by Anne Perry
Florent looked down, his brow furrowed. He must have expected the question, but obviously it made him unhappy.
“That apparently the Countess Rostova had quite openly made the charge of which I had heard,” he answered.
“Once?” Harvester pressed, moving a step or two to face the witness from a slightly different direction. “Several times? Did you hear her make it yourself, or only hear of it from others?”
“I heard her myself,” Florent admitted. He looked up, his eyes wide and dark. “But I did not meet anyone who believed it.”
“How do you know that, Mr. Barberini?” Harvester raised his eyebrows.
“They said so.”
“And you are sure that was the truth?” Harvester sounded incredulous but still polite, if only just. “They disclaimed in public, as is only civil, perhaps only to be expected. But are you as sure they still thought the same in private? Did not the vaguest of doubts enter their minds?”
“I know only what they said,” Florent replied.
Rathbone rose to his feet.
“Yes, yes,” the judge agreed before he spoke. “Mr. Harvester, your questions are rhetorical, and this is not the place for them. You contradict yourself, as you know perfectly well. Mr. Barberini has no possible way of knowing what people thought other than as they expressed it. He has said all those whom he knew spoke their disbelief. If you wish us to suppose they thought otherwise, then you will have to demonstrate that for us.”
“My lord, I am about to do so.” Harvester was not in the least disconcerted. Neither would Rathbone have been in his place. He had every card in the game, and he knew it.
Harvester turned with a smile to Florent.
“Mr. Barberini, do you have any knowledge of injury this accusation may have caused the Princess Gisela, apart from emotional distress?”
Florent hesitated.
“Mr. Barberini?” Harvester prompted.
Florent raised his head.
“When I returned to Venice I heard the rumors repeated there—” He stopped again.
“And were they equally disbelieved in Venice, Mr. Barberini?” Harvester said softly.
Again Florent hesitated.
The judge leaned forward. “You must answer, sir, to the best of your knowledge. Say only what you know. You are not required to guess—indeed, you must not speculate.”
“No,” Florent said very quietly, so the jurors were obliged to lean forward a little and every sound ceased in the gallery.
“I beg your pardon?” Harvester said clearly.
“No,” Florent repeated. “There were those in Venice who openly wondered if it could be true. But they were very few, perhaps two or three. In any society there are the credulous and the spiteful. The Princess Gisela has lived there for some years. Naturally, as a woman leading in society she has made enemies as well as friends. I doubt anyone truly believed it, but they took the opportunity to repeat it to her discredit.”
“It did her harm, Mr. Barberini?”
“It was unpleasant.”
“It did her harm?” Suddenly Harvester’s voice rose sharply. He was a lean figure, leaning a little backwards to stare up at the witness, but there was no mistaking the authority in him. “Do not be evasive, sir! Did she cease to be invited to certain houses?” He spread his hands. “Were people rude to her? Were they slighting or offensive? Was she insulted? Did she find it embarrassing in certain public places or among her social equals?”
Florent smiled. It took more than even the best barrister to shake his nerve. “You seem to have very slight understanding of the situation, sir,” he answered. “She went into deep mourning as soon as the service of remembrance was over. She remained in her palazzo, seldom receiving visitors or even being seen at the windows. She went out nowhere, accepted no invitations and was seen in no public places. I do not know whether fewer people sent her flowers or letters than would have otherwise. And if they did, one can only guess the reasons. It could have been any of a hundred things. I know what was said, nothing more. Whatever the rumor, there will always be someone to repeat it.” His expression did not change at all. “Ugo Casselli started a story of having seen a mermaid sitting on the steps of the Santa Maria Maggiore in the full moon,” he added. “Some idiot repeated that, too!”
There was a titter of laughter around the gallery which died away instantly as Harvester glared at them.
But Rathbone saw with a sudden, reasonless lift of his heart that the judge was smiling.
“You find the matter humorous?” Harvester said icily to Florent.
Florent knew what he meant, but he chose to misunderstand.
“Hilarious,” he said with wide eyes. “There were two hundred people out in the lagoon next full moon. Business was marvelous. I think it might have been a gondolier who started it.”
Harvester was too clever to allow his temper to mar his performance.
“Most entertaining.” He forced a dry smile. “But a harmless fiction. This fiction of the Countess Rostova’s was anything but harmless, don’t you agree, even if as absurd and as untrue?”
“If you want to be literal,” Florent argued, “it is not of equal absurdity, in my opinion. I do not believe in mermaids, even in Venice. Tragically, women do sometimes murder their husbands.”
Harvester’s face darkened, and he swung around as if to retaliate.
But the rumble of fury from the gallery robbed him of the necessity. A man called out “Shame!” Two or three half rose to their feet. One of them raised his fist.
Several jurors shook their heads, faces tight and hard, lips pursed.
Beside Rathbone, Zorah put up her hands to cover her face, and he saw her shoulders quiver with laughter.
Harvester relaxed. He had no need to fight, and he knew it. He turned to Rathbone.
“Your witness, Sir Oliver.”
Rathbone rose to his feet. He must say something. He had to begin, at least to show that he was in the battle. He had fought without weapons before, and with stakes as high. The judge would know he was playing for time, so would Harvester, but the jury would not. And Florent was almost a friendly witness. He was obviously disposed to make light of the offense. He had once glanced at Zorah with, if not a smile, a kind of softness.
But what could he ask? Zorah was wrong, and she was the only one who did not accept it.
“Mr. Barberini,” he began, sounding far more confident than he felt. He moved slowly onto the floor, anything to give him a moment’s time—although all the time in the world would not help. “Mr. Barberini, you say that, to your knowledge, no one believed this charge the Countess Rostova made?”
“So far as I know,” Florent said guardedly.
Harvester smiled, leaning back in his chair. He glanced at Gisela encouragingly, but she was staring ahead, seemingly unaware of him.
“What about the Countess herself?” Rathbone asked. “Have you any reason to suppose that she did not believe it to be the truth?”
Florent looked surprised. Obviously, it was not the question he had expected.
“None at all,” he answered. “I have no doubt that she believed it absolutely.”
“Why do you say that?” Rathbone was on very dangerous ground, but he had little to lose. It was always perilous to ask a question to which you did not know the answer. He had told enough juniors never to do it.
“Because I know Zorah—Countess Rostova,” Florent replied. “However absurd it is, she would not say it unless she firmly believed it herself.”
Harvester rose to his feet.
“My lord, belief of a truth of a slander is no defense. There are those who sincerely believe the world to be flat. The depth of their sincerity does not make it so, as I am sure my learned friend is aware.”
“I am also quite sure he is aware of it, Mr. Harvester,” the judge agreed, “although it does go to malice. If he should try to persuade the jury it is so, I shall inform them to the contrary, but he has not yet attempted such a t
hing. Proceed, Sir Oliver, if you have a point to make?”
There was another ripple of amusement in the gallery. Someone giggled.
“Only to establish that the Countess was speaking from conviction, as you have observed, my lord,” Rathbone replied. “And not from mischief or intent to cause damage for its own sake.” He could think of nothing to add to it. He inclined his head and retreated.
Harvester stood up again.
“Mr. Barberini, is this opinion of yours as to the Countess’s sincerity based upon knowledge? Do you know, for example, of some proof she may possess?” The question was sarcastic, but its tone was still just within the realm of politeness.
“If I knew of proof I should not be standing here with it,” Florent replied with a frown. “I should have taken it to the proper authorities immediately. I say only that I am sure she believed it. I don’t know why she did.”
Harvester turned and looked at Zorah, then back to Florent.
“Did you not ask her? Surely, as a friend, either of hers or the Princess’s, it would be the first thing you would do?”
Rathbone winced and went cold inside.
“Of course I asked her,” Florent said angrily. “She told me nothing.”
“Do you mean she told you she had nothing?” Harvester persisted. “Or that she said nothing in reply to you?”
“She said nothing in reply.”
“Thank you, Mr. Barberini. I have no more to ask you.”
The day finished with journalists scrambling to escape with their reports and seize the first hansoms available to race to Fleet Street. Outside, crowds filled the pavements, jostling and elbowing to see the chief protagonists. Cabs and carriages were brought to a halt in the street. Coachmen were shouting. Newsboys’ voices were lost in the general noise. No one wanted to hear news about the war in China, Mr. Gladstone’s financial proposals, or even Mr. Darwin’s blasphemous and heretical notions about the origins of man. There was a passionate human drama playing itself out a few yards away, love and hate, loyalty, sacrifice and an accusation of murder.
Gisela came out of the main entrance, escorted down the steps by Harvester on one side and a large footman on the other. Immediately, a cheer went up from the crowd. Several people threw flowers. Scarves fluttered in the brisk October air, and men waved their hats.
“God bless the Princess!” someone called out, and the cry was taken up by dozens, and then scores.
She stood still, a small, thin figure of immense dignity, her huge black skirt seeming almost to hold her up with its sweeping stiffness, as if it were solid. She waved back with a tiny gesture, then permitted herself to be assisted up to her carriage, plumed and creped in black and drawn by black horses, and moved slowly away.
Zorah’s departure was as different as could be. The crowds were still there, still pressing forward, eager for a glimpse of her, but their mood had changed to one of ugliness and abuse. Nothing was thrown, but Rathbone found himself clenching as if to dodge and instinctively placing himself between Zorah and the crowd.
He almost hustled her to the hansom, and climbed in after her rather than leave her alone, in case the crowd should bar the way and the cabby be unable to make a path into the clearway of the street.
But only one woman pushed forward, shouting unintelligibly, her voice shrill with hatred. The horse was startled and lunged forward, knocking her off balance. She shrieked.
“Get outta the way, yer stupid cow!” the cabby yelled, frightened and taken by surprise himself as the reins were all but yanked out of his grasp. “Sorry, ma’am,” he apologized to Zorah.
Inside the vehicle, Rathbone was jolted against the sides, and Zorah bumped into him and kept her balance only with difficulty.
A moment later they were moving smartly and the angry 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.
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 space. “Come in,” he went on warmly. He had already dined, and he assumed she would have also. “May I offer you a glass 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 bumped 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 assume,” he said a trifle tersely. “The more I think of it, the more likely does it seem that Gisela was the intended victim.”
&
nbsp; 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.”
