Weighed in the Balance

chapter 12
The following morning was Saturday, and Hester slept in. She awoke with a jolt, remembering that the case was far from over. They still did not have any idea who had killed Friedrich. Legally, if not morally, Gisela remained the injured party, and Zorah had slandered her by saying that she was guilty of murder. The jury would have no alternative but to find for Gisela, and she would have nothing to lose now by asking for punitive damages. She had no reputation to enhance by mercy. She was a ruined woman and might need every ha'penny she could wrest from anyone. She might find her only solace in vengeance against the person who had brought about this whole disaster.

And with Zorah's defeat would go Rathbone's. At worst, Zorah could even be charged with Friedrich's murder herself.

Hester rose and dressed in the best gown she had with her, a plainly tailored dark rust red with a little black velvet at the neck.

It was not that she felt her appearance mattered to the issue, it was simply that the act of taking care, of doing her hair as flatteringly as possible, of pinching a little color into her cheeks, was an act of confidence. It was like a soldier shining his boots and putting on his scarlet tunic before going into battle. It was all morale, and that was the first step towards victory.

She arrived at Rathbone's rooms at five minutes after eleven, and found Monk already there. It was cold and wet outside, and there was a comfortable fire in the grate, and lamps burning, filling the room with warmth.

Monk, dressed in dark brown, was standing by the fireplace, his hands up as if he had been gesturing to emphasize a point. Rathbone sat in the largest armchair, his legs crossed, buff-colored trousers immaculate as always, but his cravat was a little crooked and his hair poked out at the side where he had apparently run his fingers through it.

"How is Ollenheim?" Monk asked, then looked at her clothes and the flush in her cheeks with a critical frown. "I assume from your demeanor that he is taking it quite well. Poor devil. Hard enough discovering your mother regarded you as such an embarrassment to her social ambitions she first tried to abort you, then the moment you were born, gave you away, without having to sit in a courtroom while half London discovers it at the same time."

"And what about the Baroness?" Rathbone asked. "Not an easy thing for her either, or the Baron, for that matter."

"I think they will be very well," she replied decisively.

"You look uncommonly pleased with yourself." Monk was apparently annoyed by it. "Have you learned something useful?"

It was a hard reminder of the present which still faced them.

"No," she admitted. "I was happy for Robert, and for Victoria Stanhope. I haven't learned anything. Have you?" She sat down in the third chair and looked from Monk to Rathbone and back again.

Monk regarded her unhappily.

Rathbone was too exercised with the problem to indulge in any other emotions.

"We have certainly made the jury regard Gisela in a very different light..." he began.

Monk let out a bark of laughter.

"But that doesn't substantiate Zorah's charge," Rathbone continued with a frown, deliberately ignoring Monk and keeping his eyes on Hester. "If we are to prevent Zorah from facing the charge of having murdered Friedrich herself, then we need to know who did, and prove it." His voice was quiet, so subdued as to be lacking its usual timbre. Hester could feel the defeat in him. "She is a patriot," he went on. "And perfectly obviously hates Gisela. There are going to be many people who think at this critical point in her country's fate, she took the opportunity of trying to kill Gisela but made a devastating mistake, and Friedrich died instead." He looked profoundly unhappy. "I could believe it myself."

Monk looked at him grimly.

"Do you?"

Hester waited.

Rathbone did not reply for several moments. There was no sound in the room but the snapping of the fire, the ticking of the tall clock, and the beating of the rain on the windows.

"I don't know," he said at last. "I don't think so. But..."

"But what?" Monk demanded, turning towards him. "What?"

Rathbone looked up quickly, as if to make some remark in retaliation. Monk was questioning him as if he were a witness on the stand. Then he changed his mind and said nothing. That he gave in so easily was a measure of his inner turmoil, and it worried Hester more than any admission in words could have done.

"But what?" Monk repeated sharply. "For God's sake, Rathbone, we have to know. If we don't get to the bottom of this the woman could hang ... eventually. Friedrich was murdered. Don't you want to know who did it... whoever it was? I'm damn sure I do!"

"Yes, of course I do." Rathbone sat farther forward. "Even if it is Zorah herself, I want to know. I don't think I shall ever sleep properly again until I know what actually happened at Wellborough Hall, and why."

"Somebody took advantage of the situation and picked yew bark or leaves, made poison of them, and slipped it to Friedrich," Monk said, shifting his weight a little and leaning against the mantel. "Whether they meant to kill Friedrich or Gisela is probably the most important thing we need to know." He was standing too close to the fire, but he seemed unaware of it. "Either the poison was meant for Friedrich, to stop him from returning, in which case it was most probably Klaus von Seidlitz - or possibly ... his wife." A curious flicker of emotion crossed his face and as quickly vanished again. "Or else it was intended for Gisela, and for some reason she gave the food or the drink, whatever it was, to Friedrich. If that were so, then it could be anyone who was for independence: Rolf, Stephan, Zorah herself, even Barberini."

"Or Lord Wellborough, for that matter," Rathbone added. "If he had a sufficient financial stake in arming someone for the fighting which would follow."

"Possible," Monk conceded. "But unlikely. There are enough other wars. I can't see him taking that kind of risk. I am sure this is a crime of passion, not profit."

Hester had been thinking, trying to visualize it in purely practical terms.

"How did they do it?" she said aloud.

"Simple enough," Monk replied impatiently. "Distract the servant carrying the tray. Have the distillation of yew in a small vial or whatever you like. A hip flask would serve. Just pour it into the beef tea, or whatever was on the tray that you know is for either Friedrich or Gisela, depending on which one you mean to poison. He was too ill to have been eating (he same food as she did. He had mostly infusions, custards and so on.

She ate normally, if not very much. The kitchen staff and the footmen all testify to that."

"Have you ever tried to make an infusion of leaves or bark?" she asked with a frown.

"No. Why? I know it must have been boiled." A crease furrowed his brow. "I know the cook says it wasn't done in the kitchen. It must have been done over a bedroom fire. All the bedrooms have fires, and in spring they will have been lit. Anyone would have had all night to do it in privacy. That's what must have happened." His body relaxed again as he concluded. He became aware and moved away a step. "Anyone could have picked the leaves. They all went up and down the yew walk. I did myself. It's the natural way to go if you want to take the air for any distance."

"In what?" Hester asked, refusing to be satisfied.

Both men were staring at her.

"Well, if you are going to boil something half the night on your bedroom fire, you have to do it in something," she explained. "No pans were taken from the kitchen. Do you suppose somebody just happened to bring a saucepan along in their luggage... in case they might need it?"

"Don't be stupid!" Monk said angrily. "If they'd thought of poisoning someone before they came, they'd have brought the poison with them, not a saucepan to boil it. That's idiotic!"

"Are we sure it's a crime of impulse?" Rathbone asked no one in particular. "Could Rolf not have made provision to get rid of Gisela if Friedrich would not agree to his terms?"

"Possibly ..." Monk conceded.

"Then he's an incompetent," Hester said with disgust. "And that would be idiotic. Why kill Gisela when he didn't even know if Friedrich was going to recover or what his answer would be? He would have waited."

"We've only Rolf's word he hadn't answered," Monk pointed out. "Perhaps he did refuse."

Hester started to think aloud. "Perhaps he already had someone else to take his place? And he needed Friedrich more as a martyr than as a prince who refused to come home?"

Again both men stared at her, but this time with dawning incredulity and then amazement.

"You could be right," Monk said, his eyes wide. 'That could be!" He turned to Rathbone. "Who else would he choose? With the natural heir gone, who is next? A political hero? A figurehead who has everyone's love? Barberini? Brigitte?"

"Maybe ... yes, maybe either of those. With their knowledge, do you think?" He put his hands up and ran them through his hair. "Oh, damn! That takes us right back to Zorah Ros-tova! I'd swear she would have the nerve to do that if she thought it right for her country ... and then try to see Gisela hanged for it!"

Monk jammed his hands into his pockets and looked miserable. For once he refrained from telling Rathbone his opinion of having accepted such a client. In fact, from the set of his face, Monk looked to Hester as if he had even resisted making the judgment in his mind. His expression was one of trouble, even of pity.

"What does Zorah say herself?" she asked. "I haven't even met her. It is strange to be talking about someone so central to everything when I have never spoken to her, or seen her face except fleetingly, as she turned around, and at a distance of at least twenty feet. And of course I've never spoken to Gisela either. I feel as if I know nothing about the people in this case."

Monk laughed abruptly. "I'm beginning to think none of us do."

"I'm going to leave personal judgments and try to apply my intelligence to reasoning it through." Rathbone reached for the poker and prodded the fire. It settled with a crackle, and he carefully placed a few more coals onto it, using the brass fire tongs. "My judgments of people in this case do not seem to have been very perceptive." He colored very slightly. "I really believed in the beginning that Zorah was right and that somehow or other Gisela had poisoned him."

Monk sat down opposite Rathbone, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. "Let us consider what we know beyond question to be true and what we can deduce from it. Maybe we have been assuming things we should not have. Reduce to the unarguable, and let us start again from there."

Rathbone responded obediently. It was another mark of his despair that he did not resent Monk's giving him orders. "Friedrich fell and was injured very seriously," he said. "He was treated by Gallagher."

Monk ticked the points off on his fingers as Rathbone outlined them.

"He was cared for by Gisela," Rathbone went on. "No one else came or went apart from servants - and one visit from the Prince of Wales."

"He appeared to be recovering," Monk interposed. "At least, as far as anyone could tell. They must all have thought so."

"Important," Rathbone agreed. "It must have seemed as if the plan were viable again."

"But it wasn't," Hester contradicted. "His leg was broken in three places... shattered, Gallagher said. At that point Gisela had already won. He wouldn't have served the independence party except as a figurehead, and they needed a lot more than that. An invalid, dependent, in pain, easily tired, would be no use to them."

They both stared at her, then turned slowly to stare at each other.

Rathbone looked beaten. Even Monk looked suddenly exhausted.

"I'm sorry," Hester said very quietly. "But it's true. At the time he was killed, the only ones it makes sense should want him dead are the people of the independence party, so that they could legitimately find a new leader."

They remained in silence for minutes. The fire burned up, and Monk rose and took a step away from it.

"But no one was alone with him, apparently," he said finally. "The servants were there coming and going. The doors were not locked. Everyone agrees Gisela never left the suite."

"Then the food was poisoned between the kitchen and the bedroom," Rathbone said. "We knew that before. It may have been poisoned with yew. We knew that also. It could have been anyone in the house, except for the difficulty of knowing how they prepared it."

"Unless they brought it with them," Monk continued. "They might fairly safely assume that a large country house like Well-borough Hall would have a yew tree, either on the grounds or in a nearby churchyard. Unless if Rolf brought it with him, intending to use it if Friedrich refused ... and then lay the blame on Gisela?"

"Only it is all going wrong," Hester said quietly. "Because the court is insisting on having the chain of evidence, and that is going to lead back to Rolf... or Brigitte ... or Florent or Zorah ... and it could not have been Gisela! He is not nearly as clever, or as thorough, as he supposes."

They sat in silence for several more minutes, Rathbone staring into the fire, Monk frowning in thought, Hester looking from one to another of them, knowing the fear was only just beneath the surface, as it was in her, tight and sick and very real.

They were engaging their minds in reason, but the knowledge of failure, and its cost, was ready to overwhelm them the moment they let go of that thin, bright light of logic.

"I think I shall go and see Zorah Rostova," she said, rising to her feet. "I would like to talk to her myself."

"Feminine intuition?" Monk mocked.

"Curiosity. But if you have both met her, and not had your judgment addled, why shouldn't I? I can hardly do worse."

She found Zorah in her extraordinary room with the shawl pinned on the wall, a roaring fire sending flames halfway up the chimney and reflecting on the blood red of the sofa. The bearskins on the floor looked almost alive.

Zorah remained seated where she was and surveyed Hester with only the slightest interest. "Who did you say you were? You mentioned Sir Oliver's name to my maid, otherwise I would not have let you in." She was perfectly candid without intending to be offensive. "I am really not in a disposition to be polite to guests. I have neither the time nor the patience."

Hester was not put out. In the same circumstances, from what she knew of them, she would have felt the same. She had stood in the dock, where Zorah might yet stand if Rathbone were unsuccessful, which looked frighteningly like an inevitability now.

She looked at Zorah's highly individual face with its beautiful green eyes too widely spaced, its nose too long and too prominent, its sensitive mouth, delicate lipped. She judged her to be a woman capable of consuming passion, but far too intelligent to allow it to sweep away her perception or her understanding of other people, of law, or of events.

"I said I was a friend of Sir Oliver's because I am," Hester answered. "I have known him well for some time." She met Zorah's gaze squarely, defying her to question precisely what that might mean.

Zorah looked at her with growing amusement.

"And you are concerned that this case will cause him some professional embarrassment?' she deduced. "Have you come to beg me, for his sake, to recant and say that I was mistaken, Miss Latterly?"

"No, I have not," Hester replied tartly. "If you would not do it before, I cannot see any reason why you would now. Anyway, it would hardly help things as they are. If Sir Oliver does not find who killed Friedrich, and prove it, you will be in the dock yourself, sooner or later. Probably sooner."

She sat down without being invited. "And I can tell you, it is an extremely unpleasant place. You cannot imagine quite how unpleasant until you have been there. You may put a brave face on it, but inside you will be terrified. You are not stupid enough to fail to realize that losing there does not mean a financial loss or a little unpleasantness socially. It means the hangman's rope."

Zorah's face tightened a little. "You don't mince words, do you, Miss Latterly? Have you come on Sir Oliver's behalf? What is it you want?" She still regarded her visitor with a faint contempt.

Hester did not know if that contempt was for her plainer, very conventional dress, so much more predictable and less dashing, less individual and certainly less flattering than Zorah's own. Possibly it was a countess's contempt for a woman of very moderate breeding who was obliged to earn her own living. If it was the contempt of a woman of courage and adventurous spirit for a woman who stayed at home and busied herself with suitable feminine occupations, she could match Zorah stride for stride any day.

"On the assumption that you are telling the truth, as far as you know it," Hester responded, "I want you to exercise your intelligence, instead of merely your strength of will, and start trying to work out what happened at Wellborough Hall. Because if we do not succeed in that, it is not only Sir Oliver's career which will suffer for having made a serious misjudg-ment in taking on a highly unpopular case, but it will be your life in jeopardy. And what I think may actually be more important to you, it will ruin the reputation and honor of that group of men and women in your country who are prepared to fight for Felzburg's continued independence. Now, I need your attention. Countess Rostova?"

Slowly Zorah sat up, a look of surprise and dawning disbelief on her face.

"Do you often address people in this fashion, Miss Latterly?"

"I have not recently had occasion to," Hester admitted. "But in the army I frequently exceeded my authority. Emergencies have that effect. One is forgiven for it afterwards, if one succeeds. If one fails, it is the least of one's problems."

"The army ..." Zorah blinked.

"In the Crimea. But that is all quite irrelevant to this." She brushed it away with a gesture of her hand. "If you would be good enough to turn your mind to Wellborough Hall?"

"I think I could like you, Miss Latterly," Zorah said quite seriously. "You are eccentric. I had no idea Sir Oliver had such interesting friends. He quite goes up in my esteem. I confess, I had thought him rather dry."

Hester found herself blushing, and was furious.

"Wellborough Hall," she repeated, like a schoolmistress with a refractory pupil.

Obediently, and with a very tight smile, Zorah began to recount the events from the time of her own arrival. Her tongue was waspish, and at times extremely funny. Then, when she spoke of the accident, her voice changed and all lightness vanished. She looked somber, as if even at the time she had realized that it would lead towards Friedrich's death.

Abruptly, she called the maid and requested luncheon, without referring to Hester or asking what she might like. She ordered thin toast, Beluga caviar, white wine, and a dish of fresh apples and a variety of cheeses. She glanced once at Hester to see her expression, then, finding satisfaction in it, dispatched the maid to carry out her duties.

She continued her tale.

Every so often Hester stopped her, asking to hear some point in greater detail, a room described, a person's expression or tone of voice recollected more sharply.

When Hester left late in the afternoon her mind was in turmoil, her brain crowded with impressions and ideas, one in particular which she needed to inquire into in minute detail, and for it she must see an old professional colleague, Dr. John Rainsford. But that would have to wait until tomorrow. It was too late now. It was nearly dark, and she needed to order her thoughts before she presented them to anyone else.

A lot depended upon the judgment she had formed of Zorah. If Zorah was right, then the whole case hung on that one tiny recollection of fact. Hester must verify it.

She returned to Rathbone's rooms on Sunday evening. She had sent a note by a messenger asking that Monk be there also. She found them both awaiting her, tense, pale-faced and with nerves strained close to the breaking point.

"Well?" Monk demanded before she had even closed the door.

"Did she tell you something?" Rathbone said eagerly, then swallowed the next words with an effort, trying to deny his hope before she could destroy it for him.

"I believe so," she said very carefully. "I think it may be the answer, but you will have to prove it." And she told them what she believed.

"Good God!" Rathbone said shakily. He swallowed hard, staring at her. "How ... hideous!"

Monk looked at Hester, then at Rathbone, then back to Hester again.

"Do you realize what he is going to have to do to prove that?" he said huskily. "It could ruin him! Even if he succeeds ... they'll never forgive him for it."

"I know," she said softly. "I didn't create the truth, William. I merely believe I may have found it. What would you prefer? Allow it to go by default?"

They both turned to Rathbone.

He looked up at them from where he was sitting. He was very white, but he did not hesitate.

"No. If I serve anything at all, it must be the truth. Sometimes mercy makes a claim, but this is most certainly not one of those times. I shall do all I can. Now tell me this again, carefully. I must know it all before tomorrow."

She proceeded to repeat it detail by detail, with Monk occasionally interrupting to clarify or reaffirm a point, and Rathbone taking careful notes. They sat until the fire burned low and the wind outside was rising, gusting with blown leaves against the window, and the gas lamps made yellow pools in the room with its browns and golds and burnt sugar colors.

On Monday morning the court was filled and people were crowded fifteen and twenty deep outside, but this time they were silent. Both Zorah and Gisela came in under heavy escort, for their own protection and to avoid the likelihood that an eruption of emotion would turn into violence.

Inside also there was silence. The jurors looked as if they too had slept little and were dreading the necessity of making a decision for which they still could see no unarguable evidence. They were harrowed by emotions, some of them conflicting, shattering their beliefs of a lifetime, the assumptions about the world, and people, upon which their evaluations were based. They were profoundly unhappy and aware of a burden they could not now evade.

Rathbone was quite candidly afraid. He had spent the night awake as much as asleep. He had dozed fitfully, every hour up and pacing, or lain staring at the dark ceiling, trying to order and reorder in his mind the possibilities of what he would say, how he would counter the arguments which would arise, how to defend himself from the emotions he would inevitably awaken, and the anger.

The Lord Chancellor's warning was as vivid in his mind as if he had heard it yesterday, and he needed no effort to imagine what his reaction would be to what Rathbone must do today. For the first time in twenty years he could see no professional future clearly ahead.

The court had already been called to order. The judge was looking at him, waiting.

"Sir Oliver?" His voice was clear and mild, but Rathbone had learned there was an inflexible will behind the benign face.

He must make his decision now, or the moment would be taken from him.

He rose to his feet, his heart pounding so violently he felt as if they must see his body shake. He had not been as nervous as this the very first time he stood up before a court. But he had been far more arrogant then, less aware of the possibilities of disaster. And he had had immeasurably less to lose.

He cleared his throat and tried to speak with a resonant, confident tone. His voice was one of his best instruments.

"My lord ..." He was obliged to clear his throat again. Damnation! Harvester must know how frightened he was. He had not even begun, and already he had betrayed himself. "My lord, I call the Countess Zorah Rostova to the stand."

There was a murmur of surprise and anticipation around the gallery, and Harvester looked taken aback but not alarmed. Perhaps he thought Rathbone foolish, or knew he was desperate, probably both.

Zorah rose and walked across the short space of floor to the steps with an oddly elegant stride. And it was a stride, as if she were in open country, not inside a public hall. She moved as if she were in a riding habit rather than a crinoline skirt. She seemed unfeminine compared with the fragility of Gisela, and yet there was nothing masculine about her. As on every day of the trial before, she wore rich autumnal tones, reds and russets which flattered her dark skin but were highly inappropriate to such a somber occasion. Rathbone had failed at the outset to persuade her to look and behave with decorum. There was no point in adopting such a pattern now. No one would believe it.

For an instant, clear as sunlight on ice, she looked at Gisela, and the two women's eyes met in amazement and hatred; then she faced Rathbone again.

In a steady voice, she swore as to her name and said she would tell the truth and the whole truth.

Rathbone plunged in before he could lose his courage.

"Countess Rostova, we have heard several people's testimony of the events at Wellborough Hall as they saw them or believed them to be. You have made the most serious charge against Princess Gisela that one person can make against another, that she deliberately murdered her husband while he lay helpless in her care. You have refused to withdraw that charge, even in the face of proceedings against you. Will you please tell the court what you know of the events during that time? Include everything you believe to be relevant to the death of Prince Friedrich, but do not waste your time or the court's with that which is not."

She inclined her head very slightly in acknowledgment and began in a low, clear voice of individuality and unusual beauty.

"Before the accident we spent our time in the ordinary pursuits of the best kind of country house party. We rose when we pleased. It was spring, and occasionally still quite cold, so often we did not come downstairs until the servants had the fires lit for some little while. Gisela always breakfasted in her room anyway, and Friedrich frequently remained upstairs and kept her company."

There was a brief flicker of amusement on the faces of two of the jurors, and then it died immediately to be replaced by a swift flush of the color of embarrassment.

"Then the gentlemen would go out riding or walking," Zorah continued. "Or if the weather were unpleasant, would go into the smoking room and talk, or the billiard room, the gun room or the library and talk. Rolf, Stephan and Florent spoke together quite often. The ladies would walk in the gardens if it was fine, or write letters, paint, play a little music, or sit and read or exchange stories and gossip."

There was a murmur from the gallery, perhaps of envy.

"Sometimes luncheon would be a picnic. Cook would pack a hamper and one of the footmen would take a dogcart with everything for us. We could join him whenever we fancied, beside a river, or a glade in the wood, or an open field by a copse of trees, wherever seemed most attractive."

"It sounds charming..." Rathbone put in.

Harvester rose to his feet. "But irrelevant, my lord. Most of us are acquainted with how the wealthy spend their time when in the country. Countess Rostova is surely not suggesting this most pleasant way of life is responsible for the Prince's death?"

"I shall not allow our time to be wasted too far, Mr. Harvester," the judge replied. "But I am inclined to allow Countess Rostova to paint a sufficient picture for us to perceive the household more clearly than we do so far." He turned to the witness stand. "Proceed, if you please. But be guided, ma'am. We require that this shall pertain to the Prince's death before much longer."

"It does, my lord," she replied gravely. "If I may describe one day in detail, I believe it will become understandable. You see, it is not one domestic incident which was the cause, but a myriad of tiny ones over a period of years, until they became a burden beyond the will to bear."

The judge looked puzzled.

The jurors were obviously utterly confused.

People in the gallery shifted in anticipation, whispering to one another, excitement mounting. This was what they had come for.

Harvester looked at Zorah, then at Rathbone, then at Gisela.

Gisela sat, pale as ice, without responding. For any change in her expression, she might not have heard them.

'Then proceed, Countess Rostova," the judge ordered.

"It was before the accident, I cannot remember exactly how many days, but it is immaterial," she resumed, looking at no one in particular. "It was wet and there was quite a sharp wind. I rose early. I don't mind the rain. I walked in the garden. The daffodils were magnificent. Have you smelled the wet earth after a shower?" This remark seemed directed towards the judge, but she did not wait for any reply. "Gisela rose late, as usual, and Friedrich came down with her. Indeed, he was so close behind her he accidentally trod on the hem of her skirt when she hesitated coming in through the door. She turned and said something to him. I cannot remember exactly what, but it was sharp and impatient. He apologized and looked discomfited. It was somewhat embarrassing because Brigitte von Arlsbach was in the room, and so was Lady Wellborough."

Rathbone took a deep breath. He had seen the look of surprise and distaste on the jurors' faces. He did not know whether it was for Zorah or for Gisela. Whom did they believe?

Please God that Hester was right. Everything rested upon one fact and all she had deduced from it.

"Please continue, Countess Rostova," he said with a crack in his voice. "The rest of this typical day, if you please."

"Brigitte went to the library to read," Zorah resumed. "I think she was quite happy alone. Lady Wellborough and Evelyn von Seidlitz spent the morning in the boudoir, talking, I imagine. They both love to gossip. Gisela asked Florent to accompany her to the village. I was surprised, because it was raining, and she hated the rain. I think he does too, but he felt it would be ungallant to refuse her. She had asked him in front of everyone, so he could not do so politely. Friedrich offered to take her, but she said rather tartly that since Rolf had already expressed a desire to talk with him, he should stay and do so."

"She did not appear to mind that Friedrich should spend time talking with Count Lansdorff?" Rathbone said with affected surprise.

"On the contrary, she practically instructed him to," Zorah replied with a little shake of her head, but there was no hesitation in her voice.

"Can she have been unaware of Count Lansdorff's purpose in coming to Wellborough Hall?" Rathbone asked.

"I cannot imagine so," Zorah said frankly. "She has never been a foolish woman. She is as aware as any of us of the political situation in Felzburg and the rest of Germany. She lives in Venice, and Italy is also on the brink of a struggle for unification and independence from Austria."

"We have heard that she is uninterested in politics," Rathbone pointed out.

Zorah looked at him with ill-concealed impatience.

'To be uninterested in politics in general is not at all the same thing as being unaware of something that is going on which may affect your own survival," she pointed out. "She has never been uninterested in what may ruin her."

There was a murmur in the gallery. One of the jurors leaned forward.

"Ruin her?" Rathbone raised his eyebrows.

Zorah leaned a little forward. "If Friedrich had returned to Felzburg without her, she would be a divorced wife, publicly set aside, and have only the worldly means he chose to give her. And even that might not lie entirely within his power to decide. His personal fortune comes from royal lands at home. Many of them are on the Prussian borders. If there were a war to retain independence, Klaus von Seidlitz would not be the only one to lose the majority of his possessions. She was always aware of that."

A chilly smile crossed her face. "Just because a person spends her life in the pursuit of pleasure, dresses sublimely, collects jewels, mixes with the rich and the idle, does not mean she is unaware of the source of the money or does not keep a very sharp mind to its continuing flow."

Again there was the rumble from the gallery, and a man raised his voice in ugly comment.

"Is that deduction, Countess Rostova?" Rathbone inquired, ignoring the crowd. "Or do you know this of your own observation?"

"I have heard Friedrich mention it in her presence. She did not wish to know details, but she is very far from naive. The reasoning is inescapable."

"And yet she was happy - in fact, eager - that Frie-drich should spend time alone in conversation with Count Lansdorff?"

Zorah looked puzzled, as if she herself did not understand it, even in hindsight.

"Yes. She instructed him to."

"And did he?"

"Of course."

The gallery was silent now, listening.

"Do you know the outcome of their discussion?'

"Count Lansdorff told me Friedrich would return only on condition he could bring Gisela with him as his wife, and in time as his queen."

One of the jurors let out a sigh.

"Did Count Lansdorff hold out any hope that he could be prevailed upon to change his mind?" Rathbone pressed.

"Very little."

"But he intended to try?"

"Naturally."

"To your knowledge, did he succeed?"

"No, he did not. At the time of the accident Friedrich was adamant. He always believed the country would have them both back. He believed that all his life. Of course, it was not true."

"Did he express any belief that Count Lansdorff would yield?"

"Not that I heard. He simply said that he would not consider going without Gisela, whatever the country's need or anybody's conception of his duty. He thought he could face the issue." She said it with little expression in her voice, but her face was twisted with contempt and it was beyond her control to hide it.

Harvester turned to Gisela and whispered something, but she did not appear to answer him, and he did not interrupt.

"I see," Rathbone acknowledged. "And the rest of the day, Countess Rostova?"

"The weather improved. We had luncheon, and then some of the men went riding over the open country. Gisela suggested that Friedrich go with them, but he preferred to remain with her, and I believe they walked in the gardens, then had a game of croquet."

"Just the two of them?"

"Yes. Gisela asked Florent Barberini to join them, but he felt he would be intruding."

"Prince Friedrich seems to have been very devoted to his wife. How can Count Lansdorff, or anyone, seriously have believed he would set her aside and return to Felzburg to spend the rest of his life without her?"

"I don't know," she said with a little shake of her head. "They did not live in Venice. They had not seen them closely for years. It was something you would not accept as true unless you had seen it. Friedrich seemed hardly able to do anything without her. If she left the room, one was aware he was waiting for her to return. He asked her opinion, waited for her praise, depended upon her approval."

Rathbone hesitated. Was it too soon? Had he laid sufficient foundation yet? Perhaps not. He must be sure. He glanced at the jurors' faces. They were looking confused. It was too soon.

"So on that day they played croquet together through the afternoon?"

"Yes."

"And the rest of the gathering?"

"I spent the afternoon with Stephan von Emden. I'm not sure about anyone else."

"But you are sure about Friedrich and Gisela?"

"Yes. I could see the croquet lawn from where I was."

Harvester rose to his feet.

"My lord, all the witness is establishing is that Prince Friedrich and Princess Gisela were devoted to each other, which the world already knows. We have all watched their meeting, their romance, their love and the sacrifice it has cost them. We have rejoiced for them and wept for them. And even after twelve years of devoted marriage, we now know that their love had not dimmed in the slightest. If anything, it was even deeper and more total than before. Countess Rostova herself acknowledges that Prince Friedrich would never have returned home without his wife, and she was as abundantly aware of that as was anyone else."

He waved expansively towards Zorah in the witness stand. "She has said that she does not understand how even Count Lansdorff could so delude himself as to keep any hope of his mission's being successful. She has told us she knew of no plans he had to overcome that obstacle, nor did Count Lansdorff himself. Princess Gisela could not physically have poisoned her husband, and she had no possible motive whatever for wishing to. The defense is wasting everyone's time proving my case for me. I am obliged, but it is unnecessary. I have proved it for myself."

"Sir Oliver?" the judge asked. "Surely this expedition of yours cannot be as pointless as it seems?"

"No, my lord. If the court would be patient a little longer?"

"A little, Sir Oliver. A very little."

"Thank you, my lord." Rathbone bowed his head a fraction, then turned back to Zorah. "Countess Rostova, the evening, if you please." He had hoped this would be unnecessary, but now he had no weapon left but this. "What happened in the evening?" he asked.

"There was a dinner party, and we had games to entertain us afterwards. There were several guests. It was an excellent meal, nine or ten courses, and a magnificent choice of wines. All the women wore their best gowns and jewels. As usual, Gisela outshone us all, even Brigitte von Arlsbach. But then Brigitte was never ostentatious, in spite of being the wealthiest person present."

She looked at the wooden paneling above the heads of the farthest row of the gallery, recalling the party to her mind's eye.

There was complete silence again. Everyone was straining to catch each word.

"Gisela was very entertaining that evening." Her voice was tight in her throat. "She made us all laugh. She became more and more daring in her wit... not vulgar, I have never known her to be vulgar. But she could be very outspoken about other people's weaknesses. She had an acute insight into what made people vulnerable."

"That sounds a little cruel," Rathbone observed.

"It is extremely cruel," she corrected. "But when coupled with a sharp enough wit, it can be very funny as well - to anyone except the victim."

"And who was the victim on this occasion?"

"Mostly Brigitte," she answered. "Which was possibly why neither Stephan nor Florent laughed. But everyone else did. I assume they did not appreciate what was involved and knew no better. The wine flowed freely. Why should they care about the feelings of a baroness from some obscure German principality, when one of the most glittering and romantic figures of Europe was holding court at the dinner table?"

Rathbone did not express his opinion. His stomach was knotted tight. This was going to be the worst moment of all, but without it there was no case.

"And after dinner, Countess Rostova?" His voice sounded almost steady. Only Monk and Hester, sitting in the gallery, could guess how he felt.

"After dinner we played games," Zorah answered with a half smile.

"Games? Card games? Billiards? Charades?"

The judge was looking at Zorah, frowning.

Zorah's mouth tightened. "No, Sir Oliver, rather more physical than that. I cannot recall every game, but I know we played blindman's buff. We blindfolded each of the gentlemen in turn. We all fell over rather often and ended on couches or on the floor together."

Harvester rose to his feet.

"Yes, yes," the judge agreed. "The point of all this, Sir Oliver? Young people do play games which to some of us are of a bawdy and somewhat questionable nature."

He was trying to rescue the situation, even to rescue Rathbone from himself, and he knew it.

For a moment Rathbone hesitated. Escape was still possible, and with it defeat, not only for Zorah but for the truth.

"There is a point, my lord," he said quickly. "The rest of the evening, if you please, Countess Rostova."

"We played hunt the thimble," she went on obediently. "It was hidden in some extremely indiscreet places..."

"Did anyone object?"

"I don't think so. Brigitte didn't play, nor, I think, did Rolf. Brigitte was rather conspicuous by remaining sober. By about midnight or a little after we were playing horse races."

"Horse races?" the judge inquired, nonplussed.

"The men were on hands and knees, my lord," Zorah explained. "And the ladies rode astride them."

"They raced in that manner?" The judge was surprised.

"Not to any effect, my lord," she said. "That was not really the purpose. There was a great deal of laughter, perhaps a little hysterical by then. We fell over rather often."

"I see." The look of distaste on his face made it apparent that he did indeed see.

"And Princess Gisela joined in with this entertainment?" Rathbone persisted. "And Prince Friedrich?"

"Of course."

"So Gisela was in high spirits? She was totally happy?"

Zorah frowned very slightly, as if thinking before she answered.

"I don't think so."

"But you have said she was involved in the ... fun!" Rathbone protested.

"She was ... she rode Florent... and fell off."

There was an outburst from the gallery, almost instantly choked off.

"Was Prince Friedrich annoyed or distressed by the attention that was paid to her?" Rathbone asked with dry lips.

"No," Zorah replied. "He loved to see her the center of laughter and admiration. He had no jealousy over her, and if you are thinking he feared she might respond too willingly to anyone's advances, you are mistaken. She never did. Never have I seen her respond unbecomingly to any other man, nor have I heard from anyone else that she did. They were always together, always speaking to each other. Often he would sit so close to her he would reach out and touch her hand."

There was conspicuous movement in the gallery now.

The judge looked totally confused. Harvester was openly perplexed.

"And yet you are not sure that she was happy?" Rathbone said with as much disbelief as he could manage. "Why do you say that? It would seem to me she had everything a woman could desire."

An expression of rage and pity filled Zorah's face, as an emotion entirely new to her swept away all old convictions.

"T saw her alone, standing at the top of the stairs," she answered slowly. "The light was on her face, and I was in shadow at the bottom. She did not know I was there. For a moment she looked utterly trapped, like an animal in a cage. The expression on her face was terrible. I have never seen such despair before in anyone. It was a complete hopelessness ..."

There was a silence of incredulity in the court. Even the judge was stunned.

'Then a door opened behind me," Zorah went on, almost in a whisper. "And she heard the noise, and the look vanished. She made herself smile again, and came down the stairs with a sort of forced sparkle, her voice brittle."

"Did you know the cause of this emotion, Countess?"

"Not at the time. I imagined then that it was fear that Friedrich would succumb to the pressure of family and duty, and that he would indeed return to Felzburg - and put Gisela aside. Even so, that would not explain the sense of panic I saw, as if she were ... caged, fighting to escape something which clung and suffocated her." She lifted her chin a little, and her voice was tight in her throat. "She was the last woman on earth I wanted to pity, and yet I could not forget the look I saw in her eyes as she stood there."

There was silence in the court, a tension palpable in the air.

"And the rest of the evening?" Rathbone prompted after a moment.

"We continued drinking, playing games, laughing and making risque jokes and cruel remarks about people we knew, or thought we did, and went to bed at about four in the morning," Zorah answered. "Some of us went to our own beds, some of us didn't."

There was a growing rumble of disapproval from the gallery and looks of discomfort in the jury box. They did not like having their betters spoken of in such terms; even if some accepted it was true, they preferred not to be forced to acknowledge it. Others looked genuinely shocked.

"And that was a typical day?" Rathbone said wearily.

"Yes."

"There were many like that?"

"They were almost all like that, give or take a detail or two," she replied, still standing very upright, her head high in spite of having to look slightly down to the body of the court. "We ate and drank, we rode on horseback or in carriages or gigs. We raced a little. We had picnics and parties. We played croquet. The men shot birds. We rowed on the river once or twice. We walked in the woods or the garden. If it was wet, or cold, we talked or played the piano, or read books, or looked at pictures. The men played cards or billiards, or smoked. And, of course, they gambled on anything and everything - who would win at cards, or which servant would answer a bell. In the evenings, we had musical entertainment, or theatricals, or played games."

"And Friedrich and Gisela were always as devoted as you have described?"

"Always."

Harvester rose to his feet. "My lord, this is intrusive, unproven and still totally irrelevant."

Rathbone ignored him and hurried on, speaking over the other lawyer's protest, almost shouting him down.

"Countess Rostova, after the accident, did you ever visit Prince Friedrich in his rooms?"

"Once."

"Would you describe the room for us, please?"

"My lord!" Harvester was shouting now as well.

"It is relevant, my lord," Rathbone said even more loudly. "I assure the court, it is critical."

The judge banged his gavel and was ignored.

"My lord!" Harvester would not be hushed. He was now on his feet and facing Rathbone in front of the bench. 'This witness has already been impugned by circumstances. Her own interest in the matter is the issue before us. Nothing she says she saw - "

"You cannot impugn it before it is said!" Rathbone cried furiously. "She must be allowed to defend herself - "

"Not by - " Harvester protested.

The judge held up his hands. "Be silent!" he roared.

They both stopped.

"Mr. Rathbone," the judge said, resuming a normal tone. "I hope you are not about to add a further slander to your client's already perilous situation."

"No, my lord, I am not," Rathbone said vehemently. "Countess Rostova will not say anything which cannot be substantiated by other witnesses."

'Then her evidence is not the urgent matter you stated," Harvester said triumphantly. "If other witnesses can say the same thing, why did you not have them do so?"

"Please sit down, Mr. Harvester," the judge requested firmly. "Countess Rostova will continue with her evidence. You will have the opportunity to question her when Sir Oliver has finished. If she makes any remarks detrimental to your client's interests, you have the recourse which you are presently taking. Proceed, Sir Oliver. But do not waste our time, and please do not push us to make moral judgments of issues other than the death of Prince Friedrich and whether your client can substantiate the terrible charge she has made. That is your sole remit here. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, my lord. Countess Rostova, will you please describe Prince Friedrich's bedroom and the suite of rooms he and Princess Gisela occupied during his illness at Wellborough Hall?"

There was a whispering of consternation and disappointment from the crowd. They had expected something far more titillating.

Even Zorah looked a little puzzled, but she began obediently.

'They had a bedroom, dressing room and sitting room. And, of course, they had the private use of a bathroom and water closet, which I did not see. Nor did I see the dressing room." She looked at Rathbone to know if this was what he wished.

"Would you describe the sitting room and bedroom, please." He nodded to her.

Harvester was growing impatient, and even the judge was beginning to lose his tolerance. The jury were clearly lost. Suddenly the proceedings had degenerated from high tension to total banality.

Zorah blinked. "The sitting room was quite large. It had two bay windows, facing west, I think, over the knot garden."

"My lord!" Harvester had risen to his feet again. "This cannot possibly be of any relevance whatsoever. Is my learned friend going to suggest that Princess Gisela somehow climbed out of the sitting room window and down the wall to the yew walk? This is becoming absurd, and it is an abuse of the court's time and intelligence."

"It is precisely because I respect the court's intelligence that I do not wish to lead the witness, my lord," Rathbone said desperately. "She does not know which piece of her observation pertains to and explains the whole crime. And as far as time is concerned, we would waste a lot less of it if Mr. Harvester did not keep interrupting me!"

"I will allow you another fifteen minutes, Sir Oliver," the judge warned. "If you have not reached some point of relevance by then, I shall entertain Mr. Harvester's objections." He turned to Zorah. "Please make your description as brief as possible, Countess Rostova. Pray continue."

Zorah was quite obviously as confused as everyone else.

"The carpet was French, at least in design, of a variety of shades of wine and pink, as were the curtains. There were several seats, I do not recall how many, all upholstered in matching fabric. There was a small walnut table in the center of the floor, and a sort of bureau over by the farther wall. I don't remember anything else."

"Flowers?" Rathbone asked.

Harvester let out a very clearly audible snort of disgust.

"Yes," Zorah replied with a frown. "Lily of the valley. They were Gisela's favorite. She always had them when they were in season. In Venice she had them forced, so she could have them even in late winter."

"Lily of the valley," Rathbone repeated. "A bunch of lily of the valley? In a vase? A vase full of water?"

"Of course. If they were not in water they would very quickly have died. They were not in a pot, if that is what you mean. They were cut from the conservatory, and the gardener had them sent up for her."

"Thank you, Countess Rostova, that is sufficient description."

There was a gasp of amazement around the room, like the backwash of a tide after a great wave has broken. People looked at each other in disbelief.

The jurors looked at Zorah, then at the judge, then at Harvester.

"That is supposed to be relevant?" Harvester said, his voice rising sharply.

Rathbone smiled and turned back to Zorah.

"Countess, it has been suggested that you were jealous of the Princess because she replaced you twelve years ago in Prince Friedrich's affections, and you have chosen this bizarre way of seeking your revenge. Are you jealous of her because it was she who married him and not you?"

A succession of emotions crossed Zorah's face - denial, contempt, a bleak and bitter amusement; then suddenly and startlingly, pity.

"No," she said very softly. "There is nothing in heaven or earth that would persuade me to change places with her. She was suffocated by him, trapped forever in the legend she had created. To the world they were great lovers, magical people who had achieved what so many of us dream of and long for. She was the reality. It was Antony and Cleopatra without the asp. That was what gave her her fame, her status. It defined who she was, without it she was no one, a sham. No matter how he depended upon her, or clung to her, or drained the life from her, she could never leave him, never even seem to lose her temper with him. She had built an image for herself and she was imprisoned within it forever, being sucked dry, having to smile, to act all the time. I didn't understand that look on her face at the top of the stairs at the time. I knew she hated him, but I did not understand why.

"Then yesterday evening I was speaking with someone, and quite suddenly I saw Gisela trapped forever playing the role she had created so brilliantly, and I knew why she broke out of it the way only she could. She was a cold, ambitious woman, prepared to use a man's love in any way she could, but I could not have wished that living incarceration on anyone. At least... I don't think I could___After all, the accident crippled him. He would never again be active, a companion to her. It was the last window of her cell in a final and utter imprisonment with him."

There was silence in the room. No one spoke. Nothing moved.

"Thank you, Countess," Rathbone said softly. "I have no more to ask you."

Then the spell broke, and there was a low rumble of dismay turning to rage, almost a violence of confusion, the pain of breaking dreams.

Harvester spoke to Gisela, who did not answer. Then he rose. "Countess Rostova, has anyone at all - other than yourself, so you say - noticed this profound terror and despair in one of the world's most beloved and fortunate women? Or are you utterly alone in your extraordinary perception?"

"I have no idea," Zorah replied, keeping her voice level and her eyes steady on his face.

"But no one has ever, at any time, given you the slightest indication that he or she saw through the constant, twelve-yearlong, day-and-night, fair-weather-and-foul, public and private happiness and love to this tragedy you say was beneath it?" His tone was heavily sarcastic. He did not sink to melodrama, but his voice would have cut flesh.

"No..." she admitted.

"So we have only your word for it, your brilliant, incisive "sight, which, now you are in the witness stand, morally in the dock, accused and desperate yourself, has shown you, and you alone, this incredible fact?"

She met his gaze without flinching, a very faint smile curling her lips.

"I am the first, Mr. Harvester. I shall be the only one for a very short time. If I can see what you cannot, that is because I have two advantages over you; I have known Gisela far longer than you have, and I am a woman, which means I can read other women as you never will. Does that answer your question?"

"Whether others follow eventually, Countess, remains to be seen," he said coldly. "Here, today, you stand alone. Thank you ... if not for truth, at least for a most original invention."

The judge looked at Rathbone inquiringly.

"No more questions, thank you, my lord," he answered.

Zorah was excused and returned to her seat.

"I should Like to recall Lady Wellborough, if your lordship pleases," Rathbone continued.

Emma Wellborough came from the body of the court, looking pale, startled, and now considerably frightened.

"Lady Wellborough," Rathbone began, "you have been present during Countess Rostova's testimony..."

She nodded, then realized that was inadequate and replied in a shaking voice.

"Her description of events in your home, prior to Prince Friedrich's accident, is it substantially true? Is that how you conducted your lives, how you spent your days?"

"Yes," she said very softly. "It... it didn't seem as ... as trivial as she made it sound ... as ... pointless. We were not really ... so... drunken ..." Her voice trailed off.

"We are not making judgments," Rathbone said, and then he knew it was a lie. Everyone in the room was making judgments, not only of her but of all her class and of Felzburg's royal family. "All we need to know," he went on a little hoarsely, "is if those were the pursuits of your time, and if the Prince and Princess had the relationship of closeness Countess Rostova described, forever together, largely at his insistence. She tried to break away, find herself a little time alone or with other company, but he was always there, clinging, demanding?"

She looked bewildered and profoundly unhappy. Had he taken her too far?

She hesitated so long he felt his heart beating, his pulse racing. It was like playing a fish on a line. Even at the last moment he could still lose.

"Yes," she said at last "I used to envy her. I saw it as the greatest love story in the world, what every girl dreams of..." She gave a jerking little laugh that ended almost in a choke. "A handsome prince, and Friedrich was so very handsome ... such marvelous eyes, and a beautiful voice ... a handsome prince who would fall passionately in love with you, be prepared to lose the world for your sake, just so long as you loved him." Her eyes were full of tears. "Then sail away and live happily ever after in somewhere as marvelous as Venice. I never thought of it as a prison, as never being free, or even alone again ..." She stopped, some dark inner thought overwhelming her. "How ... terrible!"

Harvester had risen to his feet, but he did not interrupt. He sat down again in silence.

"Lady Wellborough," Rathbone said after a moment, "the description Countess Rostova gave of the room where Friedrich and Gisela stayed in your home, is that correct?"

"Yes."

"Did you see the flowers there yourself?"

"You mean the lily of the valley? Yes, she requested them. Why?"

"That is all, thank you. Unless Mr. Harvester has any questions for you, you may go."

"No..." Harvester shook his head. "No, not at this time."

"My lord, I call Dr. John Rainsford. He is my final witness."

Dr. Rainsford was a young man with fair hair and the strong intelligent face of an enthusiast. At Rathbone's request, he gave his considerable qualifications as a physician and toxicologist.

"Dr. Rainsford," Rathbone began, "if a patient presented symptoms of headache, hallucinations, cold clammy skin, pain in the stomach, nausea, a slowing heartbeat, drifting into coma, and then death, what would you diagnose?"

"Any of a number of things," Rainsford replied. "I should require a history of the patient, any accidents, what he or she had eaten lately."

"If the pupils of the eyes were dilated?" Rathbone added.

"I would suspect poison."

"By the leaves or the bark of the yew tree, possibly?"

"Very possibly."

"And if the patient had blotches on his skin?"

"Oh ... that is not yew. That sounds more like lily of the valley - "

There was a hiss of breath around the entire court. The judge leaned forward, his face tense, eyes wide. The jurors sat bolt upright. Harvester broke his pencil with the unconscious tension of his hands.

"Lily of the valley?" Rathbone said carefully. "Is that poisonous?"

"Oh, yes, as poisonous as anything in the world," Rainsford said seriously. "As poisonous as yew, hemlock or deadly nightshade. All of it - the flowers, the leaves, the bulbs. Even the water in which the cut flowers stand is lethal. It causes exactly the symptoms you describe."

"I see. Thank you, Dr. Rainsford. Would you remain there in case Mr. Harvester has anything to ask you."

Harvester stood up, drew in a deep breath, and then shook his head and sat down again. He looked ill.

The jury retired and were absent for only twenty minutes.

"We find in favor of the defendant, Countess Zorah Ros-tova," the foreman announced with a pale, sad face. He looked at the judge first, to see if he had fulfilled his duty, then at Rathbone with a calm, grave dislike. Then he sat down.

There was no cheering in the gallery. Perhaps they did not know what they had expected, but it was not this. It left them unhappy - with truth, but no victory. Too many dreams were soiled and broken forever.

Rathbone turned to Zorah.

"You were right, she did murder him," he said with a sigh. "What will happen to the fight to keep independence now? Will they find a new leader?"

"Brigitte," she answered. "She is well loved, and she has the courage, and the belief, and the dedication to her country. Rolf and the Queen will be behind her."

"But when the King dies, Waldo will succeed him. Then Ulrike will have far less power," Rathbone pointed out.

Zorah smiled. "Don't believe it! Ulrike will always have power. The only one who is remotely a match for her is Brigitte, in her own way. They are on the same side, but unification will come; it is simply a matter of when and how."

She rose to her feet amid the shifting and muttering of the crowd as they moved to leave. "Thank you, Sir Oliver. I fear my defense has cost you dearly. You will not be loved for what you have done. You have shown people too much of what they would prefer not to have known. You have made the wealthy and the privileged see themselves, however briefly, a great deal more clearly than they wished to, parts of themselves they would have preferred to ignore.

"And you have disturbed the dreams of ordinary people who like, even need, to see us as wiser and better than we are. In future it will be harder for them to look on our wealth and idleness and bear it with equanimity - and they have to do that, because too many are dependent upon us, one way or another. And neither will we forgive them for having seen our faults."

Her face tightened. "I think perhaps I should not have spoken. Maybe it would have been better if I had allowed her to get away with it. It might have done less harm in the end."

"Don't say that!" He clasped her arm.

"Because it was a hard battle?" She smiled. "And we paid too much to win? That had nothing to do with it, Sir Oliver. How much it costs has nothing to do with how much it is worth."

"I know that. I meant don't believe that it is better to allow a helpless man to be murdered by the person he trusted above all others, and for it to go unquestioned. The day we accept that, because it will be uncomfortable to look at the truth it exposes, we have lost all that makes us worth respecting."

"How very proper - and English," she replied, but with a sudden tenderness in her voice. "You look exactly as if you would say such a thing, with your striped trousers and stiff, white collar, but perhaps you are right, for all that. Thank you, Sir Oliver. It has been most entertaining to know you." And with that she smiled more widely, with a warmth and radiance he had not seen in her before, and turned and left in a swirl of scarlet and russet skirts.

The room was darker without her. He wanted to go after her, but it would have been foolish. There was no place for him in her life.

Monk and Hester were at his elbow.

"Brilliant," Monk said dryly. "Another astounding victory - but Pyrrhic, this time. You will have lost more than you gained. Good thing you got your knighthood already. You'd not get it now."

"I don't need you to tell me that," Rathbone replied sourly. "I would not have done it, had not the alternative been even worse." But his mind was on Zorah, the brimming life in her, the recklessness and the courage. Perhaps honoring her was worth the cost and the sense of loss now.

Monk sighed. "How could such a love end like that? He gave up everything for her. His country, his people, his throne. How could the greatest love story of the century end in disillusion, hatred and murder?"

"It wasn't the greatest love," Hester answered him. "It was two people who needed what the other could give. She wanted power, position, wealth and fame. He seemed to want constant admiration, devotion, someone to be there all the time, to live his life for him. He hadn't the courage to stand without her. Love is brave and generous, and above all it springs from honor. In order to love someone else, you must first be true to yourself."

Rathbone looked at her and slowly his face creased into a smile.

Monk frowned. His eyes filled with intense dislike, then anger, then as he fought with himself, he lost the battle, and his body eased.

Deliberately, he put his arm around Hester.

"You are right," he said grudgingly. "You are pompous, opinionated and insufferable - but you are right."