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They remained in silence for minutes. The fire burned up, and Monk rose and took a step away from it.
“But no one was alone with him, apparently,” he said finally. “The servants were there coming and going. The doors were not locked. Everyone agrees Gisela never left the suite.”
“Then the food was poisoned between the kitchen and the bedroom,” Rathbone said. “We knew that before. It may have been poisoned with yew. We knew that also. It could have been anyone in the house, except for the difficulty of knowing how they prepared it.”
“Unless they brought it with them,” Monk continued. “They might fairly safely assume that a large country house like Wellborough Hall would have a yew tree, either on the grounds or in a nearby churchyard. Unless if Rolf brought it with him, intending to use it if Friedrich refused … and then lay the blame on Gisela?”
“Only it is all going wrong,” Hester said quietly. “Because the court is insisting on having the chain of evidence, and that is going to lead back to Rolf … or Brigitte … or Florent or Zorah … and it could not have been Gisela! He is not nearly as clever, or as thorough, as he supposes.”
They sat in silence for several more minutes, Rathbone staring into the fire, Monk frowning in thought, Hester looking from one to another of them, knowing the fear was only just beneath the surface, as it was in her, tight and sick and very real.
They were engaging their minds in reason, but the knowledge of failure, and its cost, was ready to overwhelm them the moment they let go of that thin, bright light of logic.
“I think I shall go and see Zorah Rostova,” she said, rising to her feet. “I would like to talk to her myself.”
“Feminine intuition?” Monk mocked.
“Curiosity. But if you have both met her, and not had your judgment addled, why shouldn’t I? I can hardly do worse.”
* * *
She found Zorah in her extraordinary room with the shawl pinned on the wall, a roaring fire sending flames halfway up the chimney and reflecting on the blood red of the sofa. The bearskins on the floor looked almost alive.
Zorah remained seated where she was and surveyed Hester with only the slightest interest. “Who did you say you were? You mentioned Sir Oliver’s name to my maid, otherwise I would not have let you in.” She was perfectly candid without intending to be offensive. “I am really not in a disposition to be polite to guests. I have neither the time nor the patience.”
Hester was not put out. In the same circumstances, from what she knew of them, she would have felt the same. She had stood in the dock, where Zorah might yet stand if Rathbone were unsuccessful, which looked frighteningly like an inevitability now.
She looked at Zorah’s highly individual face with its beautiful green eyes too widely spaced, its nose too long and too prominent, its sensitive mouth, delicate lipped. She judged her to be a woman capable of consuming passion, but far too intelligent to allow it to sweep away her perception or her understanding of other people, of law, or of events.
“I said I was a friend of Sir Oliver’s because I am,” Hester answered. “I have known him well for some time.” She met Zorah’s gaze squarely, defying her to question precisely what that might mean.
Zorah looked at her with growing amusement.
“And you are concerned that this case will cause him some professional embarrassment?” she deduced. “Have you come to beg me, for his sake, to recant and say that I was mistaken, Miss Latterly?”
“No, I have not,” Hester replied tartly. “If you would not do it before, I cannot see any reason why you would now. Anyway, it would hardly help things as they are. If
Sir Oliver does not find who killed Friedrich, and prove it, you will be in the dock yourself, sooner or later. Probably sooner.”
She sat down without being invited. “And I can tell you, it is an extremely unpleasant place. You cannot imagine quite how unpleasant until you have been there. You may put a brave face on it, but inside you will be terrified. You are not stupid enough to fail to realize that losing there does not mean a financial loss or a little unpleasantness socially. It means the hangman’s rope.”
Zorah’s face tightened a little. “You don’t mince words, do you, Miss Latterly? Have you come on Sir Oliver’s behalf? What is it you want?” She still regarded her visitor with a faint contempt.
Hester did not know if that contempt was for her plainer, very conventional dress, so much more predictable and less dashing, less individual and certainly less flattering than Zorah’s own. Possibly it was a countess’s contempt for a woman of very moderate breeding who was obliged to earn her own living. If it was the contempt of a woman of courage and adventurous spirit for a woman who stayed at home and busied herself with suitable feminine occupations, she could match Zorah stride for stride any day.
“On the assumption that you are telling the truth, as far as you know it,” Hester responded, “I want you to exercise your intelligence, instead of merely your strength of will, and start trying to work out what happened at Wellborough Hall. Because if we do not succeed in that, it is not only Sir Oliver’s career which will suffer for having made a serious misjudgment in taking on a highly unpopular case, but it will be your life in jeopardy. And what I think may actually be more important to you, it will ruin the reputation and honor of that group of men and women in your country who are prepared to fight for Felzburg’s continued independence. Now, I need your attention. Countess Rostova?”
Slowly Zorah sat up, a look of surprise and dawning disbelief on her face.
“Do you often address people in this fashion, Miss Latterly?”
“I have not recently had occasion to,” Hester admitted. “But in the army I frequently exceeded my authority. Emergencies have that effect. One is forgiven for it afterwards, if one succeeds. If one fails, it is the least of one’s problems.”
“The army …” Zorah blinked.
“In the Crimea. But that is all quite irrelevant to this.” She brushed it away with a gesture of her hand. “If you would be good enough to turn your mind to Wellborough Hall?”
“I think I could like you, Miss Latterly,” Zorah said quite seriously. “You are eccentric. I had no idea Sir Oliver had such interesting friends. He quite goes up in my esteem. I confess, I had thought him rather dry.”
