by Anne Perry
Bernd had difficulty in speaking. His throat seemed to have closed. He struggled to fill his lungs with air, and then to master the anguish which overwhelmed him.
The entire courtroom was silent in shared distress.
“Yes …” he said at last “Yes, he is. But my wife … my wife has always loved him … not only for my sake, but for his own. No …” He gasped again, his face twisted with the pain of memory—and fear for her now. “No woman could love a child more.”
“We do not doubt it, sir,” Rathbone said quietly. “Nor the agony this must have cost you, both then and now. Is Count Lansdorff also correct that Gisela Berentz wished to destroy the child”—he used the word intentionally, but having seen Robert Ollenheim through Hester’s eyes, it came easily—“but that you forced her to carry it to term and to give birth?”
The silence deafened the room.
“Yes …” Bernd whispered.
“I ask your pardon for the intrusion into what should have been able to remain a purely personal grief,” Rathbone apologized. “And I assure you of our respect for you and your family. I have nothing further I need to ask you. Unless Mr. Harvester has, that is all.”
Harvester rose. He looked wretched.
“No, thank you. I do not believe that Baron Ollenheim has anything relevant to the issue at hand which he could tell us.”
It was a brave attempt to remind the court that the case was one of slander between Zorah and Gisela, but no one cared anymore. The issues were abandonment, abortion and murder.
The day ended in uproar. Police had to be called in to escort Gisela to the carriage and protect her from the fury of the crowd, now surging in on her with an even fiercer rage and potential for violence than they had showed towards Zorah just two days before. They were shouting, pelting Gisela with refuse; some of them even hurled stones. One rock clattered against the carriage roof and ricocheted against the wall beyond. The cabby shouted back at the crowd, afraid for himself and his horse, and lashed his whip over their heads.
Rathbone stood on the outside of Zorah and hustled her away, fearing that she too would be a focus for their wrath. It was she who had instigated this entire collapse of dreams, and she would be hated for it.
Robert Ollenheim had asked his parents for privacy, at least for an hour, and it was Hester who sat in the carriage next to him on the way home to Hill Street. Bernd and Dagmar had stood by helplessly as the footman assisted him up and then Hester after him, but they made no attempt to argue or remonstrate.
He sat immobile, staring ahead as the horses picked up speed. The footman rode on the box. The young man and Hester were alone, moving through the milling, jostling streets.
“It’s not true!” he said over and over again, grating the words between his teeth. “It’s not true! That … woman … is not my …” He could not even bring himself to say the word mother.
Hester put her hand over his, and felt it balled into a fist under the blanket which covered his knees. It was extremely cold in the carriage, and for once he did not resent being tucked up.
“No, she isn’t,” she agreed.
“What?” He turned to look at her, his face puzzled and slack with disbelief. “Didn’t you hear what my father said? He said that woman … that woman …” He took a difficult, jerky breath. “Even before I was born, she didn’t want me! She wanted to have me … destroyed!”
“She isn’t your mother in any sense that matters,” Hester said gravely. “She gave up that right. Dagmar Ollenheim is your mother. She is the one who reared you, who loved you and wanted you. You are the only child she has. You simply have to think of her at any time during all the years you have been alive to know how deeply she loves you. Have you ever doubted it before?”
“No …” He was still having difficulty catching his breath, as if something were crushing his chest. “But that … that other woman is still my mother! I’m part of her!” He glanced at Hester with wide, agonizing eyes. “That’s who I am! I can’t get away from it, I can’t forget it! I came from her body! From her mind!”
“Her body,” Hester corrected. “Not her mind. Your mind and your soul are your own.”
A new horror dawned on him.
“Oh, God! What will Victoria think of me? She’ll know! She’ll read it on some … some sandwich board, hear it from a newsboy in the street. Someone will tell her! Hester … I’ve got to tell her first!” His words tumbled over each other. “Take me to where she lives! I’ve got to be the one to tell her. I can’t let her find out from anyone else. Where does she live? I never even asked her!”
“She has lodgings in Bloomsbury. But you can’t go there now. You must wait for her to come to you—”
“No! I must tell her. I can’t bear …”
“You must,” she said firmly. “Think of your mother … I mean Dagmar, not that other woman, who has no claim on you at all. Think how Dagmar must be feeling now. Think of your father, who loved you even before you were born, who fought for your life! They need your support. They need to know that you are all right and that you understand.”
“But I must tell Victoria before—”
She held his hands hard. “Robert! Do you not think Victoria would most want you to do what is right, what is gentle and honorable and loving to those who have loved you all your life?”
It was minutes before he relaxed. They lurched and swayed through the darkening streets. The level of light in the carriage flickered as they passed the lampposts and moved into the mist and shadows between.
“Yes … I suppose so,” he conceded at last. “But I must see her tonight. I must send a message to her. I must see her before she hears it somewhere else. Otherwise I may never have the chance to tell her I love her. She will know my mother is … God knows what! I am … I am part of that woman and I don’t want to be, so desperately I almost wish I had never been born. How can it happen, Hester? How can it be that you can be born part of someone you loathe and abhor? It is so unfair it is unbearable.”
“You are not part of her,” Hester said firmly. “You are you … whatever you choose to be. Whatever she has done, it is not your fault. It is wretched for you, because people can judge cruelly—and you are right, it is unfair. But you should know better than to blame yourself.”
She waited a moment while a dray rattled past them. “Nothing she is has anything to do with who you are, unless you want it to,” she went on. “Sin is not an inherited disease. You cannot pass it from parent to child. Nor can you pass the blame. That is one thing about responsibility … you cannot ever take anyone else’s, no matter how you love them, and no one can give you theirs. We each stand alone. Whatever Gisela did, and she couldn’t have killed Friedrich, you are not answerable to anyone for it … not to society, not to Victoria, and not to yourself.”
Her grip tightened on his arm. “But listen to me, Robert! You are responsible for what you do now, for how you treat your father, or Dagmar. You are responsible if you think now only of your own pain and confusion, and turn away from theirs.”
He bent his head in total weariness, and she put her arms around him, holding him as tightly as she could, reaching up and touching his hair with her hand, gently, as if he had still been ill, or a child.
She told the coachman to go slowly, so Bernd and Dagmar would get to Hill Street before them.
When they arrived and pulled up, Robert was ready. The door was flung open and Bernd stood there, white-faced, Dagmar a step behind him.
“Hello, Father,” Robert said calmly, the ravages of emotion not visible in his face in the rain-spattered lamplight. “Would you give me a hand down? It’s fearfully cold in here, in spite of the rug. I hope there’s a decent fire in the withdrawing room.”
Bernd hesitated, searching Robert’s eyes as if he could barely believe it. Then he almost fell forward and put his arms out to lift him, awkwardly at first, trying to look as if he were only helping him, but in the coach light the tears were bright on his cheeks and h
is hands trembled.
Robert looked beyond him at Dagmar.
“You’d better go inside, Mother,” he said clearly. “You’ll freeze standing out here. There’s a fog rising.” He forced himself to smile at her, then gradually it became real, filled with light, memories of all the tenderness he had known as surely as he knew anything at all.
Hester climbed out after him and followed them up the steps and inside. She was unaware of the night air, chill around her, or of the facts that the edge of her skirt was wet from the gutter and her feet were numb with cold.
Victoria left for Robert’s side as soon as she received the letter—in fact, she returned with the coach the footman had taken to deliver it. Robert saw her alone. For once the door was closed, and Hester waited in the withdrawing room with Bernd and Dagmar.
Bernd paced the floor, turning at either end of the room, his face pale, his eyes returning each time to the door.
“What will she do?” he demanded, staring at Hester. “What will she say to him? Will she be able to accept him or speak of his … parentage?” He too could not bring himself to call Gisela the boy’s mother.
“Considering who her father was, she of all people will understand,” Hester said quietly but with total assurance. “Will Robert be able to accept that?”
“Yes,” Dagmar said quickly, but she was smiling. “One is not answerable for one’s father’s sins. And he loves her, more than he ever would an ordinary woman who had no trials or sorrows of her own. I hope he has the courage to ask her to marry him. And I hope she will have the faith to accept him. Will she, do you think?” She did not even glance at Bernd to see if he approved. She had no intention of allowing him to disapprove.
“Yes,” Hester said firmly. “I believe she will of her own accord. I think he will persuade her. But if she should doubt, then we shall give her the strength.”
“Of course we shall,” Dagmar agreed. “They will have a different kind of happiness from most people’s, but it will be every bit as profound … perhaps more so.” She looked up at Bernd and held out her hand.
He stopped pacing and took it, holding it hard, so tightly she winced, but she did not move to withdraw it. He smiled at Hester and nodded his head a little jerkily.
“Thank you …”
12
THE FOLLOWING MORNING was Saturday, and Hester slept in. She awoke with a jolt, remembering that the case was far from over. They still did not have any idea who had killed Friedrich. Legally, if not morally, Gisela remained the injured party, and Zorah had slandered her by saying that she was guilty of murder. The jury would have no alternative but to find for Gisela, and she would have nothing to lose now by asking for punitive damages. She had no reputation to enhance by mercy. She was a ruined woman and might need every ha’penny she could wrest from anyone. She might find her only solace in vengeance against the person who had brought about this whole disaster.
And with Zorah’s defeat would go Rathbone’s. At worst, Zorah could even be charged with Friedrich’s murder herself.
Hester rose and dressed in the best gown she had with her, a plainly tailored dark rust red with a little black velvet at the neck.
It was not that she felt her appearance mattered to the issue, it was simply that the act of taking care, of doing her hair as flatteringly as possible, of pinching a little color into her cheeks, was an act of confidence. It was like a soldier shining his boots and putting on his scarlet tunic before going into battle. It was all morale, and that was the first step towards victory.
She arrived at Rathbone’s rooms at five minutes after eleven, and found Monk already there. It was cold and wet outside, and there was a comfortable fire in the grate, and lamps burning, filling the room with warmth.
Monk, dressed in dark brown, was standing by the fireplace, his hands up as if he had been gesturing to emphasize a point. Rathbone sat in the largest armchair, his legs crossed, buff-colored trousers immaculate as always, but his cravat was a little crooked and his hair poked out at the side where he had apparently run his fingers through it.
“How is Ollenheim?” Monk asked, then looked at her clothes and the flush in her cheeks with a critical frown. “I assume from your demeanor that he is taking it quite well. Poor devil. Hard enough discovering your mother regarded you as such an embarrassment to her social ambitions she first tried to abort you, then the moment you were born, gave you away, without having to sit in a courtroom while half London discovers it at the same time.”
“And what about the Baroness?” Rathbone asked. “Not an easy thing for her either, or the Baron, for that matter.”
“I think they will be very well,” she replied decisively.
“You look uncommonly pleased with yourself.” Monk was apparently annoyed by it. “Have you learned something useful?”
It was a hard reminder of the present which still faced them.
“No,” she admitted. “I was happy for Robert, and for Victoria Stanhope. I haven’t learned anything. Have you?” She sat down in the third chair and looked from Monk to Rathbone and back again.
Monk regarded her unhappily.
Rathbone was too exercised with the problem to indulge in any other emotions.
“We have certainly made the jury regard Gisela in a very different light …” he began.
Monk let out a bark of laughter.
“But that doesn’t substantiate Zorah’s charge,” Rathbone continued with a frown, deliberately ignoring Monk and keeping his eyes on Hester. “If we are to prevent Zorah from facing the charge of having murdered Friedrich herself, then we need to know who did, and prove it.” His voice was quiet, so subdued as to be lacking its usual timbre. Hester could feel the defeat in him. “She is a patriot,” he went on. “And perfectly obviously hates Gisela. There are going to be many people who think at this critical point in her country’s fate, she took the opportunity of trying to kill Gisela but made a devastating mistake, and Friedrich died instead.” He looked profoundly unhappy. “I could believe it myself.”
Monk looked at him grimly.
“Do you?”
Hester waited.
Rathbone did not reply for several moments. There was no sound in the room but the snapping of the fire, the ticking of the tall clock, and the beating of the rain on the windows.
“I don’t know,” he said at last. “I don’t think so. But …”
“But what?” Monk demanded, turning towards him. “What?”
Rathbone looked up quickly, as if to make some remark in retaliation. Monk was questioning him as if he were a witness on the stand. Then he changed his mind and said nothing. That he gave in so easily was a measure of his inner turmoil, and it worried Hester more than any admission in words could have done.
“But what?” Monk repeated sharply. “For God’s sake, Rathbone, we have to know. If we don’t get to the bottom of this the woman could hang … eventually. Friedrich was murdered. Don’t you want to know who did it … whoever it was? I’m damn sure I do!”
“Yes, of course I do.” Rathbone sat farther forward. “Even if it is Zorah herself, I want to know. I don’t think I shall ever sleep properly again until I know what actually happened at Wellborough Hall, and why.”
“Somebody took advantage of the situation and picked yew bark or leaves, made poison of them, and slipped it to Friedrich,” Monk said, shifting his weight a little and leaning against the mantel. “Whether they meant to kill Friedrich or Gisela is probably the most important thing we need to know.” He was standing too close to the fire, but he seemed unaware of it. “Either the poison was meant for Friedrich, to stop him from returning, in which case it was most probably Klaus von Seidlitz—or possibly … his wife.” A curious flicker of emotion crossed his face and as quickly vanished again. “Or else it was intended for Gisela, and for some reason she gave the food or the drink, whatever it was, to Friedrich, ff that were so, then it could be anyone who was for independence: Rolf, Stephan, Zorah herself, even Barberini.”<
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“Or Lord Wellborough, for that matter,” Rathbone added. “If he had a sufficient financial stake in arming someone for the fighting which would follow.”
“Possible,” Monk conceded. “But unlikely. There are enough other wars. I can’t see him taking that kind of risk. I am sure this is a crime of passion, not profit.”
Hester had been thinking, trying to visualize it in purely practical terms.
“How did they do it?” she said aloud.
“Simple enough,” Monk replied impatiently. “Distract the servant carrying the tray. Have the distillation of yew in a small vial or whatever you like. A hip flask would serve. Just pour it into the beef tea, or whatever was on the tray that you know is for either Friedrich or Gisela, depending on which one you mean to poison. He was too ill to have been eating the same food as she did. He had mostly infusions, custards and so on. She ate normally, if not very much. The kitchen staff and the footmen all testify to that.”
“Have you ever tried to make an infusion of leaves or bark?” she asked with a frown.
“No. Why? I know it must have been boiled.” A crease furrowed his brow. “I know the cook says it wasn’t done in the kitchen. It must have been done over a bedroom fire. All the bedrooms have fires, and in spring they will have been lit. Anyone would have had all night to do it in privacy. That’s what must have happened.” His body relaxed again as he concluded. He became aware and moved away a step. “Anyone could have picked the leaves. They all went up and down the yew walk. I did myself. It’s the natural way to go if you want to take the air for any distance.”
“In what?” Hester asked, refusing to be satisfied.
Both men were staring at her.
“Well, if you are going to boil something half the night on your bedroom fire, you have to do it in something,” she explained. “No pans were taken from the kitchen. Do you suppose somebody just happened to bring a saucepan along in their luggage … in case they might need it?”
