Weighed In The Balance Part 22

A moment later they were moving smartly and the angry shouts shouts were behind them. Zorah regained her composure swiftly. She looked straight ahead without rearranging her skirts, as though to do so would be to acknowledge a difficulty and she would not do that. were behind them. Zorah regained her composure swiftly. She looked straight ahead without rearranging her skirts, as though to do so would be to acknowledge a difficulty and she would not do that.

Rathbone thought of a dozen things to say, and changed his mind about all of them. He looked sideways at Zorah's face. At first he was not sure if he could see fear in it or not. A dreadful thought occurred to him that perhaps she sought this. The rush of blood, the excitement, the danger might be intoxicants to her. She was the center of attention, albeit hatred, rage, a will to violence. There were some people, a very few, to whom any sort of fame is better than none. To be ignored is a type of death, and it terrifies, it is an engulfing darkness, an annihilation. Anything is better, even loathing.

Was she mad?

If she was, then it was his responsibility to make decisions for her, in her best interest, rather than to allow her to destroy herself, as one would govern a child too young to be answerable. One had a duty to the insane, a legal obligation apart from a humanitarian one. He had been treating her as someone capable of rational judgment, a person able to foresee the results of her actions. Perhaps she was not. Perhaps she was under a compulsion and he had been quite wrong to do so, remiss in his duty both as a lawyer and as a man.

He studied her face. Was that calm he saw in her an inability to understand what had happened and foresee it would get worse?

He opened his mouth to speak, and then did not know what he was going to say.

He looked down at her hands. They were clenched on her skirt, the leather gloves pulled shiny across the knuckles, both hands shaking. He looked up at her face again and knew that the eyes staring straight ahead, the set of the jaw, were not born of indifference or unawareness but were the manifestations of fear even deeper than his own-and a very good knowledge that what was to come would be both ugly and painful.

He sat back and looked ahead, even more confused than before and more confounded as to what he should do.

He had been at home for over two hours when his servant announced that Miss Hester Latterly had called to see him. For a second he was delighted, then his spirits sank again as he realized how little he could tell her that was good, or even clear enough in his mind to be put into words.

"Ask her to come in," he said rather sharply. It was a cold night. She should not be kept waiting.

"Hester!" he said eagerly when she entered. She looked lovelier than he had remembered. There was color in her cheeks and a gentleness in her eyes, a depth of concern which smoothed out the tension in him and even made the fears recede for a s.p.a.ce. "Come in," he went on warmly. He had already dined, and he a.s.sumed she would have also. "May I offer you a gla.s.s of wine, perhaps Port?"

"Not yet, thank you," she declined. "How are you? How is Countess Rostova? I saw how ugly it was when you were leaving the court."

"You were there? I didn't see you." He moved aside so that she might warm herself by the fire. It was only after he had done so that he realized what an extraordinary action it was for him. He would never consciously have yielded a place by the fire to a woman, least of all his own fire. It was a mark of the turmoil in his mind.

"Hardly surprising," she said with a rueful smile. "We were crammed in like matches in a box. Who can you call to help? Has Monk found anything even remotely useful? What on earth is he doing?"

As if in answer to her question, the manservant returned to announce that Monk also had arrived, only instead of waiting in the hall or the morning room, he was following hard on the man's heels so that the servant all but b.u.mped into Monk when he turned.

Monk's overcoat was wet across the shoulders, and he handed a wet hat to the manservant before he withdrew.

Hester retained her place closest to the fire, moving her skirts slightly aside so some of the warmth could reach him. But she did not bother with pleasantries.

"What have you learned in Wellborough?" she said immediately.

Monk's face pinched with irritation. "Only substantiation of what we already a.s.sume," he said a trifle tersely. "The more I think of it, the more likely does it seem that Gisela was the intended victim."

Hester stared at him, consternation mixing with anger in her face.

"Can you prove it?" she challenged.

"Of course I can't prove it! If I could, I wouldn't have said 'I think,' I would simply have stated that it was so." He moved closer to the fire.

"Well, you must have a reason," she argued. "What is it? Why do you think it was Gisela? Who did it?"

"Either Rolf, the Queen's brother, or possibly Brigitte," he replied. "They both had excellent reason. She was the one thing standing between Friedrich and his return home to lead the independence party. He wouldn't have gone without her, and the Queen would not have had her back."

"Why not?" she said immediately. "If she was so determined to fight for independence, why not have Gisela back? She might dislike her, but that's absurd. Queens don't murder people just out of dislike-not these days. And you'll never get a jury to believe that. It's preposterous."

"An heir," Monk replied tersely. "If he put Gisela aside...or she was dead, he could marry again, preferably to a woman from a rich and popular family who would unite the country, give him children, and strengthen the royal house rather than weaken it. I don't know-maybe she has designs on the throne of all Germany. She has the gall-"

"Oh..." Hester fell silent, the magnitude of it suddenly striking her. She turned to Rathbone, her face furrowed with anxiety. Unconsciously, she moved a little closer to him, as if to support or protect. Then she lifted her chin and stared at Monk. "How has Zorah got caught up in it? Did she stumble on the plot?"

"Don't be fatuous," Monk said crossly. "She's a patriot, all for independence. She was probably part of it."

"Oh, I'm sure!" Now Hester was sarcastic. "That's why when it all went wrong and Friedrich died instead, she started to draw everyone's attention to the fact that it was murder, not natural death, as everyone had been quite happy to believe until then. She wants to commit suicide but hasn't the nerve to pull the trigger herself. Or has she changed sides, and now she wants the whole thing exposed?" Her eyebrows rose. Her voice was growing harsher with every word, carrying her own pain. "Or better still-she's a double agent. She's changed sides. Now she wants to ruin the independence party by committing a murder in their name and then being hanged for it."

Monk looked at her with intense dislike.

Rathbone turned sharply, an idea bursting in his mind.

"Perhaps that is not so lunatic as it sounds," he said with urgency. "Perhaps it did all go wrong. Perhaps that is why Zorah is making a charge she knows she cannot prove. To force an examination of the whole affair so the truth can come out, and perhaps she is now prepared to sacrifice herself for it, if she believes it is for her country." He was talking more and more rapidly. "Maybe she sees a fight for independence as a battle that cannot be won but can only lead to war, destruction, terrible loss of life, and in the end a.s.similation not as an ally but as a beaten rebel, to be subjugated, and her own customs and culture wiped out." The idea seemed cleaner and more rational with every moment. "Isn't she the sort of idealist who might do exactly that?" He stared at Monk, demanding the answer from him.

"Why?" Monk said slowly. "Friedrich is dead. He can't go back now, whatever happens. If she, or one of the unification party, murdered him to prevent him going back, she has accomplished her aim. Why this? Why not simply accept victory?"

"Because someone else could take up the torch," Rathbone replied. "There must be someone else, not as good, maybe, but adequate. This could discredit the party for as long as matters. By the time a new party can be forged and the disgrace overcome, unification could be a fait accompli."

Hester looked from one to the other of them. "But was he going back?"

Rathbone looked at Monk. "Was he?"

"I don't know." He faced the two of them, standing unconsciously close together-and, incidentally, entirely blocking the fire. "But if you are even remotely close to the truth, then if you do your job with competence, let alone skill, it will emerge. Someone, perhaps Zorah herself, will make certain it does."

But Rathbone was far from comforted when he entered court the next day. If Zorah were harboring some secret knowledge which would bring about her purposes, whatever they were, there was no sign of it in her pale, set face.

Zorah had taken her seat, but Rathbone was still standing a few yards from the table when Harvester approached him. When he was not actually in front of a jury his face was more benign. In fact, had Rathbone not known better, he would have judged it quite mild, the leanness of bone simply a trick of nature.

"Morning, Sir Oliver," he said quietly. "Still in for the fight?" It was not a challenge, rather more a commiseration.

"Good morning," Rathbone replied. He forced himself to smile. "Isn't over yet."

"Yes, it is." Harvester shook his head, smiling back. "I'll stand you the best dinner in London afterwards. What the devil possessed you to take such a case?" He walked away to his own seat, and a moment later Gisela came in wearing a different but equally exquisite black dress with tiered skirts and tight bodice, fur trim at the throat and wrists. Not once did she glance towards Zorah. She might not have known who she was for any sign of recognition in her totally impa.s.sive face.

The shadow of a smile flickered across Zorah's mouth and disappeared.

The judge brought the court to order.

Harvester rose and called his first witness, the Baroness Evelyn von Seidlitz. She took the stand gracefully in a swish of decorous pewter-gray skirts trimmed with black. She managed to look as if she were decently serious, not quite in mourning, and yet utterly feminine. It was a great skill to offend no one and yet be anything but colorless or self-effacing. Rathbone thought she was quite lovely, and was very soon aware that every juror in the box thought so too. He could see it written plainly in their faces as they watched her, listening to and believing every word.

She told how she too had heard the accusation repeated as far away as both Venice and Felzburg.

Harvester did not press the issue of reaction in Venice, except that it was at times given a certain credence. Not everyone dismissed it as nonsense. He proceeded quite quickly to reactions in Felzburg.

"Of course it was repeated," Evelyn said, looking at him with wide, lovely eyes. "A piece of gossip like that is not going to be buried."

"Naturally," Harvester agreed wryly. "When it was repeated, Baroness, with what emotion was it said? Did anyone, for example, consider for an instant that it could be true?" He caught Rathbone's movement out of the corner of his eye and smiled thinly. "Perhaps I had better phrase that a little differently. Did you hear anyone express a belief that the accusation was true, or see anyone behave in such a manner as to make it apparent that they did?"

Evelyn looked very grave. "I heard a number of people greet it with relish and then repeat it to others in a less speculative way, as if it were not slander but a fact. Stories grow in the telling, especially if the people concerned are enemies. And the Princess's enemies have certainly received great pleasure from all this."

"You are speaking of people in Felzburg, Baroness?"

"Yes, of course."

"But the Princess has not lived in Felzburg for over twelve years and is hardly likely ever to do so again," Harvester pointed out.

"People have long memories, sir. There are those who have never forgiven her for taking Prince Friedrich's love-and, in their eyes, for having induced him to leave his country and his duty. She is like all people who have risen to great heights; there are those who are jealous and would be only too delighted to see her fall."

Harvester glanced at Zorah, hesitated as if he were considering asking something further, then changed his mind. His meaning was abundantly clear, and yet Rathbone could not object. Nothing had been said.

Harvester looked up at the stand. "So this appalling charge has a possibility of causing great harm to the Princess through the agency of the envious and the bitter, who have long disliked her for their own reasons," he concluded. "This has put a weapon into their hands, so to speak, now of all times, when the Princess is alone and at her most vulnerable?"

"Yes." Evelyn nodded. "Yes, it has."

"Thank you, Baroness. If you would remain where you are. Sir Oliver may have a question or two to ask you."

Rathbone rose, simply not to allow the whole issue to go by default. His mind was racing over the thoughts that had come to him the previous evening. But how could he raise them with a witness with whom Harvester had been so circ.u.mspect? All he had was the right to cross-examine, not to open new and entirely speculative political territory.

"Baroness von Seidlitz," he began thoughtfully, looking up at her grave and charming face. "These enemies of the Princess Gisela that you speak of, are they people with power?"

She looked surprised, uncertain how to answer.

He smiled at her. "At least in England, and I believe in most places," he explained, "we are inclined to be very romantic about people involved in a great love story." He must be extremely careful. Anything the jury saw as an attack on Gisela would instantly prejudice them against him. "We may wish we were in their place. We may even envy them their worldly good fortune, but only those who have actually been personally in love with the other party bear them real ill will. Is that not so in your country as well? And certainly I could believe it true in Venice, where the Princess has lived most of the time since her marriage."

"Well...yes," she conceded, her brow furrowed. "Of course we love a lover..." She laughed a little uncertainly. "All the world does, doesn't it? We are no exception. But there is still resentment among a few that Prince Friedrich should have abdicated. That is different."

"In Venice, Baroness?" he said with surprise. "Do the Venetians really care?"

"No...of course they..."

Harvester rose to his feet. "My lord, is there really some point to my learned friend's questions? I fail to see it."

The judge looked regretfully at Rathbone.

"Sir Oliver, you are presently eliciting information already within our knowledge. Please proceed to something new, if you have it."

"Yes, my lord." Rathbone plunged on. As before, he had so little to lose. The risk was worth it. "The enemies you referred to who might in some way harm the Princess Gisela, you said they were in Felzburg, is that right?"

"Yes."

"Because in Venice they do not care. Venice is, if you will pardon me, full of royalty no longer possessing thrones or crowns for one reason or another. Socially, a princess is still a princess. You said yourself that people of any worth did not believe it there. And anyway, the Princess is in retirement, and one invitation or another will make no difference to her. Her friends, which is all she will care about, are totally loyal to her."

"Yes..." Evelyn was still at a loss for his meaning. It was clear in her face.

"Would I be correct in supposing that these enemies, who are able to harm her, are not merely the odd disappointed past women admirers of Prince Friedrich, still holding a bitter envy, but people of some power and substance, able to command the respect of others?"

Evelyn stared at him wordlessly.

"Are you sure you wish this question answered, Sir Oliver?" the judge said anxiously.

Even Harvester looked puzzled. Rathbone would seem to be hurting Zorah rather than helping her.

"Yes, if you please, my lord," Rathbone a.s.sured him.

"Baroness..." the judge prompted.

"Well..." She could not contradict herself. She looked at Harvester, then away again. She regarded Rathbone with open dislike. "Yes, some of them are people of power."

"Perhaps political enemies?" Rathbone pressed. "People to whom the fate of their country is of the utmost importance? People who care desperately whether Felzburg remains independent or is absorbed into a unified and greater Germany, losing her individual ident.i.ty and, of course, her individual monarchy?"

"I...I don't know..."

"Really!" Harvester protested, rising again to his feet. "Is my learned friend now suggesting some kind of political a.s.sa.s.sination? This whole argument is nonsense! By whom? These imaginary political enemies of Princess Gisela? It is the Princess herself that his client has accused." He waved his arm derisively at Zorah. "He is making confusion worse confounded."

"Sir Oliver?" the judge said with a slight frown. "Precisely what is it you are seeking to draw from this witness?"

"The possibility, my lord, that there are grave political issues at stake in the charges and countercharges which are flying," he answered. "And that it is the fate of a country which has fueled the emotions we see here today, and not simply a long-standing jealousy of two women who dislike each other."

"That is a question the witness cannot possibly answer, my lord," Harvester said. "She is not privy to the thoughts and motives of Countess Rostova. Indeed, I don't think anyone is. With respect, perhaps not even Sir Oliver."

"My lord," Rathbone said quietly. "Baroness von Seidlitz is an intelligent woman of political astuteness who spends her time largely in Venice and Felzburg. Her husband has considerable interests in many parts of Germany and is aware of the aspirations of nationalism, the prospects for unification or independence. He is familiar with many of the powerful men of the country. The Baroness's political opinions are informed and not to be dismissed lightly. I asked her if she believed a political motive possible, not if she knew the Countess Rostova's mind."

"You may answer the question, Baroness," the judge directed. "In your opinion, is a political motive possible in this tragic affair? In other words, are there political issues which may be affected by the Prince's death or by what happens in this court?"

Evelyn looked most uncomfortable, but without forswearing what she had already said, and appearing a fool, she could not deny it.

"Of course there are political issues," she admitted. "Friedrich had abdicated, but he was still a prince of the royal house, and there were old loyalties."

Rathbone dared not press it further.

"Thank you." He smiled as if her admission meant something, and returned to his seat. He was aware of Harvester's amus.e.m.e.nt, and of Zorah's eyes on him with curiosity. The gallery was fidgeting, wanting more drama, more personal pa.s.sion.

In the afternoon they were satisfied at last. Harvester called Gisela herself. The room was in such a state of expectancy the holding of breath was audible. No one spoke. No one intentionally moved as she rose, crossed the floor and mounted the steps to the stand. A bench creaked as a single person shifted weight. A corset bone snapped. Someone's reticule slipped out of her hands and slithered to the floor with a clunk of coins.

One of the jurors sneezed.

Zorah looked at Rathbone, then away again. She did not speak.

Gisela faced them, and for the first time Rathbone was able to look at her without appearing to stare. In the box behind the rail, she looked even smaller, her shoulders more delicate, her head even a trifle large with its broad forehead and strong brows. No one could deny it was a face of remarkable character, and perhaps an illusion of beauty more meaningful than mere coloring or symmetry of features. She faced Harvester directly, unwaveringly, waiting for him to begin once she had sworn in a low, very pleasing voice as to her name. Her accent also was very slight, her use of English easy.

Harvester had obviously made the appropriate inquiries beforehand and knew better than to use her royal form of address. She had never been crown princess; such t.i.tle as she had was courtesy.

"Madam," he began, his tone respectful of her widowhood, her legendary love, if not her status. "We have heard testimony in this court that the Countess Zorah Rostova has on several occasions made a most vile and appalling accusation against you, and that she has done it repeatedly, in private and in public places. She herself has never denied it. We have heard from friends of yours that they were aware that very naturally it caused you great grief and distress."

He glanced briefly towards the gallery. "We have heard Baroness von Seidlitz say that it has provided fuel for enemies you may have in your native country who still bear you envy and ill will because of your marriage to the Prince. Would you please tell the court how your husband died? I do not desire to harrow your emotions by raising what can only be devastating memories for you. The briefest description will serve."

She gripped the railing with black-gloved hands as if to steady herself and stood silent for several seconds before summoning the strength to reply.

Rathbone groaned inwardly. It was worse than he had antic.i.p.ated. The woman was perfect. She had dignity. Tragedy was on her side, and she knew not to play it too much. Perhaps it was Harvester's advice, perhaps her own natural good taste.