Cain His Brother

by Anne Perry

  The Countess seemed in no hurry. He was disappointed. She was going to be one of those women who kept a man waiting in order to feel some kind of mastery of the situation.

  He swung around towards the room and was startled to see her standing in the doorway, absolutely still, watching him. Rathbone had not said that she was beautiful, which was an extraordinary omission. Monk did not know why, but he had imagined someone plain. She had dark hair, tied very loosely. She was of roughly average height, and had no figure to speak of, but her face was extraordinary. She had long, slightly slanted eyes of golden green above wide cheekbones. It was not so much a thing of form or color which made her so arresting as the laughter and the intelligence in her—and the sheer vibrancy of her character. She made anyone else seem slow and apathetic. He did not even notice what she was wearing; it could have been anything, fashionable or not.

  She was looking at him with curiosity. She still did not move from the doorway.

  “So you are the man who is going to assist Sir Oliver.” She was on the brink of smiling, as if he interested and amused her. “You are not what I expected.”

  “Which, no doubt, I should take as a compliment,” he said dryly.

  This time she did laugh, a rich, slightly husky sound full of pleasure. She came in and walked easily over to the chair opposite where he stood.

  “You should,” she agreed. “Please sit down, Mr. Monk, unless standing makes you feel more comfortable?” She sank, in a single, graceful movement, onto the chair and sat, straight-backed, her feet sideways, staring at him. She managed her skirt as if it were only the slightest hindrance to her. “What do you wish to know from me?”

  He had considered this carefully on his way over. He did not wish for emotions, opinions, convictions as to other people’s motives or beliefs. There might be a time for that later, as indications of which way to look for something or how to interpret ambiguous information. From what Rathbone had told him, he had expected someone far less intelligent, but all the same he would proceed with his original plan.

  He sat down on the leather-covered sofa and relaxed as if he were utterly comfortable too.

  “Tell me what happened from the first incident or occasion you believe relevant. I want only what you saw or heard. Anything that you suppose or deduce can wait until later. If you say you know something, I shall expect you to be able to prove it.” He watched her carefully to see irritation and surprise in her face, and did not find it.

  She folded her hands, like a good schoolgirl, and began.

  “We all dined together. It was an excellent party. Gisela was in good spirits and regaled us with anecdotes of life in Venice, which is where they live most of the time. The exile court is there, in so much as it is anywhere at all. Klaus von Seidlitz kept turning the conversation to politics, but we all find that a bore and no one listened to him, least of all Gisela. She made one or two rather cutting remarks about him. I can’t remember now what she said, but we all thought it was funny, except Klaus himself, of course. No one likes being the butt of a joke, especially a truly amusing one.”

  Monk was watching her with interest. He was tempted to let his imagination wander and think what kind of woman she was when not pressed by circumstances of death, anger and a lawsuit which could ruin her. Why on earth had she chosen to speak out about her suspicions? Had she no idea what it would cost her? Was she such a fanatic patriot? Or had she once loved Friedrich herself? What consuming passion lay behind her words?

  She was talking about the following day now.

  “It was mid-morning.” She looked at him curiously, aware he was only half listening. “We were to have a picnic luncheon. The servants were bringing everything in the pony trap. Gisela and Evelyn were coming in a gig.”

  “Who is Evelyn?” he interrupted.

  “Klaus von Seidlitz’s wife,” Zorah replied. “She doesn’t ride either.”

  “Gisela doesn’t ride?”

  Amusement flickered over her face. “No. Did Sir Oliver not tell you that? There is no question of the accident’s being deliberate, you know. She would never do anything so bold or so extremely risky. Not many people die in riding falls. One is far more likely to break a leg, or even one’s back. The last thing she wanted was a cripple!”

  “It would stop him returning home to lead the resistance to unification,” he argued.

  “He wouldn’t have to lead them physically, riding on a white horse, you know,” she said with dismissive laughter. “He could have been a figurehead for them even in a Bath chair!”

  “And you believe he would have gone, even in those circumstances?”

  “Certainly he would have considered it,” she said without hesitation. “He never abandoned the faith that one day his country would welcome him back and that Gisela would have her rightful place beside him.”

  “But you told Rathbone that they would not accept her,” he pointed out. “You could not be mistaken about that?”

  “No.”

  “Then how could Friedrich still believe it?”

  She shrugged very slightly. “You would have to know Friedrich to understand how he grew up. He was born to be king. He spent his entire childhood and youth being groomed for it, and the Queen is a rigid taskmistress. He obeyed every rule, and the crown was his burden and his prize.”

  “But he gave it all up for Gisela.”

  “I don’t think until the very last moment he believed they would make him choose between them,” she said with faint surprise in her eyes. “Then, of course, it was too late. He could never understand the finality of it. He was convinced they would relent and call him back. He saw his banishment as a gesture, not something to last forever.”

  “And it seems he was right,” Monk pointed out. “They did want him back.”

  “But not at the price of bringing Gisela with him. He did not understand that—but she did. She was far more of a realist.”

  “The accident,” he prompted.

  “He was taken back to Wellborough Hall,” she resumed. “The doctor was called, naturally. I don’t know what he said, only what I was told.”

  “What were you told?” Monk asked.

  “That Friedrich had broken several ribs, his right leg in three places, his right collarbone, and that he was severely bruised internally.”

  “Prognosis?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “What did the doctor expect of his recovery?”

  “Slow, but he did not believe his life to be in danger, unless there were injuries that he had not yet determined.”

  “How old was Friedrich?”

  “Forty-two.”

  “And Gisela?”

  “Thirty-nine. Why?”

  “So he was not a young man, for such a heavy fall.”

  “He did not die of his injuries. He was poisoned.”

  “How do you know?”

  For the first time she hesitated.

  ANNE PERRY is the bestselling author of two acclaimed series set in Victorian England: the William Monk novels, including Execution Dock and Dark Assassin, and the Charlotte and Thomas Pitt novels, including Buckingham Palace Gardens and Long Spoon Lane. She is also the author of the World War I novels No Graves As Yet, Shoulder the Sky, Angels in the Gloom, At Some Disputed Barricade, and We Shall Not Sleep, as well as seven holiday novels, most recently A Christmas Promise. Anne Perry lives in Scotland. Visit her website at www.anneperry.net.