Weighed in the Balance

chapter 10

"The newspapers, sir." Rathbone's manservant handed them to him as he sat at breakfast, the Times on top.

Rathbone's stomach tightened. This would be the measure of public opinion. In the pile of newsprint would lie what he was really fighting against, the hope and the fear of what faced him today and for as long as the trial lasted.

That was not the whole truth. It would last a lot longer than that In people's minds he would always be connected with it.

He opened the Times and scanned the pages to find the report. There was bound to be one. It was inconceivable they would ignore such a trial. Everyone in Europe would be following it.

There it was. He had almost missed it because the headline did not mention Gisela's name, or Friedrich's. It read tragic accident - or murder? Then it went on to summarize the evidence so far with extreme sympathy for Gisela, describing her in detail, her ashen face, her magnificent dignity, her restraint in refusing to blame others or play on the emotions of the crowd. Rathbone nearly tore the paper on reading that. His hands shook with frustration. She had played superbly. Whether by chance or design, she had done it with consummate brilliance. No actress could have done better.

It went on to speak of Rathbone's own probing of the situation, calling it desperate. Indeed that was true, but he had hoped it was not so obvious. But the burden of the article sent his heart racing with a surge of hope. They wrote that it was now imperative that the truth be known exactly how Prince Friedrich had died.

His eyes scanned the rest of the column, mouth dry, pulse thumping. It was all there, the political summary of the questions of continued independence versus unification, the interests involved, the risks of war, the factions, the struggle for power, their idealism, even reference to the revolutions across Europe in 1848.

The story ended by extolling the British legal system and demanding that it fulfill its great opportunity, and responsibility, to discover and prove to the world the truth as to whether Prince Friedrich had died by accident or there had indeed been a royal murder committed on English soil. Justice must be done, and for that the truth must be known, however difficult or painful to some. Such a heinous crime could not be kept secret to avoid embarrassment, no matter to whom.

He cast the Times aside and turned to the next paper. Its tone was a little different. It concentrated on the more human aspect, and reiterated its cry from the previous day that in the emotion of politics and murder, it must not be lost sight of that the case was about slander. In the very depth of her grief, a tragic and noble woman had been accused of the most appalling of crimes. The court existed not only to discern truth and explore issues which might affect tens of thousands but also, and perhaps primarily, to protect the rights and the good name of the innocent. It was the only recourse they had when falsely accused, and they had the right, the absolute and sacred right, to require it at the hands of all civilized peoples.

Harvester could not have been better served if he had written the story himself.

Rathbone closed the paper with his exhilaration considerably sobered. He had merely begun. He had accomplished the first step, no more.

The seal of displeasure was set upon the remainder of his breakfast by the arrival of the morning post, which included a short note from the Lord Chancellor.

My dear Sir Oliver,

May I commend you upon the tact with which you have so far conducted a most difficult and trying case. We must hope that the weight of evidence will yet persuade the unfortunate defendant to withdraw.

However, I am asked by certain persons at the Palace, who have grave interest in continued good relations in Europe, most especially with our German cousins, to advise you of the delicacy of the situation. I am sure you will in no way allow your client to involve, by even the slightest implication, the dignity or honor of the present royal family of Felzburg.

Naturally, I answered the gentleman in question that all fears in that direction were without foundation.

I wish you good fortune in the negotiation of this miserable matter.

Yours faithfully

The letter was signed with his name but not his title. Rathbone put it down with a stiff hand, his fingers shaking. He no longer wished even tea or toast.

Harvester began the day by calling Dr. Gallagher to the stand. Rathbone wondered whether he had intended calling him even before the question of murder arose late the previous day. Possibly he had foreseen the newspaper's reaction and been prepared. Harvester did not seem anxious. But then he was far too good an actor to show what he did not wish to have seen.

Gallagher, on the other hand, looked extremely uncomfortable. He climbed the steps to the stand awkwardly, tripping on the last one, only saving himself by grasping the railing. He faced the court and took the oath, coughing to clear his throat. Rathbone felt a certain pity for him. The man had probably been nervous attending the Prince in the first place. It had been a very serious accident, and he might well have expected to lose his patient and be blamed for his inability to perform a miracle. He must have been surrounded by people in deep anxiety and distress. He had no colleagues upon whom to call, as he would have had in a hospital. He must be wishing that he had demanded a second opinion, someone from London, so he would not now have to bear the responsibility alone - and, if there were to be any, the blame.

He looked white; his brow was already beaded with sweat.

"Dr. Gallagher," Harvester began gravely, striding out to the middle of the floor. "I regret, sir, having to place you in this position, but you are no doubt aware of the charges that have been made regarding the death of Prince Friedrich, whether mischievously or with sincere belief. The fact remains that since they have been made in public, we cannot now allow them to go unanswered. We must find the truth, and we cannot do that without your full testimony."

Gallagher started to speak and ended coughing. He pulled out a white handkerchief and put it to his mouth, then when he had finished, kept it in his hand.

"Poor man," Zorah whispered beside Rathbone. It was the first comment she had passed upon any witness.

"Yes, sir, I understand," Gallagher said unhappily. "I will do all that lies in my power."

"I am sure you will." Harvester was standing with his hands behind his back - what Rathbone had come to realize was a characteristic stance. "I must take you back to the original accident," Harvester continued. "You were called to attend Prince Friedrich." It was a statement. Everyone knew the answer.

"Where was he and what was his condition when you first saw him?"

"He was in his rooms in Wellborough Hall," Gallagher replied, staring straight ahead. "He was on a board which had been brought upstairs because they feared the softness of the bed might cause the bones to scrape against each other were he unable to be absolutely flat The poor man was still conscious and perfectly sensible to all his pain. I believe he had requested this himself."

Rathbone glanced at Zorah and saw her face stiff with knowledge of the Prince's suffering, as if in her mind it still existed. He steeled himself to search for guilt as well, but he saw no shadow of it.

He turned to look across at Gisela. Her expression was totally different. There was no hie in her face, no turmoil, no anguish. It was as if every emotion in her were already exhausted. She had nothing whatever left.

"Indeed," Harvester was saying somberly. "A very distressing affair altogether. What was your diagnosis, Dr. Gallagher, when you had examined him?"

"Several ribs were broken," Gallagher answered. "His right leg was shattered, broken in three places very badly, as was his right collarbone."

"And internal injuries?" Harvester looked as grim as if the pain and the fear were still alive and present among them all. In the gallery, there were murmurs of pity and horror. Rathbone was acutely aware of Zorah beside him. He heard the rustle of her skirts as her body twisted and became rigid, reliving the horror and uncertainty of that time. He did not mean to look at her again, but he could not help it. There was a mixture of feelings in her features, the extraordinary nose, too long, too strong for her face, the green eyes half closed, the lips parted. At that moment he found it impossible to believe she could have caused the death which followed after.

But he still had no idea how much she knew or what were her true reasons for making the charge of murder, or even if she had loved Friedrich or merely felt pity for any human suffering. She was as unreadable to him as she had been the first day he had met her. She was exasperating, possibly more than a little mad, and yet he could not see her as villainess, and he could not dislike her. It would make things a great deal easier if he could. Then he might discharge his legal duty to her and feel excused, instead of caring what happened to her, even if it was entirely her own doing.

Gallagher was describing the internal injuries he was aware of - or, in his best medical opinion, guessed.

"Of course, it is impossible to know," he said awkwardly. "He seemed to be recovering, at least his general health. I think he would have remained severely incapacitated." He took a deep breath. "Now it appears I missed something which may have ruptured when he moved or perhaps coughed severely. Sometimes even a sneeze can be very violent."

Harvester nodded. "But the symptoms as you observed them were entirely consistent with death from injury, such as those he sustained in what was a very bad fall indeed?"

"I... I believed so at the time." Gallagher fidgeted, turning his chin as if to loosen a collar which was choking him, but he did not move his hands from where they gripped the rail in front of him. "I signed the certificate according to my honest belief. Of course - " He stopped. Now his embarrassment was abundantly plain to every man and woman in the room.

Harvester looked grim. "You have second thoughts, Dr. Gallagher? Upon reading in the newspapers of Sir Oliver's suggestion in yesterday's hearing - or earlier than that, may I ask?"

Gallagher looked wretched. He kept his eyes on Harvester's face, as if he dared not glance away in case he should meet Gisela's gaze.

"Well ... really ... I suppose mostly since reading the newspapers. Although a private inquiry agent spoke to me some little time ago, and his questions were rather disturbing, but I gave it little credence at the time."

"So your thoughts were prompted by others? Would this agent be in the employ of Sir Oliver and his client, by any chance?" He made a slight, almost contemptuous, gesture towards Zorah.

"I..." Gallagher shook his head. "I have no idea. He gave me to understand he was charged with protecting the good name of the Princess and of Lord and Lady Wellborough."

There was a murmur of anger from the crowd. One of the jurors pursed his lips.

"Did he! Did he indeed?" Harvester said sarcastically. "Well, that may be so, but I can tell you without doubt, Doctor, that he has no connection whatever with the Princess Gisela, and I shall be amazed if he had any with Lord and Lady Wellborough. Their reputations are in no danger, nor ever have been."

Gallagher said nothing.

"On reflection, Doctor," Harvester continued, walking a few paces and turning back, "do you now still feel that your original diagnosis was correct? Did Prince Friedrich die as a result of injuries sustained in his accident, and possibly exacerbated by a fit of coughing or sneezing?"

"I really do not know. It would be impossible to be certain without an autopsy on the body."

There was a gasp around the room. A woman in the gallery shrieked. One of the jurors looked extremely distressed, as if it were about to happen right in front of him, there and then.

"Is there anything to prove it cannot have been an injury which was the cause, Dr. Gallagher?" Harvester demanded.

"No, of course not! If there were I should not have signed the certificate."

"Of course not," Harvester agreed vehemently, spreading his hands. "Oh, one more thing. I assume you called upon the Prince very regularly while he was recuperating?"

"Naturally. I went every day. Twice a day for almost the first week after the accident, then as he progressed well and the fever abated, only once."

"How long after the accident did he die?"

"Eight days."

"And during that time, who, to your knowledge, cared for him?"

"Every time I called, the Princess was there. She appeared to attend to his every need."

Harvester's voice dropped a fraction and became very precise. "Nursing need, Doctor, or do you mean that she also cooked his food?"

There was silence in the room. It hammered in the ears. The chamber was so crowded with people they were jammed together in the seats, fabric rubbing on fabric, the wool gabardine of gentlemen's coats against the taffeta and bombazine of women's gowns, suits and wraps. But for all the sound they might have been waxworks.

"No," Gallagher said firmly. "She did not cook. I was led to understand she did not have the art. And since she was a princess, one could hardly have expected it of her. I was told she never went to the kitchens. Indeed, I was told she never left the suite of rooms from the time he was brought to them until after he had died ... in fact, not for some days after that. She was distraught with grief."

"Thank you, Dr. Gallagher," Harvester said graciously. "You have been most clear. That is all I wish to ask you presently. No doubt Sir Oliver will have some point to raise, if you will be so good as to remain where you are."

Gallagher turned to face Rathbone as he rose and came forward. Monk had mentioned the yew trees at Wellborough to him, and he had done his research. He must not antagonize the man if he wished to learn anything of use. And he must forget Zorah, leaning forward and listening to every word, her eyes on him.

"I think we can all appreciate your position, Dr. Gallagher," he began with a faint smile. "You had no cause whatever to suppose the case was other than as you were told. No one expects or foresees that in such a household, with such people, there will be anything that is untoward or other than as it should be. You would have been criticized for the grossest offensiveness and insensitivity had you implied otherwise, even in the slightest manner. But with the wisdom of hindsight, and now having some idea of the political situation involved, let us reexamine what you saw and heard and see if it still bears the same interpretation."

He frowned apologetically. "I regret doing this. It can only be painful for all those present, but I am sure you perceive the absolute necessity for having the truth. If murder was done, it must be proved, and those who are guilty must account."

He looked quite deliberately at the jury, then at Gisela, sitting bleak-faced and composed next to Harvester.

"And if there were no crime at all, simply a tragedy, then we must prove that also, and silence forever the whispers of evil that have spread all over Europe. The innocent also are entitled to our protection, and we must honor that trust."

He turned back to the witness stand before Harvester could complain that he was making speeches.

"Dr. Gallagher, what precisely were the symptoms of Prince Friedrich's last few hours and of his death? I would spare everyone's feelings if I could, most of all those of his widow, but this must be."

Gallagher said nothing for a moment or two. He seemed to be marshaling his ideas, setting them right in his mind before he began.

"Do you wish to refer to notes, Dr. Gallagher?" the judge inquired.

"No, thank you, my lord. It is a case I shall not forget." He drew in a deep breath and cleared his throat huskily. "On the day the Prince was taken more seriously ill, I was summoned earlier than I had expected to call. A servant from Wellborough Hall came to my house and requested that I come immediately, as Prince Friedrich was showing symptoms of considerable distress. I asked what they were, and he told me he was feverish, had a very severe headache and was nauseous, and was experiencing great internal pain. Of course, I went immediately."

"You had no patients at that time?"

"One. An elderly gentleman with the gout, a chronic condition for which I could do little but advise him to abstain from Port wine. Advice he declined to take."

There was a nervous titter around the gallery, and then silence again.

"And how did you find Prince Friedrich when you saw him, Dr. Gallagher?" Rathbone asked.

"Much as the manservant had said," Gallagher replied. "By then he was in severe pain and had vomited. Unfortunately, in the cause of decency the vomitus had not been kept, so I was unable to ascertain the degree of blood in it, but the Princess told me it was considerable. She feared he was bleeding heavily, and she was in very great distress. Indeed, she seemed to be in greater agony of emotion than he was of body."

"Did he vomit again while you were there?"

"No. Very shortly after I arrived he fell into a kind of delirium. He seemed very weak. His skin was cold to the touch, clammy, and of a blotchy appearance. His pulse was erratic, insofar as it could be found at all, and he was in great internal pain. I admit I... I was in fear for his life from that time on. I held very little hope he could recover." He was ashen himself, and looking at his rigid stance and agonized face, Rathbone could well imagine the scene as Gallagher had struggled desperately to help the dying man, knowing he was beyond all human aid, watching his suffering and unable to relieve it. It was a profession Rathbone could never have followed himself. He vastly preferred to deal with the anguish and injustices of the mind, the complications of the law and its battles.

"I imagine everyone here can conceive your distress, Doctor," he said aloud and with sincere respect. "We can only be grateful we were not in your place. What happened next?"

"Prince Friedrich failed rapidly," Gallagher answered. "He grew colder and weaker. The pain seemed to subside, and he slipped into a coma from which he did not recover. He died at about quarter to four that afternoon."

"And you concluded from what you had seen, and what you already knew of the case, that he had bled to death internally?"

"Yes."

"A not-unnatural conclusion, given the circumstances as they were then," Rathbone agreed. "But tell me, Dr. Gallagher, looking back now, is there anything whatever in those symptoms which is indicative not of internal bleeding but of poison? For example, the poison from the bark or leaves of the yew tree?"

There was a sharp intake of breath around the room. Someone gave a little squeal. A juror looked very distressed.

Zorah fidgeted and frowned.

As always, Gisela remained impassive, but her face was so bloodless she might have been dead herself, a marble figure of a woman.

Rathbone put his hands in his pockets and smiled sadly, still facing the witness. "In case you have had no occasion recently to remind yourself of what those are, Doctor, let me enumerate them - for the court, if not for you. They are giddiness, diarrhea, dilation of the pupils of the eyes, pain in the stomach and nausea, weakness, pallor of the skin, convulsions, coma and death."

Gallagher closed his eyes, and Rathbone thought he swayed a little in the stand.

The judge was staring at him intensely.

One of the jurors had his hand up to his face.

Gisela sat like stone, drained as if all that mattered to her, all that gave her life, had already left her.

In the gallery, a woman was weeping quietly.

Zorah's race was pinched with unhappiness. She looked as if she had lived through the pain and grief of the day all over again.

"There was no diarrhea," Gallagher said very slowly. "Unless it occurred before I arrived and I was not told. There were no convulsions."

"And dilation of the pupils, Dr. Gallagher?' Rathbone almost held his breath. He could feel his own pulse beating.

"Yes..." Gallagher's voice was little more than a whisper. He coughed, and coughed again. "Yes, there was dilation of the pupils of the eyes." He looked wretched.

"And is that a symptom of bleeding to death, Doctor?" Rathbone kept all criticism from his voice. It was easy... he did not feel it. He doubted any man in Gallagher's place would have thought of it.

Gallagher breathed out with a sigh. "No. No, it is not."

There was a gasp in the gallery.

The judge's face tightened, and he watched Rathbone gravely.

"Dr. Gallagher," Rathbone said in the prickling silence, "are you still of the opinion that Prince Friedrich died as a result of bleeding to death from the wounds sustained in his fall?"

The jurors stared at Gisela and then at Zorah.

Zorah clenched her fists and moved forward an inch.

"No sir, I am not," Gallagher answered.

There was a shriek from the gallery and the gasping of breath. Apparently someone fainted, because several people started to rise to their feet and jostle to make space.

"Give her air!" a man commanded.

"Here! Smelling salts," someone else offered.

"Burn a feather!" came the call. "Ushers! Water!"

"Brandy! Has anyone a flask of brandy? Oh, thank you, sir!"

The judge waited until the woman had been assisted, then gave Rathbone leave to continue.

'Thank you, my lord," Rathbone acknowledged.

"Can you name the cause of death, Dr. Gallagher, in your best judgment? So long after the event, and without any further examination, we appreciate you can only guess."

The movement in the gallery ceased abruptly. The fainting woman was ignored.

"I would guess, sir, that it was the poison of the yew tree," Gallagher said wretchedly. "I profoundly regret that I did not realize it at the time. I tender my apologies to Princess Gisela and to the court."

"I am sure no person of sensibility blames you, Doctor," Rathbone said frankly. "Which of us would have thought on the death of a prince, in the home of a respected member of the aristocracy, to look for poison? I most certainly would not, and if any man here says he would, I would beg leave to take issue with him."

"Thank you," Gallagher said painfully. "You are very generous, Sir Oliver. But medicine is my duty and my calling. I should have observed the eyes and had the courage and the diligence to pursue the discrepancy."

"You have had the courage now, sir, and we are obliged to you for it. That is all I have to ask you."

Harvester rose to his feet. He looked pale and less certain than at the beginning of the day. He did not move with the same ease.

"Dr. Gallagher, you are now of the opinion that the poison of the yew tree was the cause of Prince Friedrich's death. Can you tell us how it was administered?"

"It would have been ingested," Gallagher replied. "In either food or drink."

"It is pleasant to the taste?"

"I have no idea. I should imagine not."

"What form would it take? Liquid? Solid? Leaves? Fruit?"

"A liquid distilled from the leaves or the bark."

"Not the fruit?"

"No sir. Curiously enough, the fruit is the one part of the yew tree which is not poisonous - even the seeds themselves are toxic. But in any case, Prince Friedrich died in the spring, when trees do not fruit."

"A distillation?" Harvester persisted.

"Yes," Gallagher agreed. "No one would eat yew leaves or bark."

"So it would have been necessary for someone to gather the leaves, or the bark, and boil them for a considerable time?"

"Yes."

"And yet you told us that the Princess never went to the kitchens. Did she have apparatus in her rooms in which she could have done such a thing?"

"I believe not."

"Could she have done it over the bedroom fire?"

"No, of course not. Apart from anything else, it would have been observed."

"Was there a hob on the bedroom fire?"

"No."

"Did she go out and gather the bark or the needles of the yew trees?"

"I don't know. I believe she did not leave the Prince's side."

"Does it seem to you reasonable to suppose that she had either the means or the opportunity to poison her husband, Dr. Gallagher? Or, for that matter, any motive whatsoever?"

"No, it does not."

"Thank you, Dr. Gallagher." Harvester turned away from the witness stand to face the courtroom. "Unless the Countess Rostova knows some major fact of which we are unaware, and she has chosen to keep it from the authorities, it would seem she cannot believe so either, and her accusation is false, and she knows it as well as we do!"

Henry Rathbone had been in court that day, as he had the day before. Oliver visited him in the evening. He had an intense desire to get out of the city and as far away as was practical from the courtroom and all that had happened in it. He rode through the sharp, gusty late autumn evening towards Primrose Hill. The traffic was light, and his hansom made swift progress.

He arrived a little after nine and found Henry sitting beside a blazing fire and looking at a book on philosophy, upon which he seemed unable to concentrate. He put it down as soon as Oliver entered the room. His face was bleak with concern.

"Port?" he asked, gesturing towards the bottle on the small table beside his chair. There was only one glass, but there were others in the cabinet by the wall. The curtains were drawn against the rain-spattered night. They were the same brown velvet curtains that had been there for the last twenty years.

Oliver sat down. "Not yet, thank you," he declined. "Maybe later."

"I was in court today," Henry said after a few moments. "You don't need to explain it to me." He did not ask what Oliver was going to do next.

"I didn't see you. I'm sorry." Oliver stared into the fire. Perhaps he should have taken the Port. He was colder than he had thought. The taste would have been good, its heat going down his throat.

"I didn't want to distract you from your task," Henry replied. "But I thought you might want to talk about it later. Easier if I had been there. It isn't only what is said, it's the way people react to it."

Oliver looked across at him. "And you are going to tell me that the crowd is with Gisela ... the poor bereaved widow. I know. And as far as I can see, they are right. Monk thinks it is political and whoever did it actually intended to kill Gisela, to free Friedrich to return home and lead the party for independence, but somehow the plan misfired and the wrong person took the poison."

"Possibly," Henry said with a frown puckering his forehead. "I hope you aren't going to say anything so foolish in court?"

"I don't think it's foolish," Oliver said immediately. "I think he's probably right. The Queen hated Gisela with a passion, but she had an equal passion to have Friedrich back, both to lead the party of independence and to marry a wife who would give him an heir to the throne. The other son has no children."

Henry looked puzzled. "I thought Friedrich had several sisters."

"Doesn't pass through the female line," Oliver replied, easing himself a little more comfortably in the chair.

"Then change it till it does!" Henry said impatiently. "A lot simpler and less dangerous than murdering Gisela and trying to deal with a bereaved Friedrich and put more backbone into him to make him lead a battle which will take all the courage and skill and determination anyone could have. And even then which may be a lost cause. You need a miracle for that, not a man who has just lost the love of his life and who may well be intelligent enough to realize who was responsible for that."

Oliver stared at his father speechlessly. He had not thought so far ahead. If they had succeeded in killing Gisela, surely Friedrich would have at the very least been suspicious of them?

"Maybe it was not the Queen, or Rolf, but some fanatic without the brains to foresee what would happen?" he said hesitantly.

Henry raised his eyebrows. "And were there many of them at Wellborough Hall with access to the Prince's food?"

Oliver did not bother to reply.

The fire caved in with a shower of sparks, and Henry picked up the tongs and placed several more coals in it, then sat back again.

"Who will Harvester call tomorrow?" he asked, fishing for his pipe and putting it absentmindedly into his mouth without even pretending to light it.

"I don't know," Oliver replied, his mind almost numb.

"Could Gisela be guilty?" Henry pressed. "Is there any way in which it is possible... even supposing she did indeed have motive?"

"The servants," Oliver said, answering the earlier question. "Harvester'll call the household servants from Wellborough Hall. They'll almost certainly testify that after the accident Gisela never left the suite of rooms they had."

'Truthfully?"

"Yes ... I think so."

Henry took the pipe out of his mouth. His slippers were so near the fire the soles were beginning to scorch, but he had not noticed, his mind was so intent on the problem.

"Then she cannot be guilty," he said frankly. "Unless one supposes she habitually carries distillation of yew about with her, or else that she planned this from before the accident. Either of which supposition would require total proof before anyone at all is even going to entertain it."

"I know," Oliver conceded quickly. "It wasn't she."

They sat in silence again except for the ticking of the tall clock against the wall and the comfortable flickering of the fire.

"Your feet are burning," Oliver remarked absently.

Henry moved them, wincing as he became aware of the hot soles.

'Then you must find out who it was," the older man said.

"Either Rolf or Brigitte, if it was meant to be Gisela in order to free Friedrich to return home, or Klaus von Seidlitz, if Friedrich was the right victim - to prevent his return."

"You have not yet proved that there was a conspiracy," Henry pointed out. "You can't leave that to assumption. The jury won't return any verdict which indicates that if you don't show it."

"It doesn't matter," Oliver said miserably. "The charge is slander, and they can only bring in a verdict that she is guilty, because she is guilty. I might manage to persuade them she did it to expose the fact that he was murdered and she dared not accuse anyone else - or that somehow she originally imagined it could have been Gisela, although I can't think anyone would believe that. One would only have to ask her why she thought so; she does not provide a single coherent answer."

He got up and went over to the cabinet, opened it and took out a glass. He returned to the fire, filled his glass with Port, and sat down.

"I daren't call her to the stand. She'll hang herself."

Henry stared at him.

"Sorry," Oliver apologized for the exaggeration. Henry hated overstatement. "Would you like some more?" He gestured towards the decanter of Port.

"She may indeed." Henry ignored the Port as if he had not heard. "She may do exactly that, Oliver, if you are not very careful. If you don't prove a plot to return Friedrich, and even if you do, the question is going to arise: Did Zorah kill him herself? Did she have the opportunity?"

"Yes." Even the Port could not help the deepening chill inside him.

"Could she have obtained the yew and distilled it?"

"She could certainly have obtained it. Anyone could, except Gisela. We haven't found out yet how it was distilled. That is the biggest break in the chain of evidence. The kitchen staff seem quite sure no one used the kitchen for it. But she is no better or worse than anyone else in that aspect."

"Had she the motive?"

"I don't know, but it won't be hard to suggest several, from personal jealousy and resentment for Gisela's marrying Friedrich twelve years ago," Oliver answered, "to political hatred because Gisela was the one person stopping Friedrich from returning home to lead the battle for independence - or, for that matter, stopping him from having filled his duty to be king in the first place."

"So the answer is very much that she had a motive - the oldest in the world and the easiest to understand." Henry shook his head. "Oliver, I am afraid you and your client have created for yourself an extremely unpleasant situation. You are going to be very fortunate indeed if she escapes the threat of the gallows in this."

Oliver said nothing. He knew it was true.

As Rathbone had foreseen, Harvester spent the entire next day calling the servants from Wellborough Hall. He must have been prepared for the necessity, unless he had sent someone for them the day before, after court adjourned, and they had traveled all night - assuming there were trains at night from that part of Berkshire.

It all confirmed Rathbone's worst expectations. Servant after servant took the stand, very sober, very frightened, dressed in their Sunday best, transparently honest, twisting their hands in embarrassment.

The Princess Gisela had at no time left the suite of rooms she occupied with the Prince, God rest his soul. No one had ever seen her on the other side of the green baize door. She had certainly never been into the kitchens. Cook swore to that, so did the kitchen maid, both scullery maids, the pastry cook, the bootboy and three of the footmen, the butler and the housekeeper, two parlormaids, four housemaids and two tweenies. One lady's maid spoke on behalf of three upstairs maids, a valet and three laundresses.

The Princess Gisela had been seen outside her rooms by no one at all, and there was almost always someone about.

On the other hand, there were unquestionably yew trees in the gardens, several of them.

"And could any person who walked in the gardens have access to these yew trees?" Harvester asked the housekeeper, a comfortable, good-tempered woman with graying fair hair.

"Yes sir. The yew walk is a most agreeable place, and a natural way to it if one wishes a little time alone. It leads up towards the best views across the fields."

"So it would not occasion surprise to see anyone there, even walking alone?" Harvester said cautiously.

"No sir."

"Did you ever see or hear of anyone in particular walking there?"

"I'm far too busy with a house full of guests to be looking out of windows seeing who's out walking, sir. But a good sunny day, an' it was a very nice spring, most of the guests would be out at one time or another."

"Except the Princess Gisela?"

"Yes sir, 'cept her, poor lady."

"The Countess Rostova, for example?"

"Yes sir," she said more cautiously. "Liked a good walk. Not a lady to sit inside the house on a fine day."

"And after his accident, were the Prince's meals taken up from the kitchen to his rooms regularly?"

"Always, sir. He never came out. Sometimes it was no more than a little beef tea, but it was always sent up."

"Carried by a maid or a footman?"

"Maid, sir."

"And might such a maid pass another guest on the stairs or on the landing?"

"Yes sir."

"And would automatically stand aside and make way for such a guest?"

"Of course."

"Guests might pass closely enough on the stairs for something to be surreptitiously added to a dish by sleight of hand?"

"I don't know, sir. Dishes should be covered on a tray, and a cloth over them as well."

"But possible, Mrs. Haines?"

"I suppose so."

"Thank you." Harvester turned to Rathbone. "Sir Oliver?"

But Rathbone could make no argument of any value. There was nothing to contradict. He himself had proved that Friedrich was poisoned. Harvester had proved that it could not have been by Gisela. Rathbone could not implicate anyone else. It would be an act of desperation to suggest a name, and looking at the jurors, he was wise enough to know any attempt to lay specific blame could rebound against him. He had not yet irrefutably argued a plot to restore Friedrich, and it would be a plot, because it would automatically depose Waldo. No one was going to admit to it in the present climate. It would be political suicide, and anyone passionate enough about the struggle might sacrifice himself or herself in its cause, but never sacrifice the cause itself, and certainly not to save Zorah.

Harvester smiled. He had sought to protect Gisela by proving her innocence, and thus Zorah's guilt of slander. Now he was on the brink of seeing Zorah indicted, at least in the public mind, of murder. And unless Ratbbone found some way of proving the contrary, it might be in law as well.

By the time the day was ended, Henry Rathbone was correct - Zorah herself was close to the shadow of the gibbet.

As the court rose, press reporters burst through the doors and raced for the hansoms outside, shouting out to drivers to take them to Fleet Street. The crowds craned their necks and surged forward to see Gisela and cheer her, shout out blessings and encouragement, praise and admiration.

For Zorah, there were cries of hatred. Rotten fruit and vegetables were thrown. More than one stone cracked sharply against the wall behind her, and she made her way, ashen-faced, head high, eyes terrified, to where Rathbone had ordered a coach to wait. He knew he dared not trust to finding a hansom in that enraged throng which was now threatening physical violence.

"Hang 'er!" someone yelled. "Hang the rnurderin' bitch!"

" 'Ang 'er!" the crowd roared. " 'Ang 'er! 'Ang 'er by 'er neck! Send 'er ter the rope!"

It was only with great difficulty and some buffeting that Rathbone managed to guide her to the coach and help her up into it, bruised and breathless.

She sat close beside him as the coach lurched forward and the horses stepped and jibbed, trying to make their way through the pressing bodies. Hands reached up for the harness, and the driver cracked his whip. There was a howl of rage, and the coach plunged forward again, throwing Zorah and Rathbone off balance. Without thinking, he put out his hand to steady her and kept hold of her. He could not think of anything to say. He wanted to be able to tell her it would be all right, somehow or other he would rescue them both, but he knew of no way, and she would not have been comforted by a lie, only angered.

She looked at him gratefully but without hope.

"I did not kill him," she said, her voice barely audible over the rattling of the wheels and the roaring of the crowd behind them, but perfectly steady. "She did!"

Rathbone felt a chill of despair settle over his heart.

Hester also traveled home from the court in a state of profound misery. She was deeply afraid for Rathbone, and the more desperately she tried to think of a way out for him, the less could she see one.

She went in through the front door at Hill Street shivering with cold, although it was quite a mild afternoon; she felt so crushed she had no heart to give herself energy.

She did not want to speak to either Bernd or Dagmar, and she was sure they would have arrived home before she did. They had their own carriage, and they had not stayed to the bitter end to see Rathbone and Zorah mobbed as they left, bearing the rage and the hatred of the crowd.

She went straight upstairs to her room, and after taking off her outer cape, knocked on Robert's door, which was ajar.

"Come in?" he said immediately.

She opened the door and was surprised to see Victoria sitting in the easy chair and Robert in his wheelchair, not on the bed. They looked at her eagerly, but there was no tension in them, and their chairs were close together, as though they had been talking earnestly before she knocked. Robert's face was not pale anymore. The late autumn sun and wind had given him color as he had sat out in the garden, and his hair, flopping forward over his brow, was shining. It really was time they had a barber in to cut it.

"What happened?" he asked. Then he frowned. "It wasn't good, was it? I can see it in your face. Come and tell us." He indicated a second bedroom chair. His eyes were full of concern.

She was aware of the warmth of his feeling. Suddenly she was furious that someone she liked so much should be crippled, confined to a chair, almost certainly for the rest of his life, denied the chance of a career, of love and marriage, the things his peers expected as a matter of course. She found herself almost choked with emotion.

"Was it really as bad as that?" Robert said gently. "You'd better sit down. Would you like me to ring for a tray of tea? You look pretty upset."

She tried to force a smile and knew she had failed.

"You don't have to pretend," Robert went on. "Is the verdict in already? It can't be, can it?"

"Did she withdraw?" Victoria asked, puzzled.

"No. No, she didn't withdraw," Hester replied, sitting down. "And the verdict is a long way off yet. Sir Oliver hasn't even started. But I can't see that it will help when he does. It has reached the stage now where Zorah will be fighting to keep from the gallows herself..."

They both stared at her.

"Zorah?" Robert said aghast. "But Zorah didn't kill him! If she had, she would be the last person to mention murder. She'd be only too happy they all thought it was accidental. That doesn't make any sense!"

"Perhaps they don't think she is sensible," Victoria pointed out. "They may think she's a fanatic, or hysterical. I know that they are saying she is very eccentric, and that she dresses in men's clothes and has been to all sorts of unsuitable and indecent places. And of course they are suggesting that her morals are appalling."

Hester was startled that Victoria should be aware of such things. How on earth did she know? Then she remembered Victoria's drastically altered circumstances. She must have come down so far in the world that she no longer had anything like the life of the young lady she had been before her family's disgrace, and no doubt now also financial dependency upon relatives. She was probably far better acquainted with the harsher side of life and its realities than Robert was.

He was staring at Victoria, and she colored unhappily.

"Who is saying that?" he asked her. "That's totally unjust"

"When people are angry, justice has very little part in it," she replied quietly.

"Why should they be angry?" He frowned. "She may have injured Gisela, but the verdict isn't in yet. And if it was murder, then they should be grateful to her, whoever is guilty. At least she has brought the truth about that to light. It seems to me they are doing exactly what they are blaming her for... jumping to conclusions without hearing the facts, and condemning people without evidence. That's totally hypocritical."

Victoria smiled. "Of course it is," she agreed gently. Her eyes were soft and bright as she looked at him.

Robert turned to Hester. "What about your friend, Sir Oliver? How is he? He must be feeling very badly that he cannot help, especially if it is as serious for her as you say."

"I don't think he has any idea what to do for the best,"

Hester said frankly. "He has to prove it was someone else to save the Countess, and we haven't any proof."

"I'm sorry."

Victoria rose to her feet, moving with great awkwardness as the pain caught her, then straightening again and hiding it so Robert should not see. "It is getting late, and I should leave. I am sure you must be tired after the disasters of the day. I shall leave you to talk. Perhaps some idea may come to you." She looked at Robert, hesitating a moment, blinking, and then making herself smile again. "Good night." And then quite suddenly she turned on her heel and went out of the door, closing it behind her clumsily. The expression in her eyes and in her voice, the color in her face, had betrayed her feelings, and Hester had read them as plainly as if they had been spoken in words, perhaps more plainly. Words can lie.

She looked at Robert. His mouth was pinched, and his eyes were dark with pain. He stared down at his legs, placed on the chair for him by the footman. One foot was a trifle crooked, and he was powerless even to straighten it. Hester saw it, but to lift it for him would be an intolerable reminder at this moment.

"Thank you for bringing me Victoria," he said quickly. "I think I shall always love her. I wish I had anything on earth I could give her that compared with what she has given me." He breathed out. "But I haven't." He hesitated. "If I could walk... If I could only stand!" His voice broke, and for long, aching moments he had to fight to retain his self-control.

Hester knew that Victoria had told him nothing of her own griefs. It was an acutely private thing, and yet Robert was suffering, and perhaps he would allow both their happiness to slip away from them because he believed they were so unequal and he was worth nothing to her.

Hester spoke very quietly. Perhaps this was a mistake, an irretrievable error, the breaking of a trust, but she told him.

"You can give her love. There is no gift as great - "

He swung his shoulders around, glaring at her with rage and frustration and pain in his eyes, and something agonizing which she thought was shame.

"Love!" he said bitterly. "With all my heart ... but that's hardly enough, is it? I can't look after her. I can't support or protect her. I can't love her as a man loves a woman! 'With my body I thee worship!' " His voice cracked with unshed tears and loneliness and helplessness. "I can't give her love; I can't give her children!"

"Nor can she give such things to you," Hester said softly, longing to touch his hand and knowing it was not the time. "She was raped as a girl, and as a result of that had a backstreet abortion. It was very badly done, and she has never healed. That is the cause of her affliction, her constant pain, and at some times of the month it is worse than at others. She cannot ever have marital relations, and she certainly could not bear a child."

He was ashen white. He stared at her with horror so great his body shook, his hands clenched and unclenched in his lap, and she thought for a moment he was going to be sick.

"Raped?" he choked. His face filled with feelings of such violence and horror she hated herself for having told him. He despised Victoria. Like so many others, he felt she was unclean, not a victim but somehow a vessel which had invited and deserved its own spoiling. In telling him she had made a fearful misjudgment, irreparable.

She looked at Robert again.

His eyes were brimming with tears.

"She suffered that!" he whispered. "And all the time she was here, she was thinking of me... How... how could you have let me be so selfish?"

Now without thinking she grasped his hand and held it "It wasn't selfishness," she said urgently. "You couldn't know, and really I had no right to tell you. It is a very private thing. I... I couldn't bear you thinking - " She stopped. That would certainly be better unspoken.

He smiled at her suddenly. "I know."

She did not know whether he knew or not, and she was certainly not about to put it to the test.

"I shan't tell her you told me," he promised. "At least not yet. It would embarrass her, wouldn't it." That was a statement, not a question. "And I shall not tell my parents. It is not my secret to share, and I think they may not see it as it should be seen."

She knew he was certainly right about that. Bernd did not consider Victoria Stanhope a suitable friend for his son in any permanent sense, let alone more than that. But relief overwhelmed her like a great and blessed warmth, a taste of sweetness.

"Isn't she the most beautiful woman you've ever seen?" Robert said earnestly, his eyes bright and gentle. "Thank you for bringing her to me, Hester. I shall be grateful to you forever for that."