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Monk wondered why Klaus should care what anyone whom he held in such contempt thought, but there were more profitable questions to ask.
“What could she say that any sane person could credit?” he asked, with the same air of sympathy.
“You must have heard the gossip.” Evelyn stared at him, wide-eyed. “Simply everyone is talking about it. She has virtually accused Princess Gisela of having killed poor Friedrich … I mean intentionally! As if she would! They adored each other. All the world knows that.”
“It would have made more sense if someone had killed Gisela,” Rolf said with a grimace. “That I could believe.”
Monk did not have to feign interest. “Why?”
Everyone at the table turned to look at him, and he realized with anger at himself that he had been naive and too abrupt. But it was too late to retreat. If he added anything he would only make it worse.
It was not Rolf who answered but Evelyn.
“Well, she is very quick-witted, very glamorous. She does overshadow people a bit. It wouldn’t be hard to imagine someone being the butt of her wit and feeling so angry, and perhaps humiliated, they could”—she shrugged her beautiful shoulders—“lose their temper and wish her ill.” She smiled as she said it, robbing it of any viciousness.
It was a picture of Gisela that Monk had not seen before; not merely funny, but a cruel wit. Perhaps he should not be surprised. These people had little to fear, little need to guard what they said or whether they offended, unlike most of the people he knew. He wondered fleetingly how much of anyone’s good manners was a matter of self-preservation, how much genuine desire for the comfort of mind of others. Only in those with nothing at all to fear would he know.
He looked from Evelyn’s charming face to Lady Wellborough, then Klaus, and then Rolf.
“Surely, if it actually comes to a trial, it will be easy enough to prove what happened?” he asked mildly. “Everyone who was here can testify, and with you all of one accord, she will be shown up for a liar, or worse.”
“We shall have to see that we do agree first,” Stephan said with a twisted smile and serious eyes. “After all, we do know more or less what happened. We shall have to be clear about what we don’t know so we don’t contradict each other.”
“What the devil do you mean?” Lord Wellborough demanded, his face pinched till his already thin lips all but disappeared. “Of course we know what happened. Prince Friedrich died of his injuries.” He said it as if even the words pained him. Monk wondered uncharitably if the pain came from his affection for Friedrich or from the stain on his reputation as a host.
Monk set down his spoon and ignored his confiture of nectarines. “I imagine they will require greater detail. They will wish to know what happened in the moment-to-moment running of the house, who had access to the rooms where Prince Friedrich was, who prepared his food, who brought it up, who came or went at any time.”
“Whatever for?” Evelyn asked. “They don’t imagine any of us harmed him, do they? They couldn’t. Why? Why should we? We were all his friends. We have been for years.”
“Domestic murders are usually committed by one’s family … or one’s friends,” Monk replied.
A look of profound distaste crossed Rolf’s face. “Possibly. It is something of which, thank God, I have very little knowledge. I presume Gisela will employ the best barrister available, a queen’s counsel at the least. And he will conduct the case in the manner best designed to avoid whatever scandal is not already inevitable.” He looked at Monk coldly. “Would you be good enough to pass me the cheese, sir?”
There was already a board with seven cheeses in front of him. His meaning was perfectly clear. They ate the ices course—Neapolitan cream and raspberry water—without referring to it again, and then the fruit, pineapples, strawberries, apricots, cherries and melons.
Monk did not sleep well, in spite of the train journey, which had been tiring, the long evening’s endurance test at the table and afterwards in the smoking room, and lastly the excellent four-poster bed with down pillows and quilt. When Stephan’s valet came in the morning to inform him that his bath was drawn and his clothes for the morning were laid out, he awoke with an uncomfortable jolt.
Breakfast was a vast affair, but informal. People came and went as they pleased, taking from a sideboard laden with chafing dishes filled with eggs, meat, vegetables and various baked pastries and breads. On the table were frequently renewed pots of tea, dishes of preserves, butter, fresh fruit and even sweetmeats.
The only other diners present when Monk arrived were Stephan, Florent and Lord Wellborough. The conversation was unremarkable. When they had finished, Stephan offered to show Monk around the nearer parts of the estate, and Monk accepted with alacrity.
“What are you going to do to help Zorah?” Stephan asked as he conducted Monk around the orangery, pointing towards various features while saying nothing about them at all. “We were all here after Friedrich’s fall, but he was confined to his rooms, and Gisela wouldn’t allow anyone else to visit him except Rolf, and even he went only twice, so far as I know. But anyone at all could have visited the kitchens or waylaid a servant on the stairs who was carrying a tray.”
“Is that why you think it was Gisela?” Monk asked.
Stephan seemed genuinely surprised. “No, of course not. It’ll be the devil’s own job to prove he was murdered at all! I believe it was Gisela because Zorah says it was. And she is absolutely right about him always believing he could return, and Gisela knowing he couldn’t … not with her.”
“Not very convincing,” Monk observed.
They walked around the edge of the orangery and along a path between graceful hedges of close-clipped hornbeam. At the end of the way, about forty yards, there was a stone urn dripping scarlet with late geraniums, and behind that a dark yew hedge.
“I know,” Stephan said with a sudden smile. “But if you knew those people it would make sense to you. If you had seen Gisela …”
“Tell me about the day before the accident,” Monk said quickly. “Or if you prefer, the day you remember most vividly, even the week before.”
Stephan thought for several minutes before he began. They moved slowly down the path towards the urn and the yew hedge, then turned left along an elm avenue that stretched for half a mile.
“Breakfast was always much the same,” he said, knitting his brows in concentration. “Gisela was not down. She ate in her room, and Friedrich took his with her. He usually did. It was one of the rituals of the day. I think, actually, he liked to watch her dress. No matter what time or season, she always looked superb. She had a genius for it.”
