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“Thank you,” he said gravely. “But according to Monk’s information, Gisela did not leave their rooms at all … for anything. Whatever preparations there were came up from the kitchen or were brought by the doctor. And it is stretching the bounds of belief too far to suppose she kept a distillation of yew with her beforehand just in case she might have a need for it!”
“Obviously, you have told the Countess this—and advised her to withdraw and apologize.” She did not make it a question; it would have been insulting. For all his present vulnerability, she would not have dared imply she knew something of his skill that he had omitted. The balance between them was delicate, the slightest clumsiness might damage it.
“I have.” He looked at his fingers, not at her. “She refuses,” he went on before she could ask. “I cannot abandon her, in spite of her foolishness. I have given my undertaking that I will do what I can to protect her interests.”
She hesitated a moment, afraid to ask in case he had no answer. But then the omission would have made it obvious that that was what she thought. She saw it in his eyes, steady and gentle on hers, waiting.
“What can you do?” she said deliberately.
“Not enough,” he replied with the ghost of a smile, self-mockery in it.
“Anything?” She had to pursue it. He expected her to. Perhaps he needed to share the sense of defeat. Sometimes fear put into words become manageable. She had found it with men on the battlefield. The longer it remained unsaid, the larger it grew. Turned and faced, the proportions defined, one could muster forces to fight it. The nightmare quality was contained. And this could not be as bad as battle. She still remembered the bloody fields afterwards with sick horror and a pity which she needed to forget if she were to live and be useful now. Nothing in this case could compare with the past. But she could not say that to Rathbone. For him this was the struggle, and the disaster.
He was collecting his thoughts. He still sat sideways on the edge of the desk, but he had stopped fiddling with the papers.
“If we can prove it was murder, perhaps we can divert people’s attention from the fact that she accused the wrong person,” he said slowly. “I don’t know a great deal about the Princess Gisela. I think perhaps I need to know their relationship in the past, and her present financial arrangements, in order to estimate what reparations she is likely to seek.” He bit his lip. “If she hates Zorah as much as Zorah hates her, then she is very likely to want to ruin her.”
“I will see if I can learn anything,” Hester said quickly, glad of the chance to do something herself. “Baron and Baroness Ollenheim knew them both quite well. If I ask the right way, she may tell me quite a lot about Gisela. After all, it is possible she has no great feelings about Zorah. She won, and apparently easily.”
“Won?” He frowned.
“The battle between them,” she said impatiently. “Zorah was his mistress before Gisela came—at least, she was one of them. Afterwards he never looked at anyone else. Zorah has plenty of reason to hate Gisela. Gisela has none to hate her. Probably she is so devastated by Friedrich’s death she has no interest in revenge for the slander. Once she is proved innocent, she may be quite happy simply to retire from the public scene as a heroine again—even a merciful one. She will be even more admired for it. People will adore her …”
Suddenly his expression quickened. The light returned to his eyes as he grasped an idea.
“Hester, you are remarkably perceptive! If I could persuade Gisela that mercy would be in her own best interest, that it would paint her the greater heroine even than before, that may be our only answer!” He slipped down off the desk and started to pace back and forth across the floor, but this time it was not from tension but nervous energy as his brain raced. “Of course, I shall have no direct communication with her. It will all have to be implied in open court. I must make it double-pronged.”
He waved his hands, held apart to illustrate his idea. “On the one side, make mercy seem so appealing she will be drawn to it. Show how she will be remembered always for her grace and dignity, her compassion, the great qualities of womanhood that will make the whole world understand why Friedrich gave up a crown for her. And on the other, show how ugly revenge would be upon a woman who has already lost once to her and who has been shown to be mistaken—but a loyal patriot in that she was willing to risk everything to bring to light the fact that Friedrich really was indeed murdered and did not die a natural death, as everyone had supposed.”
He increased his pace as his mind grasped more ideas. “And I can very subtly show that not to be grateful to her for that, at
least, would suggest to some that possibly she would rather his murderer escape. She cannot allow anyone to think that.” His fist clenched. “Yes! I believe at last we have the beginning of some kind of strategy.” He stopped in front of her. “Thank you, my dear.” His eyes were bright and gentle. “I am most grateful. You have helped immensely.”
She found herself blushing under his gaze, suddenly unsure how to respond. She must remember this was only gratitude. Nothing had really changed.
“Hester … I …”
There was a knock on the door.
Simms put his head in. “Major Bartlett is here to see you, Sir Oliver. He has been waiting some ten minutes. What shall I tell him?”
“Tell him I want another ten,” Rathbone said. Then he looked at Simms’s startled face and sighed. “No, don’t tell him that. Miss Latterly is leaving. Tell Major Bartlett I apologize for keeping him waiting. I have just received urgent information on another case, but I am now ready to see him.”
“Yes, Sir Oliver.” Simms withdrew with a look of restored confidence. He was a man with a profound respect for the proprieties.
Hester smiled in spite of a sense of both relief and disappointment.
“Thank you for seeing me without notice,” she said gravely. “I shall let you know of anything I am able to learn.” And she turned to leave.
He moved past her to open the door, standing so close to her she could smell the faint aromas of wool and clean linen—and sense the warmth of his skin. She walked out into the open office, and he turned to speak to Major Bartlett.
Hester returned to Hill Street determined to face the truth regarding Robert as soon as an opportunity arose, and if it did not, she would have to create one.
As it happened, she had very little time to wait. The doctor called again early that evening, and after he had seen Robert, he asked to speak to Hester alone. There was a boudoir on the second floor which was readily available. She closed the door.
He looked grave, but he did not avoid her eyes, nor did he try to smooth over with false optimism the bitterness of what he had to say.
“I am afraid I can do no more for him,” he said quietly. “It would be unjustified, and I think cruel, to hold out any real hope that he will walk again, or …” This time he did hesitate, trying to find a delicate way of phrasing what he needed to explain.
