Weighed in the Balance

4

HESTER WAS AWARE of Robert’s restlessness all night, but she knew she could not help, and to intrude would be inexcusable.

The following morning she found him still asleep, his face pale. He looked very young and very tired. He was just over twenty, but she could see the boy in his features too easily, and feel the isolation and the pain. She did not disturb him. Breakfast hardly mattered.

“Is he all right?” Dagmar said anxiously, meeting Hester on the stairs. “His door was closed last night. I did not like to go in.” She blushed faintly, and Hester knew she must have opened the door and heard him weeping. She could only imagine Dagmar’s distress. It must ache inside her beyond bearing that there was nothing to do except bear it. For his sake, she would also try to hide it.

Hester did not know what to say. Perhaps she should not mask the truth any longer. It would need a deliberate lie to do it.

“I think he may be facing the possibility that the paralysis may not go away,” she said haltingly. “Of course, it may …”

Dagmar started to speak, but her voice weakened and would not come. Her mind could find hundreds of words, and none that helped. Hester could see it all in her eyes. Dagmar stood still for a moment, then, unable to maintain her composure, she turned and ran down the stairs again and blindly across the hall to the morning room, where she could be alone.

Hester went back upstairs feeling sick.

In the middle of the morning Robert woke up saying that his head was throbbing and his mouth was dry. Hester helped him into the nearby chair. In the hospital in Scutari, she had learned how to lift people who did not have the strength or the feeling to lift themselves, even men larger and heavier than Robert. She gave him the bowl of water so he could wash and shave himself while she changed the bed, put on clean sheets and pillow slips, plumped them up and smoothed the coverlet. She was not finished when Dagmar knocked and came in.

Robert was composed and very grave, but he looked in command of himself. He refused his mother’s help back into bed, but, of course, he could not manage without Hester.

“If Miss Stanhope upset you yesterday,” Dagmar began, “I shall send a polite note thanking her and asking her not to come again. It can all be managed without distressing you.”

“She probably won’t come anyway,” Robert said miserably. “I was very rude to her.”

“I’m sure it wasn’t your fault—” Dagmar began.

“Yes it was! Don’t defend me as if I were a child, or an idiot, and not responsible for my actions! I’ve lost the use of my legs, not my mind!”

Dagmar winced and her eyes filled with tears.

“I’m sorry,” Robert said immediately. “You’d better leave me alone. I don’t seem to be able to be civil to anyone, except Miss Latterly. At least she’s paid to look after me, and I daresay she’s used to people like me, who behave wretchedly to all those we should be most grateful to.”

“Are you saying you want me to go?” Dagmar tried to master her hurt, but it was naked in her face.

“No, of course not. Yes, I am. I hate hurting you! I hate myself!” He turned away, refusing to look at her.

Hester could not make up her mind whether to step in or not. Maybe this needed to run to its conclusion so all the things unsaid would not be hurting in the mind. Or maybe they were better not spoken? Then they would not have to be taken back and apologized for. And there would be no doubt afterwards whether they were forgiven or not.

“I’ll write to Miss Stanhope,” Dagmar said hesitantly.

Robert turned back quickly. “No! Please don’t. I’d … I’d like to write to her myself. I want to apologize. I need to.” He bit his lip. “Don’t do everything for me, Mama. Don’t take that much dignity from me. I can at least make my own apologies.”

“Yes …” She swallowed as if there were something stuck in her throat. “Yes, of course. Will you ask her to come again, or not to?”

“I’ll ask her to come again. She was going to read to me about Sir Galahad and the search for the Holy Grail. He found it, you know.”

“Did he?” She forced herself to smile, though tears spilled over her cheeks. “I’ll … I’ll fetch you some paper. And I’ll bring you a tray. Will you be all right with ink in bed?”

He smiled twistedly. “I had better learn, hadn’t I?”

The doctor called in the afternoon, as he did almost every day. He was quite a young man and had not the professional manner which usually distances a doctor from his patients. There was no air of authority, which to some gave great comfort and to others seemed like condescension. He examined Robert and asked him questions, always addressing him directly and without any false optimism.

Robert said very little. Hester felt certain he was trying to call up the courage to ask if he was going to walk again. He asked no other questions, and that one still seemed too enormous to grasp.

“You are progressing very satisfactorily,” the doctor said at length, closing up his bag, still speaking to Robert, not to Hester or Dagmar, who stood by. “Lying still seems to have had no adverse effect upon your circulation.”

Dagmar made as if to speak and then changed her mind.

“I will have a word with Nurse Latterly about your treatment,” the doctor went on. “You must keep from getting sores when you lie in one position.”

Robert drew in his breath and let it out again in a sigh.

“I don’t know,” the doctor said softly, answering the question his patient had not asked. “That is the truth, Mr. Ollenheim. I am not saying that if I did know I should necessarily tell you, but I should not lie, that I swear to you. It is not impossible that the nerves have been so badly damaged that it will take a long time to regain their use. I don’t know.”

“Thank you,” Robert said uncertainly. “I was not sure if I wanted to ask.”

The doctor smiled.

But downstairs in the withdrawing room, to which Hester had followed Dagmar so that the doctor might speak to them and to Bernd at once, his manner was very grave.

“Well?” Bernd demanded, his eyes dark with fear.

“It does not look promising,” the doctor replied, letting his bag rest on the seat of one of the armchairs. “He has no feeling whatever in his legs.”

“But it will come back!” Bernd said urgently. “You told us at the time that it could take weeks, even months. We must be patient.”

“I said it may come back,” the doctor corrected. “I am deeply sorry, Baron Ollenheim, but you must be prepared for the possibility that it may not. I think it would be unfair to your son to keep that knowledge from him. There is still hope, of course, but it is by no means a certainty. The other possibility must also be considered and, as much as lies in your power, prepared for.”

“Prepared for!” Bernd was horrified; his face went slack, as if he had been struck. “How can we prepare for it?” His voice rose angrily. “Do what?” he demanded, waving his arms. “Purchase a chair with wheels? Tell him he may never stand again, let alone walk? That … that …” He stopped, unable to continue.

“Keep courage,” the doctor said painfully. “But do not pretend that the worst cannot happen. That is no kindness to him. He may have to face it.”

“Isn’t there something that can be done? I will pay anything I have … anything …”

The doctor shook his head. “If there were anything, I would have told you.”

“What can we say or do that will make it easier for him,” Dagmar asked softly, “if … if that should happen? Sometimes I don’t know whether it would be easier for him if I said something or if I didn’t.”

“I don’t know either,” the doctor admitted. “I’ve never known. There are no certain answers. Just try not to let him see too much of your own distress. And don’t deny it once he has accepted it himself. He will have sufficient battles of his own without having to fight yours as well.”

Dagmar nodded. Bernd stood silently, staring past the doctor towards a magnificent painting on the wall of a group of horsemen riding at a gallop, bodies strong, lithe, molded to the movement in perfect grace.

Hester was taking a brief walk in the garden early the following morning when she came upon Bernd standing alone beside a fading flower bed. It was now near the end of September, and the early asters and Michaelmas daisies were in bloom over in the farther bed, a glory of purples, mauves and magentas. Closer to, the gardener had already cut back the dead lupines and delphiniums gone to seed. Other summer flowers were all long over. There was a smell of damp earth, and the rose hips were bright on the rugosa. October was not far away.

Actually, she had come to pick some marigolds. She needed to make more lotion from the flowers. It was most healing to the skin for wounds and for the painful areas of someone lying long in one position. When she saw Bernd she stopped and was about to turn back, not wishing to intrude, but he saw her.

“Miss Latterly!”

“Good morning, Baron.” She smiled slightly, a little uncertain.

“How is Robert this morning?” His face was puckered with concern.

“Better,” she answered honestly. “I think he was so tired he slept very well and is anxious that Miss Stanhope will consent to return.”

“Was he very rude to her?”

“No, not very; simply hurtful.”

“I would not like to think he was … offensive. One’s own pain is not an excuse for the abuse or embarrassment of those not in a position to retaliate!”

In one sentence he had stated all that his status meant, both the innate conviction of superiority and the unbreakable duty of self-discipline and honor that went with it. She looked at his grave profile with its strong, well-shaped bones, a much older, heavier edition of Robert’s. His mouth was half obscured by his dark mustache, but the lines were so alike.

“He was not offensive,” she assured him, perhaps less than truthfully. “And Miss Stanhope understood precisely why he was abrupt. She has suffered a great deal herself. She knows the stages one passes through.”

“Yes, she is obviously”—he hesitated, not sure how to phrase it delicately—“damaged in some way. Was it a disease or an accident, do you know? Of course, she is more fortunate than Robert. She can walk, even if somewhat awkwardly.”

She watched his expression of certainty, closed in his own world of assumptions he held as to the lives of others. She could not tell him about Victoria’s tragedies or those of her family. He might understand, but if he did not, the damage would be irretrievable. Victoria’s privacy would be shattered, and with it the frail confidence she had struggled so hard to achieve.

“An accident,” Hester replied. “And then a clumsy piece of surgery. I am afraid it has left her with almost constant pain, sometimes less, sometimes more.”

“I’m sorry,” he said gravely. “Poor child.” That was the end of the subject for him. Courtesy had been satisfied. It had not entered his thinking that Victoria could in any permanent sense be part of Robert’s life. She was merely an unfortunate person who had been kind at a time of need, and when that period was over she would disappear, possibly to be remembered with regard, but no more.

He stared beyond the faded bed of flowers towards the brave show of daisies and asters beyond and the bright, rather straggling marigolds, a sudden flare of color against the wet earth and darkening leaves.

“Miss Latterly, if you should happen to become aware of any of the details of this miserable business of Countess Rostova and the Princess Gisela, I would appreciate it if you did not mention it to Robert. I fear it may become extremely unpleasant by the time it reaches trial, if that cannot be prevented. I don’t wish him to be unnecessarily distressed. My wife has a somewhat romantic view of things. That would be a pleasanter one for him to accept.”

“I know very little of it,” Hester said honestly. “The Baroness told me how the Prince and Gisela met, which I suppose I should already have known, and I believe Robert knew that too. But I have no idea why the Countess Rostova should make such an accusation. I don’t even know if it is personal or political. It seems extraordinary, when she obviously cannot prove it.”

Bernd pushed his hands into his pockets and swayed very slightly on his feet.

Hester was fascinated by the passion which must have driven Countess Rostova, but more urgently than that, she was deeply concerned for Rathbone. It would not matter greatly that he should lose a case. In fact, she thought privately that it might do him good. He had become very pleased with himself since his knighthood. But she did not want to see him humiliated by having taken up a case which was absurd, or alienate himself from his colleagues and from society, even from the ordinary people in the street who identified with the romance of Gisela’s story and wished to believe well of her. People do not like their dreams trampled upon.

“Why should she do such a thing?” she asked aloud, aware that he might consider her impertinent. “Is it possible someone else prompted her?”

A slight wind stirred in the trees, sending a drift of leaves down.

He turned around slowly and looked at her, a furrow across his brow.

“I had not thought of that. Zorah is a strange and willful woman, but I have never known her to act in so self-destructive a manner before. I can think of no sane reason why she should make such a charge. She never liked Gisela, but then neither did a great many people. Gisela is a woman with a talent for making both friends and enemies.”

“Could Zorah be acting for one of her enemies?”

“In such a suicidal manner?” He shook his head fractionally. “I wouldn’t do that for anyone else. Would you?”

“That depends upon who it was and why I thought they wanted me to,” she replied, hoping he would tell her more about Zorah. “Do you think she really believes it is true?”

He considered the question for several moments.

“I would find it difficult,” he said at last. “Gisela could have nothing to gain personally or politically by Friedrich’s death, and everything to lose. I don’t see how Zorah could fail to know that.”

“Do they know each other well?” It piqued her curiosity sharply. What would the relationship be between those two so different women?

“In a sense, as I think all women know each other when they have lived many years in such circumstances, amid the same circle of people. Their characters are quite different, but there are ways in which their lives are not. Zorah could very easily have been where Gisela was, had Friedrich been of a different personality, had he fallen in love with Zorah’s type of unsuitable woman instead of Gisela’s.” A sudden distaste marred his expression, and she realized with intense sharpness the degree of his anger against the woman who had disrupted the royal house and caused a prince to abandon his people and his duty.

“They couldn’t have quarreled over another man, could they?” she said aloud, still searching for reasons.

“Gisela?” Bernd seemed surprised. “I doubt it. She flirted, but it was only a sort of … a sort of exercise of her power. She never encouraged anyone. Certainly, I would swear she had no interest.”

“But Zorah could have, and if the man was in love with Gisela … Gisela must have had the most amazing charm, a magnetic allure.” She realized she was speaking of her as if she were dead. “I mean she must have still, I imagine.”

Bernd’s lips tightened a little, and he turned away, the sharp autumn sun on his face. “Oh, yes. One does not lightly forget Gisela.” His expression softened, the contempt fading. “But then you would not forget Zorah either. I think a political answer more probable. We are on the verge of a most dangerous time in our history. We may cease to exist as a country if we are swallowed up into a greater Germany by unification. On the other hand, if we remain independent, we may be ravaged by war, possibly even overrun and obliterated.”

“Then surely it seems most likely that if Friedrich was killed, it was to prevent him from returning and leading the fight to retain independence,” she said with growing conviction.

“Yes …” he agreed. “If, in fact, he really was considering going home. We don’t know that he was. But it is possible that that is why Rolf was in England that month, in order to persuade him. Perhaps Rolf was closer to victory than any of us thought.”

“Then Gisela might have killed him rather than have him leave her!” Hester said with more triumph than was becoming. “Isn’t that what Zorah will say?”

“She may, but I find it hard to believe.” He looked back at her, a curious expression on his face which she could not read. “You didn’t know Friedrich, Miss Latterly. I cannot imagine the man I knew leaving Gisela behind. He would have made it the price of his return that he should take her with him. That I could believe easily. Or else he would have refused the call.”

“Then one of Gisela’s enemies may have killed him to prevent that,” she reasoned. “And at the same time perhaps they were passionately for unification and saw it as an act of patriotism to stop him from leading the fight for independence. Or could it be someone who was secretly allied with one of the other principalities, who hopes to become the leading power in a new Germany?”

He looked at her with sharpened interest, as if in some aspect he were seeing her for the first time.

“You have a very keen interest in politics, Miss Latterly.”

“In people, Baron Ollenheim. And I have seen enough of war to dread it anywhere, for any country.”

“Do you not think there are some things worth fighting for, even if it means dying?” he said slowly.

“Yes. But it is one thing to judge the prize worth someone else’s life, and another judging it worth your own.”

He looked at her thoughtfully, but he did not add anything further to the subject. She collected the marigolds, and he walked back towards the house with her.

* * *

Victoria accepted Robert’s apology and was quick to return only two days later. Hester had expected her to be uncertain in her manner, afraid of another attack sprung from a fear Robert could not help, or from anger which was only fear in disguise, and directed at her, because in his eyes she was less vulnerable than his parents.

Hester was in the dressing room next door, and she heard the maid showing Victoria in, and then her retreating footsteps as she left them alone.

Robert’s voice came clear and a little abashed. “Thank you for coming back.”

“I wanted to,” Victoria replied with certain shyness, and Hester could glimpse her back through the open crack of the door. “I enjoy sharing things with you.”

Hester could see Robert’s face. He was smiling.

“What have you brought?” he asked. “Sir Galahad? Please sit down. I’m sorry for not asking you to. You look chilly. Is it cold outside? Would you like me to send for tea?”

“Thank you, yes it is, and no, I’d like tea later, if I may, whenever you are ready.” She sat carefully, trying not to twist her back as she arranged her skirts. “And I didn’t bring Galahad. I thought perhaps not yet. I brought one or two different things. Would you like something funny?”

“More Edward Lear?”

“I thought something much older. Would you like some Aristophanes?”

“I have no idea,” he said, making himself smile. “It sounds very heavy. Are you sure it’s funny? Does it make you laugh?”

“Oh, yes,” she said quickly. “It shows up some of the ridiculousness of people who take themselves terribly seriously. I think when you can no longer laugh at yourself, you are beginning to lose your balance.”

“Do you?” He sounded surprised. “I always thought of laughter as a little frivolous, not the stuff of real life so much as an escape.”

“Oh, not at all.” Her voice was full of feeling. “Sometimes that is when the most real things of all are said.”

“You think the absurd is the most real?” He sounded puzzled, but not critical.

“No, that is not what I mean,” she explained. “I do not mean the laughter of mockery, which devalues, but the laughter of the comic, which helps us to realize we are no more or less important than anyone else. What is funny is when things are unexpected, disproportionate. It makes us laugh because it is not as we thought, and suddenly we see the silliness of it. Isn’t that a kind of sanity?”

“I never thought of it like that.” He was turned towards her, his face absorbed in concentration. “Yes, I suppose that is the best kind of laughter. How did you discover that? Or did someone tell you?”

“I thought about it a lot. I had much time to read and to think. That is the magical thing about books. You can listen to all the greatest people who have ever lived, anywhere in the world, in any civilization. You can see what is completely different about them, things you never imagined.” Her voice gathered urgency and excitement, and Hester could see through the crack in the door that she was leaning forward towards the bed, and Robert was smiling as he watched her.

“Read me your Aristophanes,” he said softly. “Take me to Greece for a little while, and make me laugh.”

She settled back in her chair and opened her book.

Hester returned to the sewing she was doing, and a little while later she heard Robert’s voice in a loud guffaw, and then a moment after, another.

As Robert grew stronger and needed less constant care, Hester was able to leave Hill Street on occasion. At the first opportunity she wrote to Oliver Rathbone and asked if she might call upon him at his chambers in Vere Street.

He answered that he would be pleased to see her, but it would be necessary to restrict the meeting to a luncheon because of the pressure of the case he was preparing.

Accordingly, she presented herself at midday and found him pacing the floor of his chamber, his face showing the marks of tiredness and unaccustomed anxiety.

“How very nice to see you,” he said, smiling as she was shown in and the door closed behind her. “You look well.”

It was a meaningless comment, a politeness, and one that could not be returned with any honesty.

“You don’t,” she said with a shake of her head.

He stopped abruptly. It was not the reply he had expected. It was tactless, even for Hester.

“The Countess Rostova’s case is causing you concern,” she said with a faint smile.

“It is complex,” he said guardedly. “How did you know about it?” Then instantly he knew the answer. “Monk, I suppose.”

“No,” she replied a trifle stiffly. She had not seen Monk in some time. Their relationship was always difficult, except in moments of crisis, when the mutual antipathy between them dissolved in the bonds of a friendship founded in instinctive trust deeper than reason. “No, I heard from Callandra.”

“Oh.” He looked pleased. “Would you accompany me to luncheon? I am sorry I can spare so little time, but I am having to deal with other matters rather hastily in order to try to gather some of the defense in what I am sure will prove a very public affair.”

“Of course,” she accepted. “I should be delighted.”

“Good.” He led the way out of his office; through the outer room, past the clerks in their neat, high-buttoned suits, pens in hand, ledgers open in front of them; and out onto the street. They spoke of trivial matters until they were seated in a quiet corner of a public hostelry and had ordered a meal of cold game pie, vegetables and pickle.

“I am presently nursing Robert Ollenheim,” Hester said after the first mouthful of pie.

“Indeed.” Rathbone showed no particular interest, and she realized he had not heard the name before and it had no meaning for him.

“The Ollenheims knew Prince Friedrich quite well,” she explained, taking a little more pickle. “And, of course, Gisela—and the Countess Rostova too.”

“Oh. Oh, I see.” Now she had his attention. The color deepened in his cheeks as he realized how easily she had read him. He bent his head and concentrated on eating his pie, avoiding her eyes. “I’m sorry. Perhaps I am a trifle preoccupied. Proof for this case may be harder to find than I had anticipated.” He looked up at her quickly with a slightly rueful smile.

A buxom woman passed by, her skirts brushing their chairs.

“Have you learned anything yet from Monk?” she asked.

He shook his head. “He hasn’t reported back to me so far.”

“Where is he? In Germany?”

“No, Berkshire.”

“Why Berkshire? Is that where Friedrich died … or was killed?”

His mouth was full. He glanced up at her without bothering to reply.

“Do you think it might be political?” she said, trying to sound casual, as if the idea had just occurred to her. “To do with German unification rather than a personal crime … if indeed there was a crime?”

“Quite possibly,” he answered, still concentrating on the pie. “If he returned to his own country to lead the fight against forced unification, he would almost certainly have been obliged to leave Gisela, in spite of the fact that he did not apparently believe so, and that was what she dreaded.”

“But Gisela loved him so much, and always has done. No one at all, except Zorah, has ever questioned that,” she pointed out, trying not to sound like a governess with a slow child, but she heard her own voice sounding impatient and a little too distinct. “Even if he returned for a short while without her, if he succeeded in the fight for independence, then he could demand she return also as his queen, and they could not deny him. Does it not seem at least equally possible that someone else would have killed him to prevent him returning, perhaps someone who wanted unification?”

“Do you mean someone in the pay of one of the other German states?” he asked, considering the question.

“Possibly. Could the Countess Rostova have made the charge at someone else’s instigation, trusting that they know something they have not yet told her but will reveal when the matter comes to trial?”

He thought about it for a few moments, reaching for his glass of wine.

“I doubt it,” he said at last. “Simply because she does not seem like a person who would follow someone else’s lead.”

“What do you know about the other people who were at the house?”

He poured her a little more wine. “Very little, as yet. Monk is presently learning what he can. Most of them have gathered together there again, I presume to defend themselves against the charge. It is hardly the sort of thing an ambitious hostess wishes said about her country house party.” A very brief flicker of sardonic amusement crossed his face and was gone almost instantly. “But that is no defense for the Countess Rostova.”

She studied his features carefully, trying to read in them the complexity of his feelings. She saw the quick intelligence that had always been there, the wit, and a flash of the self-assurance which made him at once attractive and irritating. She also caught a glimmer that it was not only this case itself which caused him concern, but the flicker of doubt as to whether he had been entirely wise to take it in the first place.

“Perhaps she knows it is murder but has accused the wrong person?” she said aloud, watching him with gentleness which surprised her. “She may not be guilty of either mischief or spite, simply of not having understood the complications of the situation. Or is it possible Gisela was the one who gave him the poison without realizing what it was? She may be technically guilty and morally innocent.” She had forgotten the almost finished pie on her plate. “And when it is proved, she will withdraw her charge and apologize. And then perhaps Gisela will be sufficiently glad that the truth is known and she will accept it without seeking recompense or punishment.”

Rathbone was silent for some time.

Hester started to eat again. She was actually hungry.

“Of course it is possible,” he said after a while. “If you had met her you would not doubt either her perception or her integrity.”

Hester would question that, but realized with a jolt of surprise, and amusement, that Rathbone had been profoundly impressed by the Countess, so much so that he suspended his usual caution. It made her extremely curious about Zorah Rostova, and perhaps just a little piqued. There was rather a lot of enthusiasm in his tone.

It also showed a human vulnerability in Rathbone she had not seen before, a gap in his usual armor. It made her angry with him for being too naive, frightened that he should prove more fallible than she had imagined. She was surprised at herself, and at him, and aware every moment that passed of an increasing protectiveness.

He did not seem to have realized the heat of the emotions which were aroused by such a great public romance, the dreams quite unconnected people invested in it. In some ways he had lived a curiously protected life, from comfortable home, excellent education, exclusive university, and then training in the best solicitor’s office before being called to the bar. He knew the law, few better, and he had certainly seen crimes of passion and even depravity. But had he really tasted any breadth of ordinary human life, with its frailty, complexity and seeming contradictions?

She thought not, and the lack frightened her for him.

“You will need to learn as much as you can about the politics of the situation,” she said earnestly.

“Thank you!” There was a flicker of sarcasm in his eyes. “I had thought of that.”

“What are the Countess’s political views?” she persisted. “Is she for unification or independence? What about her family connections? Where does her money come from? Is she in love with anybody?”

She could see by his face that he had not thought of at least the last question. A moment of surprise lit in his eyes, and then he masked it.

“I suppose there is no chance she will withdraw the allegation before the trial?” she said without hope. He must already have tried everything he knew to persuade her.

“None,” he said ruefully. “She is determined to see justice done, whatever the cost to herself, and I have warned her it may be very high.”

“Then you cannot do more,” she said with an attempt at a smile. “I have talked with Baron and Baroness Ollenheim about it when I have the opportunity. She sees it all very romantically. He is a little more practical about it, and I gathered the impression that he did not greatly like Gisela. Both of them seem convinced that she and Friedrich adored each other and he would never have considered going home without her, even if the country were swallowed up in unification.” She sipped her wine, looking at him over the top of the glass. “If you can prove murder, I think it will be someone else who is guilty.”

“I am already aware of the ramifications.” He kept his voice steady, even trying to make it buoyant, and failing. “And that the Countess will be extremely unpopular for leveling such a charge. Breaking dreams never makes one liked, but sometimes it is necessary in pursuing any kind of justice.”

It was a brave speech, and the fact that he made it showed the level of his anxiety. He seemed to wish to confide in her, and yet to take the discussion only to a certain point, as if perhaps he had not yet thought beyond that point himself.

She also felt a trifle defensive against this woman who had disturbed Rathbone so uncharacteristically.

“She seems a woman of great courage,” she remarked. “I hope we shall be able to find enough evidence to open up a proper investigation. After all, it is in a sense our responsibility, since it happened in England.”

“Quite!” he agreed vehemently. “We cannot simply allow it to slip into a legend that is untrue without at least a struggle. Maybe Monk will uncover some facts which will be helpful—I mean simple things, like who had opportunity …”

“How does she believe he was killed?” she inquired.

“Poison.”

“I see. Everybody thinks that is what women use. But that doesn’t mean to say it was a woman. And everyone may not want what they say they do regarding unification or independence.”

“Of course not,” he conceded. “I shall see what Monk has learned and what new light it throws on the situation.” He tried to sound hopeful.

She smiled at him. “Don’t worry yet. This is only the beginning. After all, no one even thought of murder until the Countess said so. Everyone was happy to accept that it was natural. This may waken all sorts of memories, if we work hard enough. And there will be friends of independence who will want to know the truth, whatever it was. Perhaps even the Queen? She may be of some assistance, even if only by lending her name and her support to learning what really happened.”

He pulled a rueful face. “To prove that one of the royal family committed murder? I doubt it. It is a terrible stain, no matter how she may have disliked Gisela.”

“Oh, Oliver!” She leaned a little farther across the table and, without thinking, touched his fingers with hers. “Kings have been murdered by their relations since time immemorial! In fact, long before that. I think time immemorial is quite recent in the history of kings and ambition, love, hate and murder. No one who has ever read the Bible is going to find it so difficult to believe.”

“I suppose you are right.” He relaxed and picked up his wine again. “Thank you for your spirit, Hester.” He tipped the glass a fraction towards her.

She lifted her own, and they touched rims with a faint chink, his eyes gentle over the top of his glass.

She learned in a brief note from Rathbone when Monk returned from Berkshire, and the day after she went to see him in his rooms in Fitzroy Street. Their relationship had always been volatile, often critical, poised on the edge of quarrel, a curious mixture of anger and trust underneath. He infuriated her. She deplored many of his attitudes, and she knew his weaknesses. Yet she also was absolutely certain that there were dishonesties he would never commit, cruelties or acts of cowardice he would give his life rather than allow. There was a darkness in him, the voids in his memory, which frightened him more than they did her.

There had been moments, one in particular, when she had thought he might love her. Now she did not know, and she refused to think of it. But the bonds of friendship were unbreakable, and strong beyond any nature of question. She was only just in time to catch him. He was already packing to travel again.

“You can’t leave this case,” she said indignantly, standing in the middle of his reception room, which she had designed, over much objection from him, in order that his clients, and prospective clients, might feel more at ease to confide in him their problems. She had finally succeeded in persuading him that people who were not physically comfortable would be far less likely to remain and to find the words to tell him the difficult and perhaps painful details he would need to know about in order to help. Now he stood by the fire, his eyebrows raised, his expression slightly contemptuous.

“Rathbone needs you!” she said, angry that he should need to be told. He should have understood it for himself. “He’s fighting against far greater odds than he realizes. Perhaps he should not have taken the case, but he has, and there is no purpose now in wishing otherwise.”

“And I imagine, in your usual governess fashion, you told him so?” he inquired, responding to her criticism as usual.

“Didn’t you?” she challenged back.

“I told him it would be difficult …”

“And you are leaving us to fight alone?” She was so incredulous she was almost fumbling her words. She had thought many ill things of Monk at one time or another, but she could still hardly believe he would go away during a crisis. It was not his nature, not what she knew him to be. He had fought desperately and brilliantly to help her when she had needed it, as she and Rathbone had fought for him. Could he forget so easily?

He looked both angry and satisfied. There was a smile on his face very like a sneer.

“And what do you believe I should investigate next?” he said sarcastically. “Please, make some suggestions …”

“Well, you might find out a great deal more about the political situation,” she began. “Was there really a plan to have Friedrich go back home, or not? Did Gisela believe he would go without her, or did she know he would never leave her? Did he actually insist that accepting her also was the price of his return? Did he say so, and what was the answer? Did Gisela know it? Why does the Queen hate her so much? Did Friedrich know about it, whatever it is? Did the Queen’s brother Count Lansdorff know?” She drew in her breath, then went on. “Of all the people who were there that weekend, which of them have interests or relatives in other German states who might be affected by unification? Who had ambitions towards war or political power? Who has alliances anywhere else? What about the Countess herself? Who are her closest friends? There are dozens of things you could find out. Even if they only raised other questions, it would be a beginning.”

“Bravo!” He clapped his hands. “And who should I speak to in order to learn all these things?”

“I don’t know! Can’t you think of anything for yourself? Go and speak to the people of the court in exile!”

His eyes opened even wider. “You mean the court in Venice?”

“Why not?”

“You think that is a good idea?”

“Of course! If you had any loyalty to Rathbone, you wouldn’t need to ask me, you’d just go!”

Her concern for Rathbone must have cut sharply through her voice. He saw it, and a curious softness filled his face, and then something which might have been surprise or hurt. It was all there, and then gone in an instant before she was sure.

“I was just going!” he said tartly. “What do you imagine I am packing for? Or do you want me to go to Venice just as I stand? Don’t you think it would be a little more intelligent, if I am to mix with the exile court, for me to take a few changes of suitable clothes?”

She should have known. Of course, she should have. She had misjudged him. Relief welled up inside her, filling her with warmth, untying all the knots of anger and calming her fear. She found herself smiling. She should never have doubted.

“Yes, I’m so glad.” It was not quite an apology, but almost. “Yes, naturally you’ll need the appropriate clothes. Are you going by boat or train?”

“Both,” he replied. He hesitated. “You don’t need to worry so much about Rathbone,” he said grudgingly. “He isn’t a fool. And I’ll find enough evidence either to make a decent case or else persuade the Countess Rostova to withdraw before it comes to court.”

She realized with a tingle of amazement that Monk was annoyed because she was afraid for Rathbone. He was jealous, and it infuriated him. She wanted to laugh, but it would sound hysterical, and he would be quite capable of shaking her till she stopped. And she would not stop, because it was so unbelievably funny. He would misunderstand entirely, and then she would only laugh the more. They would end, closer than ever, touching, the fears and barriers forgotten for a moment. Or they would quarrel and say things which might not be meant but could not be taken back or forgotten.

He stood motionless.

She did not dare put it to the test. It mattered too much.

“I doubt she’ll apologize or withdraw,” she said quietly, her voice breaking a little. “But at least you may be able to find out whether or not he was murdered. Was he?”

“I don’t know,” he replied soberly. “It could have been poison. There are yew trees in the garden there, and anyone could pick the leaves without being noticed.”

“How would they get them to Prince Friedrich?” she asked. “You can hardly walk into a sickroom and ask the patient to eat a few leaves. Anyway, most people know what yew leaves look like; they’re sort of needles, and everyone knows they’re poisonous. It’s the sort of thing your parents tell you not to eat when you’re a child. I can remember being frightened of yew trees in graveyards when I was very young.”

“Obviously, someone made an infusion and added it to his food or drink,” he said dourly. “They could either have done that in his room or, far more likely, gone to the kitchen or distracted a servant carrying a tray upstairs. It would be easy enough. The only thing is, Gisela never left their suite of rooms. She is about the only person who didn’t go into the garden at all. All the servants will testify to that. Even at night, she remained with him all the time.”

“Someone helped her?” she said, knowing even as she did so that Gisela would never trust anyone else with such a secret.

Monk did not bother to answer.

“If he was murdered at all, it wasn’t Gisela,” she said quietly. “What are you going to do? How can we help Rathbone?”

“I don’t know.” He was unhappy and annoyed. “If we can prove it was murder, that may be all Zorah really wants. Perhaps she accused Gisela because the Princess is the one person who would have to fight to clear her name. Maybe that was the only way to force a trial and a public investigation.”

“But what about Rathbone?” she insisted. “He is the one who has undertaken to defend her. How will finding someone else guilty help him?”

“I don’t suppose it will,” he said testily, moving away from the mantelpiece. “But if that’s the truth, then that is all I can do. I assume you don’t want me to manufacture evidence to convict Gisela simply to assist Rathbone out of a predicament he’s dug himself into because he was fascinated by a German countess with outrageous opinions and listened to his heart, not his head? Or do you?”

She should have been furious with him for his vitriolic remarks and for deliberately trying to make her jealous by mentioning Zorah in these terms, the more so because he had succeeded. But for once she could read him too easily, and his motive at least was flattering. She smiled. “Find as much of the truth as you can,” she said quite lightly. “I expect he will make something worth having of it, even if it is only the dignity of saving a reputation and making a decent apology for a misplaced belief. The truth may be hard to take, but lies are always worse, in the end. Perhaps silence would have been best, but it’s too late for that now.”

“Silence?” he said with a sharp laugh. “Between two women like that? And I can’t even speak to Gisela, because she is receiving nobody.” He took another step forward. “Tell Rathbone I’ll write to him from Venice … if there’s anything to say.”

“Of course. I’ll see you when you return.” She was about to add something about doing all he could, then caught his eye and kept the silence he had referred to so scathingly. She would miss him, knowing he was not even in London, but she certainly did not say that.