Weighed in the Balance

Synopsis:
When Countess Zorah Rostova asks London barrister Sir Oliver Rathbone to defend her against a charge of slander, he is astonished to find himself accepting. For without a shred of evidence, the countess has publicly insisted that the onetime ruler of her small German principality was murdered by his wife, the woman who was responsible for the prince's exile to Venice twenty years before. Private investigator William Monk and his friend Hester Latterly journey to the City of Water in an attempt verify the countess's claims, and though the two manage to establish that the prince was indeed murdered, as events unfold the likeliest suspect seems to be Countess Zorah herself.

Chapter 1

Sir Oliver Rathbone sat in his chambers in Vere Street, just off Lincoln's Inn Fields, and surveyed the room with eminent satisfaction. He was at the pinnacle of his career, possibly the most highly respected barrister in England, and the Prime Minister had recently recommended him to Her Majesty, who had seen fit to honor him with a knighthood in recognition of his services to criminal justice.

The room was elegant but not ostentatious. Intellect and purpose were served before the desire to impress a client. Comfort was necessary. Beyond the door was the outer office, full of clerks writing, calculating, looking up references, being courteous to those who came and went in the course of business.

Rathbone was almost at the conclusion of a case in which he had defended a distinguished gentleman accused of misappropriating funds. He had every confidence in a satisfactory outcome. He had enjoyed an excellent luncheon in the company of a bishop, a judge and a senior member of Parliament. It was time he directed his attention towards the afternoon's work.

He had just picked up a sheaf of papers when his clerk knocked at the door and opened it. There was a look of surprise on the clerk's usually imperturbable face.

"Sir Oliver, there is a Countess Zorah Rostova desiring to see you on a matter she says is of great importance - and some urgency."

"Then show her in, Simms," Rathbone directed. There was no need for him to be surprised that a countess should call. She was not the first titled lady to seek counsel in these chambers, nor would she be the last. He rose to his feet.

"Very good, Sir Oliver." Simms backed away, turned to speak to someone out of sight, then a moment later a woman swept in wearing a black-and-green crinoline dress, except that the hoop was so small it hardly deserved the name, and her stride was such that one might have supposed her to have only a moment since dismounted from a horse. She had no hat. Her hair was held back in a loose bun with a black chenille net over it. She did not wear her gloves but carried them absent-mindedly in one hand. She was of average height, square-shouldered and leaner than is becoming in a woman. But it was her face which startled and held attention. Her nose was a little too large and too long, her mouth was sensitive without being beautiful, her cheekbones were very high and her eyes were wide-set and heavy lidded. When she spoke, her voice was low with a slight catch in it, and her diction was remarkably beautiful.

"Good afternoon, Sir Oliver." She stood quite still in the center of the room. She did not even glance around but stared at him with a vivid, curious gaze. "I am sued for slander. I need you to defend me."

Rathbone had never been approached so boldly and so simply before. If she had spoken to Simms like that, no wonder the man was surprised.

"Indeed, ma'am," he said smoothly. "Would you care to sit down and tell me the circumstances?" He indicated the handsome green-leather-covered chair opposite his desk.

She remained where she was.

"It is quite simple. Princess Gisela ... you are aware who she is?" Her brows rose. Rathbone could see now that her remarkable eyes were green. "Yes, of course you are. She has accused me of slandering her. I have not."

Rathbone also remained standing. "I see. What has she accused you of saying?"

"That she murdered her husband, Prince Friedrich, the crown prince of my country, who abdicated in order to marry her. He died this spring, after a riding accident, here in England."

"But of course you did not say so?"

She lifted her chin a little. "Most certainly I said so! But in English law if a thing is true it is not a slander to say so, is it?"

Rathbone stared at her. She seemed perfectly calm and in control of herself, and yet what she said was outrageous. Simms should not have allowed her in. She was obviously unbalanced.

"Madam, if..."

She moved over to the green chair and sat down, flicking her skirts absently to put them into a satisfactory position. She did not take her eyes from Rathbone's face.

"Is truth a defense in English law, Sir Oliver?" she repeated.

"Yes, it is," he conceded. "But one is obliged to prove truth. If you have no facts to demonstrate your case, simply to state it is to repeat the slander. Of course, it does not require the same degree of proof that a criminal case does."

"Degree of proof?" she questioned. "A thing is true or it is false. What degree of proof do I require?"

He resumed his own seat, leaning forward over the desk a trifle to explain.

"Scientific theory must be proved beyond all doubt at all, usually by demonstrating that all other theories are impossible. Criminal guilt must be proved beyond all reasonable doubt. This is a civil case, and will be judged on balance of probability. The jury will choose whichever argument it considers the most likely to be true."

"Is that good for me?" she asked bluntly.

"No. It will not require a great deal for her to convince them that you have slandered her. She must prove that you did indeed say this thing and that it has damaged her reputation. The latter will hardly be difficult."

"Neither will the former," she said with a very slight smile. "I have said it repeatedly, and in public. My defense is that it is true."

"But can you prove it?"

"Beyond reasonable doubt?" she asked, opening her eyes very wide. "That rather begs the question as to what is reasonable. I am quite convinced of it."

He sat back in his chair, crossing his legs and smiling very courteously.

"Then convince me of it, ma'am."

Quite suddenly she threw back her head and burst into laughter, a rich, throaty sound rippling with delight.

"I think I like you, Sir Oliver!" She caught her breath and composed herself with difficulty. "You are fearfully English, but I am sure that is all to the good."

"Indeed," he said guardedly.

"Of course. All Englishmen should be properly English. You want me to convince you that Gisela murdered Friedrich?"

"If you would be so good," he said a little stiffly.

"And then you will take the case?"

"Possibly." On the face of it, it was preposterous.

"How cautious of you," she said with a shadow of amusement. "Very well. I shall begin at the beginning. I presume that is what you would like? I cannot imagine you beginning anywhere else. For myself, I would rather begin at the end; it is then all so much easier to understand."

"Begin at the end, if it pleases you," he said quickly.

"Bravo!" She made a gesture of approval with her hand. "Gisela realized the necessity of murdering him, and almost immediately was presented with the opportunity, as a calling card is on a silver tray. All she had to do was pick it up. He had been injured in a riding accident. He was lying helpless." Her voice dropped; she leaned forward a little. "No one was certain how ill he was, or whether he would recover or not. She was alone with him. She killed him. There you are!" She spread her hands. "It is accomplished." She shrugged. "No one suspected because no one thought of such a thing, nor did they know how badly he was hurt anyway. He died of his injuries." She pursed her lips. "How natural. How sad." She sighed. "She is desolate. She mourns and all the world mourns with her. What could be easier?"

Rathbone regarded the extraordinary woman sitting in front of him. She was certainly not beautiful, yet there was a vitality in her, even in repose, which drew the eye to her as if she were the natural center of thought and attention. And yet what she was saying was outrageous - and almost certainly criminally slanderous.

"Why should she do such a thing?" he said aloud, his voice heavy with skepticism.

"Ah, for that I feel I should go back to the beginning," she said ruefully, leaning back and regarding him with the air of a lecturer.

"Forgive me if I tell you what you already know. Sometimes we imagine our affairs are of as much interest to others as they are to us, and of course they are not. However, most of the world is familiar with the romance of Friedrich and Gisela, and how our crown prince fell in love with a woman his family would not accept and renounced his right to the throne rather than give her up."

Rathbone nodded. Of course, it was a story that had fascinated and bewitched Europe; it was the romance of the century, which was why this woman's accusation of murder was so absurd and unbelievable. Only innate good manners prevented him from stopping her and asking her to leave.

"You must understand that our country is very small," she continued, amusement on her lips as if she understood his skepticism completely, and yet also an urgency, as if in spite of her intellectual awareness it mattered to her passionately that he believe her. "And situated in the heart of the German states." Her eyes did not leave his face. "On all sides of us are other protectorates and principalities. We are all in upheaval. Most of Europe is. But unlike France or Britain or Austria, we are faced with the possibility of being united, whether we like it or not, and forming one great state of Germany. Some of us do like it." Her lips tightened. "Some of us do not."

"Has this really to do with Princess Gisela and the death of Friedrich?" he interrupted. "Are you saying it was a political murder?"

"No, of course not! How could you be so naive?" she said with exasperation.

Suddenly he wondered how old she was. What had happened to her in her life? Whom had she loved or hated; what extravagant dreams had she pursued and won, or lost? She moved like a young woman, with an ease and pride, as if her body were supple. Yet her voice had not the timbre of youth, and her eyes had far too much knowledge and too much wit and assurance to be immature.

The response that rose to his lips was stiff, and he knew before he spoke that he would sound offended. He changed his mind.

"The jury will be naive, madam," he pointed out, carefully keeping his face expressionless. "Explain to me - to us, the jury - why the princess for whom Prince Friedrich gave up his crown and his country should, after twelve years of marriage, suddenly murder her husband. It seems to me she would have everything to lose. What can you persuade me she has to gain?"

Outside, the dull rumble of the traffic was broken by a drayman's shout.

The amusement faded in her eyes.

"We must go back to politics, but not because this was a political murder," she said obediently. "On the contrary, it was highly personal. Gisela was a totally material woman. There are very few political women, you know? Most of us are far too immediate and too practical. Still, that is not a crime." She dismissed it. "I need to explain the politics to you so you will understand what she had to lose ... and to gain." She rearranged herself slightly in the chair. Even the very small hoop of her skirt seemed to annoy her, as if it was an affectation she would sooner have done without.

"Would you care for tea?" he offered. "I can have Simms bring a tray."

"I should only talk too much and allow it to go cold," she responded. "I loathe cold tea. But thank you for the offer. You have beautiful manners, so very correct. Nothing ruffles you. That is the stiff upper lip you English are so famous for. I find it infuriating and charming at the same time."

To his fury, he felt himself blushing.

She ignored it, although she undoubtedly noticed.

"King Karl is not in good health," she said, resuming the story. "He never has been. And quite frankly, we all know that he will not live more than another two or three years, at the most. Since Friedrich abdicated, Karl will now be succeeded by his younger son, Crown Prince Waldo. Waldo is not against unification. He sees that it has certain advantages. Fighting against it unquestionably would have many disadvantages -  such as the likelihood of a war, which we would eventually lose. The only people who would be certain to profit would be arms manufacturers and their like." Her face was heavy with contempt.

"Princess Gisela." He brought her back to the subject.

"I was coming to her. Friedrich was for independence, even at the price of fighting. There were many of us who felt as he did, most particularly in and about the court."

"But not Waldo? Surely he had most to lose?"

"People see love of their country in different ways, Sir Oliver," she said with sudden gravity. "For some it is to fight for independence, even to give our lives for it if necessary." She looked at him very directly. "For Queen Ulrike it is to live a certain kind of way, to exercise self-control, mastery of will, to spend her whole life trying to connive and coerce what she sees as right. To make sure everyone else behaves according to a code of honor she holds dear above all things." She was watching him closely, judging his reactions. "To Waldo it is that his people should have bread on their tables and be able to sleep in their beds without fear. I think he would like them to be able to read and write whatever they believe also, but that may be asking for too much." There was an unreadable sadness behind her green eyes. "No one has everything. But I think Waldo may be rather more realistic. He will not have us all drown trying to hold back a tide which he believes is bound to come in, whatever we do."

"And Gisela?" he asked yet again, as much to bring his own mind to the subject as hers.

"Gisela has no patriotism!" she spat, her face tight and hard. "If she had, she would never have tried to be queen. She wanted it for herself, not for her people - or for independence or unification or anything political or national, just for the allure."

"You dislike her," Rathbone observed mildly.

She laughed, her face seemingly transformed, but the relentless anger was only just behind the amusement. "I loathe her. But that is beside the point. It does not make what I say true or untrue___"

"But it will prejudice a jury," he pointed out. "They may think you speak from envy."

She was silent for a moment.

He waited. No sound penetrated from the office beyond the door, and the traffic in the street had resumed its steady noise.

"You are right," she admitted. "How tedious to have to consider such logicalities, but I can see it is necessary."

"Gisela, if you please. Why should she wish to murder Friedrich? Not because he was for independence, even at the cost of war?"

"No, and yet indirectly, yes."

"Very clear," he said with a whisper of sarcasm. "Please explain yourself."

"I am trying to!" Impatience flared in her eyes. "There is a considerable faction which would fight for independence. They need a leader around whom to gather - "

"I see. Friedrich - the original crown prince! But he abdicated. He lives in exile."

She leaned forward, her face eager.

"But he could return."

"Could he?" Again he was doubtful. "What about Waldo? And the Queen?"

"That's it!" she said almost jubilantly. "Waldo would fight against it, not for the crown but to avoid a war with Prussia or whoever else was first to try to swallow us. But the Queen would ally with Friedrich for the cause of independence."

"Then Gisela could be queen on the King's death," Rathbone pointed out "Didn't you say that was what she wanted?"

She looked at him with gleaming eyes, green and brilliant, but her face was filled with exaggerated patience.

"The Queen will not tolerate Gisela in the country. If Friedrich comes back, he must come alone. Rolf Lansdorff, the Queen's brother, who is extremely powerful, is also for Friedrich's return, but would never tolerate Gisela. He believes Waldo is weak and will lead us to ruin."

"And would Friedrich return without Gisela, for his country's sake?" he asked doubtfully. "He gave up the throne for her once. Would he now go back on that?"

She looked at him steadily. Her face was extraordinary; there was so much force of conviction in it, of emotion and will When she spoke of Gisela it was ugly, the nose too large, too long, the eyes too widely spaced. When she spoke of her country, of love, of duty, she was beautiful. Compared with her, everyone else seemed ungenerous, insipid. Rathbone was quite unaware of the traffic beyond the window, the clatter of hooves, the occasional call of voices, the sunlight on the glass, or of Sinuns and the other clerks in the office beyond the door. He was thinking only of a small German principality and the struggle for power and survival, the loves and hates of a royal family, and the passion which fired this woman in front of him and made her more exciting and more profoundly alive than anyone else he could think of. He felt the surge of it run through his own blood.

"Would he go back on that?" he repeated.

A curious look of pain, pity, almost embarrassment, crossed her face. For the first time she did not look directly at him, as though she wished to shield her inner feelings from his perception.

"Friedrich has always believed in his heart that his country would want him back one day and that when that time came, they would accept Gisela also and see her worth - as he does, of course, not as it is. He lived on those dreams. He promised her it would be so. Every year he would say it yet again." She met Rathbone's eyes. "So to answer your question, he would not see returning to Felzburg as going back on his commitment to Gisela but as returning in triumph with her at his side, vindicating all he had ever believed. But she is not a fool. She knows it would never be so. He would return, and she would be denied entrance, publicly humiliated. He would be astounded, dismayed, distraught, but by then Rolf Lansdorff and the Queen would see to it that he did not renounce a second time."

"You believe that is what would have happened?" he asked quietly.

"We shall never know, shall we?" Zorah said with a curious, bleak smile. "He is dead."

The impact of it shook Rathbone suddenly and forcibly. Now murder did not seem so unreasonable. People had been killed for immeasurably less.

"I see," he said very soberly. "That does make a very strong argument which a jury of ordinary men from any street would grasp." He folded his hands into a steeple and leaned his elbows on the desk. "Now, why should they believe it was the unfortunate widow who committed murder, and not some follower of Prince Waldo or of any other German power who believes in unification? Surely they also have powerful motives? Countless murders have been committed for the gain or loss of a kingdom, but would Gisela really kill Friedrich rather than lose him?"

Her strong, slender fingers grasped the arms of the leather chair as she leaned forward towards him, her face intent.

"Yes!" she said unwaveringly. "She doesn't care a fig about Felzburg, or any of us. If he returns now, renouncing her -  whether it was by his own will or by coercion is immaterial; the world won't know or care - then the whole dream crumbles, the great love story falls apart She is a pathetic, even ridiculous figure, a woman abandoned after twelve years of marriage, no longer in her first youth."

Her face sharpened, her voice grew husky. "On the other hand, if she is widowed, then she is the great figure of domestic tragedy again, the center of admiration and envy. She has mystery, allure. And she is free to offer her favor to admirers or not, as long as she is discreet. She goes down in legend as one of the world's great lovers, to be remembered in song and story. Who would not in their hearts envy that? It is a kind of immortality. Above all, one remembers her with awe, with respect. No one laughs. And of course," she added, "she has his private fortune."

"I see." He was convinced in spite of himself. She had his total attention, his intellect and his emotion. He could not help imagining the passions which had moved the Prince at first, his overwhelming love for a woman, so intense he had sacrificed a country and a throne for her. What must she be like? What radiance of character, what unique charms, had she to inspire such a love?

Was she something like Zorah Rostova herself, so intensely alive she awoke in him dreams and hungers he had not even realized he possessed? Did she fill him with vitality also, and make him believe in himself, see in a wild glance all that he could be or become? What sleepless nights had he spent, struggling between duty and desire? How had he compared the thought of a life devoted to the court - the daily, endless formalities, the distance which must inevitably surround a king, the loneliness of being without the woman he loved - and the temptation of a life in exile with the constant companionship of such an extraordinary lover? They would grow old together, separated from family and country, and yet never alone. Except for the guilt. Did he feel guilt for having chosen the path of his longing, not his duty?

And the woman. What choices had she faced? Or was it for her simply a battle, win or lose? Was Zorah right, had Gisela wanted desperately to be queen - and lost? Or had she only loved the man and been prepared to be painted the villainess by her country as long as she could love him and be with him? Was she now a woman whose life was ended by grief? Or was it a circumstance brought about by her own hand, either as the only alternative to being left, the very public end of the great royal romance, not in the grand tragedy of death but in the pathetic anticlimax of being deserted?

"So you will take my case?" Zorah said after several minutes.

"Perhaps," he said cautiously, although he could feel an excitement of challenge wakening inside him, a breath of danger which he had to admit was exhilarating. "You have convinced me she may have had a reason, not yet that she did." He steadied his voice. He must appear cool. "What evidence have you that Friedrich indeed intended to return, even given Queen Ulrike's stipulation that he leave Gisela to do it?"

She bit her lip. Anger nickered across her face, then laughter.

"None," she admitted. "But Rolf Lansdorff was there that month, at the Wellboroughs' house, and he spoke frequently with Friedrich. It is reasonable to suppose he put it to him. We can never know what Friedrich would have said had he lived. He is dead - is that not enough for you?"

'To suspect, yes." He too leaned forward. "But it is not proof. Who else was there? What happened? Give me details, evidence, not emotion."

She looked at him long and levelly.

"Who was there?" She raised her eyebrows slightly. "It was late spring. It was a country house party at the home of Lord and Lady Wellborough." Her mouth twisted in a wry, amused smile. "Not a suspect. Lord Wellborough manufactures and deals in guns. A war, any war, except in England, will suit him very well."

Rathbone winced.

"You asked for realism," she pointed out. "Or does that fall into the category of emotion? You seem to feel some emotion, Sir Oliver." Now there was mocking amusement plain in her eyes.

He was not prepared to tell her the repugnance he felt. Wellborough was an Englishman. Rathbone was profoundly ashamed that any Englishman should be happy to profit from the killing of people, so long as it did not touch him. There were all manner of sophisticated arguments about necessity, inevitability, choice and liberty. He still found the profit in it repellent. But he could not tell this extraordinary woman this. "I was playing the part of the jury," he said smoothly. "Now I am counsel again. Continue with your list of guests, if you please."

She relaxed. "Of course. There was Rolf Lansdorff, as I have said before. He is the Queen's brother, and extremely powerful. He has considerable disdain for Prince Waldo. He considers him weak, and would prefer Friedrich to return -  without Gisela, naturally. Although I am not sure if that is for reasons of his own or because Ulrike would not tolerate it, and she wears the crown, not he."

"Or the King?"

Now her smile was genuinely amused, close to laughter.

"I think it is a long time, Sir Oliver, since the King went against the Queen's wishes. She is cleverer than he, but he is clever enough to know it. And at present he is too ill to fight for or against anything. But what I meant was that Rolf is not royalty. And close as he is, there is all the difference in the world between a crowned head and an uncrowned one. When the will is there and the fight is real, Ulrike will win, and Rolf has too much pride to begin a battle he must lose."

"She hates Gisela so much?" He found it hard to imagine. Something very deep must lie between the two women that one would hate the other sufficiently to refuse her return, even if it meant the possible victory of those who favored independence.

"Yes, she does," Zorah replied. "But I think you misunderstand, at least in part. She does not believe that Gisela would add to the cause. She is not a fool, nor a woman to put personal feelings, no matter what they are, before duty. I thought I explained that. Did you doubt me?"

He shifted position slightly.

"I believe everything only provisionally, ma'am. This seemed to be a contradiction. Nevertheless, proceed. Who else was there, apart from Prince Friedrich and Princess Gisela, Count Lansdorff, and, of course, yourself?"

"Count Klaus von Seidlitz was there with his wife, Evelyn," she resumed.

"His political position?"

"He was against Friedrich's return. I think he is undecided about unification, but he does not believe that Friedrich would resume the succession without causing great upheaval - and possibly civil division, which could only be to our enemies' advantage."

"Is he correct? Might it produce civil war?"

"More guns for Lord Wellborough?" she said quickly. "I don't know. I think internal disunity and indecision might be more likely."

"And his wife? Has she loyalties?"

"Only to the good life."

It was a harsh judgment, but he saw no softening of it in her face.

"I see. Who else?"

"The Baroness Brigitte von Arlsbach, whom the Queen originally chose for Friedrich before he renounced everything for Gisela."

"Did she love him?"

A curious look crossed her face.

"I never thought so, although she has never manied since."

"And if he left Gisela, might he in time have married her, and she become queen?"

Again the idea seemed to amuse her, but it was a laughter that showed awareness of pain.

"Yes. I suppose that is what would have happened if he had lived, and gone home, and Brigitte had felt it her duty. And she might have, to strengthen the throne. Although possibly he would have found it politic to take a younger wife so that he might produce an heir. The throne must have an heir. Brigitte is now nearer forty than thirty. Old, for a first child. But she is very popular in the country, very admired."

"Friedrich has no children with Gisela?"

"No. Nor has Waldo."

"Waldo is married?"

"Oh, yes, to Princess Gertrudis. I would like to say I dislike her, but I cannot." She laughed self-mockingly. "She is everything I think I detest and find irretrievably tedious. She is domestic, obedient, pleasant-tempered, becomingly dressed and handsome to look at, and civil to everyone. She always seems to have the appropriate thing to say - and says it."

He was amused.

"And you think that tedious?"

"Incredibly. Ask any woman, Sir Oliver. If she is honest, she will tell you such a creature is an affront to ordinary nature."

He immediately thought of Hester Latterly, independent, arbitrary, opinionated, definitely short-tempered when she perceived stupidity, cruelty, cowardice or hypocrisy. He could not imagine her being obedient to anyone. She must have been a nightmare to the army when she served in its hospitals. All the same, he found himself smiling at the thought of her. She would have agreed with Zorah.

"Someone you are fond of has come to your mind," Zorah cut across his thoughts, and again he felt the color mount up his face.

'Tell me why you still find yourself liking Gertrudis," he said somewhat irritably.

She laughed with delight at his predicament.

"Because she has the most marvelous sense of humor," she replied. "It is as simple as that. And it is very difficult not to like someone who likes you and who can see the absurd in life and enjoy it."

He was obliged to agree with her, although he would rather not have. It was disturbing; it threw him off balance. He returned abruptly to his earlier question.

"What does Brigitte wish? Does she have allegiances, desires for independence or unification? Does she want to be queen? Or is that a foolish question?"

"No, it is not foolish at all. I don't think she wishes to be queen, but she would do it if she felt it her duty," Zorah replied, all laughter vanished from her face. "Publicly, she would have liked Friedrich to return and lead the fight for independence.

Personally, I think she might have preferred he remain in exile. It would then not have placed on her the burden and the humiliation of having to marry him, if that proved to be what the country wanted."

"Humiliation?" Her remark was incomprehensible. "How can marrying a king, because you are beloved of the people, be a humiliation?"

"Very easily," she said sharply, a stinging contempt at his obtuseness in her eyes. "No woman worth a sou would willingly marry a man who has publicly sacrificed a throne and a country for someone else. Would you wish to marry a woman who was half of one of the world's great love stories, when you were not the other half?"

He felt foolish. His lack of perception opened up in front of him like an abyss. A man might want power, office, public recognition. He should have known a woman wanted love, and if she could not have the reality, then at least the outer semblance of it. He did not know many women well, but he had thought he knew about them. He had tried enough cases involving women at their most wicked or vulnerable, passionate or cold-blooded, innocent or manipulative, clever or blindly, unbelievably silly. And yet Hester still confused him ... at times.

"Can you imagine being made love to by someone who is making love to you because it is a duty?" Zorah continued mercilessly. "It would make me sick! Like going to bed with a corpse."

"Please!" he expostulated vehemently. One moment she was as delicate in her perception as the touch of a butterfly, the next she said something so coarse as to be disgusting. It made him acutely uncomfortable. "I have understood your argument, madam. There is no need for illustration." He lowered his tone and controlled it with difficulty. He must not allow her to see how she rattled him. "Are those all the people who were present at this unfortunate house party?"

She sighed. "No. Stephan von Emden was there as well. He is from one of the old families. And Florent Barberini. His mother is distantly related to the king, and his father is Venetian. There is no purpose in your asking me what they think, because I don't know. But Stephan is an excellent friend to me, and will assist you in my case. He has already promised as much."

"Good!" he said. "Because, believe me, you will need all the friends and all the assistance you can acquire!"

She saw that she had annoyed him.

"I'm sorry," she said gravely, her eyes suddenly soft and rueful. "I spoke too bluntly, didn't I? I only wanted to make you understand. No, that is not true." She gave a little grunt of anger. "I am furious over what they would do to Brigitte, and I desire you to come out of your masculine complacency and understand it too. I like you, Sir Oliver. You have a certain aplomb, an ice-cool Englishness about you which is most attractive." She smiled suddenly and radiantly.

He swore under his breath. He hated such open flattery, and he hated still more the acute state of pleasure it gave him.

"You wish to know what happened?" she went on imper-turbably, settling a little back in her seat. "It was the third day after the last of us arrived. We were out riding, rather hard, I admit. We went across the fields and took several hedges at a gallop. Friedrich's horse fell and he was thrown." A shadow of distress crossed her face. "He landed badly. The horse scrambled to its feet again, and Friedrich's leg was caught in the stirrup iron. He was dragged several yards before the animal was secured so we could free him."

"Gisela was there?" he interrupted.

"No. She doesn't ride if she can avoid it, and then only at a walk in some fashionable park or parade. She is a woman for art and artifice, not for nature. Her pursuits all have a very serious purpose and are social, not physical." If she was trying to keep the contempt out of her voice she did not succeed.

"So she could not conceivably have caused the accident?"

"No. So far as I am aware, it was truly mischance, not aided by anyone."

"You took Friedrich back to the house?"

"Yes. It seemed the only thing to do."

"Was he conscious?"

"Yes. Why?"

"I can't think of any reason. He must have been in great pain."

"Yes." Now there was unmistakable admiration in her face. "Friedrich may have been a fool in some ways, but he never lacked physical courage. He bore it very well."

"You called a doctor immediately, of course?"

"Naturally. Gisela was distraught, before you ask me." A faint smile flickered across her mouth. "She never left his side. But that was not unusual. They were seldom apart at any time. That seemed to be his wish as much as hers, perhaps more. Certainly no one could fault her as the most diligent and attentive nurse."

Rathbone returned the smile. "Well, if you could not, I doubt anyone else will."

She held up one finger delicately. "Touched Sir Oliver."

"And how did she murder him?"

"Poison, of course." Her eyebrows rose in surprise that he should have needed to ask. "What did you imagine, that I thought she took a pistol from the gun room and shot him? She wouldn't know how to load it. She would barely know which end to point." Again the contempt was there. "And Dr. Gallagher might be a fool, but not so big a one as to miss a bullet wound in a corpse that is supposed to have died of a fall from a horse."

"Doctors have been known to miss a broken bone in the neck before now," Rathbone said, justifying himself. "Or a suffocation when a person was ill anyway and they did not expect him to make an easy recovery."

She pulled a face. "I daresay. I cannot imagine Gisela suffocating him, and she certainly wouldn't know how to break a bone in his neck. That sounds like an assassin's trick."

"So you deduce that she poisoned him?" he said quietly, making no reference to how she might know anything about assassins.

She stopped, staring at him with steady, brilliant eyes.

"Too perceptive, Sir Oliver," she conceded with a sting. "Yes, I deduce it. I have no proof. If I had, I would not have accused her publicly, I would simply have gone to the police. She would have been charged, and all this would not have been necessary."

"Why is it necessary?" he said bluntly.

"The cause of justice?" She tilted her head a little to one side. It was quite definitely a question.

"No," he said.

"Oh. You don't believe I would do this for the love of justice?"

"No, I don't."

She sighed. "You are quite right; I would leave God or the devil to take care of it when it suited them."

"So why, madam?" he pressed. "You do it at very great risk to yourself. If you cannot defend your claim, you will be ruined, not only financially but socially. You may even face criminal charges. It is a very serious slander, and you have made it highly public."

"Well, there's hardly any point in doing it privately!" she retorted, wide-eyed.

"And what is the point in doing it at all?"

"To oblige her to defend herself, of course. Is that not obvious?"

"But it is you who have to defend yourself. You are the one accused."

"By the law, yes, but she is accused by me, and in order to appear innocent to the world, she will have to prove me a liar."

Her expression suggested that hers had been the most reasonable of acts, as should be plain enough to anyone.

"No, she doesn't," he contradicted. "She simply has to prove that you have said these things about her and that they have damaged her. It is you who have the burden of proof as to whether they are true. If you leave any doubt, the case is hers. She does not have to prove them untrue."

"Not in law, Sir Oliver, but before the world, of course she does. Can you see her, or anyone, leaving court with the question still open?"

"I confess it is unlikely, although it is possible. But she will almost certainly counter by attacking you, accusing you of motives of your own for having made the charge in the first place," he warned. "You must be prepared for a very ugly battle which will become as personal to you as you have made it to her. Are yon prepared for that?"

She took a deep breath and straightened her thin shoulders.

"Yes, I am."

"Why are you doing this, Countess?" He had to ask. It was bizarre and dangerous. She had a unique and reckless face, but she was not foolish. She might not know the law, but she certainly knew the ways of the world.

Her face was suddenly totally serious, naked of all humor or contention.

"Because she has used a man to his destruction, and that man, for all his folly and self-indulgence, should have been our king. I will not allow the world to see her as one of the great lovers, when she is an ambitious and greedy woman who loves herself before anyone, or anything, else. I hate hypocrisy. If you cannot believe I love justice, perhaps you can believe that?"

"I can believe it, madam," he said without hesitation. "So do I. And so, I profoundly believe, does the average British jury." He meant that with a passion and total sincerity.

"Then you will take my case?" she urged. It was a challenge, defying his safety, his correctness, his years of brilliant but always appropriate behavior.

"I will." He accepted without even hesitating. There was the moral point that if the case were to be tried in an English court, then for the reputation both of Gisela, if she was innocent, and, more precious to him, of the law, both sides must be represented by the best counsel possible. Otherwise the issue would never be settled in the public mind. Its ghost would arise again and again.

There was a danger in it, certainly, but of the kind which quickened the blood and made one aware of the infinite value of life.

Zorah had left her card with him. He called upon her in her London rooms the following afternoon, having sent a note in advance to inform her of his intention.

She received him with an enthusiasm most well-bred ladies would have considered unbecoming. But he had long ago learned that people who are facing trial, civil or criminal, frequently wear their fear in ways that might lie outside their usual character. If one looked carefully, it was always a facet of something that was there, perhaps hidden in less stressful times. Fear was the most universal stripper of disguise and the self-protection of contrived attitudes.

"Sir Oliver! I am delighted you have come," she said immediately. "I took the liberty of asking Baron Stephan von Emden to join us. It will save having to send for him, and I am sure you have no time to waste. If you should wish to speak privately, I have another chamber where we may do so." And she turned and led him through a vestibule of rather formal and uninteresting character into a room of so extraordinary a decor he drew in his breath involuntarily. The farther wall was hung with a gigantic shawl woven in russets, Indian reds, bitter chocolate browns and stark black. It had a long, silk fringe which hung in complicated woven knots. There was a silver samovar on an ebony table, and on the floor a series of bearskin rugs, again of warm browns. A red leather couch was swamped in embroidered cushions, each different.

By one of the two tall windows stood a young man with fair brown hair and a charming face, at the moment filled with concern.

"Baron Stephan von Emden," Zorah said almost casually. "Sir Oliver Rathbone."

"How do you do, Sir Oliver." Stephan bowed from the waist and brought his heels together, but almost silently. "I am enormously relieved that you are going to defend the Countess Rostova." The sincerity of this remark was apparent in his face. "It is an extraordinarily difficult situation. Anything I can do to help, I will, gladly."

"Thank you," Rathbone accepted, uncertain if this was merely a show of friendship or if there could be anything whatever the young baron might achieve. Remembering Zorah's own candor, he spoke directly. It was a room in which it was impossible to be halfhearted. One would either be honest, whatever the consequences, or else be appalled and retract entirely. "Do you believe the Princess to be guilty of having murdered her husband?"

Stephan looked startled, then a flash of humor lit his eyes.

Zorah let out her breath in a sigh, possibly of approval.

"I've no idea," Stephan replied, his eyes wide. "But I have no doubt whatever that Zorah believes it, so I expect it is true. I am sure she did not say it either lightly or maliciously."

Rathbone judged he was in his early thirties, probably ten years younger than Zorah, and he wondered what their relationship might be. Why was he prepared to risk his name and reputation supporting a woman who made such a claim? Could it be that he was sure, not only that she was correct, but also that it could be proved? Or had he some more emotional, less rational motive, a love or a hate of someone in this tragedy?

"Your confidence is very assuring," Rathbone said politely.

"Your help will be greatly appreciated. What have you in mind?"

If he had expected Stephan to be thrown off balance, he was disappointed. Stephan straightened up from the rather relaxed attitude he had adopted and walked towards the chair in the center of the room. He sat sideways on it and looked at Rathbone intently.

"I thought you might wish to send someone - discreetly, of course - to the Wellboroughs' to ask questions of all the people who were there at the time. Most of them will be there again because of this furor, of course. I can tell you everything I can remember, but I imagine my evidence would be considered biased, and you'll need a great deal more than that." He shrugged his slim shoulders. "Anyway, I don't know anything useful, or I would have told Zorah already. I don't know what to look for. But I do know everyone, and I would vouch for anyone you cared to send. Go with him, if you wish."

Rathbone was surprised. It was a generous offer. He could see nothing in Stephan's hazel-gold eyes but candor and a slight concern.

"Thank you," he accepted. "That might be an excellent idea." He thought of Monk. If anyone could find and retrieve evidence of the truth, good or bad, it would be he. Nor would the magnitude of the case and its possible repercussions frighten him. "Although it may not be sufficient. This will be an extremely difficult case to prove. A great many vested interests lie against us."

Stephan frowned. "Of course." He regarded Rathbone very seriously. "I am most grateful you have the courage, Sir Oliver. Many a lesser man would have balked at trying. I am completely at your service, sir, at any time."

He was so utterly serious Rathbone could only thank him again and turn to Zorah, who was now sitting on the red sofa, leaning back against the arm of it, her body relaxed amid her billowing, tawny skirts, her face tense, her eyes on Rathbone's.

She was smiling, but there was no laughter in her, no brilliance or ease.

"We will have other Mends," she said in her slightly husky voice. "But very few. People believe what they need to, or what they have committed themselves to. I have enemies, but so has Gisela. There are many old scores to settle, old injuries, old loves and hates. And there are those whose only interest will be in the politics of the future, whether we remain independent or are swallowed up in a greater Germany, and who will win the profits of that battle. You will need to be both brave and clever."

Her remarkable face softened till she looked more than beautiful. There was a radiance in her. "But, then, if I had not believed you to be both, I should not have come to you. We shall give them a great fight, shall we not? No one shall murder a man, and a prince, while we stand by and allow the world to think it an accident. God, I hate a hypocrite! We shall have honesty. It is worth living and dying for, isn't it?"

"Of course," Rathbone said with absolute conviction.

That evening in the long summer twilight he went out to see his father, who lived to the north of London in Primrose Hill. It took him some time, and he did not hurry. He traveled in an open gig, light and fast, easy to maneuver through the traffic of barouches and landaus as people took the air in the dappled sunlight of tree-lined avenues or made their way home after the heat of a day in the city. He seldom drove, he had not the time, but he enjoyed it when he did. He had a light hand, and the pleasure was well worth the price of the hire from a local stable.

Henry Rathbone had retired from his various mathematical and inventive pursuits. He still occasionally looked through his telescope at the stars, but merely for interest. On this evening, when Oliver arrived he was in his garden, standing on the long lawn looking towards the honeysuckle hedge at the bottom and the apple trees in the orchard beyond. It had been rather a dry season, and he was pondering whether the fruit would swell to an acceptable quality. The sun was still well above the horizon, blazing gold and sending long shadows across the grass. He was a tall man, taller than his son, square-shouldered and thin. He had a gentle, aquiline face and farsighted blue eyes. He was obliged to remove his spectacles to study anything closely.

"Good evening, Father." Rathbone walked down the lawn to join him. The butler had conducted Mm through the house and out of the open French doors.

Henry turned with slight surprise. "I wasn't expecting you. I've only got bread and cheese for dinner, and a little rather good pate. Got a decent red wine, though, if you feel like it."

"Thank you," Oliver accepted immediately.

"Bit dry for the fruit," Henry went on, turning back to the trees. "But still got a few strawberries, I think."

"Thank you," Oliver repeated. Now that he was here, he was not quite sure how to begin. "I've taken a slander case."

"Oh. Is your client plaintiff or defendant?" Henry started to amble gently back towards the house, the sun casting long shadows in the gold-green grass and making the spires of the delphiniums almost luminous.

"Defendant," Oliver replied.

"Who did he slander?"

"She," Oliver corrected. "Princess Gisela of Felzburg."

Henry stopped and turned to face him. "You haven't taken up the Countess Zorah's defense, have you?"

Oliver stopped also. "Yes. She's convinced Gisela killed Friedrich and that it can be proved." He realized as he said it that that was rather an overstatement. It was a belief and a determination. There was still doubt.

Henry was very grave, his brow wrinkled.

"I do hope you are being wise, Oliver. Perhaps you had better tell me more about it, assuming that it is not in confidence?"

"No, not at all. I think she would like it as widely known as possible." He started to walk again up the slight slope towards the French doors and the familiar room with its easy chairs by the fireplace, the pictures and the case full of books.

Henry frowned. "Why? I assume you have some idea of her reasons for this? Insanity isn't a defense for slander, is it?"

Oliver looked at him for a moment before he was quite sure there was a dry, rather serious humor behind the remark.

"No, of course not. And she won't retract. She is convinced that Princess Gisela murdered Prince Friedrich, and she won't allow the hypocrisy and injustice of it to pass unchallenged." He took a breath. "Neither will I."

They went up the steps and inside. They did not close the doors; the evening was still warm, and the air smelled sweet from the garden.

'That is what she told you?" Henry asked, going to the hall door and opening it to tell the butler that Oliver would be staying to dinner.

"You doubt it?" Oliver asked, sitting in the second-most comfortable chair.

Henry returned. "I take it with circumspection." He sat down in the best chair and crossed his legs, but he did not relax. "What do you know of her relationship with Prince Friedrich, for example, before Gisela married him?" he asked, looking gravely at Oliver.

Oliver repeated what Zorah had told him.

"Are you sure that Zorah didn't want to marry Friedrich?"

"Of course she didn't," Oliver said. "She is the last sort of woman to wish to be restricted by the bounds of royal protocol. She has a hunger for freedom, a passion for life far too big for ..." He hesitated, aware from the look in his father's eyes that he was betraying himself.

"Perhaps," Henry said thoughtfully. "But it is still possible to resent someone else taking something from you, even if you don't especially want it yourself."