Weighed in the Balance

by Anne Perry

  It all confirmed Rathbone’s worst expectations. Servant after servant took the stand, very sober, very frightened, dressed in their Sunday best, transparently honest, twisting their hands in embarrassment.

  The Princess Gisela had at no time left the suite of rooms she occupied with the Prince, God rest his soul. No one had ever seen her on the other side of the green baize door. She had certainly never been into the kitchens. Cook swore to that, so did the kitchen maid, both scullery maids, the pastry cook, the bootboy and three of the footmen, the butler and the housekeeper, two parlormaids, four housemaids and two tweenies. One lady’s maid spoke on behalf of three upstairs maids, a valet and three laundresses.

  The Princess Gisela had been seen outside her rooms by no one at all, and there was almost always someone about.

  On the other hand, there were unquestionably yew trees in the gardens, several of them.

  “And could any person who walked in the gardens have access to these yew trees?” Harvester asked the housekeeper, a comfortable, good-tempered woman with graying fair hair.

  “Yes sir. The yew walk is a most agreeable place, and a natural way to it if one wishes a little time alone. It leads up towards the best views across the fields.”

  “So it would not occasion surprise to see anyone there, even walking alone?” Harvester said cautiously.

  “No sir.”

  “Did you ever see or hear of anyone in particular walking there?”

  “I’m far too busy with a house full of guests to be looking out of windows seeing who’s out walking, sir. But a good sunny day, an’ it was a very nice spring, most of the guests would be out at one time or another.”

  “Except the Princess Gisela?”

  “Yes sir, ’cept her, poor lady.”

  “The Countess Rostova, for example?”

  “Yes sir,” she said more cautiously. “Liked a good walk. Not a lady to sit inside the house on a fine day.”

  “And after his accident, were the Prince’s meals taken up from the kitchen to his rooms regularly?”

  “Always, sir. He never came out. Sometimes it was no more than a little beef tea, but it was always sent up.”

  “Carried by a maid or a footman?”

  “Maid, sir.”

  “And might such a maid pass another guest on the stairs or on the landing?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “And would automatically stand aside and make way for such a guest?”

  “Of course.”

  “Guests might pass closely enough on the stairs for something to be surreptitiously added to a dish by sleight of hand?”

  “I don’t know, sir. Dishes should be covered on a tray, and a cloth over them as well.”

  “But possible, Mrs. Haines?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Thank you.” Harvester turned to Rathbone. “Sir Oliver?”

  But Rathbone could make no argument of any value. There was nothing to contradict. He himself had proved that Friedrich was poisoned. Harvester had proved that it could not have been by Gisela. Rathbone could not implicate anyone else. It would be an act of desperation to suggest a name, and looking at the jurors, he was wise enough to know any attempt to lay specific blame could rebound against him. He had not yet irrefutably argued a plot to restore Friedrich, and it would be a plot, because it would automatically depose Waldo. No one was going to admit to it in the present climate. It would be political suicide, and anyone passionate enough about the struggle might sacrifice himself or herself in its cause, but never sacrifice the cause itself, and certainly not to save Zorah.

  Harvester smiled. He had sought to protect Gisela by proving her innocence, and thus Zorah’s guilt of slander. Now he was on the brink of seeing Zorah indicted, at least in the public mind, of murder. And unless Rathbone found some way of proving the contrary, it might be in law as well.

  By the time the day was ended, Henry Rathbone was correct—Zorah herself was close to the shadow of the gibbet.

  As the court rose, press reporters burst through the doors and raced for the hansoms outside, shouting out to drivers to take them to Fleet Street. The crowds craned their necks and surged forward to see Gisela and cheer her, shout out blessings and encouragement, praise and admiration.

  For Zorah, there were cries of hatred. Rotten fruit and vegetables were thrown. More than one stone cracked sharply against the wall behind her, and she made her way, ashen-faced, head high, eyes terrified, to where Rathbone had ordered a coach to wait. He knew he dared not trust to finding a hansom in that enraged throng which was now threatening physical violence.

  “Hang ’er!” someone yelled. “Hang the murderin’ bitch!”

  “’Ang ’er!” the crowd roared. “’Ang ’er! ’Ang ’er by ’er neck! Send ’er ter the rope!”

  It was only with great difficulty and some buffeting that Rathbone managed to guide her to the coach and help her up into it, bruised and breathless.

  She sat close beside him as the coach lurched forward and the horses stepped and jibbed, trying to make their way through the pressing bodies. Hands reached up for the harness, and the driver cracked his whip. There was a howl of rage, and the coach plunged forward again, throwing Zorah and Rathbone off balance. Without thinking, he put out his hand to steady her and kept hold of her. He could not think of anything to say. He wanted to be able to tell her it would be all right, somehow or other he would rescue them both, but he knew of no way, and she would not have been comforted by a lie, only angered.

  She looked at him gratefully but without hope.

  “I did not kill him,” she said, her voice barely audible over the rattling of the wheels and the roaring of the crowd behind them, but perfectly steady. “She did!”

  Rathbone felt a chill of despair settle over his heart.

  Hester also traveled home from the court in a state of profound misery. She was deeply afraid for Rathbone, and the more desperately she tried to think of a way out for him, the less could she see one.

  She went in through the front door at Hill Street shivering with cold, although it was quite a mild afternoon; she felt so crushed she had no heart to give herself energy.

  She did not want to speak to either Bernd or Dagmar, and she was sure they would have arrived home before she did. They had their own carriage, and they had not stayed to the bitter end to see Rathbone and Zorah mobbed as they left, bearing the rage and the hatred of the crowd.

  She went straight upstairs to her room, and after taking off her outer cape, knocked on Robert’s door, which was ajar.

  “Come in?” he said immediately.

  She opened the door and was surprised to see Victoria sitting in the easy chair and Robert in his wheelchair, not on the bed. They looked at her eagerly, but there was no tension in them, and their chairs were close together, as though they had been talking earnestly before she knocked. Robert’s face was not pale anymore. The late autumn sun and wind had given him color as he had sat out in the garden, and his hair, flopping forward over his brow, was shining. It really was time they had a barber in to cut it.

  “What happened?” he asked. Then he frowned. “It wasn’t good, was it? I can see it in your face. Come and tell us.” He indicated a second bedroom chair. His eyes were full of concern.

  She was aware of the warmth of his feeling. Suddenly she was furious that someone she liked so much should be crippled, confined to a chair, almost certainly for the rest of his life, denied the chance of a career, of love and marriage, the things his peers expected as a matter of course. She found herself almost choked with emotion.

  “Was it really as bad as that?” Robert said gently. “You’d better sit down. Would you like me to ring for a tray of tea? You look pretty upset.”

  She tried to force a smile and knew she had failed.

  “You don’t have to pretend,” Robert went on. “Is the verdict in already? It can’t be, can it?”

  “Did she withdraw?” Victoria asked, puzzled.

  “No.
No, she didn’t withdraw,” Hester replied, sitting down. “And the verdict is a long way off yet. Sir Oliver hasn’t even started. But I can’t see that it will help when he does. It has reached the stage now where Zorah will be fighting to keep from the gallows herself …”

  They both stared at her.

  “Zorah?” Robert said aghast. “But Zorah didn’t kill him! If she had, she would be the last person to mention murder. She’d be only too happy they all thought it was accidental. That doesn’t make any sense!”

  “Perhaps they don’t think she is sensible,” Victoria pointed out. “They may think she’s a fanatic, or hysterical. I know that they are saying she is very eccentric, and that she dresses in men’s clothes and has been to all sorts of unsuitable and indecent places. And of course they are suggesting that her morals are appalling.”

  Hester was startled that Victoria should be aware of such things. How on earth did she know? Then she remembered Victoria’s drastically altered circumstances. She must have come down so far in the world that she no longer had anything like the life of the young lady she had been before her family’s disgrace, and no doubt now also financial dependency upon relatives. She was probably far better acquainted with the harsher side of life and its realities than Robert was.

  He was staring at Victoria, and she colored unhappily.

  “Who is saying that?” he asked her. “That’s totally unjust.”

  “When people are angry, justice has very little part in it,” she replied quietly.

  “Why should they be angry?” He frowned. “She may have injured Gisela, but the verdict isn’t in yet. And if it was murder, then they should be grateful to her, whoever is guilty. At least she has brought the truth about that to light. It seems to me they are doing exactly what they are blaming her for … jumping to conclusions without hearing the facts, and condemning people without evidence. That’s totally hypocritical.”

  Victoria smiled. “Of course it is,” she agreed gently. Her eyes were soft and bright as she looked at him.

  Robert turned to Hester. “What about your friend, Sir Oliver? How is he? He must be feeling very badly that he cannot help, especially if it is as serious for her as you say.”

  “I don’t think he has any idea what to do for the best,” Hester said frankly. “He has to prove it was someone else to save the Countess, and we haven’t any proof.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Victoria rose to her feet, moving with great awkwardness as the pain caught her, then straightening again and hiding it so Robert should not see. “It is getting late, and I should leave. I am sure you must be tired after the disasters of the day. I shall leave you to talk. Perhaps some idea may come to you.” She looked at Robert, hesitating a moment, blinking, and then making herself smile again. “Good night.” And then quite suddenly she turned on her heel and went out of the door, closing it behind her clumsily. The expression in her eyes and in her voice, the color in her face, had betrayed her feelings, and Hester had read them as plainly as if they had been spoken in words, perhaps more plainly. Words can lie.

  She looked at Robert. His mouth was pinched, and his eyes were dark with pain. He stared down at his legs, placed on the chair for him by the footman. One foot was a trifle crooked, and he was powerless even to straighten it. Hester saw it, but to lift it for him would be an intolerable reminder at this moment.

  “Thank you for bringing me Victoria,” he said quickly. “I think I shall always love her. I wish I had anything on earth I could give her that compared with what she has given me.” He breathed out. “But I haven’t.” He hesitated. “If I could walk … If I could only stand!” His voice broke, and for long, aching moments he had to fight to retain his self-control.

  Hester knew that Victoria had told him nothing of her own griefs. It was an acutely private thing, and yet Robert was suffering, and perhaps he would allow both their happiness to slip away from them because he believed they were so unequal and he was worth nothing to her.

  Hester spoke very quietly. Perhaps this was a mistake, an irretrievable error, the breaking of a trust, but she told him.

  “You can give her love. There is no gift as great—”

  He swung his shoulders around, glaring at her with rage and frustration and pain in his eyes, and something agonizing which she thought was shame.

  “Love!” he said bitterly. “With all my heart … but that’s hardly enough, is it? I can’t look after her. I can’t support or protect her. I can’t love her as a man loves a woman! ’With my body I thee worship!’ ” His voice cracked with unshed tears and loneliness and helplessness. “I can’t give her love; I can’t give her children!”

  “Nor can she give such things to you,” Hester said softly, longing to touch his hand and knowing it was not the time. “She was raped as a girl, and as a result of that had a backstreet abortion. It was very badly done, and she has never healed. That is the cause of her affliction, her constant pain, and at some times of the month it is worse than at others. She cannot ever have marital relations, and she certainly could not bear a child.”

  He was ashen white. He stared at her with horror so great his body shook, his hands clenched and unclenched in his lap, and she thought for a moment he was going to be sick.

  “Raped?” he choked. His face filled with feelings of such violence and horror she hated herself for having told him. He despised Victoria. Like so many others, he felt she was unclean, not a victim but somehow a vessel which had invited and deserved its own spoiling. In telling him she had made a fearful misjudgment, irreparable.

  She looked at Robert again.

  His eyes were brimming with tears.

  “She suffered that!” he whispered. “And all the time she was here, she was thinking of me … How … how could you have let me be so selfish?”

  Now without thinking she grasped his hand and held it. “It wasn’t selfishness,” she said urgently. “You couldn’t know, and really I had no right to tell you. It is a very private thing. I … I couldn’t bear you thinking—” She stopped. That would certainly be better unspoken.

  He smiled at her suddenly. “I know.”

  She did not know whether he knew or not, and she was certainly not about to put it to the test.

  “I shan’t tell her you told me,” he promised. “At least not yet. It would embarrass her, wouldn’t it.” That was a statement, not a question. “And I shall not tell my parents. It is not my secret to share, and I think they may not see it as it should be seen.”

  She knew he was certainly right about that. Bernd did not consider Victoria Stanhope a suitable friend for his son in any permanent sense, let alone more than that. But relief overwhelmed her like a great and blessed warmth, a taste of sweetness.

  “Isn’t she the most beautiful woman you’ve ever seen?” Robert said earnestly, his eyes bright and gentle. “Thank you for bringing her to me, Hester. I shall be grateful to you forever for that.”

  11

  RATHBONE BEGAN HIS DEFENSE of Zorah Rostova with a kind of despair. At the beginning, his worst fear had been that he would not be able to save her from disgrace and possibly a considerable financial punishment. He had hoped to be able to mitigate it by showing that her intention had been mistaken but honorable.

  Now he was struggling to save her from the rope.

  The court was packed till the room seemed airless, the people so tightly crammed together one could hear the rub of fabric on fabric, the squeak of boots, the creak of whalebone as women breathed. He could smell damp wool from a thousand coats come in from the rain. The floor was slippery with drips and puddles. Every scrap of air seemed already to have been breathed before. The windows steamed up with the exhalation.

  Pressmen sat elbow to elbow, hardly able to move sufficiently to write. Pencils were sharp, licked ready. Paper was damp in shaking hands.

  The jury was somber. One man with white whiskers fidgeted constantly with his handkerchief. Another smiled fleetingly at Gisela and then lo
oked quickly away again. None looked at Zorah.

  The judge instructed Rathbone to begin.

  Rathbone rose to his feet and called Stephan von Emden. The usher repeated the name, and his voice was swallowed by the thick, crowded room. There was no echo.

  Everyone waited, necks craned. Their eyes followed him as he came in, crossed the floor and climbed the steps to the stand. Since he had been called for the defense, it was assumed he was in Zorah’s favor. The animosity could be felt in a wave of anger from the gallery.

  He was sworn in.

  Rathbone moved forward, feeling more vulnerable than he could ever remember in all the countless times he had done this. He had had bad cases before, clients about whom he felt dubious, clients in whom he believed but felt inadequate to defend. Never before had he been so aware of his own misjudgments and his own fallibility. He did not even feel confident he would not add to them today. The only thing he believed in totally was Hester’s loyalty to him, not that she thought he was right but that she would be there at his side to support him regardless, whatever the nature or degree of his defeat. How blind of him to have taken so long to see that beauty in her—or to realize its worth.

  “Sir Oliver?” the judge prompted.

  The court was waiting. He must begin, whatever he had to say, of how much or how little use. Had they any idea how lost he was? Looking at Harvester’s lean face and the expression on it, he was sure the other lawyer knew very well. There was even a kind of pity in him, though without the slightest suggestion he would stay his hand.

  “Baron von Emden”—Rathbone cleared his throat—“you were staying at Wellborough Hall when Prince Friedrich met with his accident, and during the time of his apparent convalescence, and then his death, were you not?”

  “Yes sir, I was,” Stephan agreed. He looked calm and very grave with his clear hazel eyes and the smooth tawny hair which fell a little forward over his right brow.