Weighed In The Balance Part 27

"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 ident.i.ty 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 ign.o.ble 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 pa.s.sion he had kept tightly in control until now. "But then you all live in England, where there is a const.i.tutional 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 a.s.semble 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 G.o.d 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 a.s.semble 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 p.r.i.c.kled 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!"

"G.o.d 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 pa.s.sion had spent itself, emotion had pa.s.sed.

"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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sion 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 pa.s.sions 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 pa.s.sing 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 a.s.sumptions 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 princ.i.p.ally," Florent replied. "a.s.sisted by the Baroness von Arlsbach and myself."

"Whose idea was it?"

This time Florent did hesitate.

"If that is politically compromising," Rathbone interjected, "or if honor forbids you to mention names, may I ask you if you believe the Queen would have approved your cause?"

Florent smiled. He was extraordinarily handsome. "She would have approved Friedrich's return to lead the party for independence," he replied. "Providing it met with her terms, which were absolute."

"Are you aware what they were?"

"Naturally. I would not be party to negotiating any arrangement which did not meet with her approval." His face relaxed into a kind of black humor. "Apart from any loyalty to her, no such plan could work."

Rathbone relaxed a little as well, giving a slight shrug. "I a.s.sume the Queen is a woman of great power?"

"Very great," Florent agreed. "Both political and personal."

"And what were her terms, Mr. Barberini?"

Florent answered intently, with no pause, no consciousness of the jury, the judge or the gallery listening.

"That he come alone," he said. "She would not tolerate the Princess Gisela's coming with him as his wife. She was to remain in exile and be put from him."

There was a gasp around the court and a sigh of exhaled breath.

Gisela lifted her head a little and closed her eyes, refusing to look at anyone.

Harvester's face was grim, but there was nothing for him to say. There was no legal objection.

Zorah remained expressionless.

Rathbone was again obliged to break all his own rules. He must ask a crucial question to which he did not know the answer, but there was no alternative open to him.

"And were these terms made known to him, Mr. Barberini?"

"They were."

Again there was a rustle from the crowd, and someone hissed disapproval.

"Are you certain of that?" Rathbone pressed. "Were you present?"

"Yes, I was."

"And what was Prince Friedrich's answer?"

The silence p.r.i.c.kled the air. A man in the very last seat in the gallery moved, and the squeak of his boots was audible from where Rathbone stood.

The bleakest of smiles flickered over Florent's face and disappeared.

"He did not answer."

Rathbone felt the sweat break out on his skin.

"Not at all?"

"He argued," Florent elaborated. "He asked a great many questions. But the accident happened before the discussions were concluded irrevocably."

"So he did not refuse outright?" Rathbone demanded, his voice rising in spite of his efforts to control it.

"No, he put forward his own counterproposals."

"Which were?"

"That he should come and bring Gisela with him." Unconsciously, Florent omitted the courtesy t.i.tle of Princess, betraying his thoughts of her. To him she would always be a commoner.

"And did Count Lansdorff accept that?" Rathbone asked.

"No." It was said without hesitation.

Rathbone raised his eyebrows. "It was not open to negotiation?"

"No, it was not."

"Do you know why? If the Queen, and the Count Lansdorff, feel as pa.s.sionately about the freedoms of which you spoke, and if those who would form any political fighting force do also, surely the acceptance of Princess Gisela as Friedrich's wife is a small price to pay for his return as leader? He could rally the forces as no one else could. He is the King's eldest son, the natural heir to the throne, the natural leader."

Harvester did rise this time.

"My lord, Mr. Barberini is not competent to answer such a question-unless he makes some claim to speak for the Queen, and can demonstrate such authority."

"Sir Oliver"-the judge leaned forward-"do you propose to call Count Lansdorff to the stand? You cannot have Mr. Barberini answer for him. Such an answer will be hearsay, as you know."

"Yes, my lord," Rathbone replied gravely. "With your lordship's permission, I shall call Count Lansdorff to the stand. His aide informed me he is reluctant to appear, which is understandable, but I think Mr. Barberini's evidence has given us no choice in the matter. Reputations, and perhaps lives, depend upon our knowing the truth."

Harvester looked unhappy, but to object would make it appear that he believed Gisela could not afford the truth, and that was tantamount to defeat, in public opinion if not in law. And by now the law was only a small part of the issue. It hardly mattered what could be proved to a jury; it was what people believed.

The court adjourned for the night in a bedlam of noise. Newspapermen scrambled over each other, even knocking aside ordinary pedestrians, to make their way outside and clamber into hansoms, shouting the names of their newspapers and demanding to be taken there immediately. No one any longer knew what to think. Who was innocent? Who was guilty?

Rathbone took Zorah by the arm and hurried her, half pushing her bodily, past the front row of public seats, towards the door and out into the corridor. Then he paced as rapidly as he could towards a private room and a discreet exit. Only afterwards was he surprised that she could keep up with him.

He expected her to be exultant, but when he turned to face her he saw only a calm, guarded courage. He was confused.

"Is this not what you thought?" he said, then instantly wished he had not, but it was too late not to go on. "That Friedrich was invited home on condition he left her behind, and she was so afraid he would take the offer, she killed him rather than be put aside? It does begin to look conceivable that someone in her sympathy may have done it for her. Or that she may have connived with someone, each for his own purpose."

Her eyes filled with black humor, part self-mockery, part anger, part derision.

"Gisela and Klaus?" she said contemptuously. "She to keep her status as one of the world's great lovers, he to avoid a war and his own financial loss? Never! If I saw it with my own eyes I still wouldn't believe it."

He was dumbfounded. She was impossible.

"Then you have nothing!" He was almost shouting. "Klaus alone? Because she didn't do it...that has been proved! Is that what you want...or are you trying to bring down the Queen for murder?"

She burst into laughter, rich, deep-throated and totally sincere.

He could happily have hit her, were such a thing even thinkable.

"No," she said, controlling herself with difficulty. "No, I do not want to bring down the Queen. Nor could I. She didn't have anything to do with it. If she wanted Gisela dead she would have done it years ago, and done it more efficiently than this! Not that I think she mourns Friedrich's death as she might have thirteen or fourteen years ago. I think in her mind he has been dead since he chose Gisela before his duty and his people."

"Count Lansdorff?" he asked.

"No. I like you, Sir Oliver." She seemed to say it simply because it occurred to her. "She killed him," she went on. "Gisela killed him."

"No, she didn't!" He was totally exasperated with her. "She is the only person who could not have. Haven't you listened to the evidence at all?"

"Yes," she a.s.sured him. "I just don't believe it."

And he could achieve nothing more with her. He gave up, and went home in a furious temper.