Weighed in the Balance (6 page)

“That may be hypocritical and unattractive,” he replied. “But it is not criminal. And even that is still only belief, your perception of her.”

She looked down at last. “I know that, Mr. Monk. I was there in the house all the time. I saw everyone who came and went. I heard them speak and saw their looks towards one another. I have been part of the court circle since my childhood. I know what happened, but I have not a shred of proof. Gisela murdered Friedrich because she was afraid he would hear the voice of duty at last and go home to lead the fight against unification into greater Germany. Waldo would not do it, and there is no one else. He might have thought he could take her, but she knew the Queen would never permit it, even now, on the brink of dissolution or war.”

“Why did she wait for days?” he asked. “Why not kill him immediately? It would have been safer and more readily accepted.”

“There was no need, if he was going to die anyway,” she responded. “And to begin with we all thought he would.”

“Why does the Queen hate her so much?” he probed. He could not imagine a passion so virulent it would overshadow even this crisis. He wondered whether it was the character of the Queen which nurtured it or something in Gisela which fired such a fierce emotion in Friedrich and the Queen—and seemingly in this extraordinary woman in front of him in her vivid, idiosyncratic room with its burnished shawl and unlit candles.

“I don’t know.” There was a slight lift of surprise in her
voice, and her eyes seemed to stare far away to some vision of the mind. “I have often wondered, but I have never heard.”

“Have you any idea of the poison you believe Gisela used?”

“No. He died quite suddenly. He became giddy and cold, then went into a coma, so Gisela said. The servants who were in and out said the same. And, of course, the doctor.”

“That could be dozens of things,” he said grimly. “It could perfectly well be bleeding to death from internal injuries.”

“Naturally!” Zorah replied with some asperity. “What would you expect? Something that looked like poison? Gisela is selfish, greedy, vain and cruel, but she is not a fool.” Her face was filled with deep anger and a terrible sense of loss, as if something precious had slipped away through her fingers, even as she watched it and strove desperately to cling on. Her features, which had seemed so beautiful to him when he first came in, were now too strong, her eyes too clever, her mouth pinched hard with pain.

He rose to his feet.

“Thank you for your frank answers, Countess Rostova. I will go back to Mr. Rathbone and consider the next steps to be taken.”

It was only after taking his leave, when he was outside in the sun, that he remembered he had omitted Rathbone’s new title.

“I can’t imagine why you took the case!” he said abruptly to Rathbone when he reported to
him
in his office an hour later. The clerks had all gone home, and the dying light was golden in the windows. Outside in the street the traffic was teeming, carriage wheels missing each other by inches, drivers impatient, horses hot and tired and the air sharp with droppings.

Rathbone was already on edge, aware of his own misjudgment.

“Is that your way of saying you feel it is beyond your ability to investigate?” he said coldly.

“If I had meant that, I would have said it,” Monk replied,
sitting down unasked. “When did you ever know me to be indirect?”

“You mean tactful?” Rathbone’s eyebrows shot up. “Never. I apologize. It was an unnecessary question. Will you investigate her claim?”

That was more bluntly put than Monk had expected. It caught him a little off guard.

“How? Unless, of course, you have formed some opinion that the original fall was contrived?”

Monk went on, “Even she is quite certain it was exactly what it seemed. She thinks Gisela poisoned him, although she doesn’t know how, or with what, and has only a very general idea why.”

Rathbone smiled, showing his teeth only slightly. “She has you rattled, Monk, or you would not be misquoting her so badly. She knows very precisely why. Because there was a strong possibility Friedrich might return home without her, divorcing her for his country’s sake. She would cease to be one of the world’s most glamorous lovers, titled, rich and envied, and would instead become an abandoned ex-wife, dependent, her erstwhile friends pitying her. It doesn’t take a great leap of the imagination to understand her emotions faced with those alternatives.”

“You think she killed him?” Monk was surprised, not that Rathbone should believe it, that was easy enough, but that he should be prepared to defend that belief in court. At the very kindest, it was foolish; at the unkindest, he had taken leave of his wits.

“I think it is highly probable that someone did,” Rathbone corrected coldly, leaning back in his chair, his face hard. “I would like you to go to Lord and Lady Wellborough’s country home, where you will be introduced by Baron Stephan von Emden, a friend of the Countess who will know who you are.” He pursed his lips. “You will be able to learn all that is now possible of the events after the accident. You will have to
make the opportunity to question the servants and observe the people who were there at the time, with the exception, of course, of the Princess Gisela. Apparently this accusation has brought them together again, not unnaturally, I suppose.

“I hope you will be able to deduce at least who had opportunity to have poisoned the Prince, and if anything whatever was observed that could be used in evidence. You will also question the doctor who attended the Prince and wrote the death certificate.”

From outside in the street the noise of the traffic drifted up through the half-open window. In the office beyond the door there was silence.

There were many reasons to accept the case: Rathbone needed help urgently, and it would give Monk considerable satisfaction to be in a position where for once Rathbone was in his debt. Monk had no other cases of any importance at the moment and would value the occupation and the income from it. But most of all, his curiosity was so sharp he could feel it as distinctly as an itching of the skin.

“Yes, of course I will,” he said with a smile, perhaps more wolfish than friendly.

“Good,” Rathbone accepted. “I am obliged. I shall give you Baron von Emden’s address and you can introduce yourself to him. Perhaps you could go to Wellborough Hall as his manservant?”

Monk was appalled. “What?”

“Perhaps you could go as his manservant,” Rathbone repeated, his eyes wide. “It would give you an excellent opening to speak with the other servants and learn what they …” He stopped, the ghost of a smile on his lips. “Or you could go as an acquaintance, if you would feel more at ease. I realize you may not be familiar with the duties of a valet …”

Monk rose to his feet, his face set. “I shall go as his acquaintance,” he said stiffly. “I shall let you know what I learn, if anything. No doubt you will be somewhat concerned to know.”
And with that he bade Rathbone good night and took the piece of paper on which Rathbone had written the Baron’s address from the desktop and went out.

Monk arrived at Wellborough Hall six days after Zorah Rostova walked into Rathbone’s offices and requested the lawyer’s help. It was now early September, golden autumn, with the stubble fields stretching into the distance, the chestnuts just beginning to turn amber and the occasional strip of newly plowed land showing rich and dark where the wet earth was ready for planting.

Wellborough Hall was a huge, spreading Georgian building of classical proportions. One approached it up a drive that was over a mile long and largely lined with elms. On either side parkland spread towards woods, and beyond that were more open fields and copses. It was easy to picture the owners of such a place entertaining royalty, riding happily amid such beauty, until tragedy had halted them, reminding them of their frailty.

Monk had called upon Stephan von Emden and found him happy to offer all the assistance he could to angle for an invitation for Monk to accompany him as his “friend” on his imminent trip to the Hall. Stephan said he was fascinated by the idea of investigation and found Monk an intriguing study, his manner of life utterly different from his own. He also explained that they were all gathering at Wellborough Hall again to make sure of their stories about Friedrich’s death in case there should be a trial.

Monk felt a trifle disconcerted to be watched so closely, and as their journey continued, he had realized that Stephan was neither as casual nor as uninformed as he had at first assumed. Monk had betrayed himself, at least in his own eyes, more than once by his own prejudgments that because Stephan was titled and wealthy, he was also narrow in his outlook and relatively useless in any practical sense. Now Monk was angry
with himself for allowing the restrictions of his upbringing to show. He was trying to pass himself off as a gentleman. Some part of his mind knew that gentlemen were not so brittle, so quick to assume, or so defensive of their dignity. They knew they did not need to be.

He was disgusted with himself because his prejudgments were unfair. He despised unfairness, the more so when it was also stupid.

They arrived at the magnificent entrance and stepped out of the carriage to be welcomed by a liveried footman. Monk was about to look for his very carefully packed cases when he remembered just in time that to bring them in was the valet’s job, and he should not even think of doing it himself. A gentleman would walk straight into the house in the total trust that servants would see that his belongings were taken to his room, unpacked and everything put in its appropriate place.

They were welcomed by Lady Wellborough, a far younger woman than Monk had expected. She looked no more than in her middle thirties, slender, fractionally above average height, with thick brown hair. She was comely enough to look at, but not beautiful. Her chief charms lay in her intelligence and vitality. The moment she saw them she sailed down the marvelous staircase with its wrought iron railing gleaming with the occasional gold. Her face was alight with enthusiasm.

“My dear Stephan!” Her gigantic skirts swirled around her, the hoops springing back as she stopped. Her gown had a separate bodice, as was now fashionable, large sleeved, tight waisted, showing off her slenderness. “How wonderful to see you,” she went on. “And this must be your friend Mr. Monk.” She looked at Monk with great interest, eyeing his smooth, high-boned cheeks, slightly aquiline nose and sardonic mouth. He had seen that look of surprise in women’s eyes before, as if they saw in him something they had not expected, but against their judgment could not dislike.

He inclined his head.

“How do you do, Lady Wellborough. It was most generous of you to permit me to join you this weekend. Already I am more than rewarded.”

She smiled widely. It was a most engaging expression and entirely unstudied.

“I hope you will find yourself much more so before you leave.” She turned to Stephan. “Thank you, you have done particularly well this time, my dear. Allsop will show you upstairs, although I’m sure you know the way.” She looked back at Monk. “Dinner is at nine. We shall all be in the withdrawing room by about eight, I should imagine. Count Lans-dorff and Baron von Seidlitz went out walking, towards the weekend shoot, I think. See the lie of the land. Do you shoot, Mr. Monk?”

Monk had no memory of ever having shot, and his social position made it almost impossible that he would have had the opportunity.

“No, Lady Wellborough. I prefer sports of a more equal match.”

“Oh, my goodness!” She laughed in high good humor. “Bare-knuckle boxing? Or horse racing? Or billiards?”

He had no idea if he had skill in any of these either. He had spoken too quickly, and now risked making a fool of himself.

“I shall attempt whatever is offered,” he replied, feeling the color burn up his cheeks. “Except where I am likely to endanger the other guests by my lack of proficiency.”

“How original!” she exclaimed. “I shall look forward to dinner.”

Monk already dreaded it.

It turned out to be every bit as testing to his nerves as he had expected. He looked well. He knew that from the glass. As far as he was aware, he had spent much of his professional life in the police force and he had always been personally vain. His
wardrobe and his tailor’s, bootmaker’s and shirtmaker’s bills attested to that. He must have spent a great deal of his salary on his appearance. He had no need to borrow in order to present himself at this house respectably attired.

But conducting himself at table was another matter. These people all knew each other and had an entire lifestyle in common, not to mention hundreds of acquaintances. They would know within ten minutes that he was an outsider in every sense. What conceivable excuse could he find, not only to preserve his pride, but to fulfill his purpose and save Rathbone’s extraordinarily stupid neck?

There were only nine of them at the dinner table, an extremely small number for a country house party, although it was early September, and therefore still the tail end of the London season, and too early for the great winter house parties where guests frequently stayed for a month or more, coming and going as they pleased.

Monk had been introduced to them all, quite casually, as if one might have expected him to be here and it needed no explanation. Opposite him at the table sat Friedrich’s uncle, Queen Ulrike’s brother, Count Rolf Lansdorff. He was a fairly tall man with military bearing, dark hair smoothed close to his head and receding a little at the front. His face was agreeable, but there was no mistaking the power in the thin, delicate lips or the broad nose. His diction was precise, his voice beautiful. He regarded Monk with only the very mildest interest.

Klaus von Seidlitz was utterly different. He was physically very large, several inches taller than the others, broad shouldered, rather shambling. His thick hair fell forward a little, and he had a habit of pushing it back with his hand. His eyes were blue and rather round, and his brows tilted down at the outer edges. His nose was crooked, as if it had been broken at some time. He seemed very amiable, making frequent jokes, but in repose there was a watchfulness in his face which belied his
outward ease. Monk wondered if he might be a great deal cleverer than he pretended.