Weighed in the Balance

2

MONK RECEIVED THE LETTER from Oliver Rathbone with interest. It came with the first post when he had only just finished breakfast. He read it still standing by the table.

Rathbone’s cases were always serious ones, frequently involving violent crime, intense emotions, and they tested Monk’s abilities to the limit. He liked finding the outer limits of his skill, his imagination, and his mental and physical endurance. He needed to learn about himself far more than most men because a carriage accident three years before had robbed him of every shred of his memory. Except for the flickers, the remnants of light and shadow which danced across his mind, elusively, without warning every now and then, there was nothing. Occasionally those memories were pleasant, like the ones from childhood of his mother, his sister, Beth, and the wild Northumberland coast with its bare sands and infinite horizon. He heard the sound of gulls and saw in his mind’s eye the painted wood of fishing boats riding the gray-green water, and smelled the salt wind over the heather.

Other memories were less agreeable: his quarrels with Runcorn, his superior while he was on the police force. He had sudden moments of understanding that Runcorn’s resentment of him was in large part provoked by his own arrogance. He had been impatient with Runcorn’s slightly slower mind. He had mocked his boss’s social ambition, and had used his knowledge of the vulnerability which Runcorn had never been able to hide. Had their roles been reversed, Monk would have hated Runcorn just as much as Runcorn hated him. That was the painful part of it: he disliked so much of what he learned of himself. Of course, there had been good things as well. No one had ever denied he had courage and intelligence, or that he was honest. Sometimes he told the truth as he saw it when it would have been kinder, and certainly wiser, to have kept silence.

He had learned a little of his other relationships, particularly with women. None of them had been very fortunate. He seemed to have fallen in love with women who were softly beautiful, whose loveliness and gentle manners complemented his own strength and, in the end, whose lack of courage and passion for life had left him feeling lonelier than before, and disillusioned. Perhaps he had expected the things he valued from the wrong people. The truth was, he knew their relationships only from the cold evidence of facts, of which there were few, and the emotions of memory stirred by the women concerned. Not many of them were kind, and none explained.

With Hester Latterly it was different. He had met her after the accident. He knew every detail of their friendship, if that was the term for it. Sometimes it was almost enmity. He had loathed her to begin with. Even now she frequently angered him with her opinionated manner and her stubborn behavior. There was nothing romantic about her, nothing feminine or appealing. She made no concession to gentleness or to the art of pleasing.

No, that was not entirely true. When there was real pain, fear, grief or guilt, then no one on earth was stronger than Hester, no one braver or more patient. Give the devil her due—there was no one as brave … or as willing to forgive. He valued those qualities more than he could measure. And they also infuriated him. He was so much more attracted to women who were fun, uncritical, charming; who knew when to speak, how to flatter and laugh, how to enjoy themselves; who knew how to be vulnerable in the little things it was so easy to supply, and yet not discard the great things, the sacrifices which cost too much, asked of the fabric of his nature and his dreams.

He stood in his room, which Hester had arranged so as to be more inviting to prospective clients for his services, now that he had acrimoniously departed from the police force. Investigation, so far as he knew, was his only art. He read Rathbone’s letter, which was short and lacking in detail.

Dear Monk,

I have a new case in which I require some investigation which may be complicated and delicate. The case, when it comes to trial, will be hard fought and most difficult to prove. If you are willing and able to undertake it, please present yourself at my chambers at the soonest possible moment. I shall endeavour to make myself available.

Yours,

Oliver Rathbone

It was unlike Rathbone to give so little information. He sounded anxious. If the urbane and so very slightly condescending Rathbone was worried, that in itself was sufficient to intrigue Monk. Their relationship was of grudging mutual respect tempered by spasms of antipathy born of an arrogance, an ambition, and an intelligence in common, and temperaments, social background, and professional training entirely different. It was added to by the very specific thing they shared, cases they had fought together and in which they had believed passionately, disasters and triumphs; and by a deep regard for Hester Latterly, denied by each of them as anything more than a sincere friendship.

Monk smiled to himself and, collecting his jacket, went to the door to find a hansom cab from Fitzroy Street, where he lodged, to Vere Street and Rathbone’s offices.

Monk, duly engaged by Rathbone, went to the Countess’s apartments off Piccadilly just before four o’clock in the afternoon. He thought it a likely time to find her at home. And if she were not there, then she would almost certainly return in time to change for dinner—if she still continued to go out for dinner after having publicly made such a startling accusation. She would hardly be on most people’s guest lists anymore.

The door was opened by a maid he assumed to be French. She was small and dark and very pretty, and he remembered from somewhere that fashionable ladies who could afford it had French maids. Certainly this girl spoke with a decided accent.

“Good afternoon, sir.”

“Good afternoon.” Monk did not feel it necessary to try to win anyone’s liking. The Countess was the person in need of help, if she had not already placed herself beyond it. “My name is William Monk. Sir Oliver Rathbone”—he recalled the “sir” only just in time to include it—“asked me to call upon the Countess Rostova to see if I could be of assistance.”

The maid smiled at him. She really was very pretty indeed.

“But of course. Please come in.” She opened the door wider and held it while he passed her and walked into a spacious but unremarkable vestibule. There was a large urn of daisies of some sort on a jardiniere. He could smell the rich summery aroma of them. She closed the door, then led him straight into a farther room and invited him to wait while she summoned her mistress.

He stood and stared around him. The room was utterly alien to his taste or experience, and yet he did not feel uncomfortable. He wondered what Rathbone had made of it. It obviously belonged to someone who did not give a fig for convention. He walked over to look more closely at the ebony-fronted bookcase. The books inside were in several languages: German, French, Russian and English. There were novels, poetry, accounts of travels, and some philosophy. He took out one or two and saw that they all opened quite easily, as if they had been well handled. They were not there for effect, but because someone liked to read them.

The Countess seemed in no hurry. He was disappointed. She was going to be one of those women who kept a man waiting in order to feel some kind of mastery of the situation.

He swung around towards the room and was startled to see her standing in the doorway, absolutely still, watching him. Rathbone had not said that she was beautiful, which was an extraordinary omission. Monk did not know why, but he had imagined someone plain. She had dark hair, tied very loosely. She was of roughly average height, and had no figure to speak of, but her face was extraordinary. She had long, slightly slanted eyes of golden green above wide cheekbones. It was not so much a thing of form or color which made her so arresting as the laughter and the intelligence in her—and the sheer vibrancy of her character. She made anyone else seem slow and apathetic. He did not even notice what she was wearing; it could have been anything, fashionable or not.

She was looking at him with curiosity. She still did not move from the doorway.

“So you are the man who is going to assist Sir Oliver.” She was on the brink of smiling, as if he interested and amused her. “You are not what I expected.”

“Which, no doubt, I should take as a compliment,” he said dryly.

This time she did laugh, a rich, slightly husky sound full of pleasure. She came in and walked easily over to the chair opposite where he stood.

“You should,” she agreed. “Please sit down, Mr. Monk, unless standing makes you feel more comfortable?” She sank, in a single, graceful movement, onto the chair and sat, straight-backed, her feet sideways, staring at him. She managed her skirt as if it were only the slightest hindrance to her. “What do you wish to know from me?”

He had considered this carefully on his way over. He did not wish for emotions, opinions, convictions as to other people’s motives or beliefs. There might be a time for that later, as indications of which way to look for something or how to interpret ambiguous information. From what Rathbone had told him, he had expected someone far less intelligent, but all the same he would proceed with his original plan.

He sat down on the leather-covered sofa and relaxed as if he were utterly comfortable too.

“Tell me what happened from the first incident or occasion you believe relevant. I want only what you saw or heard. Anything that you suppose or deduce can wait until later. If you say you know something, I shall expect you to be able to prove it.” He watched her carefully to see irritation and surprise in her face, and did not find it.

She folded her hands, like a good schoolgirl, and began.

“We all dined together. It was an excellent party. Gisela was in good spirits and regaled us with anecdotes of life in Venice, which is where they live most of the time. The exile court is there, in so much as it is anywhere at all. Klaus von Seidlitz kept turning the conversation to politics, but we all find that a bore and no one listened to him, least of all Gisela. She made one or two rather cutting remarks about him. I can’t remember now what she said, but we all thought it was funny, except Klaus himself, of course. No one likes being the butt of a joke, especially a truly amusing one.”

Monk was watching her with interest. He was tempted to let his imagination wander and think what kind of woman she was when not pressed by circumstances of death, anger and a lawsuit which could ruin her. Why on earth had she chosen to speak out about her suspicions? Had she no idea what it would cost her? Was she such a fanatic patriot? Or had she once loved Friedrich herself? What consuming passion lay behind her words?

She was talking about the following day now.

“It was mid-morning.” She looked at him curiously, aware he was only half listening. “We were to have a picnic luncheon. The servants were bringing everything in the pony trap. Gisela and Evelyn were coming in a gig.”

“Who is Evelyn?” he interrupted.

“Klaus von Seidlitz’s wife,” Zorah replied. “She doesn’t ride either.”

“Gisela doesn’t ride?”

Amusement flickered over her face. “No. Did Sir Oliver not tell you that? There is no question of the accident’s being deliberate, you know. She would never do anything so bold or so extremely risky. Not many people die in riding falls. One is far more likely to break a leg, or even one’s back. The last thing she wanted was a cripple!”

“It would stop him returning home to lead the resistance to unification,” he argued.

“He wouldn’t have to lead them physically, riding on a white horse, you know,” she said with dismissive laughter. “He could have been a figurehead for them even in a Bath chair!”

“And you believe he would have gone, even in those circumstances?”

“Certainly he would have considered it,” she said without hesitation. “He never abandoned the faith that one day his country would welcome him back and that Gisela would have her rightful place beside him.”

“But you told Rathbone that they would not accept her,” he pointed out. “You could not be mistaken about that?”

“No.”

“Then how could Friedrich still believe it?”

She shrugged very slightly. “You would have to know Friedrich to understand how he grew up. He was born to be king. He spent his entire childhood and youth being groomed for it, and the Queen is a rigid taskmistress. He obeyed every rule, and the crown was his burden and his prize.”

“But he gave it all up for Gisela.”

“I don’t think until the very last moment he believed they would make him choose between them,” she said with faint surprise in her eyes. “Then, of course, it was too late. He could never understand the finality of it. He was convinced they would relent and call him back. He saw his banishment as a gesture, not something to last forever.”

“And it seems he was right,” Monk pointed out. “They did want him back.”

“But not at the price of bringing Gisela with him. He did not understand that—but she did. She was far more of a realist.”

“The accident,” he prompted.

“He was taken back to Wellborough Hall,” she resumed. “The doctor was called, naturally. I don’t know what he said, only what I was told.”

“What were you told?” Monk asked.

“That Friedrich had broken several ribs, his right leg in three places, his right collarbone, and that he was severely bruised internally.”

“Prognosis?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“What did the doctor expect of his recovery?”

“Slow, but he did not believe his life to be in danger, unless there were injuries that he had not yet determined.”

“How old was Friedrich?”

“Forty-two.”

“And Gisela?”

“Thirty-nine. Why?”

“So he was not a young man, for such a heavy fall.”

“He did not die of his injuries. He was poisoned.”

“How do you know?” For the first time she hesitated.

He waited, looking at her steadily.

After a while she gave a very slight shrug. “If I could prove it, I would have gone to the police. I know it because I know the people. I have known them for years. I have watched the whole pattern unfold. She is performing the desolated widow very well … too well. She is in the center of the stage, and she is loving it.”

“That may be hypocritical and unattractive,” he replied. “But it is not criminal. And even that is still only belief, your perception of her.”

She looked down at last. “I know that, Mr. Monk. I was there in the house all the time. I saw everyone who came and went. I heard them speak and saw their looks towards one another. I have been part of the court circle since my childhood. I know what happened, but I have not a shred of proof. Gisela murdered Friedrich because she was afraid he would hear the voice of duty at last and go home to lead the fight against unification into greater Germany. Waldo would not do it, and there is no one else. He might have thought he could take her, but she knew the Queen would never permit it, even now, on the brink of dissolution or war.”

“Why did she wait for days?” he asked. “Why not kill him immediately? It would have been safer and more readily accepted.”

“There was no need, if he was going to die anyway,” she responded. “And to begin with we all thought he would.”

“Why does the Queen hate her so much?” he probed. He could not imagine a passion so virulent it would overshadow even this crisis. He wondered whether it was the character of the Queen which nurtured it or something in Gisela which fired such a fierce emotion in Friedrich and the Queen—and seemingly in this extraordinary woman in front of him in her vivid, idiosyncratic room with its burnished shawl and unlit candles.

“I don’t know.” There was a slight lift of surprise in her voice, and her eyes seemed to stare far away to some vision of the mind. “I have often wondered, but I have never heard.”

“Have you any idea of the poison you believe Gisela used?”

“No. He died quite suddenly. He became giddy and cold, then went into a coma, so Gisela said. The servants who were in and out said the same. And, of course, the doctor.”

“That could be dozens of things,” he said grimly. “It could perfectly well be bleeding to death from internal injuries.”

“Naturally!” Zorah replied with some asperity. “What would you expect? Something that looked like poison? Gisela is selfish, greedy, vain and cruel, but she is not a fool.” Her face was filled with deep anger and a terrible sense of loss, as if something precious had slipped away through her fingers, even as she watched it and strove desperately to cling on. Her features, which had seemed so beautiful to him when he first came in, were now too strong, her eyes too clever, her mouth pinched hard with pain.

He rose to his feet.

“Thank you for your frank answers, Countess Rostova. I will go back to Mr. Rathbone and consider the next steps to be taken.”

It was only after taking his leave, when he was outside in the sun, that he remembered he had omitted Rathbone’s new title.

“I can’t imagine why you took the case!” he said abruptly to Rathbone when he reported to him in his office an hour later. The clerks had all gone home, and the dying light was golden in the windows. Outside in the street the traffic was teeming, carriage wheels missing each other by inches, drivers impatient, horses hot and tired and the air sharp with droppings.

Rathbone was already on edge, aware of his own misjudgment.

“Is that your way of saying you feel it is beyond your ability to investigate?” he said coldly.

“If I had meant that, I would have said it,” Monk replied, sitting down unasked. “When did you ever know me to be indirect?”

“You mean tactful?” Rathbone’s eyebrows shot up. “Never. I apologize. It was an unnecessary question. Will you investigate her claim?”

That was more bluntly put than Monk had expected. It caught him a little off guard.

“How? Unless, of course, you have formed some opinion that the original fall was contrived?”

Monk went on, “Even she is quite certain it was exactly what it seemed. She thinks Gisela poisoned him, although she doesn’t know how, or with what, and has only a very general idea why.”

Rathbone smiled, showing his teeth only slightly. “She has you rattled, Monk, or you would not be misquoting her so badly. She knows very precisely why. Because there was a strong possibility Friedrich might return home without her, divorcing her for his country’s sake. She would cease to be one of the world’s most glamorous lovers, titled, rich and envied, and would instead become an abandoned ex-wife, dependent, her erstwhile friends pitying her. It doesn’t take a great leap of the imagination to understand her emotions faced with those alternatives.”

“You think she killed him?” Monk was surprised, not that Rathbone should believe it, that was easy enough, but that he should be prepared to defend that belief in court. At the very kindest, it was foolish; at the unkindest, he had taken leave of his wits.

“I think it is highly probable that someone did,” Rathbone corrected coldly, leaning back in his chair, his face hard. “I would like you to go to Lord and Lady Wellborough’s country home, where you will be introduced by Baron Stephan von Emden, a friend of the Countess who will know who you are.” He pursed his lips. “You will be able to learn all that is now possible of the events after the accident. You will have to make the opportunity to question the servants and observe the people who were there at the time, with the exception, of course, of the Princess Gisela. Apparently this accusation has brought them together again, not unnaturally, I suppose.

“I hope you will be able to deduce at least who had opportunity to have poisoned the Prince, and if anything whatever was observed that could be used in evidence. You will also question the doctor who attended the Prince and wrote the death certificate.”

From outside in the street the noise of the traffic drifted up through the half-open window. In the office beyond the door there was silence.

There were many reasons to accept the case: Rathbone needed help urgently, and it would give Monk considerable satisfaction to be in a position where for once Rathbone was in his debt. Monk had no other cases of any importance at the moment and would value the occupation and the income from it. But most of all, his curiosity was so sharp he could feel it as distinctly as an itching of the skin.

“Yes, of course I will,” he said with a smile, perhaps more wolfish than friendly.

“Good,” Rathbone accepted. “I am obliged. I shall give you Baron von Emden’s address and you can introduce yourself to him. Perhaps you could go to Wellborough Hall as his manservant?”

Monk was appalled. “What?”

“Perhaps you could go as his manservant,” Rathbone repeated, his eyes wide. “It would give you an excellent opening to speak with the other servants and learn what they …” He stopped, the ghost of a smile on his lips. “Or you could go as an acquaintance, if you would feel more at ease. I realize you may not be familiar with the duties of a valet …”

Monk rose to his feet, his face set. “I shall go as his acquaintance,” he said stiffly. “I shall let you know what I learn, if anything. No doubt you will be somewhat concerned to know.” And with that he bade Rathbone good night and took the piece of paper on which Rathbone had written the Baron’s address from the desktop and went out.

Monk arrived at Wellborough Hall six days after Zorah Rostova walked into Rathbone’s offices and requested the lawyer’s help. It was now early September, golden autumn, with the stubble fields stretching into the distance, the chestnuts just beginning to turn amber and the occasional strip of newly plowed land showing rich and dark where the wet earth was ready for planting.

Wellborough Hall was a huge, spreading Georgian building of classical proportions. One approached it up a drive that was over a mile long and largely lined with elms. On either side parkland spread towards woods, and beyond that were more open fields and copses. It was easy to picture the owners of such a place entertaining royalty, riding happily amid such beauty, until tragedy had halted them, reminding them of their frailty.

Monk had called upon Stephan von Emden and found him happy to offer all the assistance he could to angle for an invitation for Monk to accompany him as his “friend” on his imminent trip to the Hall. Stephan said he was fascinated by the idea of investigation and found Monk an intriguing study, his manner of life utterly different from his own. He also explained that they were all gathering at Wellborough Hall again to make sure of their stories about Friedrich’s death in case there should be a trial.

Monk felt a trifle disconcerted to be watched so closely, and as their journey continued, he had realized that Stephan was neither as casual nor as uninformed as he had at first assumed. Monk had betrayed himself, at least in his own eyes, more than once by his own prejudgments that because Stephan was titled and wealthy, he was also narrow in his outlook and relatively useless in any practical sense. Now Monk was angry with himself for allowing the restrictions of his upbringing to show. He was trying to pass himself off as a gentleman. Some part of his mind knew that gentlemen were not so brittle, so quick to assume, or so defensive of their dignity. They knew they did not need to be.

He was disgusted with himself because his prejudgments were unfair. He despised unfairness, the more so when it was also stupid.

They arrived at the magnificent entrance and stepped out of the carriage to be welcomed by a liveried footman. Monk was about to look for his very carefully packed cases when he remembered just in time that to bring them in was the valet’s job, and he should not even think of doing it himself. A gentleman would walk straight into the house in the total trust that servants would see that his belongings were taken to his room, unpacked and everything put in its appropriate place.

They were welcomed by Lady Wellborough, a far younger woman than Monk had expected. She looked no more than in her middle thirties, slender, fractionally above average height, with thick brown hair. She was comely enough to look at, but not beautiful. Her chief charms lay in her intelligence and vitality. The moment she saw them she sailed down the marvelous staircase with its wrought iron railing gleaming with the occasional gold. Her face was alight with enthusiasm.

“My dear Stephan!” Her gigantic skirts swirled around her, the hoops springing back as she stopped. Her gown had a separate bodice, as was now fashionable, large sleeved, tight waisted, showing off her slenderness. “How wonderful to see you,” she went on. “And this must be your friend Mr. Monk.” She looked at Monk with great interest, eyeing his smooth, high-boned cheeks, slightly aquiline nose and sardonic mouth. He had seen that look of surprise in women’s eyes before, as if they saw in him something they had not expected, but against their judgment could not dislike.

He inclined his head.

“How do you do, Lady Wellborough. It was most generous of you to permit me to join you this weekend. Already I am more than rewarded.”

She smiled widely. It was a most engaging expression and entirely unstudied.

“I hope you will find yourself much more so before you leave.” She turned to Stephan. “Thank you, you have done particularly well this time, my dear. Allsop will show you upstairs, although I’m sure you know the way.” She looked back at Monk. “Dinner is at nine. We shall all be in the withdrawing room by about eight, I should imagine. Count Lans-dorff and Baron von Seidlitz went out walking, towards the weekend shoot, I think. See the lie of the land. Do you shoot, Mr. Monk?”

Monk had no memory of ever having shot, and his social position made it almost impossible that he would have had the opportunity.

“No, Lady Wellborough. I prefer sports of a more equal match.”

“Oh, my goodness!” She laughed in high good humor. “Bare-knuckle boxing? Or horse racing? Or billiards?”

He had no idea if he had skill in any of these either. He had spoken too quickly, and now risked making a fool of himself.

“I shall attempt whatever is offered,” he replied, feeling the color burn up his cheeks. “Except where I am likely to endanger the other guests by my lack of proficiency.”

“How original!” she exclaimed. “I shall look forward to dinner.”

Monk already dreaded it.

It turned out to be every bit as testing to his nerves as he had expected. He looked well. He knew that from the glass. As far as he was aware, he had spent much of his professional life in the police force and he had always been personally vain. His wardrobe and his tailor’s, bootmaker’s and shirtmaker’s bills attested to that. He must have spent a great deal of his salary on his appearance. He had no need to borrow in order to present himself at this house respectably attired.

But conducting himself at table was another matter. These people all knew each other and had an entire lifestyle in common, not to mention hundreds of acquaintances. They would know within ten minutes that he was an outsider in every sense. What conceivable excuse could he find, not only to preserve his pride, but to fulfill his purpose and save Rathbone’s extraordinarily stupid neck?

There were only nine of them at the dinner table, an extremely small number for a country house party, although it was early September, and therefore still the tail end of the London season, and too early for the great winter house parties where guests frequently stayed for a month or more, coming and going as they pleased.

Monk had been introduced to them all, quite casually, as if one might have expected him to be here and it needed no explanation. Opposite him at the table sat Friedrich’s uncle, Queen Ulrike’s brother, Count Rolf Lansdorff. He was a fairly tall man with military bearing, dark hair smoothed close to his head and receding a little at the front. His face was agreeable, but there was no mistaking the power in the thin, delicate lips or the broad nose. His diction was precise, his voice beautiful. He regarded Monk with only the very mildest interest.

Klaus von Seidlitz was utterly different. He was physically very large, several inches taller than the others, broad shouldered, rather shambling. His thick hair fell forward a little, and he had a habit of pushing it back with his hand. His eyes were blue and rather round, and his brows tilted down at the outer edges. His nose was crooked, as if it had been broken at some time. He seemed very amiable, making frequent jokes, but in repose there was a watchfulness in his face which belied his outward ease. Monk wondered if he might be a great deal cleverer than he pretended.

His wife, the Countess Evelyn, was one of the most charming women Monk had ever seen. He found it difficult not to watch her across the glittering table for longer than was seemly. He could happily have forgotten the rest of the company and simply delighted in speaking to and listening to her. She was slight, although her figure was completely feminine, but it was her face which enchanted. She had large brown eyes which seemed to be filled with laughter and intelligence. Her expression made it seem as if she knew some delightful joke about life which she would willingly share, if only she could find someone who would understand it as she did. Her mouth was always smiling and she behaved as if she wished everyone well. She was quite candid about finding Monk intriguing. The fact that he knew no one she did was a source of fascination, and had it not been unpardonably discourteous, she would have questioned him all evening as to exactly who he was and what he did.

Brigitte—according to Rathbone, the woman Prince Friedrich should have married in order to please their country—sat beside Monk. She spoke very little. She was a handsome woman, broad shouldered, deep bosomed, with exquisite skin, but Monk had the sense that there was a sadness in her for all her wealth and reputed popularity.

The remaining guest was Florent Barberini, a distant cousin to Friedrich, half Italian. He had all the dramatic dark good looks Monk would have expected from such a lineage, as well as an ease of manner and total self-confidence. His thick, wavy hair grew from his brow in a widow’s peak. His eyes were dark, heavily lashed; his mouth full of humor and sensuality. He flirted with all three women as if it were a habit. Monk disliked him.

Their host, Lord Wellborough, sat at the head of the table in the magnificent French blue and rose dining room with its twenty-foot oak table, three oak sideboards, and a blazing fire. He was a man of very average height with fair hair which he wore rather short, springing up from his head as if to give him extra height. He had very good eyes, clear gray-blue, and strong bones, but an almost lipless mouth. In repose his face had a hard, closed look.

The first course was served, a choice of soups, either vermicelli or bisque. Monk took the bisque and found it delicious. It was followed by salmon, smelts or deviled whitebait. He chose the salmon, delicate, pink, falling from the fork. He saw how much was taken away untouched and wondered if the servants would be offered any of it. Every other guest would have come with the proper complement of valets, lady’s maids, and possibly footmen and coachmen as well. Stephan had very smoothly explained Monk’s lack of a manservant by saying that he had been taken unwell. Whatever thoughts might have crossed their minds, no one was impolite enough to ask for further enlightenment.

The fish was followed by entrées of curried eggs, sweetbreads and mushrooms, or quenelles of rabbit.

Evelyn was the center of much attention, and this gave Monk an excuse to look at her himself. She was truly enchanting. She had the wholesomeness and the innocent mischief of a child, and yet the warmth and the wit of a woman of intelligence.

Florent flattered her shamelessly, and she parried it with grace, laughing at him, but not with any displeasure.

If Klaus minded there was no reflection of it in his rather heavy features. He was apparently more interested in discussing certain mutual acquaintances with Wellborough.

The entrée plates were cleared away and the removes were served, which that night were iced asparagus. The table sparkled with crystal, the facets reflecting the myriad candles of the chandeliers. Silver cutlery, condiment sets, goblets and vases gleamed. The flowers from the conservatory scented the air and were piled around with ornamental fruit.

Monk dragged his attention from Evelyn and discreetly studied the other guests in turn. They had all been present when Friedrich fell, during his seeming convalescence, and at the time of his death. What had they seen or heard? What did they believe had happened? How much truth did they want, and at what price? He was not there to eat exquisite food and playact at being a gentleman, subtle anguish as that was, lurching from one social tightrope to another. Zorah’s reputation, her whole manner of life, hung in the balance, and so very possibly did Rathbone’s. In a sense Monk’s honor did too. He had given his word to help. The fact that the cause was almost impossible was irrelevant. There was also the chance that Prince Friedrich had indeed been murdered, probably not by his widow but by one of the people talking and laughing around this splendid table, lifting the wine goblets to their lips, diamonds winking in the candlelight.

They finished the asparagus and the game course was brought, a choice of quails, grouse, partridge or black cocks, and of course more wine. Monk had never seen so much food in his life.

The conversation swirled around him, talk of fashion, of theater, of social functions at which they had seen this person or that, who had been in whose company, possible forthcoming betrothals or marriages. It seemed to Monk as if every major family must be related to every other in ramifications too complex to disentangle. He felt more and more excluded as the evening wore on. Perhaps he should have taken Rathbone’s suggestion, repugnant as it was, and come as Stephan’s valet. It would have galled his pride, but it might in the long run have been less painful than being shown to be a social inferior, pretending to be something he was not, as if being accepted mattered to him so much he would lie! He could feel the rage at such a thought tightening his stomach till he was sitting so rigidly in his carved, silk-covered chair that his back ached.

“I doubt we shall be invited,” Brigitte was saying ruefully to some suggestion Klaus had made.

“Why ever not?” He looked annoyed. “I always go. Been every year since, oh, ’53!”

Evelyn put her fingers up to cover her smile, her eyes wide.

“Oh, dear! Do you really think it makes that much difference? Shall we all be personae non grata now? How perfectly ridiculous. It’s nothing to do with us.”

“It has everything to do with us,” Rolf said flatly. “It’s our royal family, and we specifically were all here when it happened.”

“Nobody believes the damn woman!” Klaus said, his heavy face set in lines of anger. “As usual, she has only spoken out of a desire to draw attention to herself at any price, and possibly from revenge because Friedrich threw her over twelve years ago. The woman’s mad … always was.”

Monk realized with sharpened interest that they were speaking of Zorah and the effect her accusation was having upon their social lives. It was an aspect that had not occurred to him, and it was peculiarly repugnant. But he should not lose the opportunity to make something of it.

“Surely it will all be forgotten as soon as the case is heard?” he asked, trying to affect innocence.

“That depends on what the wretched woman says,” Klaus replied sourly. “There’s always someone fool enough to repeat a piece of gossip, however fatuous.”

Monk wondered why Klaus should care what anyone whom he held in such contempt thought, but there were more profitable questions to ask.

“What could she say that any sane person could credit?” he asked, with the same air of sympathy.

“You must have heard the gossip.” Evelyn stared at him, wide-eyed. “Simply everyone is talking about it. She has virtually accused Princess Gisela of having killed poor Friedrich … I mean intentionally! As if she would! They adored each other. All the world knows that.”

“It would have made more sense if someone had killed Gisela,” Rolf said with a grimace. “That I could believe.”

Monk did not have to feign interest. “Why?”

Everyone at the table turned to look at him, and he realized with anger at himself that he had been naive and too abrupt. But it was too late to retreat. If he added anything he would only make it worse.

It was not Rolf who answered but Evelyn.

“Well, she is very quick-witted, very glamorous. She does overshadow people a bit. It wouldn’t be hard to imagine someone being the butt of her wit and feeling so angry, and perhaps humiliated, they could”—she shrugged her beautiful shoulders—“lose their temper and wish her ill.” She smiled as she said it, robbing it of any viciousness.

It was a picture of Gisela that Monk had not seen before; not merely funny, but a cruel wit. Perhaps he should not be surprised. These people had little to fear, little need to guard what they said or whether they offended, unlike most of the people he knew. He wondered fleetingly how much of anyone’s good manners was a matter of self-preservation, how much genuine desire for the comfort of mind of others. Only in those with nothing at all to fear would he know.

He looked from Evelyn’s charming face to Lady Wellborough, then Klaus, and then Rolf.

“Surely, if it actually comes to a trial, it will be easy enough to prove what happened?” he asked mildly. “Everyone who was here can testify, and with you all of one accord, she will be shown up for a liar, or worse.”

“We shall have to see that we do agree first,” Stephan said with a twisted smile and serious eyes. “After all, we do know more or less what happened. We shall have to be clear about what we don’t know so we don’t contradict each other.”

“What the devil do you mean?” Lord Wellborough demanded, his face pinched till his already thin lips all but disappeared. “Of course we know what happened. Prince Friedrich died of his injuries.” He said it as if even the words pained him. Monk wondered uncharitably if the pain came from his affection for Friedrich or from the stain on his reputation as a host.

Monk set down his spoon and ignored his confiture of nectarines. “I imagine they will require greater detail. They will wish to know what happened in the moment-to-moment running of the house, who had access to the rooms where Prince Friedrich was, who prepared his food, who brought it up, who came or went at any time.”

“Whatever for?” Evelyn asked. “They don’t imagine any of us harmed him, do they? They couldn’t. Why? Why should we? We were all his friends. We have been for years.”

“Domestic murders are usually committed by one’s family … or one’s friends,” Monk replied.

A look of profound distaste crossed Rolf’s face. “Possibly. It is something of which, thank God, I have very little knowledge. I presume Gisela will employ the best barrister available, a queen’s counsel at the least. And he will conduct the case in the manner best designed to avoid whatever scandal is not already inevitable.” He looked at Monk coldly. “Would you be good enough to pass me the cheese, sir?”

There was already a board with seven cheeses in front of him. His meaning was perfectly clear. They ate the ices course—Neapolitan cream and raspberry water—without referring to it again, and then the fruit, pineapples, strawberries, apricots, cherries and melons.

Monk did not sleep well, in spite of the train journey, which had been tiring, the long evening’s endurance test at the table and afterwards in the smoking room, and lastly the excellent four-poster bed with down pillows and quilt. When Stephan’s valet came in the morning to inform him that his bath was drawn and his clothes for the morning were laid out, he awoke with an uncomfortable jolt.

Breakfast was a vast affair, but informal. People came and went as they pleased, taking from a sideboard laden with chafing dishes filled with eggs, meat, vegetables and various baked pastries and breads. On the table were frequently renewed pots of tea, dishes of preserves, butter, fresh fruit and even sweetmeats.

The only other diners present when Monk arrived were Stephan, Florent and Lord Wellborough. The conversation was unremarkable. When they had finished, Stephan offered to show Monk around the nearer parts of the estate, and Monk accepted with alacrity.

“What are you going to do to help Zorah?” Stephan asked as he conducted Monk around the orangery, pointing towards various features while saying nothing about them at all. “We were all here after Friedrich’s fall, but he was confined to his rooms, and Gisela wouldn’t allow anyone else to visit him except Rolf, and even he went only twice, so far as I know. But anyone at all could have visited the kitchens or waylaid a servant on the stairs who was carrying a tray.”

“Is that why you think it was Gisela?” Monk asked.

Stephan seemed genuinely surprised. “No, of course not. It’ll be the devil’s own job to prove he was murdered at all! I believe it was Gisela because Zorah says it was. And she is absolutely right about him always believing he could return, and Gisela knowing he couldn’t … not with her.”

“Not very convincing,” Monk observed.

They walked around the edge of the orangery and along a path between graceful hedges of close-clipped hornbeam. At the end of the way, about forty yards, there was a stone urn dripping scarlet with late geraniums, and behind that a dark yew hedge.

“I know,” Stephan said with a sudden smile. “But if you knew those people it would make sense to you. If you had seen Gisela …”

“Tell me about the day before the accident,” Monk said quickly. “Or if you prefer, the day you remember most vividly, even the week before.”

Stephan thought for several minutes before he began. They moved slowly down the path towards the urn and the yew hedge, then turned left along an elm avenue that stretched for half a mile.

“Breakfast was always much the same,” he said, knitting his brows in concentration. “Gisela was not down. She ate in her room, and Friedrich took his with her. He usually did. It was one of the rituals of the day. I think, actually, he liked to watch her dress. No matter what time or season, she always looked superb. She had a genius for it.”

Monk made no reply to that. “What did everyone else do, after?” he asked, slowing the pace a trifle.

Stephan smiled. “Florent flirted with Zorah—in the orangery, I think. Brigitte went walking alone. Wellborough and Rolf talked business in the library. Lady Wellborough did something domestic. I spent the morning playing golf with Friedrich and Klaus. Gisela and Evelyn walked roughly where we are now, and quarreled over something. They came back separately, and both in a temper.”

They were moving away from the house, still under the elms. A gardener passed them pushing a wheelbarrow. He raised his cap respectfully and mumbled something. Stephan acknowledged him with a nod. Monk felt rude, but he did not wish to distinguish himself as different by speaking to the man. It was not expected.

“And the afternoon?” he pressed.

“Oh, we all had luncheon rather early and everyone disappeared to plan the evening, because we were having a party and there were to be amateur theatricals. Gisela was terribly good at it, and she was to take the lead.”

“Was that unusual?”

“Not at all. She often did. One of her great gifts is the ability to enjoy herself completely, and to do it in such a way that everyone around her enjoys themselves also. She can be totally impulsive, think of the most entertaining ideas, and then simply do them. Without making a fuss or getting weighed down in preparations, which kill the fun. She is the most spontaneous person I ever have known. I think after all the rigid formality of court, when everything is planned weeks in advance and everyone follows the rules, that was what so enchanted Friedrich about her. She was like a summer wind through a house that had been closed up for centuries.”

“You like her,” Monk observed.

Stephan smiled. “I don’t think I would say I like her, but I am fascinated by her and by the effect she has on people.”

“Which is?”

Stephan glanced at him, his eyes bright. “Varied,” he replied. “The only thing it never is is indifferent.”

“How about Evelyn and Zorah?” Monk asked. “How did they like playing supporting roles to Gisela’s lead?”

Stephan’s expression was hard to read. “Evelyn can play the ingenue, or even a boy, rather well, which she did on this occasion. She was captivating. She managed to be boyish and utterly feminine at the same time.”

Monk could imagine it with pleasure. Evelyn’s mischievous face, with its youthful lines and wide eyes, and her completely womanly softness would make a beguiling youth full of appeal. Her slender figure would still be unmistakably female, even in masculine costume.

“I can’t see Zorah in that role,” he admitted, looking sideways at Stephan.

Stephan hesitated before he replied. They were several paces farther along the track when he spoke.

“No. She was cast as a loyal friend who carried the messages which furnished some of the plot.”

Monk waited, but Stephan did not add anything.

“Who was the hero?”

“Florent, of course.”

“And the villain?”

“Oh—I was.” He laughed. “Actually, I rather enjoyed it. Other people you don’t know took the minor parts. Brigitte did one of them; somebody’s mother, I think.”

Monk winced. Perhaps it had not been intended as cruel, but he perceived it so.

“Was it a success?”

“Enormously. Gisela was very good. She made up a bit of it as she went along. It was difficult for the others to follow, but it was so witty no one minded. The audience applauded wildly. And Florent was good as well. He seemed to know instinctively what to say or do to make it look natural.”

“And Zorah?”

Stephan’s expression changed; the amusement drained away, leaving unhappiness. “I’m afraid she did not enjoy it so much. She was the butt of a few of Gisela’s funnier remarks, but Friedrich was amused and hardly ever took his eyes from Gisela, and Zorah had the sense not to show her feelings.”

“But she was angry.”

“Yes, she was. However, she had her revenge the following day.” They climbed a dozen shallow stone steps to a grass walk and the shadow of the elms. “They all went riding,” he went on. “Gisela came in the gig. She doesn’t ride well, or care for it. Zorah is marvelous. She dared Florent to follow her over some very rough country, and they left Gisela behind in the gig and she came home alone. They arrived back an hour later, flushed and laughing, he with his arm around her. It was obvious they had had an excellent time.” He laughed, his eyes bright. “Gisela was furious.”

“I thought she was devoted to Friedrich?” Monk looked at him anxiously. “Why should she care if Zorah rode with Florent?”

Now Stephan was thoroughly amused.

“Don’t be naive!” he exclaimed. “Certainly, she was devoted to Friedrich, but she adored other admirers. It was part of her role as the great lover that all men should admire her. She is the woman for whom a throne was lost: always gorgeous, always desirable, always utterly happy. She had to be the center of the party, the most alluring, the one who could make everyone laugh at whatever she chose. She was terribly witty at dinner that evening, but Zorah was just as quick. It was a battle royal over the dinner table.”

“Unpleasant?” Monk asked, trying to visualize it and gauge the underlying emotion. Was her hatred really enough to prompt Zorah to fabricate this charge, or even to blind her to the truth and make her believe a lie because she wanted to? Was it all really stung vanity, a battle for fame and love?

Stephan stopped and stood still on the path, looking at Monk carefully for some time before answering.

“Yes,” he said at last. “I think there is a sense in which it has always been unpleasant. I’m not really sure. Perhaps I don’t understand people as well as I thought I did. I couldn’t speak as she did to anyone whom I liked, but I don’t think I really know what they felt.” The wind blew in his face, lifting his hair a little. The sky was clouding over to the west. “Zorah always believed Gisela to be selfish,” he went on. “A woman who married for position and then was cheated out of the ultimate glory. Most people believed she married for love and didn’t care about anything else. They would have thought Zorah merely jealous, had she expressed her views, but she had enough sense not to. They could never have liked each other; they were too utterly different.”

“But you believe Zorah?”

“I believe her honesty.” He hesitated. “I am not absolutely certain I believe her to be correct.”

“And yet you will stake so much to help me defend her?”

Stephan shrugged and flashed a sudden, brilliant smile. “I like her … I like her enormously. And I do think poor Friedrich might have been murdered, and if he was, we ought to know. You can’t murder princes and simply walk away. I have that much loyalty to my country.”

Monk received a very different picture when he spent a delicious afternoon in the rose garden with Evelyn. The flowers were in their second blossoming. The garden was sheltered from the light breeze, and in the still air the perfume was heavy and sweet. The climbing roses had been trained up columns and over arches, and the shrub roses were four or five feet high, making dense mounds of blossom on either side of the grass paths. Evelyn’s huge crinoline skirts touched the lavender at the edges of the beds, disturbing their scent. The two strollers were surrounded by color and perfume.

“It’s an unspeakable thing for Zorah to do,” Evelyn said, her eyes wide as if she were still amazed at it, her voice rising in indignation. “She’s always been very odd, but this is incredible, even for her.”

Monk offered his arm as they walked up a flight of stone steps to another level, and Evelyn took it quite naturally. Her hand was small and very beautiful. He was surprised how much pleasure it gave him to feel its feather touch on his sleeve.

“Has she?” he asked casually. “Why on earth do you think she said anything as strange as this? She cannot possibly believe it is true, can she? I mean, is the evidence not entirely against it?”

“Of course it is,” she said with a laugh. “For a start, why would she? If you want to be quite brutal about it … married to Friedrich, Gisela had wealth, rank and extraordinary allure. As a widow she has no rank anymore, Felzburg will make her no allowance, and even the wealth will be used up pretty rapidly if she continues the life to which she has been accustomed—and believe me, enjoyed very much indeed. He spent a fortune on jewels and gowns for her, carriages, their palace in Venice, parties, travel to anywhere she wanted. Admittedly that was only within Europe, not like Zorah, who went to the oddest places.” She stopped in front of a huge wine-red Bourbon rose and looked up at him. “I mean, why would any woman want to go to South America? Or to Turkey, or up the Nile, or to China, of all things? No wonder she never married. Who’d have her? She’s never here.” She laughed happily. “Any respectable man wants a wife who has some sense of how to behave, not one who rides astride a horse and sleeps in a tent and can and does converse with men from every walk of life.”

Monk knew that what she said was true, and he would not want such a woman as a wife himself. Zorah sounded far too like Hester Latterly, who was also outspoken and opinionated. Nevertheless, she sounded brave, and extraordinarily interesting as a friend, if nothing else.

“And Gisela is quite different?” he prompted.

“Of course.” Evelyn seemed to find that funny also. Her voice was rich with underlying amusement. “She loves the luxuries of civilized life, and she can entertain anyone with her wit. She has a gift of making everything seem sophisticated and immense fun. She is one of those people who, when she listens to you, makes you feel as if you are the most interesting person she has met and are the center of her entire attention. It is quite a talent.”

And very flattering, Monk thought with a ripple of appreciation—and a sudden warning. It was a powerful art, and perhaps a dangerous one.

They came to an arch of late-flowering white roses, and she moved a little closer to him so they could pass through side by side.

“Did Friedrich never mind Gisela’s being the center of so much attention?” Monk asked as they moved beyond the rose arch onto a path between iris beds, only green sword blades now, the flowers long over.

Evelyn smiled. “Oh, yes, sometimes. He could sulk. But she always won him around. She had only to be sweet to him and he would forget about it. He was terribly in love with her, you know, even after twelve years. He adored her. He always knew exactly where she was in a room, no matter how many other people were there.” She looked across the green iris leaves back towards the rose arch, the expression in her eyes bright and far away. He had no idea what lay in it.

“She used to dress marvelously,” she went on. “I loved just seeing what she would wear next. It must have cost a fortune, but he was so proud of her. Whatever she wore one week would be the vogue the week after. It always looked right on her. That’s a wonderful thing, you know. So feminine.”

He looked at Evelyn’s own golden brown dress with its enormous skirts and delicately cut bodice with a froth of creamy lace at the bosom, fine pointed waist and full sleeves. It was a gift she had no cause to envy. He found himself smiling back at her.

Perhaps she read his appreciation in his eyes, because she blinked and looked down, then smiled a little and began to walk away. There was a grace in her step which showed her satisfaction.

He followed her and asked more about the weeks before Friedrich’s accident, even the years in exile in Venice and a little of the life at court before Gisela first came. The picture she painted was full of color and variety, but also rigid formality, and for royalty itself, intense discipline to duty. There was extravagance beyond anything he had imagined, let alone seen. No one he knew in London had spent money as Evelyn described quite casually, as if it were a feature of the way everyone lived.

Monk’s head swam. Half of him was dazzled and fascinated, half was bitterly conscious of the hunger and humiliation, the dependency, and the constant fear and physical discomfort of those who worked all their waking hours and were still always on the brink of debt. He was even uncomfortably aware of the servants who existed to fill any whim of the guests in this exquisite house who day and night did nothing but pass from one amusement to another.

And yet without such places as Wellborough Hall, so much beauty would be lost. He wondered who was happier, the gorgeous baroness who strolled through the gardens, flirting with him, telling stories of the parties and masques and balls she remembered in the capitals of Europe, or the gardener fifty yards away snipping the dead heads off the roses and threading the tendrils of the new growth through the bars of the trellis. Which of them saw the blooms more clearly and took more joy in them?

He did not enjoy dinner that evening either, and his discomfort was made worse when Lord Wellborough asked him quietly at the table if Monk would excuse them all that evening. They were all there to discuss the sensitive matter with which Monk was now acquainted, and as Monk was not involved, surely he wouldn’t be offended by being excluded from their talk that evening. There was some decent Armagnac in the library, and some rather fine Dutch cigars …

Monk was furious, but forced a smile as natural and diplomatic as he could. He had hoped that he might be present when they decided to discuss the matter and had invented a pretext of being an objective and fresh mind to aid them in covering all eventualities. However, it seemed natural that they regarded Monk as an interesting guest but an outsider, and Monk didn’t dare press the point. He was thankful that Stephan would be there and could convey back to him anything of use, but he would have welcomed the opportunity to question them himself.

The next day, Monk did, however, find an opportunity to visit Gallagher, the doctor who had attended Friedrich after his fall and until his death. Everyone else went shooting for the day, but Stephan affected a slight indisposition and requested that Monk accompany him to the doctor. It was an injury to his hand, and he asked Monk to drive him in the gig.

“What was said last night?” Monk asked as soon as they were out of the drive and into the lane which led to the doctor’s house. Despite his walks with Stephan in the gardens of the Hall, he had felt oppressed and was glad to be out in the clear autumn air.

“I’m going to disappoint you,” Stephan said regretfully. “It turned out that I’d observed or remembered more than any of the others, and a few of them know more this morning than they did yesterday, thanks to me.”

Monk frowned. “Well, you could hardly not have pooled your knowledge with them, and at least we know what they’re likely to say, should it come to trial.”

“But you feel you have wasted an opportunity.”

Monk nodded, too angry to speak. He would not be reporting this to Rathbone.

Dr. Gallagher turned out to be a mild-mannered man of about fifty or so who was not perturbed about being summoned away from his books to attend two gentlemen from the Hall who had called for his help.

“Indeed,” he said courteously. “What a shame, Baron von Emden. Let me have a look at it. Right wrist, is it?”

“Sorry for our deception, Doctor.” Stephan smiled and rested his hands on his hips, demonstrating two perfectly supple wrists. “Rather a delicate matter. Didn’t want to advertise it. Hope you understand. Mr. Monk”—he gestured towards Monk, beside him—“is trying to help us deal with this abysmal business of the Countess Rostova’s accusations.”

Gallagher looked blank.

“Oh, you haven’t heard?” Stephan pulled a face expressing chagrin. “I am afraid she has behaved quite … quite extraordinarily. The whole affair will have to come to trial.”

“What affair?”

“Prince Friedrich’s death,” Monk said, stepping in. “I regret to say she has started spreading the charge around society that it was not an accident but deliberate poison.”

“What?” Gallagher was aghast. He seemed almost unable to believe he had heard correctly. “What do you mean? Not … not that … that I …”

“No, of course not!” Monk said immediately. “No one even thought of such a thing. It is the widow, Princess Gisela, whom she is accusing.”

“Oh, my God! How perfectly fearful.” Gallagher stepped back and all but collapsed into the chair behind him. “How can I help?”

Stephan was about to speak, but Monk cut across him.

“You will no doubt be called to give evidence, unless we can gather sufficient proof to force her to withdraw the charge and offer the fullest apology. The greatest assistance you could give would be to answer all our questions with the utmost candor, so we know precisely where we stand, and if she has clever counsel, what is the worst we must fear.”

“Of course. Of course. Anything I can do.” Gallagher pressed his hand to his brow. “Poor woman! To lose the husband she loved so profoundly and then to face such a diabolical slander, and from one she must have supposed her friend. Ask me anything you wish.”

Monk sat down opposite the doctor in a well-worn brown chair. “You understand I am speaking as a sort of devil’s advocate? I shall probe for weaknesses, so if I find them, I shall know how to defend.”

“Of course. Proceed!” Gallagher said almost eagerly.

Monk felt a tinge of conscience, but only a slight one. The truth was what mattered.

“You were the only physician to treat Prince Friedrich?”

“Yes, from the accident until he died.” His face was pale at the memory. “I … I honestly thought the poor man was recovering. He seemed to be considerably better. Of course, he had a great deal of pain, but one does from broken bones. But he was far less feverish, and he had begun to take a little nourishment.”

“The last time you saw him alive?” Monk asked. “Before the relapse?”

“He was sitting up in bed.” Gallagher looked very strained. “He seemed pleased to see me. I can picture it exactly. It was spring, as you know, late spring. It was a beautiful day, sunlight streaming in through the windows, a vase of lily of the valley on the bureau in the sitting room. The perfume of them filled the room. They were a particular favorite of the Princess’s. I hear she cannot abide them since that day. Poor creature. She idolized him. She never left his side from the moment he was carried in from his accident. Distraught, she was, absolutely distraught. Beside herself with distress for him.”

He took a deep breath and let it out silently. “Quite different from when he died. Then it was as if the world had ended for her. She simply sat there, white-faced, neither moving nor speaking. She did not even seem to see us.”

“What did he die of?” Monk asked a little more gently. He was aware of conflicting emotions tearing inside him. “Medically speaking.”

Gallagher’s eyes widened. “I did not do a postmortem examination, sir. He was a royal prince! He died as the result of his injuries in the fall. He had broken several bones. They had seemed to be healing, but one cannot see inside the living body to know what other damage there may be, what organs may have been crushed or pierced. He bled to death internally. That is what every symptom led me to believe. I had not expected it, because he seemed to be recovering, but that may have been the courage of his spirit, when in truth he was injured so seriously that the slightest movement may have ruptured some vessel and caused a fatal hemorrhage.”

“The symptoms …” Monk prompted, this time quite softly. Whatever the cause of it, or whoever, he could not help feeling pity for the man whose death he was trying to examine so clinically. All he had heard of him suggested he was a man of courage and character, willing to follow his heart and pay the cost without complaint, a man capable of immense love and sacrifice, perhaps, in the last, a man torn by duty—and murdered for it.

“Coldness,” Gallagher replied. “Clamminess of the skin.” He swallowed; his hands tightened on his lap. “Pains in the abdomen, nausea. I believe that was the site of the bleeding. That was followed by disorientation, a sense of giddiness, numbness in the extremities, sinking into a coma, and finally death. Very precisely, heart failure. In short, sir, the symptoms of internal bleeding.”

“Are there any poisons which produce the same symptoms?” Monk asked, frowning, disliking having to say it.

Gallagher stared at him.

Monk thought of the yew trees at the end of the hornbeam hedge, the stone urn pale against their dark mass. Everyone knew that the needlelike yew leaves were bitterly poisonous. Everyone in the house had access to them; one simply had to take a walk in the garden, the most natural thing in the world to do.

“Are there?” he repeated.

Stephan shifted his weight.

“Yes, of course,” Gallagher said reluctantly. “There are thousands of poisons. But why in heaven’s name should such a woman poison her husband? It makes no conceivable sense!”

“Would the leaves of the yew trees produce such symptoms?” Monk pressed.

Gallagher thought for so long Monk was about to ask him again.

“Yes,” he said at last. “They would.” He was white-faced.

“Exactly those symptoms?” Monk could not let it go.

“Well …” Gallagher hesitated, his face filled with misery. “Yes … I am not an expert in such matters, but one does occasionally find village children put the leaves in their mouths. And women have been known to—” He stopped for a moment, then continued unhappily. “To use it in an effort to procure an abortion. A young woman died in the next village about eight years ago.”

Stephan shifted his weight again. “But Gisela never left Friedrich’s rooms,” he said quietly. “Even if he was poisoned, she is about the only one in the house who could not possibly have done it. And believe me, if you knew Gisela you would not even entertain the idea of her having someone else provide the poison for her. She would never put herself so fatally in someone else’s power.”

“This is monstrous,” Gallagher said miserably. “I hope you will do everything in your ability to fight such a dreadful shadow and at least clear that poor woman’s name.”

“We will do everything we can to find the truth—and prove it,” Monk promised ambiguously.

Gallagher did not doubt him for a moment. He rose to his feet and clasped Monk’s hand. “Thank you, sir. I am most relieved. And if there is anything further I can do to assist you, you have but to say. And you too, of course, Baron von Emden. Good day to you, gentlemen, good day.”

“That hardly helps us at all,” Stephan said as they climbed into the gig and Monk took the reins. “Perhaps it was yew poison … but it wasn’t Gisela!”

“So it would seem,” Monk agreed. “I am afraid we still have rather a long way to go.”