Weighed in the Balance

by Anne Perry

  “Of course, ma’am.” Harvester bowed very slightly. “You have said quite enough for us to have no doubt as to the justice of your cause. We cannot ease your grief, but we offer you our sincerest sympathies and all the redress that English law allows.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “If you will remain there, ma’am, it is conceivable Sir Oliver may have some questions to ask you, although I cannot imagine what.”

  Rathbone rose. He could feel the hatred of the court like electricity in the air, crackling, making the hairs on his neck stand on end. If he even remotely slighted her, was less than utterly sympathetic, he could ruin his own cause far more effectively than anything Harvester could achieve.

  He faced Gisela’s steady, dark blue eyes and found them oddly unnerving. Perhaps it was the exhaustion of grief, but there was something dead about her gaze.

  “You must have been stunned by such a devastating accusation, ma’am?” he said deferentially, trying not to sound too unctuous.

  “Yes.” She did not elaborate.

  He stood in the center of the floor looking up at her.

  “I imagine you were not in the best of health after the shock of your bereavement,” he continued.

  “I was not well,” she agreed. She stared at him coldly. She was waiting for an attack. After all, he represented the woman who had accused her of murder.

  “In that season of shock and grief, did you have the time, or the heart, to consider the political happenings in Felzburg?”

  “I was not in the least interested.” There was no surprise in her voice. “My world had ended with my husband’s death. I hardly know what I did. One day was exactly like the next … and the last. I saw no one.”

  “Very natural,” Rathbone agreed. “I imagine we can all understand that. Anyone who has lost someone very dear knows the process of mourning, let alone a grief such as yours.”

  The judge looked at Rathbone with a frown.

  The jurors were growing restive.

  He must reach the point soon or it would be too late. He knew Zorah was watching him. He could almost feel her eyes on his back.

  “Had it ever occurred to you, ma’am, to wonder if your husband had been murdered for political reasons?” he asked. “Perhaps regarding your country’s fight to retain its independence?”

  “No …” There was a lift of surprise in Gisela’s voice. She seemed about to add something else, then caught Harvester’s eye and changed her mind.

  Rathbone forced a very slight smile of sympathy to his lips.

  “But with a love as profound as yours, now that the possibility has been raised, I should not think you can allow the question to go unanswered, can you? Do you not care even more fervently than anyone else here that, if it was so, the culprit must be caught and pay the price for so heinous and terrible a crime?”

  She stared at him wordlessly, her eyes huge.

  For the first time there was a rumble of agreement from the court. Several of the jurors nodded gravely.

  “Of course,” Rathbone said, answering his own question vehemently. “And I promise you, ma’am”—he waved his hand to encompass them all—“this court will do everything in its power to discover that truth, to the last detail, and expose it.” He bowed very slightly, as if she had indeed been royalty. “Thank you. I have no more questions.” He nodded to Harvester and then returned to his seat.

  10

  “THE NEWSPAPERS, SIR.” Rathbone’s manservant handed them to him as he sat at breakfast, the Times on top.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  My dear Sir Oliver,

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

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

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

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

  Yours faithfully

  The letter was signed with his name but not his title.

  Rathbone put it down with a stiff hand, his fingers shaking. He no longer wished even tea or toast.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Gallagher said nothing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “How long after the accident did he die?”

  “Eight days.”

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

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

  Harvester’s voice dropped a fraction and became very precise. “Nursing n
eed, Doctor, or do you mean that she also cooked his food?”

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

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

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

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

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

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