Weighed in the Balance (36 page)

“You may answer the question, Baroness,” the judge directed. “In your opinion, is a political motive possible in this tragic affair? In other words, are there political issues which may be affected by the Prince’s death or by what happens in this court?”

Evelyn looked most uncomfortable, but without forswearing what she had already said, and appearing a fool, she could not deny it.

“Of course there are political issues,” she admitted. “Friedrich had abdicated, but he was still a prince of the royal house, and there were old loyalties.”

Rathbone dared not press it further.

“Thank you.” He smiled as if her admission meant something, and returned to his seat. He was aware of Harvester’s amusement, and of Zorah’s eyes on him with curiosity. The gallery was fidgeting, wanting more drama, more personal passion.

In the afternoon they were satisfied at last. Harvester called Gisela herself. The room was in such a state of expectancy the holding of breath was audible. No one spoke. No one intentionally moved as she rose, crossed the floor and mounted the steps to the stand. A bench creaked as a single person shifted weight. A corset bone snapped. Someone’s reticule slipped out of her hands and slithered to the floor with a clunk of coins.

One of the jurors sneezed.

Zorah looked at Rathbone, then away again. She did not speak.

Gisela faced them, and for the first time Rathbone was able to look at her without appearing to stare. In the box behind the rail, she looked even smaller, her shoulders more delicate, her head even a trifle large with its broad forehead and strong brows. No one could deny it was a face of remarkable character, and perhaps an illusion of beauty more meaningful than mere coloring or symmetry of features. She faced Harvester directly, unwaveringly, waiting for him to begin once she had sworn in a low, very pleasing voice as to her name. Her accent also was very slight, her use of English easy.

Harvester had obviously made the appropriate inquiries beforehand and knew better than to use her royal form of address. She had never been crown princess; such title as she had was courtesy.

“Madam,” he began, his tone respectful of her widowhood, her legendary love, if not her status. “We have heard testimony in this court that the Countess Zorah Rostova has on several occasions made a most vile and appalling accusation against
you, and that she has done it repeatedly, in private and in public places. She herself has never denied it. We have heard from friends of yours that they were aware that very naturally it caused you great grief and distress.”

He glanced briefly towards the gallery. “We have heard Baroness von Seidlitz say that it has provided fuel for enemies you may have in your native country who still bear you envy and ill will because of your marriage to the Prince. Would you please tell the court how your husband died? I do not desire to harrow your emotions by raising what can only be devastating memories for you. The briefest description will serve.”

She gripped the railing with black-gloved hands as if to steady herself and stood silent for several seconds before summoning the strength to reply.

Rathbone groaned inwardly. It was worse than he had anticipated. The woman was perfect. She had dignity. Tragedy was on her side, and she knew not to play it too much. Perhaps it was Harvester’s advice, perhaps her own natural good taste.

“He fell from his horse while out riding,” she said quietly, but her voice was distinct, falling into the silence with all the burden of loss. Every word was perfectly audible throughout the room. “He was very seriously injured. His foot was caught in the stirrup iron, and he was dragged.” She took a deep breath and let it out softly. She lifted her strong, rather square chin. “At first we thought he was getting better. It is very difficult for even the best doctor to tell how serious an internal injury may be. Then suddenly he relapsed … and within hours he was dead.”

She stood absolutely immobile, her face a mask of hopelessness. She did not weep. She looked as if she were already exhausted by grief and had nothing left inside her but endless, gray pain, and ahead only an untold number of years of loneliness which no one could reach.

Harvester allowed the court to sense her tragedy, her utter bereavement, before he continued.

“And the doctor said the cause of death was his internal injuries?” he said very gently.

“Yes.”

“After the funeral you returned to Venice, to the home you had shared with him?”

“Yes.”

“How did you hear of the Countess Rostova’s extraordinary charge?”

She lifted her chin a little. Rathbone stared at her. It was a remarkable face; there was a unique serenity in it. She had been devastated by tragedy, and yet the longer he looked, the less did he see vulnerability in the line of her lips or the way she held herself. There was something in her which seemed almost untouchable.

“First, Lady Wellborough wrote and told me,” she answered Harvester. “Then other people also wrote. To begin with I assumed it was merely an aberration, perhaps spoken when … I do not wish to be uncharitable … but I have been left no choice … when she had taken too much wine.”

“What motive can you imagine Countess Rostova having to say such a thing?” Harvester asked with wide eyes.

“I should prefer not to answer that,” Gisela said with icy dignity. “Her reputation is well-known to many. I am not interested in it.”

Harvester did not pursue the point further. “And how did you feel when you heard of this, ma’am?”

She closed her eyes. “I had not thought after the loss of my beloved husband that life could offer me any blow which I should even feel,” she said very softly. “Zorah Rostova taught me my mistake. The pain of it was almost beyond bearing. My love for my husband was the core of my life. That anyone should blaspheme it in such a way is … beyond my ability to express.”

She hesitated a moment. Throughout the room there was utter silence. Not one person looked away from her face, nor
did they seem to consider the word
blaspheme
out of place. “I shall prefer to not, and indeed I cannot, speak of it if I am to retain my composure, sir,” she said at last. “I will testify in this court, as I must, but I will not display my grief or my pain to be a spectacle for my enemies, or even for those who wish me well. It is indecent to ask it of me … of any woman. Permit me to mask my distress, sir.”

“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

“T
HE 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.