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“Mr. Rathbone,” the judge said, resuming a normal tone. “I hope you are not about to add a further slander to your client’s already perilous situation.”
“No, my lord, I am not,” Rathbone said vehemently. “Countess Rostova will not say anything which cannot be substantiated by other witnesses.”
“Then her evidence is not the urgent matter you stated,” Harvester said triumphantly. “If other witnesses can say the same thing, why did you not have them do so?”
“Please sit down, Mr. Harvester,” the judge requested firmly. “Countess Rostova will continue with her evidence. You will have the opportunity to question her when Sir Oliver has finished. If she makes any remarks detrimental to your client’s interests, you have the recourse which you are presently taking. Proceed, Sir Oliver. But do not waste our time, and please do not push us to make moral judgments of issues other than the death of Prince Friedrich and whether your client can substantiate the terrible charge she has made. That is your sole remit here. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, my lord. Countess Rostova, will you please describe Prince Friedrich’s bedroom and the suite of rooms he and Princess Gisela occupied during his illness at Wellborough Hall?”
There was a whispering of consternation and disappointment from the crowd. They had expected something far more titillating.
Even Zorah looked a little puzzled, but she began obediently.
“They had a bedroom, dressing room and sitting room. And, of course, they had the private use of a bathroom and water closet, which I did not see. Nor did I see the dressing room.” She looked at Rathbone to know if this was what he wished.
“Would you describe the sitting room and bedroom, please.” He nodded to her.
Harvester was growing impatient, and even the judge was beginning to lose his tolerance. The jury were clearly lost. Suddenly the proceedings had degenerated from high tension to total banality.
Zorah blinked. “The sitting room was quite large. It had two bay windows, facing west, I think, over the knot garden.”
“My lord!” Harvester had risen to his feet again. “This cannot possibly be of any relevance whatsoever. Is my learned friend going to suggest that Princess Gisela somehow climbed out of the sitting room window and down the wall to the yew walk? This is becoming absurd, and it is an abuse of the court’s time and intelligence.”
“It is precisely because I respect the court’s intelligence that I do not wish to lead the witness, my lord,” Rathbone said desperately. “She does not know which piece of her observation pertains to and explains the whole crime. And as far as time is concerned, we would waste a lot less of it if Mr. Harvester did not keep interrupting me!”
“I will allow you another fifteen minutes, Sir Oliver,” the judge warned. “If you have not reached some point of relevance by then, I shall entertain Mr. Harvester’s objections.” He turned to Zorah. “Please make your description as brief as possible, Countess Rostova. Pray continue.”
Zorah was quite obviously as confused as everyone else.
“The carpet was French, at least in design, of a variety of shades of wine and pink, as were the curtains. There were several seats, I do not recall how many, all upholstered in matching fabric. There was a small walnut table in the center of the floor, and a sort of bureau over by the farther wall. I don’t remember anything else.”
“Flowers?” Rathbone asked.
Harvester let out a very clearly audible snort of disgust.
“Yes,” Zorah replied with a frown. “Lily of the valley. They were Gisela’s favorite. She always had them when they were in season. In Venice she had them forced, so she could have them even in late winter.”
“Lily of the valley,” Rathbone repeated. “A bunch of lily of the valley? In a vase? A vase full of water?”
“Of course. If they were not in water they would very quickly have died. They were not in a pot, if that is what you mean. They were cut from the conservatory, and the gardener had them sent up for her.”
“Thank you, Countess Rostova, that is sufficient description.”
There was a gasp of amazement around the room, like the backwash of a tide after a great wave has broken. People looked at each other in disbelief.
The jurors looked at Zorah, then at the judge, then at Harvester.
“That is supposed to be relevant?” Harvester said, his voice rising sharply.
Rathbone smiled and turned back to Zorah.
“Countess, it has been suggested that you were jealous of the Princess because she replaced you twelve years ago in Prince Friedrich’s affections, and you have chosen this bizarre way of seeking your revenge. Are you jealous of her because it was she who married him and not you?”
A succession of emotions crossed Zorah’s face—denial, contempt, a bleak and bitter amusement; then suddenly and startlingly, pity.
“No,” she said very softly. “There is nothing in heaven or earth that would persuade me to change places with her. She was suffocated by him, trapped forever in the legend she had created. To the world they were great lovers, magical people who had achieved what so many of us dream of and long for. She was the reality. It was Antony and Cleopatra without the asp. That was what gave h
er her fame, her status. It defined who she was, without it she was no one, a sham. No matter how he depended upon her, or clung to her, or drained the life from her, she could never leave him, never even seem to lose her temper with him. She had built an image for herself and she was imprisoned within it forever, being sucked dry, having to smile, to act all the time. I didn’t understand that look on her face at the top of the stairs at the time. I knew she hated him, but I did not understand why.
