Weighed in the Balance

by Anne Perry

  Monk looked at her with intense dislike.

  Rathbone turned sharply, an idea bursting in his mind.

  “Perhaps that is not so lunatic as it sounds,” he said with urgency. “Perhaps it did all go wrong. Perhaps that is why Zorah is making a charge she knows she cannot prove. To force an examination of the whole affair so the truth can come out, and perhaps she is now prepared to sacrifice herself for it, if she believes it is for her country.” He was talking more and more rapidly. “Maybe she sees a fight for independence as a battle that cannot be won but can only lead to war, destruction, terrible loss of life, and in the end assimilation not as an ally but as a beaten rebel, to be subjugated, and her own customs and culture wiped out.” The idea seemed cleaner and more rational with every moment. “Isn’t she the sort of idealist who might do exactly that?” He stared at Monk, demanding the answer from him.

  “Why?” Monk said slowly. “Friedrich is dead. He can’t go back now, whatever happens. If she, or one of the unification party, murdered him to prevent him going back, she has accomplished her aim. Why this? Why not simply accept victory?”

  “Because someone else could take up the torch,” Rathbone replied. “There must be someone else, not as good, maybe, but adequate. This could discredit the party for as long as matters. By the time a new party can be forged and the disgrace overcome, unification could be a fait accompli.”

  Hester looked from one to the other of them. “But was he going back?”

  Rathbone looked at Monk. “Was he?”

  “I don’t know.” He faced the two of them, standing unconsciously close together—and, incidentally, entirely blocking the fire. “But if you are even remotely close to the truth, then if you do your job with competence, let alone skill, it will emerge. Someone, perhaps Zorah herself, will make certain it does.”

  But Rathbone was far from comforted when he entered court the next day. If Zorah were harboring some secret knowledge which would bring about her purposes, whatever they were, there was no sign of it in her pale, set face.

  Zorah had taken her seat, but Rathbone was still standing a few yards from the table when Harvester approached him. When he was not actually in front of a jury his face was more benign. In fact, had Rathbone not known better, he would have judged it quite mild, the leanness of bone simply a trick of nature.

  “Morning, Sir Oliver,” he said quietly. “Still in for the fight?” It was not a challenge, rather more a commiseration.

  “Good morning,” Rathbone replied. He forced himself to smile. “Isn’t over yet.”

  “Yes, it is.” Harvester shook his head, smiling back. “I’ll stand you the best dinner in London afterwards. What the devil possessed you to take such a case?” He walked away to his own seat, and a moment later Gisela came in wearing a different but equally exquisite black dress with tiered skirts and tight bodice, fur trim at the throat and wrists. Not once did she glance towards Zorah. She might not have known who she was for any sign of recognition in her totally impassive face.

  The shadow of a smile flickered across Zorah’s mouth and disappeared.

  The judge brought the court to order.

  Harvester rose and called his first witness, the Baroness Evelyn von Seidlitz. She took the stand gracefully in a swish of decorous pewter-gray skirts trimmed with black. She managed to look as if she were decently serious, not quite in mourning, and yet utterly feminine. It was a great skill to offend no one and yet be anything but colorless or self-effacing. Rathbone thought she was quite lovely, and was very soon aware that every juror in the box thought so too. He could see it written plainly in their faces as they watched her, listening to and believing every word.

  She told how she too had heard the accusation repeated as far away as both Venice and Felzburg.

  Harvester did not press the issue of reaction in Venice, except that it was at times given a certain credence. Not everyone dismissed it as nonsense. He proceeded quite quickly to reactions in Felzburg.

  “Of course it was repeated,” Evelyn said, looking at him with wide, lovely eyes. “A piece of gossip like that is not going to be buried.”

  “Naturally,” Harvester agreed wryly. “When it was repeated, Baroness, with what emotion was it said? Did anyone, for example, consider for an instant that it could be true?” He caught Rathbone’s movement out of the corner of his eye and smiled thinly. “Perhaps I had better phrase that a little differently. Did you hear anyone express a belief that the accusation was true, or see anyone behave in such a manner as to make it apparent that they did?”

  Evelyn looked very grave. “I heard a number of people greet it with relish and then repeat it to others in a less speculative way, as if it were not slander but a fact. Stories grow in the telling, especially if the people concerned are enemies. And the Princess’s enemies have certainly received great pleasure from all this.”

  “You are speaking of people in Felzburg, Baroness?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “But the Princess has not lived in Felzburg for over twelve years and is hardly likely ever to do so again,” Harvester pointed out.

  “People have long memories, sir. There are those who have never forgiven her for taking Prince Friedrich’s love—and, in their eyes, for having induced him to leave his country and his duty. She is like all people who have risen to great heights; there are those who are jealous and would be only too delighted to see her fall.”

  Harvester glanced at Zorah, hesitated as if he were considering asking something further, then changed his mind. His meaning was abundantly clear, and yet Rathbone could not object. Nothing had been said.

  Harvester looked up at the stand. “So this appalling charge has a possibility of causing great harm to the Princess through the agency of the envious and the bitter, who have long disliked her for their own reasons,” he concluded. “This has put a weapon into their hands, so to speak, now of all times, when the Princess is alone and at her most vulnerable?”

  “Yes.” Evelyn nodded. “Yes, it has.”

  “Thank you, Baroness. If you would remain where you are. Sir Oliver may have a question or two to ask you.”

  Rathbone rose, simply not to allow the whole issue to go by default. His mind was racing over the thoughts that had come to him the previous evening. But how could he raise them with a witness with whom Harvester had been so circumspect? All he had was the right to cross-examine, not to open new and entirely speculative political territory.

  “Baroness von Seidlitz,” he began thoughtfully, looking up at her grave and charming face. “These enemies of the Princess Gisela that you speak of, are they people with power?”

  She looked surprised, uncertain how to answer.

  He smiled at her. “At least in England, and I believe in most places,” he explained, “we are inclined to be very romantic about people involved in a great love story.” He must be extremely careful. Anything the jury saw as an attack on Gisela would instantly prejudice them against him. “We may wish we were in their place. We may even envy them their worldly good fortune, but only those who have actually been personally in love with the other party bear them real ill will. Is that not so in your country as well? And certainly I could believe it true in Venice, where the Princess has lived most of the time since her marriage.”

  “Well … yes,” she conceded, her brow furrowed. “Of course we love a lover …” She laughed a little uncertainly. “All the world does, doesn’t it? We are no exception. But there is still resentment among a few that Prince Friedrich should have abdicated. That is different.”

  “In Venice, Baroness?” he said with surprise. “Do the Venetians really care?”

  “No … of course they …”

  Harvester rose to his feet. “My lord, is there really some point to my learned friend’s questions? I fail to see it.”

  The judge looked regretfully at Rathbone.

  “Sir Oliver, you are presently eliciting information already within our knowledge. Please proceed
to something new, if you have it.”

  “Yes, my lord.” Rathbone plunged on. As before, he had so little to lose. The risk was worth it. “The enemies you referred to who might in some way harm the Princess Gisela, you said they were in Felzburg, is that right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Because in Venice they do not care. Venice is, if you will pardon me, full of royalty no longer possessing thrones or crowns for one reason or another. Socially, a princess is still a princess. You said yourself that people of any worth did not believe it there. And anyway, the Princess is in retirement, and one invitation or another will make no difference to her. Her friends, which is all she will care about, are totally loyal to her.”

  “Yes …” Evelyn was still at a loss for his meaning. It was clear in her face.

  “Would I be correct in supposing that these enemies, who are able to harm her, are not merely the odd disappointed past women admirers of Prince Friedrich, still holding a bitter envy, but people of some power and substance, able to command the respect of others?”

  Evelyn stared at him wordlessly.

  “Are you sure you wish this question answered, Sir Oliver?” the judge said anxiously.

  Even Harvester looked puzzled. Rathbone would seem to be hurting Zorah rather than helping her.

  “Yes, if you please, my lord,” Rathbone assured him.

  “Baroness …” the judge prompted.

  “Well …” She could not contradict herself. She looked at Harvester, then away again. She regarded Rathbone with open dislike. “Yes, some of them are people of power.”

  “Perhaps political enemies?” Rathbone pressed. “People to whom the fate of their country is of the utmost importance? People who care desperately whether Felzburg remains independent or is absorbed into a unified and greater Germany, losing her individual identity and, of course, her individual monarchy?”

  “I … I don’t know …”

  “Really!” Harvester protested, rising again to his feet. “Is my learned friend now suggesting some kind of political assassination? This whole argument is nonsense! By whom? These imaginary political enemies of Princess Gisela? It is the Princess herself that his client has accused.” He waved his arm derisively at Zorah. “He is making confusion worse confounded.”

  “Sir Oliver?” the judge said with a slight frown. “Precisely what is it you are seeking to draw from this witness?”

  “The possibility, my lord, that there are grave political issues at stake in the charges and countercharges which are flying,” he answered. “And that it is the fate of a country which has fueled the emotions we see here today, and not simply a long-standing jealousy of two women who dislike each other.”

  “That is a question the witness cannot possibly answer, my lord,” Harvester said. “She is not privy to the thoughts and motives of Countess Rostova. Indeed, I don’t think anyone is. With respect, perhaps not even Sir Oliver.”

  “My lord,” Rathbone said quietly. “Baroness von Seidlitz is an intelligent woman of political astuteness who spends her time largely in Venice and Felzburg. Her husband has considerable interests in many parts of Germany and is aware of the aspirations of nationalism, the prospects for unification or independence. He is familiar with many of the powerful men of the country. The Baroness’s political opinions are informed and not to be dismissed lightly. I asked her if she believed a political motive possible, not if she knew the Countess Rostova’s mind.”

  “You may answer the question, Baroness,” the judge directed. “In your opinion, is a political motive possible in this tragic affair? In other words, are there political issues which may be affected by the Prince’s death or by what happens in this court?”

  Evelyn looked most uncomfortable, but without forswearing what she had already said, and appearing a fool, she could not deny it.

  “Of course there are political issues,” she admitted. “Friedrich had abdicated, but he was still a prince of the royal house, and there were old loyalties.”

  Rathbone dared not press it further.

  “Thank you.” He smiled as if her admission meant something, and returned to his seat. He was aware of Harvester’s amusement, and of Zorah’s eyes on him with curiosity. The gallery was fidgeting, wanting more drama, more personal passion.

  In the afternoon they were satisfied at last. Harvester called Gisela herself. The room was in such a state of expectancy the holding of breath was audible. No one spoke. No one intentionally moved as she rose, crossed the floor and mounted the steps to the stand. A bench creaked as a single person shifted weight. A corset bone snapped. Someone’s reticule slipped out of her hands and slithered to the floor with a clunk of coins.

  One of the jurors sneezed.

  Zorah looked at Rathbone, then away again. She did not speak.

  Gisela faced them, and for the first time Rathbone was able to look at her without appearing to stare. In the box behind the rail, she looked even smaller, her shoulders more delicate, her head even a trifle large with its broad forehead and strong brows. No one could deny it was a face of remarkable character, and perhaps an illusion of beauty more meaningful than mere coloring or symmetry of features. She faced Harvester directly, unwaveringly, waiting for him to begin once she had sworn in a low, very pleasing voice as to her name. Her accent also was very slight, her use of English easy.

  Harvester had obviously made the appropriate inquiries beforehand and knew better than to use her royal form of address. She had never been crown princess; such title as she had was courtesy.

  “Madam,” he began, his tone respectful of her widowhood, her legendary love, if not her status. “We have heard testimony in this court that the Countess Zorah Rostova has on several occasions made a most vile and appalling accusation against you, and that she has done it repeatedly, in private and in public places. She herself has never denied it. We have heard from friends of yours that they were aware that very naturally it caused you great grief and distress.”

  He glanced briefly towards the gallery. “We have heard Baroness von Seidlitz say that it has provided fuel for enemies you may have in your native country who still bear you envy and ill will because of your marriage to the Prince. Would you please tell the court how your husband died? I do not desire to harrow your emotions by raising what can only be devastating memories for you. The briefest description will serve.”

  She gripped the railing with black-gloved hands as if to steady herself and stood silent for several seconds before summoning the strength to reply.

  Rathbone groaned inwardly. It was worse than he had anticipated. The woman was perfect. She had dignity. Tragedy was on her side, and she knew not to play it too much. Perhaps it was Harvester’s advice, perhaps her own natural good taste.

  “He fell from his horse while out riding,” she said quietly, but her voice was distinct, falling into the silence with all the burden of loss. Every word was perfectly audible throughout the room. “He was very seriously injured. His foot was caught in the stirrup iron, and he was dragged.” She took a deep breath and let it out softly. She lifted her strong, rather square chin. “At first we thought he was getting better. It is very difficult for even the best doctor to tell how serious an internal injury may be. Then suddenly he relapsed … and within hours he was dead.”

  She stood absolutely immobile, her face a mask of hopelessness. She did not weep. She looked as if she were already exhausted by grief and had nothing left inside her but endless, gray pain, and ahead only an untold number of years of loneliness which no one could reach.

  Harvester allowed the court to sense her tragedy, her utter bereavement, before he continued.

  “And the doctor said the cause of death was his internal injuries?” he said very gently.

  “Yes.”

  “After the funeral you returned to Venice, to the home you had shared with him?”

  “Yes.”

  “How did you hear of the Countess Rostova’s extraordinary charge?”

  S
he lifted her chin a little. Rathbone stared at her. It was a remarkable face; there was a unique serenity in it. She had been devastated by tragedy, and yet the longer he looked, the less did he see vulnerability in the line of her lips or the way she held herself. There was something in her which seemed almost untouchable.

  “First, Lady Wellborough wrote and told me,” she answered Harvester. “Then other people also wrote. To begin with I assumed it was merely an aberration, perhaps spoken when … I do not wish to be uncharitable … but I have been left no choice … when she had taken too much wine.”

  “What motive can you imagine Countess Rostova having to say such a thing?” Harvester asked with wide eyes.

  “I should prefer not to answer that,” Gisela said with icy dignity. “Her reputation is well-known to many. I am not interested in it.”

  Harvester did not pursue the point further. “And how did you feel when you heard of this, ma’am?”

  She closed her eyes. “I had not thought after the loss of my beloved husband that life could offer me any blow which I should even feel,” she said very softly. “Zorah Rostova taught me my mistake. The pain of it was almost beyond bearing. My love for my husband was the core of my life. That anyone should blaspheme it in such a way is … beyond my ability to express.”

  She hesitated a moment. Throughout the room there was utter silence. Not one person looked away from her face, nor did they seem to consider the word blaspheme out of place. “I shall prefer to not, and indeed I cannot, speak of it if I am to retain my composure, sir,” she said at last. “I will testify in this court, as I must, but I will not display my grief or my pain to be a spectacle for my enemies, or even for those who wish me well. It is indecent to ask it of me … of any woman. Permit me to mask my distress, sir.”