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Hester found herself blushing, and was furious.
“Wellborough Hall,” she repeated, like a schoolmistress with a refractory pupil.
Obediently, and with a very tight smile, Zorah began to recount the events from the time of her own arrival. Her tongue was waspish, and at times extremely funny. Then, when she spoke of the accident, her voice changed and all lightness vanished. She looked somber, as if even at the time she had realized that it would lead towards Friedrich’s death.
Abruptly, she called the maid and requested luncheon, without referring to Hester or asking what she might like. She ordered thin toast, Beluga caviar, white wine, and a dish of fresh apples and a variety of cheeses. She glanced once at Hester to see her expression, then, finding satisfaction in it, dispatched the maid to carry out her duties.
She continued her tale.
Every so often Hester stopped her, asking to hear some point in greater detail, a room described, a person’s expression or tone of voice recollected more sharply.
When Hester left late in the afternoon her mind was in turmoil, her brain crowded with impressions and ideas, one in particular which she needed to inquire into in minute detail, and for it she must see an old professional colleague, Dr. John Rainsford. But that would have to wait until tomorrow. It was too late now. It was nearly dark, and she needed to order her thoughts before she presented them to anyone else.
A lot depended upon the judgment she had formed of Zorah. If Zorah was right, then the whole case hung on that one tiny recollection of fact. Hester must verify it.
She returned to Rathbone’s rooms on Sunday evening. She had sent a note by a messenger asking that Monk be there also. She found them both awaiting her, tense, pale-faced and with nerves strained close to the breaking point.
“Well?” Monk demanded before she had even closed the door.
“Did she tell you something?” Rathbone said eagerly, then swallowed the next words with an effort, trying to deny his hope before she could destroy it for him.
“I believe so,” she said very carefully. “I think it may be the answer, but you will have to prove it.” And she told them what she believed.
“Good God!” Rathbone said shakily. He swallowed hard, staring at her. “How … hideous!”
Monk looked at Hester, then at Rathbone, then back to Hester again.
“Do you realize what he is going to have to do to prove that?” he said huskily. “It could ruin him! Even if he succeeds … they’ll never forgive him for it.”
“I know,” she said softly. “I didn’t create the truth, William. I merely believe I may have found it. What would you prefer? Allow it to go by default?”
They both turned to Rathbone.
He looked up at them from where he was sitting. He was very white, but he did not hesitate.
“No. If I serve anything at all, it must be the truth. Sometimes mercy makes a claim, but this is most certainly not one of those times. I shall do all I can. Now tell me this again, carefully. I must know it all before tomorrow.”
She proceeded to repeat it detail by detail, with Monk occasionally interrupting to clarify or reaffirm a point, and Rathbone taking careful notes. They sat until the fire burned low and the wind outside was rising, gusting with blown leaves against the window, and the gas lamps made yellow pools in the room with its browns and golds and burnt sugar colors.
On Monday morning the court was filled and people were crowded fifteen and twenty deep outside, but this time they were silent. Both Zorah and Gisela came in under heavy escort, for their own protection and to avoid the likelihood that an eruption of emotion would turn into violence.
Inside also there was silence. The jurors looked as if they too had slept little and were dreading the necessity of making a decision for which they still could see no unarguable evidence. They were harrowed by emotions, some of them conflicting, shattering their beliefs of a lifetime, the assumptions about the world, and people, upon which their evaluations were based. They were profoundly unhappy and aware of a burden they could not now evade.
Rathbone was quite candidly afraid. He had spent the night awake as much as asleep. He had dozed fitfully, every hour up and pacing, or lain staring at the dark ceiling, trying to order and reorder in his mind the possibilities of what he would say, how he would counter the arguments which would arise, how to defend himself from the emotions he would inevitably awaken, and the anger.
The Lord Chancellor’s warning was as vivid in his mind as if he had heard it yesterday, and he needed no effort to imagine what his reaction would be to what Rathbone must do today. For the first time in twenty years he could see no professional future clearly ahead.
The court had already been called to order. The judge was looking at him, waiting.
“Sir Oliver?” His voice was clear and mild, but Rathbone had learned there was an inflexible will behind the benign face.
He must make his decision now, or the moment would be taken from him.
He rose to his feet, his heart pounding so violently he felt as if they must see his body shake. He had not been as nervous as this the very first time he stood up before a court. But he had been far more arrogant then, less aware of the possibilities of disaster. And he had had immeasurably less to lose.
He cleared his throat and tried to speak with a resonant, confident
tone. His voice was one of his best instruments.
