Weighed in the Balance

by Anne Perry

  “Who else was there?” Rathbone asked. “Apart from the household staff, of course.”

  “The Baron and Baroness von Seidlitz, Count Rolf Lansdorff—”

  “He is the brother of Queen Ulrike, is he not?” Rathbone interrupted. “The uncle of Prince Friedrich?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who else?”

  “Baroness Brigitte von Arlsbach, Florent Barberini and the Countess Rostova,” Stephan finished.

  “Please continue,” Rathbone said.

  Stephan went on. “Colonel and Mrs. Warboys from one of the neighboring houses were guests for dinner two or three times, and their three daughters, and Sir George and Lady Oldham, and one or two others whose names I forget.”

  Harvester was frowning, but he had not so far interrupted. Rathbone knew he would, if he did not make some relevant point soon.

  “Did it surprise you to find Baroness von Arlsbach and Count Lansdorff invited to the same house party with Prince Friedrich and Princess Gisela?” he asked. “It was well known that when Prince Friedrich left his own country the feeling was not entirely kind towards him, especially from the royal household, and indeed from the Baroness, whom it is said the country would have liked for queen. Is that untrue?”

  “No,” Stephan answered with obvious reluctance. It was an embarrassing subject, one which for both personal and patriotic reasons he would rather not have discussed publicly, and his emotions showed in his face.

  “Then were you surprised?” Rathbone pressed, some future scene with the Lord Chancellor playing itself out in his mind like an execution.

  “I would have been, were the political situation not as it is,” Stephan answered.

  “Would you please explain that?”

  Harvester rose to his feet. “My lord, the guest list is not an issue. There is no question as to who was present, or was not. Sir Oliver is desperate and wasting time.”

  The judge turned his bland face towards Harvester. “It is up to me to decide how the court may use its time, Mr. Harvester. I am disposed to allow Sir Oliver a little latitude in the matter, so long as he does not abuse it, given that this is an adversarial system. I am still primarily interested in establishing the truth as to whether Prince Friedrich was murdered, and if so, by whom. When we know that, we can then apportion blame appropriately to the Countess Rostova regarding her accusation.”

  But Harvester was far from satisfied. “My lord, we have already proved that the one person who could not be guilty is my client, the Princess Gisela. Quite apart from her devotion to her husband, her utter lack of motive, we have also demonstrated that she was the one person who had not the means or the opportunity.”

  “I have been present all the time the evidence has been given, Mr. Harvester,” the judge replied. “Do you imagine I have not been directing my mind to it?”

  There was a distinct mutter of amusement around the gallery, and several jurors smiled.

  “No, my lord! Of course not!” Harvester was in some discomposure. It was the first time Rathbone could recall ever seeing him thus.

  The judge smiled very slightly. “Good. Proceed, Sir Oliver.”

  Rathbone inclined his head in acknowledgment, but he was under no illusion that the latitude would be wide.

  “Baron von Emden, would you explain to us the alteration in the political situation which made the guest list understandable to you?”

  “Twelve years ago, when Friedrich abdicated in favor of his younger brother, Waldo, so he could marry Gisela Berentz, whom the royal family would not accept as crown princess, the feeling against him was strong. It was even stronger against her,” Stephan said in a calm, level voice, but one in which the memory of pain and embarrassment was sharp. “The Queen, in particular, did not forgive the injury it did to the royal house. Her brother, Count Lansdorff, shared her feelings very deeply. So did the Baroness von Arlsbach. As you observed, many in the country had wished and expected Friedrich to marry her. It was embarrassing for her because there was every indication that she would have obeyed her duty and accepted him.”

  He looked unhappy, but he did not hesitate. “Baron and Baroness von Seidlitz, on the other hand, went frequently to Venice, where Prince Friedrich and Princess Gisela had made their principal home, with the result that they were not in any true sense accepted at court in Felzburg.”

  “Are you saying that the feelings of resentment, betrayal, or whatever you will, were so deep that even after twelve years, it is still impossible to be a true friend of both parties?” Rathbone asked.

  Stephan thought for a moment.

  The judge was watching him.

  The room was almost silent. There was the occasional creak or rustle of shifting in seats.

  Gisela sat rigid. For once there was emotion in her face, as if mention of that old humiliation still tore open a wound. There was tightening of her lips. Her gloved hands clenched. But there was no way of knowing whether it was her rejection or Friedrich’s which she remembered.

  “It was not entirely a matter of feelings from the past,” Stephan answered, looking directly at Rathbone. “New political situations have arisen which make all the old issues of very urgent, current importance.”

  Harvester moved uncomfortably, but he knew it was useless to object. He would only mark it more clearly in the mind.

  “Would you explain, please?” Rathbone pressed.

  “My country is one of a large number of German states, principalities, and electorates.” Stephan addressed the court in general. “We have a language and a culture in common, and there is a movement gathering strength for us to unite under one king and one government. Naturally, in all the separate entities there are those who can see the benefits such a unity would bring and those who will fight with all they possess to retain their individual character and independence. My own country is as divided as any. Even the royal family is divided.”

  Now he had their total attention. Several jurors were shaking their heads. As citizens of an island nation, they could understand, at least with their heads, the passion for independence. With their hearts, they had no concept of the fear of being swallowed. It had not happened to them in fifty generations.

  “Yes?” Rathbone prompted him.

  Stephan obviously disliked having to expose the division in public, but he knew there was no alternative.

  “The Queen and Count Rolf are passionately for independence,” he replied. “Crown Prince Waldo is for unification.”

  “And the Baroness von Arlsbach?”

  “Independence.”

  “Baron von Seidlitz?”

  “Unification.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “He has made no secret of it.”

  “He has advocated it?”

  “Not openly, not as far as that. But he has argued its possible merits. He has become friends with many of those who are highly placed in Prussia.”

  There was a murmur of disapproval in the court. It was perhaps emotional rather than a matter of considered thought.

  “And what were Prince Friedrich’s feelings on the subject?” Rathbone asked. “Did he express any that you are aware of?”

  “He was for independence.”

  “Sufficiently so to act towards that end?”

  Stephan bit his lip. “I don’t know. But I do know that this is why Count Lansdorff came to Wellborough Hall to speak to him. Otherwise he would normally have declined any invitation to be in the same house with Friedrich.”

  The judge’s face pinched with concern, and he looked very steadily at Rathbone as if he were on the brink of interrupting him, but he did not.

  “Did he initiate the meeting or did Prince Friedrich, do you know?” Rathbone asked, acutely aware of what he was doing.

  “I believe it was Count Lansdorff.”

  “You say you believe it. Do you not know?”

  “No, I don’t know, not beyond doubt.”

  “And Baron von Seidlitz, why was he there, if his
views were opposite? Was some kind of debate planned, an open discussion?”

  Stephan smiled briefly. “Of course not. It is all only speculation. I don’t know if any talks took place at all … which is probably why Klaus von Seidlitz was there … in order to conceal the political aspects of the occasion.”

  “What about Countess Rostova and Mr. Barberini?”

  “They are both for independence,” Stephan replied. “But Barberini is half Venetian, so he appeared a natural person to invite since Friedrich and Gisela live in Venice. It gave it the appearance of an ordinary spring house party.”

  “But it was—in reality, beneath the festivities, the parties and picnics, the hunting, the theatrical evenings, the music and the dinner parties—a deeply political gathering?”

  “Yes.”

  He knew Stephan could not say any offer had been made to Friedrich, or any plea, so he did not ask.

  “Thank you, Baron von Emden.” He turned to Harvester.

  Harvester rose, his expression a curious mixture of anger and anxiety. He strode onto the floor as if he had intense purpose, his shoulders hunched.

  “Baron, were you party to these conspiracies to invite Prince Friedrich to return to his country and usurp his brother?”

  Rathbone could not object. The language was pejorative, but he had laid the foundation for it himself.

  Stephan smiled. “Mr. Harvester, if there was a plan to ask Prince Friedrich to return and lead a battle for retaining our independence, I was not a party to it. But providing it was to do that, and that only, had I known, I would gladly have joined. If you think it was a question of usurping, then you have demonstrated that you do not understand the issues. Prince Waldo is prepared to abdicate his throne and his country’s independence and have us be swallowed up as part of a larger state.”

  He leaned forward on the railing, addressing Harvester as if he were the only other person in the room. “There would be no throne left in Felzburg, no crown to argue over. We should be a province of Prussia, or Hannover, or whatever the resulting conglomerate of states was called. No one knows who would be king, or president, or emperor. If Friedrich was indeed asked to come home, and he had accepted, it would be to preserve a throne in Felzburg, whoever sat on it. Perhaps he would not have wished to. Perhaps he would have lost the battle anyway, and we would still have been swallowed into a greater whole. Perhaps it would have meant war, and we would have been conquered. Or possibly the other minor liberal states would have allied with us rather than be consumed by the reactionaries. Now we will never know, because he is dead.”

  Harvester smiled bleakly.

  “Baron, if this was the purpose of the visit to Wellborough Hall, and I am sure that you believe it was, then perhaps you will answer a few questions which arise from that supposition. If Friedrich had declined the invitation, would that have given anyone motive to wish him dead?”

  “Not so far as I am aware.”

  “And if he had accepted?”

  Stephan’s mouth tightened with distaste at being forced to express his beliefs aloud, but he would not equivocate.

  “Possibly Baron von Seidlitz.”

  “Because he was for unification?” Harvester’s eyebrows rose. “Is it so likely Prince Friedrich, single-handedly, could have achieved that end? You made it sound far more difficult, problematical, in your earlier answers. I had not realized he still commanded such power.”

  “He might not have achieved our continued independence,” Stephan said patiently. “He might well have achieved a war for it, and war is what von Seidlitz dreads. He has far too much to lose.”

  Harvester looked amazed. “And have not you all?” He half turned towards the gallery, as if to include them in his surprise.

  “Of course.” Stephan took a deep breath. “The difference is that many of us also believe that we have something to gain. Or perhaps I should say, more correctly, to preserve.”

  “Your identity as an independent state?” Harvester’s voice was not mocking, not even disrespectful, but it did probe with a hard, unrelenting realism. “Is that truly worth a war to you, Baron von Emden? And in this war, who will fight?” He gestured in angry bewilderment. “Who will lose their homes and their lands? Who will die? I do not see it as an ignoble thing to wish your country to avoid war, even if it is a horrific thing to murder your prince in that cause. At least most of us here could understand that, I find it easy to believe.”

  “Possibly,” Stephan agreed, his face suddenly alight with a passion he had kept tightly in control until now. “But then you all live in England, where there is a constitutional monarchy, a Parliament in which to debate, a franchise in which men can vote for the government they wish. You have the freedom to read and write what you wish.” He did not move his hands, but his words embraced everyone in the room. “You are free to assemble to discuss, even to criticize, your betters and the laws they make. You may question without fear of reprisal. You may form a political party for any cause you like. You may worship any God in any manner you choose. Your army obeys your politicians, and not your politicians the army. Your queen would never take orders from her generals. They are there to protect you from invasion, to conquer weaker and less fortunate nations, but not to govern you and suppress you should you threaten to assemble in numbers or protest your state or your labor laws, your wages or your conditions.”

  There was not a murmur in the gallery. Hundreds of faces stared at him in amazement—and in silence.

  “Perhaps if you lived in some of the German states,” he went on, his voice now raw with sadness, “and could remember the armies marching in the streets a decade ago, see the people manning the barricades as suddenly hope flared that we too might have the liberties you take so lightly, and then afterwards see the dead, and the hope ended in despair, all the promises broken, you would be prepared to fight to keep the small privileges Felzburg has.” He leaned forward. “And in memory of those who fought and died elsewhere, you would offer your life too, for your children and your children’s children … or even just for your country, your friends, for the future, whether you see them, know them, or not, simply because you believe in these things.”

  The silence prickled in the ears.

  “Bravo!” someone cried from the gallery. “Bravo, sir!”

  “Bravo!” A dozen more shouted, and they began to stand up one by one, then a dozen, then a score, hands held up, faces alight with emotion. “Bravo!”

  “God save the Queen!” a woman called out, and another echoed her.

  The judge did not bang his gavel or make the slightest attempt to restore order. He allowed it to run its course and subside on its own. Once watched, the wave of passion had spent itself, emotion had passed.

  “Mr. Harvester?” he said inquiringly. “Have you further points to ask of Baron von Emden?”

  Harvester’s face was puzzled and unhappy. Obviously, Stephan’s evidence had opened up a vehemence the lawyer had not foreseen. The issue had ceased to be political in any dry and objective sense and became a thing of raging urgency which touched everyone. The emotional balance had been altered irrevocably. He was not yet sure where it would lead.

  “No, my lord, thank you,” he answered. “I think the Baron has demonstrated most admirably that feelings ran very high during the meeting at Wellborough Hall, and many may have believed that the fate of a nation hung on the return, or not, of Prince Friedrich.” He shook his head. “None of which has the slightest relevance to the Countess Rostova’s accusation against Princess Gisela and its demonstrable untruth.” He looked for a moment towards Rathbone, and then returned to his seat.

  It was perfectly timed. Rathbone knew it as well as Harvester did. He had not defended Zorah from the charge of slander, he had not even defended her from the unspoken charge of murder. If anything, Stephan might unwittingly have made things worse. He had shown how very much was at stake and sworn that Zorah believed in independence. She could never have wished Friedrich dead, but
she might very easily have tried to kill Gisela and counted it an act of supreme patriotism. That was now believable to everyone in the room.

  “What the devil are you doing, Rathbone?” Harvester demanded as they passed each other when leaving for the luncheon adjournment. He looked confused. “Your client is as likely to be guilty of a mistake in victim as anybody.” His voice dropped in genuine concern. “Are you sure she is sane? In her own interests, can you not prevail upon her to withdraw? The court will pursue the truth now, whatever she says or does. At least protect her by persuading her to keep silent, before she incriminates herself … and, incidentally, drags you down with her. You have too many rogue witnesses, Rathbone.”

  “I have a rogue case,” Rathbone agreed ruefully, falling into step with Harvester.

  “I can imagine the Lord Chancellor’s face!” Harvester skirted around a group of clerks in intense discussion and rejoined Rathbone as they went down the steps into the raw, late October wind.

  “So can I.” Rathbone meant it only too truthfully. “But I have no alternative. She is adamant that Gisela killed him, and short of abandoning the case, for which I have no grounds, I have to follow her instructions.”

  Harvester shook his head. “I’m sorry.” It was commiseration, not apology. He would not stay his hand, nor would Rathbone had their roles been reversed, as he profoundly wished they were.

  When they returned in the afternoon, Rathbone called Klaus von Seidlitz, who was obliged to substantiate what Stephan had said. He was reluctant to concede it at first, but he could not deny that he was for unification. When Rathbone pressed him, he argued the case against war and its destruction, and his large, crooked face filled with growing passion as he described the ruin created by marching armies, the death, the waste of the land, the confusion and loss to the border regions, the maimed and bereaved. There was something dignified in his shambling figure as he told of his lands and his love for the little villages, the fields and the lanes.

  Rathbone did not interrupt him. Nor, when Klaus had finished, did he make any implication that he might have murdered Friedrich to prevent him from returning home and plunging their country into just such a war.