Weighed in the Balance (25 page)

“Yes, but it was brief,” he replied. “There was little violence. The king had already granted certain reforms and legislated far better conditions for workers and a measure of freedom for the press.” A flicker of a smile crossed Eugen’s lean face. It looked to Monk like admiration. “I think that was Ulrike’s doing. Some people thought she was against it. She would have an absolute monarchy, if she could. She could rule like your Queen Elizabeth, give orders and chop the heads off those who defied her. But she is three hundred years too late for that, and she is far too clever a woman to overshoot the mark. Better to give them a little and remove the spur of rebellion. You cannot rule a people who hate you, except for a very short time. She has a long vision. She sees generations on the throne, stretching into the future.”

“But there are no heirs,” Monk pointed out.

“Which brings us to the crux of the matter,” Eugen replied. “If Friedrich had returned without Gisela, if he had set her aside and married again, then there would have been.” He
leaned forward, his face fierce in its intensity. “No man of the Queen’s party would ever have killed Friedrich. That is absolute! If he was murdered, then look for someone who is for unification, who does not mind being swallowed by Prussia, Hannover, Bavaria, or any of a score of others strong enough. Or one who had been promised office or possessions by any faction he believes can succeed. There was an attempt in ’48 to make one of the Austrian archdukes king of all Germany. It failed, thank God. But that does not mean they could not try again.”

Monk’s head swam.

“The possibilities are endless.”

“No—but they are large.” Eugen began to eat hungrily, and Monk copied him. He was surprised how much he enjoyed the food.

“What about Prince Waldo?” Monk asked with his mouth full.

“I will take you to meet him,” Eugen promised. “Tomorrow.”

Eugen kept his word. His valet had pressed Monk’s clothes. His evening suit hung in the wardrobe. His shirts were all laundered and gleaming white. His studs and cuff links were laid out on the tallboy, as were his brushes and toiletries. He spared a moment to be glad he had had the vanity and extravagance to purchase things of excellent quality at some time in that past he could not remember.

He had got as far as choosing cuff links, agate set in gold, when without warning he remembered vividly doing exactly the same, with these same links, before going to a dinner party in London. He had been accompanying the man who had taught him, sponsored him and sheltered him. He had had forbearance with Monk’s ignorance and lack of polish, his impetuosity and occasional rudeness. With immeasurable patience, he had schooled him not only in the profession of
investment banking, but in the arts of being a gentleman. He had taught him how to dress well without being ostentatious; how to tell a good cut, a good art; how to choose a pair of boots, a shirt; even how to treat one’s tailor. He had taught him which knife and fork to use, how to hold them elegantly, which wine to select, when and how to speak and when to keep silent, when it was appropriate to laugh. Over a period of years he had made the provincial Northumbrian youth into a gentleman, sure of himself, with that unconscious air of confidence that marks the well-bred from the ordinary.

It was all there in his mind as his hand touched the small piece of jewelry. He was back in his mentor’s house in London, twenty or more years before, about to go to dinner. The occasion was important. Something was going to happen, and he was afraid. He had enemies, and they were powerful. It was within their ability to destroy his career, even to have him arrested and imprisoned. He had been accused of something profoundly dishonorable. He was innocent, but he could not prove it … not to anyone. The fear gripped ice-cold inside him and there was no escape. It took all the strength he had to quell the panic which rose like a scream in his throat.

But it had not happened. At least he was almost sure of that. Why not? What had prevented it? Had he rescued himself? Or had someone else? And at what cost?

Monk had tried desperately to fight against injustice before, and lost. It had come to him before, a fragment at a time. He had remembered his mentor’s wife, her face as she wept silently, the tears running down her cheeks in despair.

He would have given anything he possessed to be able to help. But he had nothing. No money, no influence, no ability that was a shred of use.

He did not know what had happened after that. All he could claw back from the darkness of amnesia was the sense of tragedy, rage and futility. He knew that was why he had given up banking and gone into the police: to fight against injustices
like that, to find and punish the cheaters and destroyers, to prevent it happening again, and again, to other innocent men. He could learn the skills, and find the weapons, forge them if necessary.

But what was the debt he had recalled with such a stomach-freezing fear? It was specific, not a general gratitude for years of luridness, but for a particular gift. Had he ever repaid that?

He had no idea … no idea at all. There was simply a darkness and a weight in his mind—and a consuming need to know.

The reception was held in a huge hall brilliant with chandeliers hung from a carved and painted ceiling. There must have been a hundred people present, no more, but the enormous skirts of the women, gleaming pale in pastel and muted flower tones, seemed to fill the space. Black-suited men stood like bare trees among clouds of blossom. The light sparked prisms of fire off diamonds as heads and wrists moved. Now and again, above the chatter and occasional laughter, Monk heard the snap as some gentleman bowed and brought his heels together.

Most communications were naturally in German, but as Eugen introduced Monk, in deference to his unfamiliarity with that language, people changed to English.

They spoke of all sorts of trivialities: weather, theater, international news and gossip, the latest music or philosophical notions. No one mentioned the scandal about to break in London. No one even mentioned Friedrich’s death. It had happened six months before and it might have been six years, or even the twelve since he had renounced his throne and his country and left forever. Perhaps in their minds he had died then. If they cared whether Gisela defended herself successfully or, indeed, if Zorah Rostova were ruined, they did not mention it.

Now and again conversation did become serious; then it was the aftermath of the conflicts of ’48 that was spoken of, and the
fiercer oppression which had followed, most especially in Prussia.

All the conversation was of politics, of unification or independence, of social or economic reforms, new freedoms and how they might be won, and above all, like a chill in the air, the possibility of war. Not once did Monk hear Gisela’s name mentioned, and Friedrich’s came up only in an aside—that he could no longer be a focus for the independence party, and speculating whether Rolf had the popular following to take his place. Zorah was mentioned, but as an eccentric, a patriot. If anyone commented on her accusation, Monk did not hear it.

Towards the end of the evening, Eugen found Monk again and presented him to Prince Waldo, the man who would inherit the crown by default. He saw a man of average height, rather stolid appearance, a face almost handsome but marred by a certain heaviness. His manner was careful. There was little humor about his mouth.

“How do you do, Mr. Monk,” he said in excellent English.

“How do you do, sir,” Monk answered respectfully, but meeting his eyes.

“Colonel Eugen tells me you have come from London,” Waldo observed.

“Yes sir, but more immediately from Venice.”

A spark of interest flared in Waldo’s dark eyes. “Indeed. Is that coincidence, or are you pursuing some thread in our unfortunate affairs?”

Monk was startled. He had not expected such perception or directness. He decided candor was best. Remembering Rathbone, he had no time to lose.

“I am pursuing a thread, sir. There is a strong suggestion that your brother, Prince Friedrich, did not die solely as a result of his riding accident.”

Waldo smiled. “Is that what is known as a British understatement?”

“Yes sir,” Monk acknowledged.

“And your interest in it?”

“A legal one, to assist British justice to deal fairly …” Monk made a rapid calculation as to which answers would be likely to offend Waldo least. After all, Waldo had had a great deal to gain or lose by Friedrich’s decision—not only his personal leadership of the country, but also his vision for the country’s future. Friedrich had been for independence. Waldo apparently believed the best hope lay with unification. He could lose his own throne, but perhaps he was genuinely more concerned with the safety and prosperity of his people.

Monk stared at him and tried to make a judgment.

Waldo was waiting. Monk must answer quickly. The swirl of laughter and music continued around them, the hum of voices, the clink of glass. Light shattered into a thousand fragments from jewels.

If Waldo really believed the lives and the peace of his country lay in unification, then he had more reason than anyone to kill Friedrich.

“… with the issue of slander,” Monk finished his sentence.

Waldo’s eyes widened. It was not the answer he had expected.

“I see,” he said slowly. “It is so serious a matter in England?”

“When it concerns the royal family of another country, yes sir, it is.”

A strange flicker of emotion crossed Waldo’s face. Monk could not read it. It might have been any of a dozen things. A few yards away, a soldier in resplendent uniform bowed to a lady in pink.

“My brother gave up his duties in his family over twelve years ago, and with it his privileges,” Waldo said coolly. “He chose not to be one of us. Gisela Berentz never was.”

Monk took a deep breath. He had little to lose.

“If he was murdered, sir, then the question arises as to who did such a thing. With the political situation as it is at present,
speculation will touch many people, including those whose views were different from his.”

“You mean me,” Waldo replied unflinchingly, his brows raised a little.

Monk was startled. “More precisely, sir, someone who holds your views,” he corrected hastily. “Not necessarily, of course, with your knowledge or upon your instructions. But it might be difficult to demonstrate that.”

“Extremely,” Waldo said, his eyes steady and hard, as if already he faced the charge and was steeling himself to it. “Even proof will convince only those who wish to be convinced. It will follow a long path before it reaches the ears of the common man.”

Monk changed the subject. “Unfortunately, we cannot prevent the trial. We have tried. We have done everything in our power to persuade the Countess Rostova to withdraw her allegation and apologize, but so far we have failed.” He did not know if that was true, but he assumed it would be. Rathbone must have at least that much sense—and desire for his own survival.

A flicker of humor crossed Waldo’s face for the first time.

“I could have told you as much,” he replied. “Zorah has never been known to back away from anything. Or, for that matter, to count the personal cost of it. Even her enemies have never called her a coward.”

“Could she have killed him herself?” Monk asked impulsively.

Waldo did not hesitate an instant, nor did his expression change. “No. She is for independence. She believes we can survive alone, like Andorra or Liechtenstein.” Again the shadow of humor crossed his face. “If it had been Gisela who was killed, I would have said certainly she could …”

Monk was stunned. The words raced around his head. He tried to grasp their dozen possibilities. Was it conceivable that Zorah had meant to poison Gisela and, through some grotesque
mischance, had killed Friedrich instead? This thought opened up vast possibilities. Could Rolf have done it, on his own or for his sister, the Queen? Then Friedrich would have had no impediment to returning to lead the independence party. Or could Brigitte have tried to kill Gisela so that Friedrich could return and she could marry him, to please the country and so she would one day be queen?

Or even Lord Wellborough? He could have been attempting to promote a war which could massively enrich him.

Monk muttered some reply, civil and meaningless, thanked Waldo for having received him, and backed away with his mind still in a tumult.

Monk woke in the night with a jolt, half sitting up in his bed as if someone had startled him. He strained his ears but could hear no sound in the darkness.

The same sense of fear was with him as the one he had felt while putting on his cuff links, an overwhelming isolation, except for one person … one person who believed in his innocence and was prepared to risk his own safety in standing by him.

Was there anyone to stand by Gisela, or had she forfeited everything in marrying Friedrich? Was it really “all for love, and the world well lost”?

But it had been a different kind of love which had prompted Monk’s one friend to fight for him at any cost, the loyalty that never breaks, the faith which is tested to the last. It had been his mentor who had jeopardized his own reputation on Monk’s innocence. He knew that now. He could remember it. He had been accused of embezzlement. His mentor had staked his own name and fortune that Monk was not guilty.

And that had been enough to make them search further, to carry him until the truth was found.

And sitting up in bed with the sweat clammy on his body in the cold night air, he also knew that he had never repaid that
debt. When the tide had been reversed, he had not had the ability, or the power. All he possessed was not enough. The man he had most admired had lost everything: home, honor, even, in the end, his life.

And Monk had never been able to repay. It was too late.

He lay back with a feeling of emptiness and a strange alone-ness of the irretrievable. Whatever was given, it would have to be to someone else. It could never be the same.

The following afternoon he was presented at court. He needed to know whether it could be that Gisela herself was the intended victim, and he dreaded telling Rathbone.