Weighed in the Balance (31 page)

“I’m not going to repeat what you say,” Monk assured her. “What about the Princess Gisela? Was she as gracious?”

“Oh, yes … well …” She looked cautiously at him.

“Well?” he prompted. “The truth, please, Nell.”

“No, she weren’t. Actual, she were a right cow. Oh!” She looked mortified. “I shouldn’t ’a said that … the poor lady being bereaved, an’ all. I’m terrible sorry, sir. I did’n’ mean it.”

“Yes you did. In what way was she a cow?”

“Please, sir, I shouldn’t never ’ave said that!” she begged. “I daresay where she come from folks are different. An’ she is a royal princess, an’ all, an’ them people in’t like us.”

“Yes they are,” he said angrily. “She’s born just the same way you are, naked and screaming for breath—”

“Oh, sir.” She gasped. “You shouldn’t ought to say things like that about them as is quality, let alone royal!”

“She’s only royal because a petty European prince married
her,” he said. “And gave up his crown and his duty to do it. What has she ever done in her life that was of use to anyone? What has she made or built? Who has she helped?”

“I dunno what yer mean, sir.” She was genuinely confused. “She’s a lady.”

That, apparently, was sufficient explanation to her. Ladies did not work. They were not expected to do anything except enjoy themselves as they saw fit. It was not only improper, it was meaningless to question that.

“Did the other servants like her?” he asked, changing his approach.

“In’t up to us to like nor dislike houseguests, sir. But she weren’t no favorite, if that’s what you mean.”

It seemed a moot point. He did not quibble.

“What about the Countess Rostova?” he asked instead.

“Oh, she were fun, sir. Got a tongue on ’er like a navvy what mends the railways, she ’as, but fair. Always fair, she were.”

“Did she like the Princess?”

“I should say not.” The idea seemed to amuse her. “Look daggers at each other, them two. Not but what the Princess usually got the best of it, one way or another. Made people laugh, she did. Got a wicked way wi’ mocking people. Knew what their weaknesses was and made fun o’ them.”

“What was the Countess’s weakness?”

She did not hesitate. “Oh, ’er fondness for the young Italian gentleman—Barber something.”

“Florent Barberini?”

“Yes, that’s right. Terrible ’andsome, ’e were, but taken with the Princess, like ’e thought she were something out of a fairy story … which I suppose she were.” For a moment her eyes softened. “Must be wonderful to fall in love like that. I suppose the Prince and Princess’ll be remembered through all ’istory—like Lord Nelson and Lady ’Amilton, or Romeo and Juliet—tragic lovers what gave up the world for each other.”

*   *   *

“Stuff and nonsense,” Lady Wellborough’s maid said briskly. “She’s bin reading them penny books again. I dunno why the mistress lets ’em into the house. Fill young girls’ heads with a lot of silliness. Bein’ married in’t all gin an’ gaspers, like my mother used to say. There’s the good an’ the bad. Men is real, just like women is. They get sick an’ ’ave ter be looked after.” She sniffed. “They get tired and bad tempered, they get frightened, they’re mortal untidy, half o’ them snore enough to wake the dead. And once you’re in marriage there in’t no getting out of it—no matter what. Them daft young girls wants to think a bit before they go chasin’ dreams because they read a silly book. Don’t do to teach some o’ them reading.”

“But surely the Prince and Princess were ideally happy?” Monk pressed, not hoping for a reply of any value, just being argumentative.

They were standing at the stairhead, and below them in the hall a parlormaid giggled and a footman said something under his breath. There was a sound of rapid footsteps.

“I expect so, but they ’ad their quarrels like anyone else,” the lady’s maid said briskly. “Leastways, she did. Ordered ’im about something chronic when they were alone, an’ even sometimes when they wasn’t. Not that ’e seemed to mind, though,” she added. “ ’E’d rather ’ave been sworn at by ’er than treated to sweetness by someone else. I s’pose that’s what bein’ in love does to you.” She shook her head. “For me, I’d ’ave given a piece o’ my mind to anyone who spoke to me like that. An’ maybe paid the consequences for it.” She smiled ruefully. “Maybe as well fallin’ in love in’t for the likes o’ me.”

It was the first Monk had heard of any quarrels, apart from the brief episode of the Verdi performance in Venice, which seemed to have been over almost before it began—with unqualified victory to Gisela, and apparently without rancor on either side.

“What did they quarrel about?” He was unashamedly direct. “Was it to do with returning to Felzburg?”

“To where?” She had no idea what he was talking about.

“Their own country,” he explained.

“No, nothing of that sort.” She dismissed the idea with a laugh. “Weren’t about anything particular. Just plain bad temper. Two people on top of each other all the time. Quarrel about anything and nothing. Couldn’t stand it, meself, but then I’m not in love.”

“But she didn’t flirt or pay attention to anyone else?”

“Her? She flirted something rotten! But never like she meant to be taken up on it. There’s a bit o’ difference. Everyone knew she were just ’avin’ fun. Even the Prince knew that.” She looked at Monk with patient contempt. “If you’re thinking as she murdered him ’cos she was fancying someone else, that just shows how much you don’t know. Weren’t nothing like that at all. There’s plenty as did. Right high jinks went on here. I could tell you a story or two, but it’d be more ’an my job’s worth.”

“I would prefer not to know,” Monk said sourly, and he meant it.

He questioned the other servants and learned only the same facts as before, corroborated by a dozen other serious and frightened people. Gisela had never left their suite after Friedrich’s accident. She had stayed with him, at his side, except for brief respites taken for a bath or a short nap in the nearby bedroom. The maid had always been within earshot. Gisela had ordered his food in meticulous detail, but she had never gone to the kitchen herself.

However, almost everyone else in the house had moved about freely and could have found a dozen opportunities to pass a servant on the stairs carrying a tray and divert the servant’s attention long enough to slip something into the food. Friedrich had eaten only beef broth to begin with, then bread and milk and a little egg custard. Gisela had eaten normally,
when she had eaten at all. A footman remembered passing Brigitte on the landing when he was carrying a tray. A parlormaid had left a tray for several minutes when Klaus was present. She stared at Monk with dark, frightened eyes as she told him.

It all added to Rathbone’s dilemma and Zorah’s condemnation. Gisela physically could not be guilty, and nothing Monk had heard altered his conviction that she had no motive.

Nor was there proof beyond doubt that any other specific person had murdered Friedrich, but suspicion pointed an ugly finger at either Brigitte or Klaus. Once Monk would have been satisfied by that for Evelyn’s sake; now that hardly mattered. As he left Wellborough to return to London, his thoughts were filled with Rathbone and how he would have to tell Hester that he had failed to find any real answer.

9

L
ATE IN
O
CTOBER
, the day before the trial began, Rathbone was joined at his club by the Lord Chancellor.

“Afternoon, Rathbone.” He sank gently into the seat opposite and crossed his legs. Immediately, the steward was at his elbow.

“Brandy,” the Lord Chancellor said agreeably. “Got some Napoleon brandy, I know. Bring a spot, and for Sir Oliver, too.”

“Thank you,” Rathbone accepted with surprise—and a little foreboding.

The Lord Chancellor looked at him gravely. “Nasty business,” he said with a very faint smile which did not reach his eyes. They were steady, clear and cold. “I hope you are going to be able to handle it with discretion. Can’t predict a woman like that. Have to tread very warily. Can’t get her to withdraw, I suppose?”

“No sir,” Rathbone confessed. “I’ve tried every argument I can think of.”

“Most unfortunate.” The Lord Chancellor frowned. The steward brought the brandy, and he thanked him for it. Rathbone took his. It could have been cold tea for any pleasure he had in it. “Most unfortunate,” the Lord Chancellor repeated, sipping at the balloon glass in his hands and then continuing to
warm the liquid and savor its aroma. “Still, no doubt you have it all in control.”

“Yes, naturally,” Rathbone lied. No point in admitting defeat before it was inevitable.

“Indeed.” The Lord Chancellor was apparently not so easily satisfied. “I trust you have some means of preventing her from making any further ill-considered remarks in open court? You must find some way of convincing her not only that she has nothing to gain, but that she still has something to lose.” He regarded Rathbone closely.

There was no avoiding a reply, and it must be specific.

“She is most concerned in the future of her country,” he said with assurance. “She will not do anything which will further jeopardize its struggle to retain independence.”

“I do not find that of any particular comfort, Sir Oliver,” the Lord Chancellor said grimly.

Rathbone hesitated. He had had it in mind that he should at least prevent Zorah from implicating Queen Ulrike, either directly or indirectly. But if the Lord Chancellor had not thought of that disaster, he would not put it into his way,

“I shall persuade her certain charges or insinuations would be against her country’s welfare,” Rathbone replied.

“Will you,” the Lord Chancellor said doubtfully.

Rathbone smiled.

The Lord Chancellor smiled back bleakly and finished his brandy.

His words were echoing in Rathbone’s head the following day when the trial began. It was expected to be the slander case of the century, and long before the judge called the court to order, the benches were packed and there was not even room to stand at the back. The ushers had the greatest possible difficulty in keeping the aisles sufficiently clear to avoid hazard to safety.

Before entering the courtroom, Rathbone tried one last time to persuade Zorah to withdraw.

“It is not too late,” he said urgently. “You can still admit you were overcome by grief and spoke without due thought.”

“I am not overcome,” she said with a self-mocking smile. “I spoke after very careful thought indeed, and I meant what I said.” She was dressed in tawny reds and browns. Her jacket was beautifully tailored to her slender shoulders and straight back, and the skirt swept out in an unbroken line over its hoops. Her attire was devastatingly unsuitable for the occasion. She did not look remotely penitent or consumed by grief. She looked magnificent.

“I am going into battle without weapons or armor.” He heard his voice rise in desperation. “I still have nothing!”

“You have great skill.” She smiled at him, her green eyes bright with confidence. He had no idea whether it was real or assumed. As always, she took no notice whatever of what he said, except to find a disarming reply. He had never had a more irresponsible client, or one who tried his patience so far.

“There is no point in being the best shot in the world if you have no weapon to fire,” he protested, “and no ammunition.”

“You will find something.” She lifted her chin a little. “Now, Sir Oliver, is it not time for us to enter the fray? The usher is beckoning. He is an usher, is he not, that little man over there waving at you? That is the correct term?”

Rathbone did not bother to answer but stood aside for her to precede him. He squared his shoulders and adjusted his cravat for the umpteenth time, actually sending it slightly askew, and went into the courtroom. He must present the perfect image.

Instantly the hum of conversation ceased. Everyone was staring, first at him, then at Zorah. She walked across the small space of the open floor to the seats at the table for the defendant, her head high, her back stiff, looking neither right nor left.

There was a dull murmur of resentment. Everyone was
curious to see the woman who could be so unimaginably wicked as to make such an accusation as this against one of the heroines of the age. People craned forward to stare, their faces hardened with anger and dislike. Rathbone could feel it like a cold wave as he followed her, held the chair for her as she sat with extraordinary grace and swept her huge skirts about her.