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“No, of course not! How could you be so naive?” she said with exasperation.
Suddenly he wondered how old she was. What had happened to her in her life? Whom had she loved or hated; what extravagant dreams had she pursued and won, or lost? She moved like a young woman, with an ease and pride, as if her body were supple. Yet her voice had not the timbre of youth, and her eyes had far too much knowledge and too much wit and assurance to be immature.
The response that rose to his lips was stiff, and he knew before he spoke that he would sound offended. He changed his mind.
“The jury will be naive, madam,” he pointed out, carefully keeping his face expressionless. “Explain to me—to us, the jury—why the princess for whom Prince Friedrich gave up his crown and his country should, after twelve years of marriage, suddenly murder her husband. It seems to me she would have everything to lose. What can you persuade me she has to gain?”
Outside, the dull rumble of the traffic was broken by a drayman’s shout.
The amusement faded in her eyes.
“We must go back to politics, but not because this was a political murder,” she said obediently. “On the contrary, it was highly personal. Gisela was a totally material woman. There are very few political women, you know? Most of us are far too immediate and too practical. Still, that is not a crime.” She dismissed it. “I need to explain the politics to you so you will understand what she had to lose … and to gain.” She rearranged herself slightly in the chair. Even the very small hoop of her skirt seemed to annoy her, as if it was an affectation she would sooner have done without.
“Would you care for tea?” he offered. “I can have Simms bring a tray.”
“I should only talk too much and allow it to go cold,” she responded. “I loathe cold tea. But thank you for the offer. You have beautiful manners, so very correct. Nothing ruffles you. That is the stiff upper lip you English are so famous for. I find it infuriating and charming at the same time.”
To his fury, he felt himself blushing.
She ign
ored it, although she undoubtedly noticed.
“King Karl is not in good health,” she said, resuming the story. “He never has been. And quite frankly, we all know that he will not live more than another two or three years, at the most. Since Friedrich abdicated, Karl will now be succeeded by his younger son, Crown Prince Waldo. Waldo is not against unification. He sees that it has certain advantages. Fighting against it unquestionably would have many disadvantages—such as the likelihood of a war, which we would eventually lose. The only people who would be certain to profit would be arms manufacturers and their like.” Her face was heavy with contempt.
“Princess Gisela.” He brought her back to the subject.
“I was coming to her. Friedrich was for independence, even at the price of fighting. There were many of us who felt as he did, most particularly in and about the court.”
“But not Waldo? Surely he had most to lose?”
“People see love of their country in different ways, Sir Oliver,” she said with sudden gravity. “For some it is to fight for independence, even to give our lives for it if necessary.” She looked at him very directly. “For Queen Ulrike it is to live a certain kind of way, to exercise self-control, mastery of will, to spend her whole life trying to connive and coerce what she sees as right. To make sure everyone else behaves according to a code of honor she holds dear above all things.” She was watching him closely, judging his reactions. “To Waldo it is that his people should have bread on their tables and be able to sleep in their beds without fear. I think he would like them to be able to read and write whatever they believe also, but that may be asking for too much.” There was an unreadable sadness behind her green eyes. “No one has everything. But I think Waldo may be rather more realistic. He will not have us all drown trying to hold back a tide which he believes is bound to come in, whatever we do.”
“And Gisela?” he asked yet again, as much to bring his own mind to the subject as hers.
“Gisela has no patriotism!” she spat, her face tight and hard. “If she had, she would never have tried to be queen. She wanted it for herself, not for her people—or for independence or unification or anything political or national, just for the allure.”
“You dislike her,” Rathbone observed mildly.
She laughed, her face seemingly transformed, but the relentless anger was only just behind the amusement. “I loathe her. But that is beside the point. It does not make what I say true or untrue….”
“But it will prejudice a jury,” he pointed out. “They may think you speak from envy.”
She was silent for a moment.
He waited. No sound penetrated from the office beyond the door, and the traffic in the street had resumed its steady noise.
“You are right,” she admitted. “How tedious to have to consider such logicalities, but I can see it is necessary.”
“Gisela, if you please. Why should she wish to murder Friedrich? Not because he was for independence, even at the cost of war?”
“No, and yet indirectly, yes.”
“Very clear,” he said with a whisper of sarcasm. “Please explain yourself.”
“I am trying to!” Impatience flared in her eyes. “There is a considerable faction which would fight for independence. They need a leader around whom to gather—”
“I see. Friedrich—the original crown prince! But he abdicated. He lives in exile.”
