Weighed in the Balance

by Anne Perry

  Other memories were less agreeable: his quarrels with Runcorn, his superior while he was on the police force. He had sudden moments of understanding that Runcorn’s resentment of him was in large part provoked by his own arrogance. He had been impatient with Runcorn’s slightly slower mind. He had mocked his boss’s social ambition, and had used his knowledge of the vulnerability which Runcorn had never been able to hide. Had their roles been reversed, Monk would have hated Runcorn just as much as Runcorn hated him. That was the painful part of it: he disliked so much of what he learned of himself. Of course, there had been good things as well. No one had ever denied he had courage and intelligence, or that he was honest. Sometimes he told the truth as he saw it when it would have been kinder, and certainly wiser, to have kept silence.

  He had learned a little of his other relationships, particularly with women. None of them had been very fortunate. He seemed to have fallen in love with women who were softly beautiful, whose loveliness and gentle manners complemented his own strength and, in the end, whose lack of courage and passion for life had left him feeling lonelier than before, and disillusioned. Perhaps he had expected the things he valued from the wrong people. The truth was, he knew their relationships only from the cold evidence of facts, of which there were few, and the emotions of memory stirred by the women concerned. Not many of them were kind, and none explained.

  With Hester Latterly it was different. He had met her after the accident. He knew every detail of their friendship, if that was the term for it. Sometimes it was almost enmity. He had loathed her to begin with. Even now she frequently angered him with her opinionated manner and her stubborn behavior. There was nothing romantic about her, nothing feminine or appealing. She made no concession to gentleness or to the art of pleasing.

  No, that was not entirely true. When there was real pain, fear, grief or guilt, then no one on earth was stronger than Hester, no one braver or more patient. Give the devil her due—there was no one as brave … or as willing to forgive. He valued those qualities more than he could measure. And they also infuriated him. He was so much more attracted to women who were fun, uncritical, charming; who knew when to speak, how to flatter and laugh, how to enjoy themselves; who knew how to be vulnerable in the little things it was so easy to supply, and yet not discard the great things, the sacrifices which cost too much, asked of the fabric of his nature and his dreams.

  He stood in his room, which Hester had arranged so as to be more inviting to prospective clients for his services, now that he had acrimoniously departed from the police force. Investigation, so far as he knew, was his only art. He read Rathbone’s letter, which was short and lacking in detail.

  Dear Monk,

  I have a new case in which I require some investigation which may be complicated and delicate. The case, when it comes to trial, will be hard fought and most difficult to prove. If you are willing and able to undertake it, please present yourself at my chambers at the soonest possible moment. I shall endeavour to make myself available.

  Yours,

  Oliver Rathbone

  It was unlike Rathbone to give so little information. He sounded anxious. If the urbane and so very slightly condescending Rathbone was worried, that in itself was sufficient to intrigue Monk. Their relationship was of grudging mutual respect tempered by spasms of antipathy born of an arrogance, an ambition, and an intelligence in common, and temperaments, social background, and professional training entirely different. It was added to by the very specific thing they shared, cases they had fought together and in which they had believed passionately, disasters and triumphs; and by a deep regard for Hester Latterly, denied by each of them as anything more than a sincere friendship.

  Monk smiled to himself and, collecting his jacket, went to the door to find a hansom cab from Fitzroy Street, where he lodged, to Vere Street and Rathbone’s offices.

  Monk, duly engaged by Rathbone, went to the Countess’s apartments off Piccadilly just before four o’clock in the afternoon. He thought it a likely time to find her at home. And if she were not there, then she would almost certainly return in time to change for dinner—if she still continued to go out for dinner after having publicly made such a startling accusation. She would hardly be on most people’s guest lists anymore.

  The door was opened by a maid he assumed to be French. She was small and dark and very pretty, and he remembered from somewhere that fashionable ladies who could afford it had French maids. Certainly this girl spoke with a decided accent.

  “Good afternoon, sir.”

  “Good afternoon.” Monk did not feel it necessary to try to win anyone’s liking. The Countess was the person in need of help, if she had not already placed herself beyond it. “My name is William Monk. Sir Oliver Rathbone”—he recalled the “sir” only just in time to include it—“asked me to call upon the Countess Rostova to see if I could be of assistance.”

  The maid smiled at him. She really was very pretty indeed.

  “But of course. Please come in.” She opened the door wider and held it while he passed her and walked into a spacious but unremarkable vestibule. There was a large urn of daisies of some sort on a jardiniere. He could smell the rich summery aroma of them. She closed the door, then led him straight into a farther room and invited him to wait while she summoned her mistress.

  He stood and stared around him. The room was utterly alien to his taste or experience, and yet he did not feel uncomfortable. He wondered what Rathbone had made of it. It obviously belonged to someone who did not give a fig for convention. He walked over to look more closely at the ebony-fronted bookcase. The books inside were in several languages: German, French, Russian and English. There were novels, poetry, accounts of travels, and some philosophy. He took out one or two and saw that they all opened quite easily, as if they had been well handled. They were not there for effect, but because someone liked to read them.

  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.

  He waited, looking at her steadily.

  After a while she gave a very slight shrug. “If I could prove it, I would have gone to the police. I know it because I know the people. I have known them for years. I have watched the whole pattern unfold. She is performing the desolated widow very well … too well. She is in the center of the stage, and she is loving it.”

  “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.