Weighed in the Balance

by Anne Perry

  “You look as if you are to have the day off,” he said abruptly.

  She surveyed his perfectly cut jacket and trousers, his immaculate cravat and extremely expensive boots.

  “How nice to see you safely home,” she said with a sweet smile. “How was Venice? And Felzburg? That was where you were, was it not?”

  He ignored that. She knew perfectly well that it was.

  “If your patient is recovered, what are you doing still here?” he asked. His tone of voice made it a challenge.

  “He is better than he was,” she replied very gravely, looking straight at him. “He is not recovered. It takes some time to accustom yourself to the fact that you will not walk again. There are times when it is very hard. If you cannot imagine the chronic difficulties of someone who is paralyzed from the waist downwards, I shall not violate what is left of his privacy by explaining them to you. Please stop indulging your temper and tell me what you learned that will help Oliver.”

  It was like a slap in the face, swift and hard, the reminder that she had been dealing with one of the most painful of realities while he was away, the end of a major part of the life and hope of a young man. And yet harder still, and more personal, was the hope in her face that he had been able to accomplish something to help Rathbone, her belief in him that he could, and his own now so familiar knowledge that he had not.

  “Gisela did not kill Friedrich,” he said quietly. “It was not possible physically, and she had even less reason when it happened than ever before. I can’t help Rathbone.” As he said it his fury was raw in his voice. He loathed Rathbone for being vulnerable, for being so stupid as to put himself in this position, and for hoping that Monk could get him out of it. He was angry with Hester for expecting the impossible of him, and also for caring so much about Rathbone. He could see it in her face, the endless ability to be hurt.

  She looked stunned. It was several seconds before she found words to say anything.

  “Was it really just—just his accident?” She shook her head a little, as if to brush away an annoyance, but her face was creased with anxiety and her eyes were frightened. “Isn’t there anything which can help Oliver? Some sort of excuse for the Countess? If she believed it … there must have been a reason. I mean—” She stopped.

  “Of course she had a reason,” he said impatiently. “But not necessarily anything she would benefit from announcing in court. It looks more and more like an old jealousy she was never able to forget or forgive, and she had taken this moment of vulnerability to try to settle an old score. That is a reason, but it is an ugly and very stupid one.”

  Temper flashed in her face. “Are you saying he died by accident, and that is all you have learned? It took you two weeks, in two countries, to discover that? And I assume you used Zorah’s money to pay your way?”

  “Of course I used Zorah’s money,” he retorted. “I went in her cause. I can only discover what is there, Hester, just as you can. Do you cure every patient?” His voice was rising with his own hurt. “Do you give back your wages if they die? Perhaps you’d better give them back to these people, since you say their son will never walk again.”

  “This is stupid,” she said, turning away from him in exasperation. “If you cannot think of anything more sensible to say, you had better go!” She swung to face him again. “No!” She took a deep breath and lowered her voice again. “No, please don’t. What we think of each other is immaterial. We can quarrel later. Now we must think of Oliver. If this comes to trial and he has nothing with which to defend her, or at least offer an explanation and excuse, he is going to face a crisis in his reputation and career. I don’t know if you have seen any of the newspapers lately, I don’t suppose you have, but they are very strongly in support of Gisela and already painting Zorah as a wicked woman who is bent not only on injuring an innocent and bereaved woman but also on attacking the good qualities in society in general.”

  She moved forwards, closer to him, her wide skirt catching on the chairs. “Several of them have already suggested a very lurid life, that she has taken foreign lovers and practiced all sort of things which are better left to the imagination.”

  He should have thought of that, but somehow he had not. He had seen it only in political terms. Of course, there would be ugly speculation about Zorah and her life and her motives. Sexual jealousy was the first thing that would leap to many people’s minds.

  It was on his tongue to tell Hester that there was nothing anyone could do to prevent that, but he saw the hurt and the hope in her face. It caught at him as if it had been his own, taking him by surprise. It had nothing to do with her life, and yet she was absorbed in it. Her whole mind was bent towards fighting the injustice—or, in Rathbone’s case, even if it should prove just, of trying to prevent the wound and do something to ease the harm.

  “There is quite a strong possibility he was murdered,” he said grudgingly. “Not by Gisela, poor woman, but by one of the political factions.” He could not resist adding, “Perhaps the Queen’s brother.”

  She winced but refused to be crushed. “Can we prove he was murdered?” she said quickly. She used the plural as if she were as much involved as he. “It might help. After all, it would show that she was mistaken as to the person who did it but that she was not imagining there really was a crime. And only her accusation has brought it to light.” Her voice was getting faster and rising in tone. “If she had stayed silent, then their prince could have been murdered and no one would have known. That would have been a terrible injustice.”

  He looked at her eagerness, and it cut him.

  “And do you think they would really prefer to have the world know that one of the royal family, possibly at the instigation of the Queen herself, murdered the Prince?” he said bitterly. “If you think anyone is going to thank her for that, you are a great deal stupider even than I thought you!”

  This time she was crushed, but not utterly.

  “Some of her own people may not thank her,” she said in a small voice. “But some of them will. And the jury will be English. We still think it very wrong to murder anyone, especially an injured and helpless man. And we admire courage. We will not like what she has said, but we will know that it has cost her dearly to say it, and we will respect that.” She looked straight at him, daring him to contradict her.

  “I hope so,” he agreed with a lurch of emotion inside him as he realized yet again how intensely she cared. She had never even met Zorah. She probably knew nothing of her, except this one event of her life. It was Rathbone who filled her thoughts and whose future frightened her. He felt a sudden void of loneliness. He had not appreciated that she was so fond of Rathbone. Rathbone had always seemed a trifle aloof towards her, even patronizing at times. And Monk knew how she hated being patronized. He had had a taste of her temper when he had done it himself.

  “They are bound to.” She sounded positive, as though she were trying to convince herself. “You will be able to prove it, won’t you?” she went on anxiously, a furrow between her brows. “It was poison—”

  “Yes, of course it was. It would hardly be mistaken for a natural death if he’d been shot or hit over the head,” he said sarcastically.

  She ignored him. “How?”

  “In his food or medicine, I presume. I’m going back to Wellborough Hall tonight to see if I can find out.”

  “Not how was he poisoned,” she corrected impatiently. “Naturally, it was disguised in something he ate. I mean how are you going to prove it? Are you going to have the body dug up and examined? How will you get that done? They’ll try to prevent you. Most people feel very strongly about that sort of thing.”

  He had very little idea how he was going to do it. He was as confused and as worried as she was, except that he did not feel as personally involved with Rathbone as she seemed to. He would be sorry, of course, if Rathbone fell from grace and his career foundered. He would do all he could to prevent it. They had been friends and battled together to win other cases,
sometimes against enormous odds. They had cared about the same things and trusted each other without the necessity for words or reasons.

  “I know,” he said gently. “I hope to persuade them to tell me the truth and avoid that. I think the political implications may be powerful enough to accomplish it. Suspicion can do a great deal of damage. People will do a lot to avoid it.”

  She met his eyes steadily, her anger vanished. “Can I help?”

  “I can’t think of any way, but if I do, I shall tell you,” he promised. “I don’t suppose you have learned anything of relevance about Friedrich or Gisela? No, of course not, or you would have said so.” He smiled bleakly. “Try not to worry so much. Rathbone is a better courtroom lawyer than you seem to be giving him credit for.” It was an idiotic thing to say, and he winced inwardly as he heard himself, but he wanted to comfort her, even if comfort was meaningless and temporary. He hated to see her so frightened—for her own sake, apart from anything he might feel towards Rathbone, which was a confusion of anxiety, friendship, anger and envy. Rathbone had all Hester’s attention; her entire mind was taken up with her care for him. She had barely noticed Monk, except as he might be of help.

  “He may be able to elicit all sorts of information on the witness stand,” he went on. “And we certainly have enough to compel all the people who were at Wellborough Hall that week to testify.”

  “Have we?” She seemed genuinely cheered. “Yes, of course you are right. He has made such a disastrous judgment in taking the case that I forget how brilliant he is in the courtroom.” She let out her breath in a sigh and then smiled at him. “Thank you, William.”

  In a few words she had betrayed her awareness of Rathbone’s vulnerability and her willingness to defend him, her admiration for him, and how much she cared. And she had thanked Monk so earnestly it twisted like a knife inside him as, startlingly, he perceived in her a beauty far brighter and stronger than the charm of Evelyn which had faded so easily.

  “I must go,” he said stiffly, feeling as if his protective mask had been stripped from him and she had seen him as nakedly as he had seen himself. “I have a train to catch this evening if I am to be in Wellborough in time to find lodgings. Good night.” And almost before she had time to answer, he turned on his heel and marched to the door, flinging it open and walking out.

  In the morning, after a poor night spent at the village inn during which he tossed and turned in an unfamiliar bed, he hired a local coachman to take him out to Wellborough Hall and alighted with his case. He had no intention of lying about himself or his purpose this time, whatever Lord Wellborough should say.

  “You are what?” his lordship demanded, his face icy, when Monk stood in the morning room in the center of the carpet. Wellborough straightened up from where he had been leaning against the mantel, taking the largest share of the fire.

  “An agent of inquiry,” Monk repeated with almost equal chill.

  “I had no idea such a thing existed.” Wellborough’s broad nose flared as if he had swallowed something distasteful. “If one of my guests has committed an indiscretion, I do not wish to know. If it was in my house, I consider it my duty as host to deal with the matter without the like of a … whatever it is you call yourself. The footman will show you out, sir.”

  “The only indiscretion I am interested in is murder!” Monk did not move even his eyes, let alone his feet.

  “I cannot help you,” Wellborough replied. “I know of no one who has been murdered. There is no one dead to my knowledge. As I have said, sir, the footman will show you to the door. Please do not return. You came here under false pretenses. You abused my hospitality and imposed upon my other guests, which is inexcusable. Good day, Mr. Monk. I presume that is your real name? Not that it matters.”

  Monk did not look away, let alone move.

  “Prince Friedrich died in this house, Lord Wellborough. There has already been a very public accusation that it was murder—”

  “Which has been vigorously denied,” Wellborough cut across him. “Not that anyone worth anything at all gave it a moment’s credence. And as you are no doubt aware, the wretched woman, who must be quite mad, is to stand trial for her slander. I believe in a week or so’s time.”

  “She is not standing trial, sir,” Monk corrected. “It is a civil suit, at least technically. Though the matter of murder will be exhaustively explored, naturally. The medical evidence will be examined in the closest detail—”

  “Medical evidence?” Wellborough’s face dropped. He was at once appalled and derisive. “There isn’t any, for God’s sake! The poor man was dead and buried half a year ago.”

  “It would be most unfortunate to have to have the body exhumed,” Monk agreed. He ignored the expression of disbelief and then horror on Wellborough’s face. “But if suspicion leaves no other alternative possible, then it will have to be done, and an autopsy performed. Very distressing for the family, but one cannot allow an accusation of murder to fly around unanswered …”

  Wellborough’s skin was mottled dark with blood, his body rigid.

  “It has been answered, man! Nobody in their right mind believes for an instant that poor Gisela would have harmed him in any way whatever, let alone killed him in cold blood. It’s monstrous … and totally absurd.”

  “Yes, I agree, it probably is,” Monk said levelly. “But it is not so absurd to believe that Klaus von Seidlitz might have killed him to prevent him from returning home and leading the resistance against unification. He has large holdings of land in the borders, which might be laid waste were there fighting. A powerful motive, and not in the least difficult to credit … even if it is, as you say, monstrous.”

  Wellborough stared at him as if he had risen out of the ground in a cloud of sulfur.

  Monk continued with some satisfaction. “And the other very plausible possibility is that actually it was not Friedrich who was intended as the victim but Gisela. He may have died by mischance. In which case there are several people who may have been desirous of killing her. The most obvious one is Count Lansdorff, brother of the Queen.”

  “That’s …” Wellborough began, then trailed off, his face losing its color and turning a dull white. Monk knew in that moment that he had been very well aware of the designs and negotiations that preceded Friedrich’s death.

  “Or the Baroness Brigitte von Arlsbach,” Monk went on relentlessly. “And regrettably, also yourself.”

  “Me? I have no interest in foreign politics,” Wellborough protested. He looked genuinely taken aback. “It matters not a jot to me who rules in Felzburg or whether it is part of Germany or one of a score of independent little states forever.”

  “You manufacture arms,” Monk pointed out. “War in Europe offers you an excellent market—”

  “That is iniquitous, sir!” Wellborough said furiously, his jaw clenched, his lips thinned to invisibility. “Make that suggestion outside this room and I shall sue you myself.”

  “I have made no suggestion,” Monk replied. “I have merely stated facts. But you may be quite certain that people will make the inference, and you cannot sue all London.”

  “I can sue the first person to say it aloud!”

  Monk was now quite relaxed. He had at least this victory in his hand.

  “No doubt. But it would be expensive and futile. The only way to prevent people from thinking it is to prove it untrue.”

  Wellborough stared at him. “I take your point, sir,” he said at last. “And I find your method and your manner equally despicable, but I concede the necessity. You may question whom you please in my house, and I shall personally instruct them to answer you immediately and truthfully … on the condition that you report your findings to me, in full, at the end of every day. You will remain here and pursue this until you come to a satisfactory and irrefutable conclusion. Do we understand each other?”

  “Perfectly,” Monk replied with an inclination of his head. “I have my bag with me. If you will have someone show me to my ro
om, I shall begin immediately. Time is short.”

  Wellborough gritted his teeth and reached for the bell.

  Monk thought it both polite and probably most likely to be efficient to speak first to Lady Wellborough. She received him in the morning room, a rather ornate place furnished in the French manner with a great deal more gilt than Monk cared for. The only thing in it he liked was a huge bowl of early chrysanthemums, tawny golds and browns and filling the air with a rich, earthy smell.

  Lady Wellborough came in and closed the door behind her. She was wearing a dark blue morning dress which should have become her fair coloring, but she was too pale and undoubtedly surprised and confused, and there was a shadow of fear in her eyes.

  “My husband tells me that it is possible Prince Friedrich really was murdered,” she said bluntly. She must have been in her mid-thirties, but there was a childlike unsophistication about her. “And that you have come here to discover before the trial who it was. I don’t understand at all, but you must be wrong. It is too terrible.”

  He had come prepared to dislike her because he disliked and despised her husband, but he realized with a jolt how separate she was, pulled along in his wake, perhaps unable through circumstance, ignorance or dependence to take a different course, and that this lack had little to do with her will or her nature.

  “Unfortunately, terrible things sometimes do happen, Lady Wellborough,” he replied almost without emotion. “There was a great deal at stake in his returning to his own country. Perhaps you were not aware how much.”

  “I didn’t know he was going to return,” she said, staring at him. “Nobody said anything about it to me.”

  “It was probably still secret, if it was finally decided at all. It may have been only on the brink of decision.”

  She still looked anxious and a little confused.

  “And you think someone murdered him to prevent him going home? I thought he couldn’t anyway, after he deliberately abdicated. After ail, he chose Gisela instead of the crown. Is that not what it was all about?” She shook her head and gave a little shrug, still standing in the middle of the floor, refusing or unable to be comfortable, as if it might prolong an interview in which she was unhappy.