Weighed In The Balance Part 17

Rathbone clenched his fist on the desk, his knuckles s.h.i.+ning. "Twelve years ago his country was not facing forced unification with the rest of the German states. Surely he had that much honor in him-that much patriotism and sense of who he was. d.a.m.n it, Monk, he was born to be king!"

Monk heard the rising desperation in Rathbone's voice. He could see it in his eyes, in the spots of color in his cheeks. He had nothing whatever with which to help. Everything he knew made it worse.

"He was a man who gave up everything for the woman he loved," he said clearly and levelly. "And there is nothing...absolutely nothing...to indicate that he ever, for a moment, regretted that decision. If his people wanted him back, then they would have to take his wife with him. The decision was theirs, and apparently he had always believed they would make it in her favor."

Rathbone stared at him.

The silence in the room was so heavy the clock seemed to bang out the seconds. The m.u.f.fled clatter of the traffic beyond the windows came from another world.

"What?" Rathbone said at last. "What is it, Monk? What is it that you are not telling me?"

"That there seems to me every possibility that Friedrich was not the intended victim, but Gisela herself," he replied. He was about to go on, explaining why, but he saw the understanding of it already there in Rathbone's face.

"Who?" Rathbone said huskily.

"Perhaps Zorah herself. She is an ardent independent."

Rathbone paled.

"Or anyone else who was of the independent party," Monk went on. "The worst possibility-"

"Worst!" Rathbone's voice was high and sharp with sarcasm. "Worse than my own client?"

"Yes." Monk could not withhold the truth.

Rathbone glared at him with disbelief.

Monk struck the blow. "Count Lansdorff. The Queen's brother, acting on her behalf."

Rathbone tried to speak, but his voice failed him. His face was paper white.

"I'm sorry," Monk said inadequately. "But that is the truth. You can't fight without knowing it. Opposing Counsel will find it out, if he's any good at all. She'll tell him, if nothing else."

Rathbone continued to stare at him.

"Of course she will!" Monk banged the desk impatiently. "Queen Ulrike drove her out in the first place. If Ulrike had been for her, instead of against her, twelve years ago, Gisela might be crown princess now. She knows that. There can't be any love lost on either side. But this time Gisela held the winning hand. If they wanted Friedrich back, it would be on his terms...which would include his wife."

"Would it?" Rathbone was clinging to straws. "You think he would insist, even in these circ.u.mstances?"

"Wouldn't you?" Monk demanded. "Apart from his love for her, which n.o.body anywhere questions, what would the world think of him if he abandoned her now? It is an ugly picture of a man setting aside a wife of twelve years, when anyone with brains can see that he doesn't have to. He can't plead duty when he has the power..."

"Unless Gisela is dead," Rathbone finished for him. "Yes, all right...I see the logic of it. It is unarguable. The Queen had every reason to want Gisela dead, and none at all to want to kill Friedrich. Oh, G.o.d! And the Lord Chancellor told me to handle the defense with suitable discretion." He started to laugh, but there was a bitterness in it which was close to hysteria.

"Stop it!" Monk snapped, panic rising inside him too. He was failing again. Rathbone was not only without a defense, he was losing his self-control as well. "It is not your duty to protect the Felzburg royal family. You must defend Zorah Rostova the best way you can...now that you've said you will." His tone conveyed his opinion of that decision. "I a.s.sume you have done everything you can to persuade her to withdraw?"

Rathbone glared at him. "Quite. And failed."

"Well, we may at least be able to convince a jury that a reasonable person could believe it was murder," Monk said, watching Rathbone's face. "You will be able to put the doctor on the stand and question him pretty rigorously."

Rathbone shut his eyes. "An exhumation?" The words came out between stiff lips. "The Lord Chancellor will love that! Are you sure we have grounds for it? We will need something incontrovertible. The authorities will be very loath to do it. Abdicated or not, he was the Crown Prince of a foreign country."

"He is buried in England, though," Monk replied. "He died here. That makes him subject to British law. And he not only abdicated but was exiled. He was no longer a citizen of his own country." He leaned a little over the desk. "But it may not be necessary actually to exhume the body. Simply the knowledge that we could, and would, might be sufficient to provide some considerably more precise answers from the doctor and from the Wellboroughs and their servants."

Rathbone stood up and walked towards the window, his back to the room. He pushed his hands into his pockets, dragging them out of shape uncharacteristically. His body was rigid.

"I suppose proving that it was murder is about the only course left to me. At least that will show she was not merely mischievous, only grossly mistaken. If it is shown, beyond any doubt, that Gisela is innocent, perhaps she may still apologize. If she doesn't, there is nothing left I can do to help her. I will have taken on a madwoman as a client."

Monk intended to be tactful, and so refrained from comment, but his silence was just as eloquent.

Rathbone turned from the window, the sun at his back. He had regained some command of himself. His smile was rueful and self-mocking.

"Then perhaps you had better try Wellborough Hall again and see if you can find something in more detail than before. The only real victory left would be to discover who did kill him. It would not vindicate Zorah in law, but it might, to some extent, in public opinion, and that is what we are fighting almost as much. Please G.o.d it was not the Queen!"

Monk stood up. "Between now and next Monday?"

Rathbone nodded. "If you please."

Monk felt time closing in. He was being asked more than he could possibly do. It frightened him because he wanted to succeed. If he failed, Rathbone was going to lose a great deal, perhaps the glamour and the prizes of his profession. He would not recover his prestige after a loss not due to circ.u.mstance but to a misjudgment as grave as this. Zorah was not merely guilty of some crime, she was guilty of a social sin of monumental proportions. She would have offended the sensibilities and beliefs of both the aristocracy and the ordinary people who delighted in a love story and fairy tale come true, and who had believed it for twelve years. It tainted not only the royalty of Europe but their own royalty as well. It was one thing to criticize the establishment in the privacy of one's home or around the dinner tables of friends; it was something quite different to expose their faults in a courtroom for the world to behold. A man who caused that, and protected the woman who was at the root of it, could not easily be forgiven.

If it should turn out to be Ulrike, or someone acting in her interests, with her knowledge or not, it would be catastrophic. Rathbone would become a celebrity, remembered only for this one startling case. Everyone would know his name, but no respectable person would want to be a.s.sociated with him. His professional reputation would be worthless.

He had no right to place Monk in the position of having to rescue him from his own stupidity. And Monk resented appallingly that he could not do it. It was the same failure over again, and it hurt.

"Perhaps it might help to know what you have learned and achieved over the last two weeks, while I have been chasing over half of Europe to discover Gisela's complete innocence," he said cuttingly. "Apart from failing to persuade Countess Rostova to withdraw her accusation, that is."

Rathbone looked at him with amazement and then intense dislike. "I employ you, Monk," he said icily. "You do not employ me. If the time comes when you do, then you may require me to report my doings to you, but not until."

"In other words, you've done nothing of use!"

"If you don't think you can discover anything useful at Wellborough Hall," Rathbone retaliated, "then tell me. Otherwise, don't waste what little time there is arguing. Get on your way. If you need money, ask Simms."

Monk was profoundly stung, not so much by the slight to his abilities, he could have foreseen that, and perhaps he deserved it, but the reference to money was cruel. It placed him on a level with a tradesman, which was precisely what Rathbone had intended. It was a reminder of their social and financial difference. It was also a mark of how frightened Rathbone was.

"I won't discover anything," Monk said through clenched teeth. "There isn't any d.a.m.n thing to discover." And he swung on his heels and went out of the door, leaving it swinging on its hinges.

However, he was obliged to go to Simms and ask for more money, which galled his temper so much he almost did not do it, but necessity prevailed.

It was only when he was outside in the street that he cooled down sufficiently to remember just how frightened Rathbone was. That he would let himself lash out at Monk showed his vulnerability more than anything else he could have done or said.

Monk did not consciously decide to go to see Hester, it simply seemed the natural thing to do, given Rathbone's dilemma and Monk's own feelings of fury and helplessness. When things were at their worst, there was a gentleness in her he could trust absolutely. She would never fail.

He saw a hansom a dozen yards ahead of him along Vere Street as he was striding along the pavement. He increased his pace, calling out. The cab stopped, and he swung up into the seat, calling out the address on Hill Street where he knew Hester had been employed before he had left for Venice, a.s.suming she would still be there. He disliked acknowledging a feeling of urgency to see her, but it filled him till no other thought was possible, and there was a perverse pleasure in the cleanness of it, after the memory of Evelyn.

It was a long way from the area of Lincoln's Inn Fields to Berkeley Square and Hill Street, and he settled back in his seat for the ride. It had been exciting to be in Europe, to see different sights, smell the utterly different smells of a foreign city, hear the sounds of other languages around him, but there was a unique pleasure in being home again amongst what was familiar. He realized only then how tense he had been when he did not understand most of what was being said and he had to concentrate for the occasional word which made sense and to deduce from actions and expressions what was meant. He had been very dependent upon the goodwill of others. There was a great freedom in being back in the surroundings where he had knowledge-and the power that gave.

He had very little idea of what he wanted to say to Hester. It was a turmoil in his mind, a matter of emotion rather than thought. It would fall into order when he needed it to. He was not ready yet.

The cab reached Hill Street, and the driver pulled up the horse and waited for Monk to alight and pay him.

"Thank you," Monk said absently, handing over the coins and tuppence extra. He walked across the footpath and went up the steps. It crossed his mind that it might be inconvenient for Hester to receive callers, especially a man. It might even be embarra.s.sing if her employers misunderstood. But he did not even hesitate in his stride, much less change his mind. He pulled the bell hard and waited.

The door opened, and a footman faced him.

"Good afternoon, sir?"

"Good afternoon." Monk did not feel like exchanging pleasantries, but experience had taught him that it was frequently the fastest way to obtain what he wished. He produced a card and laid it on the salver. "Is Miss Hester Latterly still residing in this house? I have just returned from abroad and must leave again this evening for the country. There is a matter of urgency concerning a mutual friend about which I would like to inform her and perhaps ask her advice." He had not lied, but his words implied a medical emergency, and he was happy to leave the misunderstanding.

"Yes, sir, she is still with us," the footman replied. "If you care to come in, I will inquire if it is possible for you to see her."

Monk was shown to the library, a most agreeable place to wait. The room was comfortably furnished in a rather old-fas.h.i.+oned manner. The leather upholstery was worn where arms had rested on the chairs, and the pattern in the carpet was brighter around the edges, where no one had trodden. A fire burned briskly in the grate. There were hundreds of books from which he could have chosen to read, had he wished, but he was too impatient even to open one, let alone concentrate on the words inside. He paced back and forth, turning sharply every seven paces.

It was over ten minutes before the door opened and Hester came in. She was dressed in deep blue, which was unusually becoming to her. She looked nothing like as tired as the last time he had seen her. In fact, she looked very fresh; there was color in her complexion and a rich sheen on her hair. He was instantly annoyed. Did she not care that Rathbone was on the brink of disaster? Or was she too stupid to appreciate the magnitude of it?

"You look as if you are to have the day off," he said abruptly.

She surveyed his perfectly cut jacket and trousers, his immaculate cravat and extremely expensive boots.

"How nice to see you safely home," she said with a sweet smile. "How was Venice? And Felzburg? That was where you were, was it not?"

He ignored that. She knew perfectly well that it was.

"If your patient is recovered, what are you doing still here?" he asked. His tone of voice made it a challenge.

"He is better than he was," she replied very gravely, looking straight at him. "He is not recovered. It takes some time to accustom yourself to the fact that you will not walk again. There are times when it is very hard. If you cannot imagine the chronic difficulties of someone who is paralyzed from the waist downwards, I shall not violate what is left of his privacy by explaining them to you. Please stop indulging your temper and tell me what you learned that will help Oliver."

It was like a slap in the face, swift and hard, the reminder that she had been dealing with one of the most painful of realities while he was away, the end of a major part of the life and hope of a young man. And yet harder still, and more personal, was the hope in her face that he had been able to accomplish something to help Rathbone, her belief in him that he could, and his own now so familiar knowledge that he had not.

"Gisela did not kill Friedrich," he said quietly. "It was not possible physically, and she had even less reason when it happened than ever before. I can't help Rathbone." As he said it his fury was raw in his voice. He loathed Rathbone for being vulnerable, for being so stupid as to put himself in this position, and for hoping that Monk could get him out of it. He was angry with Hester for expecting the impossible of him, and also for caring so much about Rathbone. He could see it in her face, the endless ability to be hurt.

She looked stunned. It was several seconds before she found words to say anything.

"Was it really just-just his accident?" She shook her head a little, as if to brush away an annoyance, but her face was creased with anxiety and her eyes were frightened. "Isn't there anything which can help Oliver? Some sort of excuse for the Countess? If she believed it...there must have been a reason. I mean-" She stopped.

"Of course she had a reason," he said impatiently. "But not necessarily anything she would benefit from announcing in court. It looks more and more like an old jealousy she was never able to forget or forgive, and she had taken this moment of vulnerability to try to settle an old score. That is a reason, but it is an ugly and very stupid one."

Temper flashed in her face. "Are you saying he died by accident, and that is all you have learned? It took you two weeks, in two countries, to discover that? And I a.s.sume you used Zorah's money to pay your way?"

"Of course I used Zorah's money," he retorted. "I went in her cause. I can only discover what is there, Hester, just as you can. Do you cure every patient?" His voice was rising with his own hurt. "Do you give back your wages if they die? Perhaps you'd better give them back to these people, since you say their son will never walk again."

"This is stupid," she said, turning away from him in exasperation. "If you cannot think of anything more sensible to say, you had better go!" She swung to face him again. "No!" She took a deep breath and lowered her voice again. "No, please don't. What we think of each other is immaterial. We can quarrel later. Now we must think of Oliver. If this comes to trial and he has nothing with which to defend her, or at least offer an explanation and excuse, he is going to face a crisis in his reputation and career. I don't know if you have seen any of the newspapers lately, I don't suppose you have, but they are very strongly in support of Gisela and already painting Zorah as a wicked woman who is bent not only on injuring an innocent and bereaved woman but also on attacking the good qualities in society in general."

She moved forwards, closer to him, her wide skirt catching on the chairs. "Several of them have already suggested a very lurid life, that she has taken foreign lovers and practiced all sort of things which are better left to the imagination."

He should have thought of that, but somehow he had not. He had seen it only in political terms. Of course, there would be ugly speculation about Zorah and her life and her motives. s.e.xual jealousy was the first thing that would leap to many people's minds.

It was on his tongue to tell Hester that there was nothing anyone could do to prevent that, but he saw the hurt and the hope in her face. It caught at him as if it had been his own, taking him by surprise. It had nothing to do with her life, and yet she was absorbed in it. Her whole mind was bent towards fighting the injustice-or, in Rathbone's case, even if it should prove just, of trying to prevent the wound and do something to ease the harm.

"There is quite a strong possibility he was murdered," he said grudgingly. "Not by Gisela, poor woman, but by one of the political factions." He could not resist adding, "Perhaps the Queen's brother."

She winced but refused to be crushed. "Can we prove he was murdered?" she said quickly. She used the plural as if she were as much involved as he. "It might help. After all, it would show that she was mistaken as to the person who did it but that she was not imagining there really was a crime. And only her accusation has brought it to light." Her voice was getting faster and rising in tone. "If she had stayed silent, then their prince could have been murdered and no one would have known. That would have been a terrible injustice."

He looked at her eagerness, and it cut him.

"And do you think they would really prefer to have the world know that one of the royal family, possibly at the instigation of the Queen herself, murdered the Prince?" he said bitterly. "If you think anyone is going to thank her for that, you are a great deal stupider even than I thought you!"

This time she was crushed, but not utterly.

"Some of her own people may not thank her," she said in a small voice. "But some of them will. And the jury will be English. We still think it very wrong to murder anyone, especially an injured and helpless man. And we admire courage. We will not like what she has said, but we will know that it has cost her dearly to say it, and we will respect that." She looked straight at him, daring him to contradict her.

"I hope so," he agreed with a lurch of emotion inside him as he realized yet again how intensely she cared. She had never even met Zorah. She probably knew nothing of her, except this one event of her life. It was Rathbone who filled her thoughts and whose future frightened her. He felt a sudden void of loneliness. He had not appreciated that she was so fond of Rathbone. Rathbone had always seemed a trifle aloof towards her, even patronizing at times. And Monk knew how she hated being patronized. He had had a taste of her temper when he had done it himself.

"They are bound to." She sounded positive, as though she were trying to convince herself. "You will be able to prove it, won't you?" she went on anxiously, a furrow between her brows. "It was poison-"

"Yes, of course it was. It would hardly be mistaken for a natural death if he'd been shot or hit over the head," he said sarcastically.

She ignored him. "How?"

"In his food or medicine, I presume. I'm going back to Wellborough Hall tonight to see if I can find out."

"Not how was he poisoned," she corrected impatiently. "Naturally, it was disguised in something he ate. I mean how are you going to prove it? Are you going to have the body dug up and examined? How will you get that done? They'll try to prevent you. Most people feel very strongly about that sort of thing."

He had very little idea how he was going to do it. He was as confused and as worried as she was, except that he did not feel as personally involved with Rathbone as she seemed to. He would be sorry, of course, if Rathbone fell from grace and his career foundered. He would do all he could to prevent it. They had been friends and battled together to win other cases, sometimes against enormous odds. They had cared about the same things and trusted each other without the necessity for words or reasons.

"I know," he said gently. "I hope to persuade them to tell me the truth and avoid that. I think the political implications may be powerful enough to accomplish it. Suspicion can do a great deal of damage. People will do a lot to avoid it."

She met his eyes steadily, her anger vanished. "Can I help?"

"I can't think of any way, but if I do, I shall tell you," he promised. "I don't suppose you have learned anything of relevance about Friedrich or Gisela? No, of course not, or you would have said so." He smiled bleakly. "Try not to worry so much. Rathbone is a better courtroom lawyer than you seem to be giving him credit for." It was an idiotic thing to say, and he winced inwardly as he heard himself, but he wanted to comfort her, even if comfort was meaningless and temporary. He hated to see her so frightened-for her own sake, apart from anything he might feel towards Rathbone, which was a confusion of anxiety, friends.h.i.+p, anger and envy. Rathbone had all Hester's attention; her entire mind was taken up with her care for him. She had barely noticed Monk, except as he might be of help.

"He may be able to elicit all sorts of information on the witness stand," he went on. "And we certainly have enough to compel all the people who were at Wellborough Hall that week to testify."

"Have we?" She seemed genuinely cheered. "Yes, of course you are right. He has made such a disastrous judgment in taking the case that I forget how brilliant he is in the courtroom." She let out her breath in a sigh and then smiled at him. "Thank you, William."

In a few words she had betrayed her awareness of Rathbone's vulnerability and her willingness to defend him, her admiration for him, and how much she cared. And she had thanked Monk so earnestly it twisted like a knife inside him as, startlingly, he perceived in her a beauty far brighter and stronger than the charm of Evelyn which had faded so easily.

"I must go," he said stiffly, feeling as if his protective mask had been stripped from him and she had seen him as nakedly as he had seen himself. "I have a train to catch this evening if I am to be in Wellborough in time to find lodgings. Good night." And almost before she had time to answer, he turned on his heel and marched to the door, flinging it open and walking out.

In the morning, after a poor night spent at the village inn during which he tossed and turned in an unfamiliar bed, he hired a local coachman to take him out to Wellborough Hall and alighted with his case. He had no intention of lying about himself or his purpose this time, whatever Lord Wellborough should say.

"You are what?" his lords.h.i.+p demanded, his face icy, when Monk stood in the morning room in the center of the carpet. Wellborough straightened up from where he had been leaning against the mantel, taking the largest share of the fire.

"An agent of inquiry," Monk repeated with almost equal chill.

"I had no idea such a thing existed." Wellborough's broad nose flared as if he had swallowed something distasteful. "If one of my guests has committed an indiscretion, I do not wish to know. If it was in my house, I consider it my duty as host to deal with the matter without the like of a...whatever it is you call yourself. The footman will show you out, sir."

"The only indiscretion I am interested in is murder!" Monk did not move even his eyes, let alone his feet.

"I cannot help you," Wellborough replied. "I know of no one who has been murdered. There is no one dead to my knowledge. As I have said, sir, the footman will show you to the door. Please do not return. You came here under false pretenses. You abused my hospitality and imposed upon my other guests, which is inexcusable. Good day, Mr. Monk. I presume that is your real name? Not that it matters."