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“How? Unless, of course, you have formed some opinion that the original fall was contrived?”
Monk went on, “Even she is quite certain it was exactly what it seemed. She thinks Gisela poisoned him, although she doesn’t know how, or with what, and has only a very general idea why.”
Rathbone smiled, showing his teeth only slightly. “She has you rattled, Monk, or you would not be misquoting her so badly. She knows very precisely why. Because there was a strong possibility Friedrich might return home without her, divorcing her for his country’s sake. She would cease to be one of the world’s most glamorous lovers, titled, rich and envied, and would instead become an abandoned ex-wife, dependent, her erstwhile friends pitying her. It doesn’t take a great leap of the imagination to understand her emotions faced with those alternatives.”
“You think she killed him?” Monk was surprised, not that Rathbone should believe it, that was easy enough, but that he should be prepared to defend that belief in court. At the very kindest, it was foolish; at the unkindest, he had taken leave of his wits.
“I think it is highly probable that someone did,” Rathbone corrected coldly, leaning back in his chair, his face hard. “I would like you to go to Lord and Lady Wellborough’s country home, where you will be introduced by Baron Stephan von Emden, a friend of the Countess who will know who you are.” He pursed his lips. “You will be able to learn all that is now possible of the events after the accident. You will have to make the opportunity to question the servants and observe the people who were there at the time, with the exception, of course, of the Princess Gisela. Apparently this accusation has brought them together again, not unnaturally, I suppose.
“I hope you will be able to deduce at least who had opportunity to have poisoned the Prince, and if anything whatever was observed that could be used in evidence. You will also question the doctor who attended the Prince and wrote the death certificate.”
From outside in the street the noise of the traffic drifted up through the half-open window. In the office beyond the door there was silence.
There were many reasons to accept the case: Rathbone needed help urgently, and it would give Monk considerable satisfaction to be in a position where for once Rathbone was in his debt. Monk had no other cases of any importance at the moment and would value the occupation and the income from it. But most of all, his curiosity was so sharp he could feel it as distinctly as an itching of the skin.
“Yes, of course I will,” he said with a smile, perhaps more wolfish than friendly.
“Good,” Rathbone accepted. “I am obliged. I shall give you Baron von Emden’s address and you can introduce yourself to him. Perhaps you could go to Wellborough Hall as his manservant?”
Monk was appalled. “What?”
“Perhaps you could go as his manservant,” Rathbone repeated, his eyes wide. “It would give you an excellent opening to speak with the other servants and learn what they …” He stopped, the ghost of a smile on his lips. “Or you could go as an acquaintance, if you would feel more at ease. I realize you may not be familiar with the duties of a valet …”
Monk rose to his feet, his face set. “I shall go as his acquaintance,” he said stiffly. “I shall let you know what I learn, if anything. No doubt you will be somewhat concerned to know.” And with that he bade Rathbone good night and took the piece of paper on which Rathbone had written the Baron’s address from the desktop and went out.
Monk arrived at Wellborough Hall six days after Zorah Rostova walked into Rathbone’s offices and requested the lawyer’s help. It was now early September, golden autumn, with the stubble fields stretching into the distance, the chestnuts just beginning to turn amber and the occasional strip of newly plowed land showing rich and dark where the wet earth was ready for planting.
Wellborough Hall was a huge, spreading Georgian building of classical proportions. One approached it up a drive that was over a mile long and largely lined with elms. On either side parkland spread towards woods, and beyond that were more open fields and copses. It was easy to picture the owners of such a place entertaining royalty, riding happily amid such beauty, until tragedy had halted them, reminding them of their frailty.
Monk had called upon Stephan von Emden and found him happy to offer all the assistance he could to angle for an invitation for Monk to accompany him as his “friend” on his imminent trip to the Hall. Stephan said he was fascinated by the idea of investigation and found Monk an intriguing study, his manner of life utterly different from his own. He also explained that they were all gathering at Wellborough Hall again to make sure of their stories about Friedrich’s death in case there should be a trial.
Monk felt a trifle disconcerted to be watched so closely, and as their journey continued, he had realized that Stephan was neither as casual nor as uninformed as he had at first assumed. Monk had betrayed himself, at least in his own eyes, more than once by his own prejudgments that because Stephan was titled and wealthy, he was also narrow in his outlook and relatively useless in any practical sense. Now Monk was angry with himself for allowing the restrictions of his upbringing to show. He was trying to pass himself off as a gentleman. Some part of his mind knew that gentlemen were not so brittle, so quick to assume, or so defensive of their dignity. They knew they did not need to be.
He was disgusted with himself because his prejudgments were unfair. He despised unfairness, the more so when it was also stupid.
They arrived at the magnificent entrance and stepped out of the carriage to be welcomed by a liveried footman. Monk was about to look for his very carefully packed cases when he remembered just in time that to bring them in was the valet’s job, and he should not even think of doing it himself. A gentleman would walk straight into the house in the total trust that servants would see that his belongings were taken to his room, unpacked and everything put in its appropriate place.
They were welcomed by Lady Wellborough, a far younger woman than Monk had expected. She looked no more than in her middle thirties, slender, fractionally above average height, with thick brown hair. She was comely enough to look at, but not beautiful. Her chief charms lay in her intelligence and vitality. The moment she saw them she sailed down the marvelous staircase with its wrought iron railing gleaming with the occasional gold. Her face was alight with enthusiasm.
“My dear Stephan!” Her gigantic skirts swirled around her, the hoops springing back as she stopped. Her gown had a separate bodice, as was now fashionable, large sleeved, tight waisted, showing off her slenderness. “How wonderful to see you,” she went on. “And this must be your friend Mr. Monk.” She looked at Monk with great interest, eyeing his smooth, high-boned cheeks, slightly aquiline nose and sardonic mouth. He had seen that look of surprise in women’s eyes before, as if they saw in him something they had not expected, but against their judgment could not dislike.
He inclined his head.
“How do you do, Lady Wellborough. It was most generous of you to permit me to join you this weekend. Already I am more than rewarded.”
She smiled widely. It was a most engaging expression and entirely unstudied.
“I hope you will find yourself much more so before you leave.” She turned to Stephan. “Thank you, you have done particularly well this time, my dear. Allsop will show you upstairs, although I’m sure you know the way.” She looked back at Monk. “Dinner is at nine. We shall all be in the withdrawing room by about eight, I should imagine. Count Lans-dorff and Baron von Seidlitz went out walking, towards the weekend shoot, I think. See the lie of the land. Do you shoot, Mr. Monk?”
Monk had no memory of ever having shot, and his social position made it almost impossible that he would have had the opportunity.
“No, Lady Wellborough. I prefer sports of a more equal match.”
“Oh, my goodness!” She laughed in high good humor. “Bare-knuckle boxing? Or horse racing? Or billiards?”
He had no idea if he had skill in any of these either. He had spoken too quickly, and now risked making a fool of himself.
“I shall attempt whatever is offered,” he replied, feeling the color burn up his cheeks. “Except where I am likely to endanger the other guests by my lack of proficiency.”
