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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.
