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A buxom woman passed by, her skirts brushing their chairs.
“Have you learned anything yet from Monk?” she asked.
He shook his head. “He hasn’t reported back to me so far.”
“Where is he? In Germany?”
“No, Berkshire.”
“Why Berkshire? Is that where Friedrich died … or was killed?”
His mouth was full. He glanced up at her without bothering to reply.
“Do you think it might be political?” she said, trying to sound casual, as if the idea had just occurred to her. “To do with German unification rather than a personal crime … if indeed there was a crime?”
“Quite possibly,” he answered, still concentrating on the pie. “If he returned to his own country to lead the fight against forced unification, he would almost certainly have been obliged to leave Gisela, in spite of the fact that he did not apparently believe so, and that was what she dreaded.”
“But Gisela loved him so much, and always has done. No one at all, except Zorah, has ever questioned that,” she pointed out, trying not to sound like a governess with a slow child, but she heard her own voice sounding impatient and a little too distinct. “Even if he returned for a short while without her, if he succeeded in the fight for independence, then he could demand she return also as his queen, and they could not deny him. Does it not seem at least equally possible that someone else would have killed him to prevent him returning, perhaps someone who wanted unification?”
“Do you mean someone in the pay of one of the other German states?” he asked, considering the question.
“Possibly. Could the Countess Rostova have made the charge at someone else’s instigation, trusting that they know something they have not yet told her but will reveal when the matter comes to trial?”
He thought about it for a few moments, reaching for his glass of wine.
“I doubt it,” he said at last. “Simply because she does not seem like a person who would follow someone else’s lead.”
“What do you know about the other people who were at the house?”
He poured her a little more wine. “Very little, as yet. Monk is presently learning what he can. Most of them have gathered together there again, I presume to defend themselves against the charge. It is hardly the sort of thing an ambitious hostess wishes said about her country house party.” A very brief flicker of sardonic amusement crossed his face and was gone almost instantly. “But that is no defense for the Countess Rostova.”
She studied his features carefully, trying to read in them the complexity of his feelings. She saw the quick intelligence that had always been there, the wit, and a flash of the self-assurance which made him at once attractive and irritating. She also caught a glimmer that it was not only this case itself which caused him concern, but the flicker of doubt as to whether he had been entirely wise to take it in the first place.
“Perhaps she knows it is murder but has accused the wrong person?” she said aloud, watching him with gentleness which surprised her. “She may not be guilty of either mischief or spite, simply of not having understood the complications of the situation. Or is it possible Gisela was the one who gave him the poison without realizing what it was? She may be technically guilty and morally innocent.” She had forgotten the almost finished pie on her plate. “And when it is proved, she will withdraw her charge and apologize. And then perhaps Gisela will be sufficiently glad that the truth is known and she will accept it without seeking recompense or punishment.”
Rathbone was silent for some time.
Hester started to eat again. She was actually hungry.
“Of course it is possible,” he said after a while. “If you had met her you would not doubt either her perception or her integrity.”
Hester would question that, but realized with a jolt of surprise, and amusement, that Rathbone had been profoundly impressed by the Countess, so much so that he suspended his usual caution. It made her extremely curious about Zorah Rostova, and perhaps just a little piqued. There was rather a lot of enthusiasm in his tone.
It also showed a human vulnerability in Rathbone she had not seen before, a gap in his usual armor. It made her angry with him for being too naive, frightened that he should prove more fallible than she had imagined. She was surprised at herself, and at him, and aware every moment that passed of an increasing protectiveness.
He did not seem to have realized the heat of the emotions which were aroused by such a great public romance, the dreams quite unconnected people invested in it. In some ways he had lived a curiously protected life, from comfortable home, excellent education, exclusive university, and then training in the best solicitor’s office before being called to the bar. He knew the law, few better, and he had certainly seen crimes of passion and even depravity. But had he really tasted any breadth of ordinary human life, with its frailty, complexity and seeming contradictions?
She thought not, and the lack frightened her for him.
“You will need to learn as much as you can about the politics of the situation,” she said earnestly.
“Thank you!” There was a flicker of sarcasm in his eyes. “I had thought of that.”
“What are the Countess’s political views?” she persisted. “Is she for unification or independence? What about her family connections? Where does her money come from? Is she in love with anybody?”
She could see by his face that he had not thought of at least the last question. A moment of surprise lit in his eyes, and then he masked it.
“I suppose there is no chance she will withdraw the allegation before the trial?” she said without hope. He must already have tried everything he knew to persuade her.
