T
HE 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, ff 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 the 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 Rostova! 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 Wellborough 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.”