Weighed in the Balance

by Anne Perry

  He thought about it for a few moments, reaching for his glass of wine.

  “I doubt it,” he said at last. “Simply because she does not seem like a person who would follow someone else’s lead.”

  “What do you know about the other people who were at the house?”

  He poured her a little more wine. “Very little, as yet. Monk is presently learning what he can. Most of them have gathered together there again, I presume to defend themselves against the charge. It is hardly the sort of thing an ambitious hostess wishes said about her country house party.” A very brief flicker of sardonic amusement crossed his face and was gone almost instantly. “But that is no defense for the Countess Rostova.”

  She studied his features carefully, trying to read in them the complexity of his feelings. She saw the quick intelligence that had always been there, the wit, and a flash of the self-assurance which made him at once attractive and irritating. She also caught a glimmer that it was not only this case itself which caused him concern, but the flicker of doubt as to whether he had been entirely wise to take it in the first place.

  “Perhaps she knows it is murder but has accused the wrong person?” she said aloud, watching him with gentleness which surprised her. “She may not be guilty of either mischief or spite, simply of not having understood the complications of the situation. Or is it possible Gisela was the one who gave him the poison without realizing what it was? She may be technically guilty and morally innocent.” She had forgotten the almost finished pie on her plate. “And when it is proved, she will withdraw her charge and apologize. And then perhaps Gisela will be sufficiently glad that the truth is known and she will accept it without seeking recompense or punishment.”

  Rathbone was silent for some time.

  Hester started to eat again. She was actually hungry.

  “Of course it is possible,” he said after a while. “If you had met her you would not doubt either her perception or her integrity.”

  Hester would question that, but realized with a jolt of surprise, and amusement, that Rathbone had been profoundly impressed by the Countess, so much so that he suspended his usual caution. It made her extremely curious about Zorah Rostova, and perhaps just a little piqued. There was rather a lot of enthusiasm in his tone.

  It also showed a human vulnerability in Rathbone she had not seen before, a gap in his usual armor. It made her angry with him for being too naive, frightened that he should prove more fallible than she had imagined. She was surprised at herself, and at him, and aware every moment that passed of an increasing protectiveness.

  He did not seem to have realized the heat of the emotions which were aroused by such a great public romance, the dreams quite unconnected people invested in it. In some ways he had lived a curiously protected life, from comfortable home, excellent education, exclusive university, and then training in the best solicitor’s office before being called to the bar. He knew the law, few better, and he had certainly seen crimes of passion and even depravity. But had he really tasted any breadth of ordinary human life, with its frailty, complexity and seeming contradictions?

  She thought not, and the lack frightened her for him.

  “You will need to learn as much as you can about the politics of the situation,” she said earnestly.

  “Thank you!” There was a flicker of sarcasm in his eyes. “I had thought of that.”

  “What are the Countess’s political views?” she persisted. “Is she for unification or independence? What about her family connections? Where does her money come from? Is she in love with anybody?”

  She could see by his face that he had not thought of at least the last question. A moment of surprise lit in his eyes, and then he masked it.

  “I suppose there is no chance she will withdraw the allegation before the trial?” she said without hope. He must already have tried everything he knew to persuade her.

  “None,” he said ruefully. “She is determined to see justice done, whatever the cost to herself, and I have warned her it may be very high.”

  “Then you cannot do more,” she said with an attempt at a smile. “I have talked with Baron and Baroness Ollenheim about it when I have the opportunity. She sees it all very romantically. He is a little more practical about it, and I gathered the impression that he did not greatly like Gisela. Both of them seem convinced that she and Friedrich adored each other and he would never have considered going home without her, even if the country were swallowed up in unification.” She sipped her wine, looking at him over the top of the glass. “If you can prove murder, I think it will be someone else who is guilty.”

  “I am already aware of the ramifications.” He kept his voice steady, even trying to make it buoyant, and failing. “And that the Countess will be extremely unpopular for leveling such a charge. Breaking dreams never makes one liked, but sometimes it is necessary in pursuing any kind of justice.”

  It was a brave speech, and the fact that he made it showed the level of his anxiety. He seemed to wish to confide in her, and yet to take the discussion only to a certain point, as if perhaps he had not yet thought beyond that point himself.

  She also felt a trifle defensive against this woman who had disturbed Rathbone so uncharacteristically.

  “She seems a woman of great courage,” she remarked. “I hope we shall be able to find enough evidence to open up a proper investigation. After all, it is in a sense our responsibility, since it happened in England.”

  “Quite!” he agreed vehemently. “We cannot simply allow it to slip into a legend that is untrue without at least a struggle. Maybe Monk will uncover some facts which will be helpful—I mean simple things, like who had opportunity …”

  “How does she believe he was killed?” she inquired.

  “Poison.”

  “I see. Everybody thinks that is what women use. But that doesn’t mean to say it was a woman. And everyone may not want what they say they do regarding unification or independence.”

  “Of course not,” he conceded. “I shall see what Monk has learned and what new light it throws on the situation.” He tried to sound hopeful.

  She smiled at him. “Don’t worry yet. This is only the beginning. After all, no one even thought of murder until the Countess said so. Everyone was happy to accept that it was natural. This may waken all sorts of memories, if we work hard enough. And there will be friends of independence who will want to know the truth, whatever it was. Perhaps even the Queen? She may be of some assistance, even if only by lending her name and her support to learning what really happened.”

  He pulled a rueful face. “To prove that one of the royal family committed murder? I doubt it. It is a terrible stain, no matter how she may have disliked Gisela.”

  “Oh, Oliver!” She leaned a little farther across the table and, without thinking, touched his fingers with hers. “Kings have been murdered by their relations since time immemorial! In fact, long before that. I think time immemorial is quite recent in the history of kings and ambition, love, hate and murder. No one who has ever read the Bible is going to find it so difficult to believe.”

  “I suppose you are right.” He relaxed and picked up his wine again. “Thank you for your spirit, Hester.” He tipped the glass a fraction towards her.

  She lifted her own, and they touched rims with a faint chink, his eyes gentle over the top of his glass.

  She learned in a brief note from Rathbone when Monk returned from Berkshire, and the day after she went to see him in his rooms in Fitzroy Street. Their relationship had always been volatile, often critical, poised on the edge of quarrel, a curious mixture of anger and trust underneath. He infuriated her. She deplored many of his attitudes, and she knew his weaknesses. Yet she also was absolutely certain that there were dishonesties he would never commit, cruelties or acts of cowardice he would give his life rather than allow. There was a darkness in him, the voids in his memory, which frightened him more than they did her.

  There had been moments, one in particula
r, when she had thought he might love her. Now she did not know, and she refused to think of it. But the bonds of friendship were unbreakable, and strong beyond any nature of question. She was only just in time to catch him. He was already packing to travel again.

  “You can’t leave this case,” she said indignantly, standing in the middle of his reception room, which she had designed, over much objection from him, in order that his clients, and prospective clients, might feel more at ease to confide in him their problems. She had finally succeeded in persuading him that people who were not physically comfortable would be far less likely to remain and to find the words to tell him the difficult and perhaps painful details he would need to know about in order to help. Now he stood by the fire, his eyebrows raised, his expression slightly contemptuous.

  “Rathbone needs you!” she said, angry that he should need to be told. He should have understood it for himself. “He’s fighting against far greater odds than he realizes. Perhaps he should not have taken the case, but he has, and there is no purpose now in wishing otherwise.”

  “And I imagine, in your usual governess fashion, you told him so?” he inquired, responding to her criticism as usual.

  “Didn’t you?” she challenged back.

  “I told him it would be difficult …”

  “And you are leaving us to fight alone?” She was so incredulous she was almost fumbling her words. She had thought many ill things of Monk at one time or another, but she could still hardly believe he would go away during a crisis. It was not his nature, not what she knew him to be. He had fought desperately and brilliantly to help her when she had needed it, as she and Rathbone had fought for him. Could he forget so easily?

  He looked both angry and satisfied. There was a smile on his face very like a sneer.

  “And what do you believe I should investigate next?” he said sarcastically. “Please, make some suggestions …”

  “Well, you might find out a great deal more about the political situation,” she began. “Was there really a plan to have Friedrich go back home, or not? Did Gisela believe he would go without her, or did she know he would never leave her? Did he actually insist that accepting her also was the price of his return? Did he say so, and what was the answer? Did Gisela know it? Why does the Queen hate her so much? Did Friedrich know about it, whatever it is? Did the Queen’s brother Count Lansdorff know?” She drew in her breath, then went on. “Of all the people who were there that weekend, which of them have interests or relatives in other German states who might be affected by unification? Who had ambitions towards war or political power? Who has alliances anywhere else? What about the Countess herself? Who are her closest friends? There are dozens of things you could find out. Even if they only raised other questions, it would be a beginning.”

  “Bravo!” He clapped his hands. “And who should I speak to in order to learn all these things?”

  “I don’t know! Can’t you think of anything for yourself? Go and speak to the people of the court in exile!”

  His eyes opened even wider. “You mean the court in Venice?”

  “Why not?”

  “You think that is a good idea?”

  “Of course! If you had any loyalty to Rathbone, you wouldn’t need to ask me, you’d just go!”

  Her concern for Rathbone must have cut sharply through her voice. He saw it, and a curious softness filled his face, and then something which might have been surprise or hurt. It was all there, and then gone in an instant before she was sure.

  “I was just going!” he said tartly. “What do you imagine I am packing for? Or do you want me to go to Venice just as I stand? Don’t you think it would be a little more intelligent, if I am to mix with the exile court, for me to take a few changes of suitable clothes?”

  She should have known. Of course, she should have. She had misjudged him. Relief welled up inside her, filling her with warmth, untying all the knots of anger and calming her fear. She found herself smiling. She should never have doubted.

  “Yes, I’m so glad.” It was not quite an apology, but almost. “Yes, naturally you’ll need the appropriate clothes. Are you going by boat or train?”

  “Both,” he replied. He hesitated. “You don’t need to worry so much about Rathbone,” he said grudgingly. “He isn’t a fool. And I’ll find enough evidence either to make a decent case or else persuade the Countess Rostova to withdraw before it comes to court.”

  She realized with a tingle of amazement that Monk was annoyed because she was afraid for Rathbone. He was jealous, and it infuriated him. She wanted to laugh, but it would sound hysterical, and he would be quite capable of shaking her till she stopped. And she would not stop, because it was so unbelievably funny. He would misunderstand entirely, and then she would only laugh the more. They would end, closer than ever, touching, the fears and barriers forgotten for a moment. Or they would quarrel and say things which might not be meant but could not be taken back or forgotten.

  He stood motionless.

  She did not dare put it to the test. It mattered too much.

  “I doubt she’ll apologize or withdraw,” she said quietly, her voice breaking a little. “But at least you may be able to find out whether or not he was murdered. Was he?”

  “I don’t know,” he replied soberly. “It could have been poison. There are yew trees in the garden there, and anyone could pick the leaves without being noticed.”

  “How would they get them to Prince Friedrich?” she asked. “You can hardly walk into a sickroom and ask the patient to eat a few leaves. Anyway, most people know what yew leaves look like; they’re sort of needles, and everyone knows they’re poisonous. It’s the sort of thing your parents tell you not to eat when you’re a child. I can remember being frightened of yew trees in graveyards when I was very young.”

  “Obviously, someone made an infusion and added it to his food or drink,” he said dourly. “They could either have done that in his room or, far more likely, gone to the kitchen or distracted a servant carrying a tray upstairs. It would be easy enough. The only thing is, Gisela never left their suite of rooms. She is about the only person who didn’t go into the garden at all. All the servants will testify to that. Even at night, she remained with him all the time.”

  “Someone helped her?” she said, knowing even as she did so that Gisela would never trust anyone else with such a secret.

  Monk did not bother to answer.

  “If he was murdered at all, it wasn’t Gisela,” she said quietly. “What are you going to do? How can we help Rathbone?”

  “I don’t know.” He was unhappy and annoyed. “If we can prove it was murder, that may be all Zorah really wants. Perhaps she accused Gisela because the Princess is the one person who would have to fight to clear her name. Maybe that was the only way to force a trial and a public investigation.”

  “But what about Rathbone?” she insisted. “He is the one who has undertaken to defend her. How will finding someone else guilty help him?”

  “I don’t suppose it will,” he said testily, moving away from the mantelpiece. “But if that’s the truth, then that is all I can do. I assume you don’t want me to manufacture evidence to convict Gisela simply to assist Rathbone out of a predicament he’s dug himself into because he was fascinated by a German countess with outrageous opinions and listened to his heart, not his head? Or do you?”

  She should have been furious with him for his vitriolic remarks and for deliberately trying to make her jealous by mentioning Zorah in these terms, the more so because he had succeeded. But for once she could read him too easily, and his motive at least was flattering. She smiled. “Find as much of the truth as you can,” she said quite lightly. “I expect he will make something worth having of it, even if it is only the dignity of saving a reputation and making a decent apology for a misplaced belief. The truth may be hard to take, but lies are always worse, in the end. Perhaps silence would have been best, but it’s too late for that now.”

  “Silence?” he s
aid with a sharp laugh. “Between two women like that? And I can’t even speak to Gisela, because she is receiving nobody.” He took another step forward. “Tell Rathbone I’ll write to him from Venice … if there’s anything to say.”

  “Of course. I’ll see you when you return.” She was about to add something about doing all he could, then caught his eye and kept the silence he had referred to so scathingly. She would miss him, knowing he was not even in London, but she certainly did not say that.

  5

  AS MONK HAD TOLD HESTER, his journey was first to Dover, then across the Channel to Calais, then to Paris, and then the final, large and very gracious train which took him for a long journey south and east to Venice. Stephan von Emden had gone two days before and was to meet him when he arrived, so he was traveling alone.

  The trip was both fascinating and exhausting, particularly since, apart from one journey up to Scotland, he was unfamiliar with travel of any distance. If he had ever been out of Great Britain before, it was lost in that part of his memory which he could not retrieve. Snatches came back when some experience echoed something from the past and produced a fragment, sharp and unrelated, puzzling him more than it enlightened. Usually it was no more than an impression, a face seen for a moment, perhaps a powerful emotion connected with it, sometimes pleasant, more often one of anxiety or regret. Why was it that pain seemed to return more easily? Was that something about his life or his nature? Or do the darker things simply mark themselves on the mind in a different way?

  He spent much of the time, as the train rattled and swayed through the countryside, thinking of the case he was pursuing, perhaps fruitlessly. Hester’s attitude rankled with him. He had not appreciated that she was so fond of Rathbone. Perhaps he had never thought about it, but now he could see from the tension and the anxiety in her that she was concerned. She had seemed hardly able to think of anything else.

  Possibly, her anxiety was well founded. Rathbone had been uncharacteristically rash in taking Zorah Rostova’s case before looking into it more thoroughly. It would be extremely difficult to defend. The more Monk learned, the more apparent did that become. The very best they could hope for would be some limitation of the damage.