Weighed in the Balance (46 page)

Hester was not put out. In the same circumstances, from what she knew of them, she would have felt the same. She had stood in the dock, where Zorah might yet stand if Rathbone were unsuccessful, which looked frighteningly like an inevitability now.

She looked at Zorah’s highly individual face with its beautiful green eyes too widely spaced, its nose too long and too prominent, its sensitive mouth, delicate lipped. She judged her to be a woman capable of consuming passion, but far too intelligent to allow it to sweep away her perception or her understanding of other people, of law, or of events.

“I said I was a friend of Sir Oliver’s because I am,” Hester answered. “I have known him well for some time.” She met Zorah’s gaze squarely, defying her to question precisely what that might mean.

Zorah looked at her with growing amusement.

“And you are concerned that this case will cause him some professional embarrassment?” she deduced. “Have you come to beg me, for his sake, to recant and say that I was mistaken, Miss Latterly?”

“No, I have not,” Hester replied tartly. “If you would not do it before, I cannot see any reason why you would now. Anyway, it would hardly help things as they are. If Sir Oliver does not find who killed Friedrich, and prove it, you will be in the dock yourself, sooner or later. Probably sooner.”

She sat down without being invited. “And I can tell you, it is an extremely unpleasant place. You cannot imagine quite how unpleasant until you have been there. You may put a brave face on it, but inside you will be terrified. You are not stupid enough to fail to realize that losing there does not mean a financial loss or a little unpleasantness socially. It means the hangman’s rope.”

Zorah’s face tightened a little. “You don’t mince words, do you, Miss Latterly? Have you come on Sir Oliver’s behalf? What is it you want?” She still regarded her visitor with a faint contempt.

Hester did not know if that contempt was for her plainer, very conventional dress, so much more predictable and less dashing, less individual and certainly less flattering than Zorah’s own. Possibly it was a countess’s contempt for a woman of very moderate breeding who was obliged to earn her own living. If it was the contempt of a woman of courage and adventurous spirit for a woman who stayed at home and busied herself with suitable feminine occupations, she could match Zorah stride for stride any day.

“On the assumption that you are telling the truth, as far as you know it,” Hester responded, “I want you to exercise your intelligence, instead of merely your strength of will, and start trying to work out what happened at Wellborough Hall. Because if we do not succeed in that, it is not only Sir Oliver’s career which will suffer for having made a serious misjudgment in taking on a highly unpopular case, but it will be your life in jeopardy. And what I think may actually be more important to you, it will ruin the reputation and honor of that group of men and women in your country who are prepared to fight for Felzburg’s continued independence. Now, I need your attention. Countess Rostova?”

Slowly Zorah sat up, a look of surprise and dawning disbelief on her face.

“Do you often address people in this fashion, Miss Latterly?”

“I have not recently had occasion to,” Hester admitted. “But in the army I frequently exceeded my authority. Emergencies have that effect. One is forgiven for it afterwards, if one succeeds. If one fails, it is the least of one’s problems.”

“The army …” Zorah blinked.

“In the Crimea. But that is all quite irrelevant to this.” She brushed it away with a gesture of her hand. “If you would be good enough to turn your mind to Wellborough Hall?”

“I think I could like you, Miss Latterly,” Zorah said quite seriously. “You are eccentric. I had no idea Sir Oliver had such interesting friends. He quite goes up in my esteem. I confess, I had thought him rather dry.”

Hester found herself blushing, and was furious.

“Wellborough Hall,” she repeated, like a schoolmistress with a refractory pupil.

Obediently, and with a very tight smile, Zorah began to recount the events from the time of her own arrival. Her tongue was waspish, and at times extremely funny. Then, when she spoke of the accident, her voice changed and all lightness vanished. She looked somber, as if even at the time she had realized that it would lead towards Friedrich’s death.

Abruptly, she called the maid and requested luncheon, without referring to Hester or asking what she might like. She ordered thin toast, Beluga caviar, white wine, and a dish of fresh apples and a variety of cheeses. She glanced once at Hester to see her expression, then, finding satisfaction in it, dispatched the maid to carry out her duties.

She continued her tale.

Every so often Hester stopped her, asking to hear some point in greater detail, a room described, a person’s expression or tone of voice recollected more sharply.

When Hester left late in the afternoon her mind was in turmoil, her brain crowded with impressions and ideas, one in
particular which she needed to inquire into in minute detail, and for it she must see an old professional colleague, Dr. John Rainsford. But that would have to wait until tomorrow. It was too late now. It was nearly dark, and she needed to order her thoughts before she presented them to anyone else.

A lot depended upon the judgment she had formed of Zorah. If Zorah was right, then the whole case hung on that one tiny recollection of fact. Hester must verify it.

She returned to Rathbone’s rooms on Sunday evening. She had sent a note by a messenger asking that Monk be there also. She found them both awaiting her, tense, pale-faced and with nerves strained close to the breaking point.

“Well?” Monk demanded before she had even closed the door.

“Did she tell you something?” Rathbone said eagerly, then swallowed the next words with an effort, trying to deny his hope before she could destroy it for him.

“I believe so,” she said very carefully. “I think it may be the answer, but you will have to prove it.” And she told them what she believed.

“Good God!” Rathbone said shakily. He swallowed hard, staring at her. “How … hideous!”

Monk looked at Hester, then at Rathbone, then back to Hester again.

“Do you realize what he is going to have to do to prove that?” he said huskily. “It could ruin him! Even if he succeeds … they’ll never forgive him for it.”

“I know,” she said softly. “I didn’t create the truth, William. I merely believe I may have found it. What would you prefer? Allow it to go by default?”

They both turned to Rathbone.

He looked up at them from where he was sitting. He was very white, but he did not hesitate.

“No. If I serve anything at all, it must be the truth. Sometimes
mercy makes a claim, but this is most certainly not one of those times. I shall do all I can. Now tell me this again, carefully. I must know it all before tomorrow.”

She proceeded to repeat it detail by detail, with Monk occasionally interrupting to clarify or reaffirm a point, and Rathbone taking careful notes. They sat until the fire burned low and the wind outside was rising, gusting with blown leaves against the window, and the gas lamps made yellow pools in the room with its browns and golds and burnt sugar colors.

On Monday morning the court was filled and people were crowded fifteen and twenty deep outside, but this time they were silent. Both Zorah and Gisela came in under heavy escort, for their own protection and to avoid the likelihood that an eruption of emotion would turn into violence.

Inside also there was silence. The jurors looked as if they too had slept little and were dreading the necessity of making a decision for which they still could see no unarguable evidence. They were harrowed by emotions, some of them conflicting, shattering their beliefs of a lifetime, the assumptions about the world, and people, upon which their evaluations were based. They were profoundly unhappy and aware of a burden they could not now evade.

Rathbone was quite candidly afraid. He had spent the night awake as much as asleep. He had dozed fitfully, every hour up and pacing, or lain staring at the dark ceiling, trying to order and reorder in his mind the possibilities of what he would say, how he would counter the arguments which would arise, how to defend himself from the emotions he would inevitably awaken, and the anger.

The Lord Chancellor’s warning was as vivid in his mind as if he had heard it yesterday, and he needed no effort to imagine what his reaction would be to what Rathbone must do today. For the first time in twenty years he could see no professional future clearly ahead.

The court had already been called to order. The judge was looking at him, waiting.

“Sir Oliver?” His voice was clear and mild, but Rathbone had learned there was an inflexible will behind the benign face.

He must make his decision now, or the moment would be taken from him.

He rose to his feet, his heart pounding so violently he felt as if they must see his body shake. He had not been as nervous as this the very first time he stood up before a court. But he had been far more arrogant then, less aware of the possibilities of disaster. And he had had immeasurably less to lose.

He cleared his throat and tried to speak with a resonant, confident tone. His voice was one of his best instruments.

“My lord …” He was obliged to clear his throat again. Damnation! Harvester must know how frightened he was. He had not even begun, and already he had betrayed himself. “My lord, I call the Countess Zorah Rostova to the stand.”

There was a murmur of surprise and anticipation around the gallery, and Harvester looked taken aback but not alarmed. Perhaps he thought Rathbone foolish, or knew he was desperate, probably both.

Zorah rose and walked across the short space of floor to the steps with an oddly elegant stride. And it was a stride, as if she were in open country, not inside a public hall. She moved as if she were in a riding habit rather than a crinoline skirt. She seemed unfeminine compared with the fragility of Gisela, and yet there was nothing masculine about her. As on every day of the trial before, she wore rich autumnal tones, reds and russets which flattered her dark skin but were highly inappropriate to such a somber occasion. Rathbone had failed at the outset to persuade her to look and behave with decorum. There was no point in adopting such a pattern now. No one would believe it.

For an instant, clear as sunlight on ice, she looked at Gisela, and the two women’s eyes met in amazement and hatred; then she faced Rathbone again.

In a steady voice, she swore as to her name and said she would tell the truth and the whole truth.

Rathbone plunged in before he could lose his courage.

“Countess Rostova, we have heard several people’s testimony of the events at Wellborough Hall as they saw them or believed them to be. You have made the most serious charge against Princess Gisela that one person can make against another, that she deliberately murdered her husband while he lay helpless in her care. You have refused to withdraw that charge, even in the face of proceedings against you. Will you please tell the court what you know of the events during that time? Include everything you believe to be relevant to the death of Prince Friedrich, but do not waste your time or the court’s with that which is not.”

She inclined her head very slightly in acknowledgment and began in a low, clear voice of individuality and unusual beauty.

“Before the accident we spent our time in the ordinary pursuits of the best kind of country house party. We rose when we pleased. It was spring, and occasionally still quite cold, so often we did not come downstairs until the servants had the fires lit for some little while. Gisela always breakfasted in her room anyway, and Friedrich frequently remained upstairs and kept her company.”

There was a brief flicker of amusement on the faces of two of the jurors, and then it died immediately to be replaced by a swift flush of the color of embarrassment.

“Then the gentlemen would go out riding or walking,” Zorah continued. “Or if the weather were unpleasant, would go into the smoking room and talk, or the billiard room, the gun room or the library and talk. Rolf, Stephan and Florent spoke together quite often. The ladies would walk in the gardens if it was fine, or write letters, paint, play a little music, or sit and read or exchange stories and gossip.”

There was a murmur from the gallery, perhaps of envy.

“Sometimes luncheon would be a picnic. Cook would pack
a hamper and one of the footmen would take a dogcart with everything for us. We could join him whenever we fancied, beside a river, or a glade in the wood, or an open field by a copse of trees, wherever seemed most attractive.”

“It sounds charming …” Rathbone put in.

Harvester rose to his feet. “But irrelevant, my lord. Most of us are acquainted with how the wealthy spend their time when in the country. Countess Rostova is surely not suggesting this most pleasant way of life is responsible for the Prince’s death?”

“I shall not allow our time to be wasted too far, Mr. Harvester,” the judge replied. “But I am inclined to allow Countess Rostova to paint a sufficient picture for us to perceive the household more clearly than we do so far.” He turned to the witness stand. “Proceed, if you please. But be guided, ma’am. We require that this shall pertain to the Prince’s death before much longer.”

“It does, my lord,” she replied gravely. “If I may describe one day in detail, I believe it will become understandable. You see, it is not one domestic incident which was the cause, but a myriad of tiny ones over a period of years, until they became a burden beyond the will to bear.”

The judge looked puzzled.

The jurors were obviously utterly confused.

People in the gallery shifted in anticipation, whispering to one another, excitement mounting. This was what they had come for.

Harvester looked at Zorah, then at Rathbone, then at Gisela.

Gisela sat, pale as ice, without responding. For any change in her expression, she might not have heard them.

“Then proceed, Countess Rostova,” the judge ordered.

“It was before the accident, I cannot remember exactly how many days, but it is immaterial,” she resumed, looking at no one in particular. “It was wet and there was quite a sharp wind. I rose early. I don’t mind the rain. I walked in the garden. The
daffodils were magnificent. Have you smelled the wet earth after a shower?” This remark seemed directed towards the judge, but she did not wait for any reply. “Gisela rose late, as usual, and Friedrich came down with her. Indeed, he was so close behind her he accidentally trod on the hem of her skirt when she hesitated coming in through the door. She turned and said something to him. I cannot remember exactly what, but it was sharp and impatient. He apologized and looked discomfited. It was somewhat embarrassing because Brigitte von Arlsbach was in the room, and so was Lady Wellborough.”