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She moved over to the green chair and sat down, flicking her skirts absently to put them into a satisfactory position. She did not take her eyes from Rathbone’s face.
“Is truth a defense in English law, Sir Oliver?” she repeated.
“Yes, it is,” he conceded. “But one is obliged to prove truth. If you have no facts to demonstrate your case, simply to state it is to repeat the slander. Of course, it does not require the same degree of proof that a criminal case does.”
“Degree of proof?” she questioned. “A thing is true or it is false. What degree of proof do I require?”
He resumed his own seat, leaning forward over the desk a trifle to explain.
“Scientific theory must be proved beyond all doubt at all, usually by demonstrating that all other theories are impossible. Criminal guilt must be proved beyond all reasonable doubt. This is a civil case, and will be judged on balance of probability. The jury will choose whichever argument it considers the most likely to be true.”
“Is that good for me?” she asked bluntly.
“No. It will not require a great deal for her to convince them that you have slandered her. She must prove that you did indeed say this thing and that it has damaged her reputation. The latter will hardly be difficult.”
“Neither will the former,” she said with a very slight smile. “I have said it repeatedly, and in public. My defense is that it is true.”
“But can you prove it?”
“Beyond reasonable doubt?” she asked, opening her eyes very wide. “That rather begs the question as to what is reasonable. I am quite convinced of it.”
He sat back in his chair, crossing his legs and smiling very courteously.
“Then convince me of it, ma’am.”
Quite suddenly she threw back her head and burst into laughter, a rich, throaty sound rippling with delight.
“I think I like you, Sir Oliver!” She caught her breath and composed herself with difficulty. “You are fearfully English, but I am sure that is all to the good.”
“Indeed,” he said guardedly.
“Of course. All Englishmen should be properly English. You want me to convince you that Gisela murdered Friedrich?”
“If you would be so good,” he said a little stiffly.
“And then you will take the case?”
“Possibly.” On the face of it, it was preposterous.
“How cautious of you,” she said with a shadow of amusement. “Very well. I shall begin at the beginning. I presume that is what you would like? I cannot imagine you beginning anywhere else. For myself, I would rather begin at the end; it is then all so much easier to understand.”
“Begin at the end, if it pleases you,” he said quickly.
“Bravo!” She made a gesture of approval with her hand. “Gisela realized the necessity of murdering him, and almost immediately was presented with the opportunity, as a calling card is on a silver tray. All she had to do was pick it up. He had been injured in a riding accident. He was lying helpless.” Her voice dropped; she leaned forward a little. “No one was certain how ill he was, or whether he would recover or not. She was alone with him. She killed him. There you are!” She spread her hands. “It is accomplished.” She shrugged. “No one suspected because no one thought of such a thing, nor did they know how badly he was hurt anyway. He died of his injuries.” She pursed her lips. “How natural. How sad.” She sighed. “She is desolate. She mourns and all the world mourns with her. What could be easier?”
Rathbone regarded the extraordinary woman sitting in front of him. She was certainly not beautiful, yet there was a vitality in her, even in repose, which drew the eye to her as if she were the natural center of thought and attention. And yet what she was saying was outrageous—and almost certainly criminally slanderous.
“Why should she do such a thing?” he said aloud, his voice heavy with skepticism.
“Ah, for that I feel I should go back to the beginning,” she said ruefully, leaning back and regarding him with the air of a lecturer.
“Forgive me if I tell you what you already know. Sometimes we imagine our affairs are of as much interest to others as they are to us, and of course they are not. However, most of the world is familiar with the romance of Friedrich and Gisela, and how our crown prince fell in love with a woman his family would not accept and renounced his right to the throne rather than give her up.”
Rathbone nodded. Of course, it was a story that had fascinated and bewitched Europe; it was the romance of the century, which was why this woman’s accusation of murder was so absurd and unbelievable. Only innate good manners prevented him from stopping her and asking her to leave.
“You must understand that our country is very small,” she continued, amusement on her lips as if she understood his skepticism completely, and yet also an urgency, as if in spite of her intellectual awareness it mattered to her passionately that he believe her. “And situated in the heart of the German states.” Her eyes did not leave his face. “On all sides of us are other protectorates and principalities. We are all in upheaval. Most of Europe is. But unlike France or Britain or Austria, we are faced with the possibility of being united, whether we like it or not, and forming one great state of Germany. Some of us do like it.” Her lips tightened. “Some of us do not.”
“Has this really to do with Princess Gisela and the death of Friedrich?” he interrupted. “Are you saying it was a political murder?”
