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“Good afternoon.” Monk did not feel like exchanging pleasantries, but experience had taught him that it was frequently the fastest way to obtain what he wished. He produced a card and laid it on the salver. “Is Miss Hester Latterly still residing in this house? I have just returned from abroad and must leave again this evening for the country. There is a matter of urgency concerning a mutual friend about which I would like to inform her and perhaps ask her advice.” He had not lied, but his words implied a medical emergency, and he was happy to leave the misunderstanding.
“Yes, sir, she is still with us,” the footman replied. “If you care to come in, I will inquire if it is possible for you to see her.”
Monk was shown to the library, a most agreeable place to wait. The room was comfortably furnished in a rather old-fashioned manner. The leather upholstery was worn where arms had rested on the chairs, and the pattern in the carpet was brighter around the edges, where no one had trodden. A fire burned briskly in the grate. There were hundreds of books from which he could have chosen to read, had he wished, but he was too impatient even to open one, let alone concentrate on the words inside. He paced back and forth, turning sharply every seven paces.
It was over ten minutes before the door opened and Hester came in. She was dressed in deep blue, which was unusually becoming to her. She looked nothing like as tired as the last time he had seen her. In fact, she looked very fresh; there was color in her complexion and a rich sheen on her hair. He was instantly annoyed. Did she not care that Rathbone was on the brink of disaster? Or was she too stupid to appreciate the magnitude of it?
“You look as if you are to have the day off,” he said abruptly.
She surveyed his perfectly cut jacket and trousers, his immaculate cravat and extremely expensive boots.
“How nice to see you safely home,” she said with a sweet smile. “How was Venice? And Felzburg? That was where you were, was it not?”
He ignored that. She knew perfectly well that it was.
“If your patient is recovered, what are you doing still here?” he asked. His tone of voice made it a challenge.
“He is better than he was,” she replied very gravely, looking straight at him. “He is not recovered. It takes some time to accustom yourself to the fact that you will not walk again. There are times when it is very hard. If you cannot imagine the chronic difficulties of someone who is paralyzed from the waist downwards, I shall not violate what is left of his privacy by explaining them to you. Please stop indulging your temper and tell me what you learned that will help Oliver.”
It was like a slap in the face, swift and hard, the reminder that she had been dealing with one of the most painful of realities while he was away, the end of a major part of the life and hope of a young man. And yet harder still, and more personal, was the hope in her face that he had been able to accomplish something to help Rathbone, her belief in him that he could, and his own now so familiar knowledge that he had not.
“Gisela did not kill Friedrich,” he said quietly. “It was not possible physically, and she had even less reason when it happened than ever before. I can’t help Rathbone.” As he said it his fury was raw in his voice. He loathed Rathbone for being vulnerable, for being so stupid as to put himself in this position, and for hoping that Monk could get him out of it. He was angry with Hester for expecting the impossible of him, and also for caring so much about Rathbone. He could see it in her face, the endless ability to be hurt.
She looked stunned. It was several seconds before she found words to say anything.
“Was it really just—just his accident?” She shook her head a little, as if to brush away an annoyance, but her face was creased with anxiety and her eyes were frightened. “Isn’t there anything which can help Oliver? Some sort of excuse for the Countess? If she believed it … there must have been a reason. I mean—” She stopped.
“Of course she had a reason,” he said impatiently. “But not necessarily anything she would benefit from announcing in court. It looks more and more like an old jealousy she was never able to forget or forgive, and she had taken this moment of vulnerability to try to settle an old score. That is a reason, but it is an ugly and very stupid one.”
Temper flashed in her face. “Are you saying he died by accident, and that is all you have learned? It took you two weeks, in two countries, to discover that? And I assume you used Zorah’s money to pay your way?”
“Of course I used Zorah’s money,” he retorted. “I went in her cause. I can only discover what is there, Hester, just as you can. Do you cure every patient?” His voice was rising with his own hurt. “Do you give back your wages if they die? Perhaps you’d better give them back to these people, since you say their son will never walk again.”
“This is stupid,” she said, turning away from him in exasperation. “If you cannot think of anything more sensible to say, you had better go!” She swung to face him again. “No!” She took a deep breath and lowered her voice again. “No, please don’t. What we think of each other is immaterial. We can quarrel later. Now we must think of Oliver. If this comes to trial and he has nothing with which to defend her, or at least offer an explanation and excuse, he is going to face a crisis in his reputation and career. I don’t know if you have seen any of the newspapers lately, I don’t suppose you have, but they are very strongly in support of Gisela and already painting Zorah as a wicked woman who is bent not only on injuring an innocent and bereaved woman but also on attacking the good qualities in society in general.”
She moved forwards, closer to him, her wide skirt catching on the chairs. “Several of them have already suggested a very lurid life, that she has taken foreign lovers and practiced all sort of things which are better left to the imagination.”
He should have thought of that, but somehow he had not. He had seen it only in political terms. Of course, there would be ugly speculation about Zorah and her life and her motives. Sexual jealousy was the first thing that would leap to many people’s minds.
It was on his tongue to tell Hester that there was nothing anyone could do to prevent that, but he saw the hurt and the hope in her face. It caught at him as if it had been his own, taking him by surprise. It had nothing to do with her life, and yet she was absorbed in it. Her whole mind was bent towards fighting the injustice—or, in Rathbone’s case, even if it should prove just, of trying to prevent the wound and do something to ease the harm.
“There is quite a strong possibility he was murdered,” he said grudgingly. “Not by Gisela, poor woman, but by one of the political factions.” He could not resist adding, “Perhaps the Queen’s brother.”
She winced but refused to be crushed. “Can we prove he was murdered?” she said quickly. She used the plural as if she were as much involved as he. “It might help. After all, it would show that she was mistaken as to the person who did it but that she was not imagining there really was a crime. And only her accusation has brought it to light.” Her voice was getting faster and rising in tone. “If she had stayed silent, then their prince could have been murdered and no one would have known. That would have been a terrible injustice.”
He looked at her eagerness, and it cut him.
“And do you think they would really prefer to have the world know that one of the royal family, possibly at the instigation of the Queen herself, murdered the Prince?” he said bitterly. “If you think anyone is going to thank her for that, you are a great deal stupider even than I thought you!”
This time she was crushed, but not utterly.
“Some of her own people may not thank her,” she said in a small voice. “But some of them will. And the jury will be English. We still think it very wrong to murder anyone, especially an injured and helpless man. And we admire courage. We will not like what she has said, but we will know that it has cost her dearly to say it, and we will respect that.” She looked straight at him, daring him to contradict her.
“I hope so,” he agreed with a lurch of emotion inside him as he realized yet again how intensely she cared. She had never even met Zorah. She probably knew nothing of her, except this one event of her life. It was Rathbone who filled her thoughts and whose future frightened her. He felt a sudden void of loneliness. He had not appreciated that she was so fond of Rathbone. Rathbone had always seemed a trifle aloof towards her, even patronizing at times. And Monk knew how she hated being patronized. He had had a taste of her temper when he had done it himself.
“They are bound to.” She sounded positive, as though she were trying to convince herself. “You will be able to prove it, won’t you?” she went on anxiously, a furrow between her brows. “It was poison—”
“Yes, of course it was. It would hardly be mistaken for a natural death if he’d been shot or hit over the head,” he said sarcastically.
