Weighed in the Balance (41 page)

“No, I don’t know, not beyond doubt.”

“And Baron von Seidlitz, why was he there, if his views were opposite? Was some kind of debate planned, an open discussion?”

Stephan smiled briefly. “Of course not. It is all only speculation. I don’t know if any talks took place at all … which is probably why Klaus von Seidlitz was there … in order to conceal the political aspects of the occasion.”

“What about Countess Rostova and Mr. Barberini?”

“They are both for independence,” Stephan replied. “But Barberini is half Venetian, so he appeared a natural person to invite since Friedrich and Gisela live in Venice. It gave it the appearance of an ordinary spring house party.”

“But it was—in reality, beneath the festivities, the parties and picnics, the hunting, the theatrical evenings, the music and the dinner parties—a deeply political gathering?”

“Yes.”

He knew Stephan could not say any offer had been made to Friedrich, or any plea, so he did not ask.

“Thank you, Baron von Emden.” He turned to Harvester.

Harvester rose, his expression a curious mixture of anger and anxiety. He strode onto the floor as if he had intense purpose, his shoulders hunched.

“Baron, were you party to these conspiracies to invite Prince Friedrich to return to his country and usurp his brother?”

Rathbone could not object. The language was pejorative, but he had laid the foundation for it himself.

Stephan smiled. “Mr. Harvester, if there was a plan to ask Prince Friedrich to return and lead a battle for retaining our independence, I was not a party to it. But providing it was to do that, and that only, had I known, I would gladly have joined. If you think it was a question of usurping, then you have demonstrated that you do not understand the issues. Prince Waldo is prepared to abdicate his throne and his country’s independence and have us be swallowed up as part of a larger state.”

He leaned forward on the railing, addressing Harvester as if he were the only other person in the room. “There would be no throne left in Felzburg, no crown to argue over. We should be a province of Prussia, or Hannover, or whatever the resulting conglomerate of states was called. No one knows who would be king, or president, or emperor. If Friedrich was indeed asked to come home, and he had accepted, it would be to preserve a throne in Felzburg, whoever sat on it. Perhaps he would not have wished to. Perhaps he would have lost the battle anyway, and we would still have been swallowed into a greater whole. Perhaps it would have meant war, and we would have been conquered. Or possibly the other minor liberal states would have allied with us rather than be consumed by the reactionaries. Now we will never know, because he is dead.”

Harvester smiled bleakly.

“Baron, if this was the purpose of the visit to Wellborough Hall, and I am sure that you believe it was, then perhaps you will answer a few questions which arise from that supposition. If Friedrich had declined the invitation, would that have given anyone motive to wish him dead?”

“Not so far as I am aware.”

“And if he had accepted?”

Stephan’s mouth tightened with distaste at being forced to express his beliefs aloud, but he would not equivocate.

“Possibly Baron von Seidlitz.”

“Because he was for unification?” Harvester’s eyebrows rose. “Is it so likely Prince Friedrich, single-handedly, could have achieved that end? You made it sound far more difficult, problematical, in your earlier answers. I had not realized he still commanded such power.”

“He might not have achieved our continued independence,” Stephan said patiently. “He might well have achieved a war for it, and war is what von Seidlitz dreads. He has far too much to lose.”

Harvester looked amazed. “And have not you all?” He half turned towards the gallery, as if to include them in his surprise.

“Of course.” Stephan took a deep breath. “The difference is that many of us also believe that we have something to gain. Or perhaps I should say, more correctly, to preserve.”

“Your identity as an independent state?” Harvester’s voice was not mocking, not even disrespectful, but it did probe with a hard, unrelenting realism. “Is that truly worth a war to you, Baron von Emden? And in this war, who will fight?” He gestured in angry bewilderment. “Who will lose their homes and their lands? Who will die? I do not see it as an ignoble thing to wish your country to avoid war, even if it is a horrific thing to murder your prince in that cause. At least most of us here could understand that, I find it easy to believe.”

“Possibly,” Stephan agreed, his face suddenly alight with a passion he had kept tightly in control until now. “But then you all live in England, where there is a constitutional monarchy, a Parliament in which to debate, a franchise in which men can vote for the government they wish. You have the freedom to read and write what you wish.” He did not move his hands, but his words embraced everyone in the room. “You are free to assemble to discuss, even to criticize, your betters and the laws they make. You may question without fear of reprisal. You may form a political party for any cause you like. You may worship any God in any manner you choose. Your army obeys your politicians, and not your politicians the army. Your queen
would never take orders from her generals. They are there to protect you from invasion, to conquer weaker and less fortunate nations, but not to govern you and suppress you should you threaten to assemble in numbers or protest your state or your labor laws, your wages or your conditions.”

There was not a murmur in the gallery. Hundreds of faces stared at him in amazement—and in silence.

“Perhaps if you lived in some of the German states,” he went on, his voice now raw with sadness, “and could remember the armies marching in the streets a decade ago, see the people manning the barricades as suddenly hope flared that we too might have the liberties you take so lightly, and then afterwards see the dead, and the hope ended in despair, all the promises broken, you would be prepared to fight to keep the small privileges Felzburg has.” He leaned forward. “And in memory of those who fought and died elsewhere, you would offer your life too, for your children and your children’s children … or even just for your country, your friends, for the future, whether you see them, know them, or not, simply because you believe in these things.”

The silence prickled in the ears.

“Bravo!” someone cried from the gallery. “Bravo, sir!”

“Bravo!” A dozen more shouted, and they began to stand up one by one, then a dozen, then a score, hands held up, faces alight with emotion. “Bravo!”

“God save the Queen!” a woman called out, and another echoed her.

The judge did not bang his gavel or make the slightest attempt to restore order. He allowed it to run its course and subside on its own. Once watched, the wave of passion had spent itself, emotion had passed.

“Mr. Harvester?” he said inquiringly. “Have you further points to ask of Baron von Emden?”

Harvester’s face was puzzled and unhappy. Obviously, Stephan’s evidence had opened up a vehemence the lawyer
had not foreseen. The issue had ceased to be political in any dry and objective sense and became a thing of raging urgency which touched everyone. The emotional balance had been altered irrevocably. He was not yet sure where it would lead.

“No, my lord, thank you,” he answered. “I think the Baron has demonstrated most admirably that feelings ran very high during the meeting at Wellborough Hall, and many may have believed that the fate of a nation hung on the return, or not, of Prince Friedrich.” He shook his head. “None of which has the slightest relevance to the Countess Rostova’s accusation against Princess Gisela and its demonstrable untruth.” He looked for a moment towards Rathbone, and then returned to his seat.

It was perfectly timed. Rathbone knew it as well as Harvester did. He had not defended Zorah from the charge of slander, he had not even defended her from the unspoken charge of murder. If anything, Stephan might unwittingly have made things worse. He had shown how very much was at stake and sworn that Zorah believed in independence. She could never have wished Friedrich dead, but she might very easily have tried to kill Gisela and counted it an act of supreme patriotism. That was now believable to everyone in the room.

“What the devil are you doing, Rathbone?” Harvester demanded as they passed each other when leaving for the luncheon adjournment. He looked confused. “Your client is as likely to be guilty of a mistake in victim as anybody.” His voice dropped in genuine concern. “Are you sure she is sane? In her own interests, can you not prevail upon her to withdraw? The court will pursue the truth now, whatever she says or does. At least protect her by persuading her to keep silent, before she incriminates herself … and, incidentally, drags you down with her. You have too many rogue witnesses, Rathbone.”

“I have a rogue case,” Rathbone agreed ruefully, falling into step with Harvester.

“I can imagine the Lord Chancellor’s face!” Harvester skirted around a group of clerks in intense discussion and rejoined Rathbone as they went down the steps into the raw, late October wind.

“So can I.” Rathbone meant it only too truthfully. “But I have no alternative. She is adamant that Gisela killed him, and short of abandoning the case, for which I have no grounds, I have to follow her instructions.”

Harvester shook his head. “I’m sorry.” It was commiseration, not apology. He would not stay his hand, nor would Rathbone had their roles been reversed, as he profoundly wished they were.

When they returned in the afternoon, Rathbone called Klaus von Seidlitz, who was obliged to substantiate what Stephan had said. He was reluctant to concede it at first, but he could not deny that he was for unification. When Rathbone pressed him, he argued the case against war and its destruction, and his large, crooked face filled with growing passion as he described the ruin created by marching armies, the death, the waste of the land, the confusion and loss to the border regions, the maimed and bereaved. There was something dignified in his shambling figure as he told of his lands and his love for the little villages, the fields and the lanes.

Rathbone did not interrupt him. Nor, when Klaus had finished, did he make any implication that he might have murdered Friedrich to prevent him from returning home and plunging their country into just such a war.

If there was anything good in this, it was that there would be no question that there were abundant reasons for Friedrich’s murder, or the mischance which had killed Friedrich rather than Gisela. There were passions and issues involved which anyone could understand, perhaps even identify with.

But it was far from enough to help Zorah yet. He must make it last as long as he could, and hope that in probing he
unearthed something specific, something which pointed unarguably to someone else.

He glanced to where she sat beside him, pale-faced but at least outwardly composed. He would be the only one who saw her hands clenched in her lap. He had never been aware of knowing so little of the true mind of a client. Of course, he had been duped before. He had been convinced of innocence, only to find the ugliest, most callous guilt.

Was it so with Zorah Rostova?

He looked at her now, at her turbulent face, so easily ugly or beautiful as the light or the mood caught it. He found her fascinating. He did not want her to be guilty, or even deluded. Perhaps that was part of her skill? She had made herself matter to him. He had not the faintest idea what was passing through her mind.

He asked to recall Florent Barberini to the witness stand. The judge made no demur, and his single look in Harvester’s direction silenced any objection. The jury was sitting bolt upright, waiting for every word.

“Mr. Barberini,” Rathbone began, walking slowly out onto the floor. “I formed the opinion from your previous testimony that you are aware of the political situation both in the German states and in Venice. Since you were on the stand before, many further facts have come to light which make the politics of the situation relevant to the death of Prince Friedrich and to our attempt to discover exactly who brought that about, either intentionally or in a tragic and criminal accident—when, in fact, they had meant to murder Princess Gisela instead …”

There was a gasp around the room. Someone in the gallery stifled a scream.

Gisela winced, and Harvester put out his hand as if to steady her, then, at the last moment, changed his mind. She was not an approachable woman. She sat as if an invisible cordon of isolation were wrapped around her. She seemed only peripherally aware of the drama playing itself out in the thronged room. She
wore her grief more visibly than simply clothes of black, mourning jewelry or a black-veiled hat. She had retreated to some unreachable place within herself. Rathbone knew the jury was acutely sensitive to it. In a way, it was a louder proclamation of her injury than anyone else’s words could have been. Harvester had an ideal client.

Zorah was at the opposite pole. She was full of turbulent color and energy, completely alien, challenging far too many of the assumptions upon which society rested its beliefs.

Rathbone returned to Florent as the murmuring died down.

“Mr. Barberini, the crux of this case hangs on the question of whether there was indeed a plan to ask Prince Friedrich to return to his country to lead a party to fight to retain its independence from any proposed unification into a greater Germany. Was there such a plan?”

Florent did not hesitate or demur.

“Yes.”

There were a hundred gasps in the gallery. Even the judge tensed and moved forward a little, staring at Florent. Zorah let out a long sigh.

Rathbone felt the relief flood through him like a blast of warmth after an icy journey. He did not mean to smile, but he could not help it. He found his hands shaking, and for a moment he could not move, his legs were weak.

“And …” He cleared his throat. “And who was involved in this concern?”

“Count Lansdorff principally,” Florent replied. “Assisted by the Baroness von Arlsbach and myself.”

“Whose idea was it?”