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“Well, we may at least be able to convince a jury that a reasonable person could believe it was murder,” Monk said, watching Rathbone’s face. “You will be able to put the doctor on the stand and question him pretty rigorously.”
Rathbone shut his eyes. “An exhumation?” The words came out between stiff lips. “The Lord Chancellor will love that! Are you sure we have grounds for it? We will need something incontrovertible. The authorities will be very loath to do it. Abdicated or not, he was the Crown Prince of a foreign country.”
“He is buried in England, though,” Monk replied. “He died here. That makes him subject to British law. And he not only abdicated but was exiled. He was no longer a citizen of his own country.” He leaned a little over the desk. “But it may not be necessary actually to exhume the body. Simply the knowledge that we could, and would, might be sufficient to provide some considerably more precise answers from the doctor and from the Wellboroughs and their servants.”
Rathbone stood up and walked towards the window, his back to the room. He pushed his hands into his pockets, dragging them out of shape uncharacteristically. His body was rigid.
“I suppose proving that it was murder is about the only course left to me. At least that will show she was not merely mischievous, only grossly mistaken. If it is shown, beyond any doubt, that Gisela is innocent, perhaps she may still apologize. If she doesn’t, there is nothing left I can do to help her. I will have taken on a madwoman as a client.”
Monk intended to be tactful, and so refrained from comment, but his silence was just as eloquent.
Rathbone turned from the window, the sun at his back. He had regained some command of himself. His smile was rueful and self-mocking.
“Then perhaps you had better try Wellborough Hall again and see if you can find something in more detail than before. The only real victory left would be to discover who did kill him. It would not vindicate Zorah in law, but it might, to some extent, in public opinion, and that is what we are fighting almost as much. Please God it was not the Queen!”
Monk stood up. “Between now and next Monday?”
Rathbone nodded. “If you please.”
Monk felt time closing in. He was being asked more than he could possibly do. It frightened him because he wanted to succeed. If he failed, Rathbone was going to lose a great deal, perhaps the glamour and the prizes of his profession. He would not recover his prestige after a loss not due to circumstance but to a misjudgment as grave as this. Zorah was not merely guilty of some crime, she was guilty of a social sin of monumental proportions. She would have offended the sensibilities and beliefs of both the aristocracy and the ordinary people who delighted in a love story and fairy tale come true, and who had believed it for twelve years. It tainted not only the royalty of Europe but their own royalty as well. It was one thing to criticize the establishment in the privacy of one’s home or around the dinner tables of friends; it was something quite different to expose their faults in a courtroom for the world to behold. A man who caused that, and protected the woman who was at the root of it, could not easily be forgiven.
If it should turn out to be Ulrike, or someone acting in her interests, with her knowledge or not, it would be catastrophic. Rathbone would become a celebrity, remembered only for this one startling case. Everyone would know his name, but no respectable person would want to be associated with him. His professional reputation would be worthless.
He had no right to place Monk in the position of having to rescue him from his own stupidity. And Monk resented appallingly that he could not do it. It was the same failure over again, and it hurt.
“Perhaps it might help to know what you have learned and achieved over the last two weeks, while I have been chasing over half of Europe to discover Gisela’s complete innocence,” he said cuttingly. “Apart from failing to persuade Countess Rostova to withdraw her accusation, that is.”
Rathbone looked at him with amazement and then intense dislike. “I employ you, Monk,” he said icily. “You do not employ me. If the time comes when you do, then you may require me to report my doings to you, but not until.”
“In other words, you’ve done nothing of use!”
“If you don’t think you can discover anything useful at Wellborough Hall,” Rathbone retaliated, “then tell me. Otherwise, don’t waste what little time there is arguing. Get on your way. If you need money, ask Simms.”
Monk was profoundly stung, not so much by the slight to his abilities, he could have foreseen that, and perhaps he deserved it, but the reference to money was cruel. It placed him on a level with a tradesman, which was precisely what Rathbone had intended. It was a reminder of their social and financial difference. It was also a mark of how frightened Rathbone was.
“I won’t discover anything,” Monk said through clenched teeth. “There isn’t any damn thing to discover.” And he swung on his heels and went out of the door, leaving it swinging on its hinges.
However, he was obliged to go to Simms and ask for more money, which galled his temper so much he almost did not do it, but necessity prevailed.
It was only when he was outside in the street that he cooled down sufficiently to remember just how frightened Rathbone was. That he would let himself lash out at Monk showed his vulnerability more than anything else he could have done or said.
Monk did not consciously decide to go to see Hester, it simply seemed the natural thing to do, given Rathbone’s dilemma and Monk’s own feelings of fury and helplessness. When things were at their worst, there was a gentleness in her he could trust absolutely. She would never fail.
He saw a hansom a dozen yards ahead of him along Vere Street as he was striding along the pavement. He increased his pace, calling out. The cab stopped, and he swung up into the seat, calling out the address on Hill Street where he knew Hester had been employed before he had left for Venice, assuming she would still be there. He disliked acknowledging a feeling of urgency to see her, but it filled him till no other thought was possible, and there was a perverse pleasure in the cleanness of it, after the memory of Evelyn.
It was a long way from the area of Lincoln’s Inn Fields to Berkeley Square and Hill Street, and he settled back in his seat for the ride. It had been exciting to be in Europe, to see different sights, smell the utterly different smells of a foreign city, hear the sounds of other languages around him, but there was a unique pleasure in being home again amongst what was familiar. He realized only then how tense he had been when he did not understand most of what was being said and he had to concentrate for the occasional word which made sense and to deduce from actions and expressions what was meant. He had been very dependent upon the goodwill of others. There was a great freedom in being back in the surroundings where he had knowledge—and the power that gave.
He had very little idea of what he wanted to say to Hester. It was a turmoil in his mind, a matter of emotion rather than thought. It would fall into order when he needed it to. He was not ready yet.
The cab reached Hill Street, and the driver pulled up the horse and waited for Monk to alight and pay him.
“Thank you,” Monk said absently, handing over the coins and tuppence extra. He walked across the footpath and went up the steps. It crossed his mind that it might be inconvenient for Hester to receive callers, especially a man. It might even be embarrassing if her employers misunderstood. But he did not even hesitate in his stride, much less change his mind. He pulled the bell hard and waited.
The door opened, and a footman faced him.
“Good afternoon, sir?”
