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“None,” he said ruefully. “She is determined to see justice done, whatever the cost to herself, and I have warned her it may be very high.”
“Then you cannot do more,” she said with an attempt at a smile. “I have talked with Baron and Baroness Ollenheim about it when I have the opportunity. She sees it all very romantically. He is a little more practical about it, and I gathered the impression that he did not greatly like Gisela. Both of them seem convinced that she and Friedrich adored each other and he would never have considered going home without her, even if the country were swallowed up in unification.” She sipped her wine, looking at him over the top of the glass. “If you can prove murder, I think it will be someone else who is guilty.”
“I am already aware of the ramifications.” He kept his voice steady, even trying to make it buoyant, and failing. “And that the Countess will be extremely unpopular for leveling such a charge. Breaking dreams never makes one liked, but sometimes it is necessary in pursuing any kind of justice.”
It was a brave speech, and the fact that he made it showed the level of his anxiety. He seemed to wish to confide in her, and yet to take the discussion only to a certain point, as if perhaps he had not yet thought beyond that point himself.
She also felt a trifle defensive against this woman who had disturbed Rathbone so uncharacteristically.
“She seems a woman of great courage,” she remarked. “I hope we shall be able to find enough evidence to open up a proper investigation. After all, it is in a sense our responsibility, since it happened in England.”
“Quite!” he agreed vehemently. “We cannot simply allow it to slip into a legend that is untrue without at least a struggle. Maybe Monk will uncover some facts which will be helpful—I mean simple things, like who had opportunity …”
“How does she believe he was killed?” she inquired.
“Poison.”
“I see. Everybody thinks that is what women use. But that doesn’t mean to say it was a woman. And everyone may not want what they say they do regarding unification or independence.”
“Of course not,” he conceded. “I shall see what Monk has learned and what new light it throws on the situation.” He tried to sound hopeful.
She smiled at him. “Don’t worry yet. This is only the beginning. After all, no one even thought of murder until the Countess said so. Everyone was happy to accept that it was natural. This may waken all sorts of memories, if we work hard enough. And there will be friends of independence who will want to know the truth, whatever it was. Perhaps even the Queen? She may be of some assistance, even if only by lending her name and her support to learning what really happened.”
He pulled a rueful face. “To prove that one of the royal family committed murder? I doubt it. It is a terrible stain, no matter how she may have disliked Gisela.”
“Oh, Oliver!” She leaned a little farther across the table and, without thinking, touched his fingers with hers. “Kings have been murdered by their relations since time immemorial! In fact, long before that. I think time immemorial is quite recent in the history of kings and ambition, love, hate and murder. No one who has ever read the Bible is going to find it so difficult to believe.”
“I suppose you are right.” He relaxed and picked up his wine again. “Thank you for your spirit, Hester.” He tipped the glass a fraction towards her.
She lifted her own, and they touched rims with a faint chink, his eyes gentle over the top of his glass.
She learned in a brief note from Rathbone when Monk returned from Berkshire, and the day after she went to see him in his rooms in Fitzroy Street. Their relationship had always been volatile, often critical, poised on the edge of quarrel, a curious mixture of anger and trust underneath. He infuriated her. She deplored many of his attitudes, and she knew his weaknesses. Yet she also was absolutely certain that there were dishonesties he would never commit, cruelties or acts of cowardice he would give his life rather than allow. There was a darkness in him, the voids in his memory, which frightened him more than they did her.
There had been moments, one in particula
r, when she had thought he might love her. Now she did not know, and she refused to think of it. But the bonds of friendship were unbreakable, and strong beyond any nature of question. She was only just in time to catch him. He was already packing to travel again.
“You can’t leave this case,” she said indignantly, standing in the middle of his reception room, which she had designed, over much objection from him, in order that his clients, and prospective clients, might feel more at ease to confide in him their problems. She had finally succeeded in persuading him that people who were not physically comfortable would be far less likely to remain and to find the words to tell him the difficult and perhaps painful details he would need to know about in order to help. Now he stood by the fire, his eyebrows raised, his expression slightly contemptuous.
“Rathbone needs you!” she said, angry that he should need to be told. He should have understood it for himself. “He’s fighting against far greater odds than he realizes. Perhaps he should not have taken the case, but he has, and there is no purpose now in wishing otherwise.”
“And I imagine, in your usual governess fashion, you told him so?” he inquired, responding to her criticism as usual.
“Didn’t you?” she challenged back.
“I told him it would be difficult …”
“And you are leaving us to fight alone?” She was so incredulous she was almost fumbling her words. She had thought many ill things of Monk at one time or another, but she could still hardly believe he would go away during a crisis. It was not his nature, not what she knew him to be. He had fought desperately and brilliantly to help her when she had needed it, as she and Rathbone had fought for him. Could he forget so easily?
He looked both angry and satisfied. There was a smile on his face very like a sneer.
“And what do you believe I should investigate next?” he said sarcastically. “Please, make some suggestions …”
“Well, you might find out a great deal more about the political situation,” she began. “Was there really a plan to have Friedrich go back home, or not? Did Gisela believe he would go without her, or did she know he would never leave her? Did he actually insist that accepting her also was the price of his return? Did he say so, and what was the answer? Did Gisela know it? Why does the Queen hate her so much? Did Friedrich know about it, whatever it is? Did the Queen’s brother Count Lansdorff know?” She drew in her breath, then went on. “Of all the people who were there that weekend, which of them have interests or relatives in other German states who might be affected by unification? Who had ambitions towards war or political power? Who has alliances anywhere else? What about the Countess herself? Who are her closest friends? There are dozens of things you could find out. Even if they only raised other questions, it would be a beginning.”
“Bravo!” He clapped his hands. “And who should I speak to in order to learn all these things?”
“I don’t know! Can’t you think of anything for yourself? Go and speak to the people of the court in exile!”
