Weighed in the Balance

by Anne Perry

  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 Friedrich 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.

  “I 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.”