have bread on their tables and be able to sleep in their beds without fear. I think he would like them to be able to read and write whatever they believe also, but that may be asking for too much.” There was an unreadable sadness behind her green eyes. “No one has everything. But I think Waldo may be rather more realistic. He will not have us all drown trying to hold back a tide which he believes is bound to come in, whatever we do.”

“And Gisela?” he asked yet again, as much to bring his own mind to the subject as hers.

“Gisela has no patriotism!” she spat, her face tight and hard. “If she had, she would never have tried to be queen. She wanted it for herself, not for her people—or for independence or unification or anything political or national, just for the allure.”

“You dislike her,” Rathbone observed mildly.

She laughed, her face seemingly transformed, but the relentless anger was only just behind the amusement. “I loathe her. But that is beside the point. It does not make what I say true or untrue….”

“But it will prejudice a jury,” he pointed out. “They may think you speak from envy.”

She was silent for a moment.

He waited. No sound penetrated from the office beyond the door, and the traffic in the street had resumed its steady noise.

“You are right,” she admitted. “How tedious to have to consider such logicalities, but I can see it is necessary.”

“Gisela, if you please. Why should she wish to murder Friedrich? Not because he was for independence, even at the cost of war?”

“No, and yet indirectly, yes.”

“Very clear,” he said with a whisper of sarcasm. “Please explain yourself.”

“I am trying to!” Impatience flared in her eyes. “There is a considerable faction which would fight for independence. They need a leader around whom to gather—”

“I see. Friedrich—the original crown prince! But he abdicated. He lives in exile.”

She leaned forward, her face eager.

“But he could return.”

“Could he?” Again he was doubtful. “What about Waldo? And the Queen?”

“That’s it!” she said almost jubilantly. “Waldo would fight against it, not for the crown but to avoid a war with Prussia or whoever else was first to try to swallow us. But the Queen would ally with Friedrich for the cause of independence.”

“Then Gisela could be queen on the King’s death,” Rathbone pointed out. “Didn’t you say that was what she wanted?”

She looked at him with gleaming eyes, green and brilliant, but her face was filled with exaggerated patience.

“The Queen will not tolerate Gisela in the country. If Friedrich comes back, he must come alone. Rolf Lansdorff, the Queen’s brother, who is extremely powerful, is also for Friedrich’s return, but would never tolerate Gisela. He believes Waldo is weak and will lead us to ruin.”

“And would Friedrich return without Gisela, for his country’s sake?” he asked doubtfully. “He gave up the throne for her once. Would he now go back on that?”

She looked at him steadily. Her face was extraordinary; there was so much force of conviction in it, of emotion and
will. When she spoke of Gisela it was ugly, the nose too large, too long, the eyes too widely spaced. When she spoke of her country, of love, of duty, she was beautiful. Compared with her, everyone else seemed ungenerous, insipid. Rathbone was quite unaware of the traffic beyond the window, the clatter of hooves, the occasional call of voices, the sunlight on the glass, or of Simms and the other clerks in the office beyond the door. He was thinking only of a small German principality and the struggle for power and survival, the loves and hates of a royal family, and the passion which fired this woman in front of him and made her more exciting and more profoundly alive than anyone else he could think of. He felt the surge of it run through his own blood.

“Would he go back on that?” he repeated.

A curious look of pain, pity, almost embarrassment, crossed her face. For the first time she did not look directly at him, as though she wished to shield her inner feelings from his perception.

“Friedrich has always believed in his heart that his country would want him back one day and that when that time came, they would accept Gisela also and see her worth—as he does, of course, not as it is. He lived on those dreams. He promised her it would be so. Every year he would say it yet again.” She met Rathbone’s eyes. “So to answer your question, he would not see returning to Felzburg as going back on his commitment to Gisela but as returning in triumph with her at his side, vindicating all he had ever believed. But she is not a fool. She knows it would never be so. He would return, and she would be denied entrance, publicly humiliated. He would be astounded, dismayed, distraught, but by then Rolf Lansdorff and the Queen would see to it that he did not renounce a second time.”

“You believe that is what would have happened?” he asked quietly.

“We shall never know, shall we?” Zorah said with a curious, bleak smile. “He is dead.”

The impact of it shook Rathbone suddenly and forcibly. Now murder did not seem so unreasonable. People had been killed for immeasurably less.

“I see,” he said very soberly. “That does make a very strong argument which a jury of ordinary men from any street would grasp.” He folded his hands into a steeple and leaned his elbows on the desk. “Now, why should they believe it was the unfortunate widow who committed murder, and not some follower of Prince Waldo or of any other German power who believes in unification? Surely they also have powerful motives? Countless murders have been committed for the gain or loss of a kingdom, but would Gisela really kill Friedrich rather than lose him?”

Her strong, slender fingers grasped the arms of the leather chair as she leaned forward towards him, her face intent.

“Yes!” she said unwaveringly. “She doesn’t care a fig about Felzburg, or any of us. If he returns now, renouncing her—whether it was by his own will or by coercion is immaterial; the world won’t know or care—then the whole dream crumbles, the great love story falls apart. She is a pathetic, even ridiculous figure, a woman abandoned after twelve years of marriage, no longer in her first youth.”

Her face sharpened, her voice grew husky. “On the other hand, if she is widowed, then she is the great figure of domestic tragedy again, the center of admiration and envy. She has mystery, allure. And she is free to offer her favor to admirers or not, as long as she is discreet. She goes down in legend as one of the world’s great lovers, to be remembered in song and story. Who would not in their hearts envy that? It is a kind of immortality. Above all, one remembers her with awe, with respect. No one laughs. And of course,” she added, “she has his private fortune.”

“I see.” He was convinced in spite of himself. She had his total attention, his intellect and his emotion. He could not help imagining the passions which had moved the Prince at first, his
overwhelming love for a woman, so intense he had sacrificed a country and a throne for her. What must she be like? What radiance of character, what unique charms, had she to inspire such a love?

Was she something like Zorah Rostova herself, so intensely alive she awoke in him dreams and hungers he had not even realized he possessed? Did she fill him with vitality also, and make him believe in himself, see in a wild glance all that he could be or become? What sleepless nights had he spent, struggling between duty and desire? How had he compared the thought of a life devoted to the court—the daily, endless formalities, the distance which must inevitably surround a king, the loneliness of being without the woman he loved—and the temptation of a life in exile with the constant companionship of such an extraordinary lover? They would grow old together, separated from family and country, and yet never alone. Except for the guilt. Did he feel guilt for having chosen the path of his longing, not his duty?