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She ignored him. “How?”
“In his food or medicine, I presume. I’m going back to Wellborough Hall tonight to see if I can find out.”
“Not how was he poisoned,” she corrected impatiently. “Naturally, it was disguised in something he ate. I mean how are you going to prove it? Are you going to have the body dug up and examined? How will you get that done? They’ll try to prevent you. Most people feel very strongly about that sort of thing.”
He had very little idea how he was going to do it. He was as confused and as worried as she was, except that he did not feel as personally involved with Rathbone as she seemed to. He would be sorry, of course, if Rathbone fell from grace and his career foundered. He would do all he could to prevent it. They had been friends and battled together to win other cases,
sometimes against enormous odds. They had cared about the same things and trusted each other without the necessity for words or reasons.
“I know,” he said gently. “I hope to persuade them to tell me the truth and avoid that. I think the political implications may be powerful enough to accomplish it. Suspicion can do a great deal of damage. People will do a lot to avoid it.”
She met his eyes steadily, her anger vanished. “Can I help?”
“I can’t think of any way, but if I do, I shall tell you,” he promised. “I don’t suppose you have learned anything of relevance about Friedrich or Gisela? No, of course not, or you would have said so.” He smiled bleakly. “Try not to worry so much. Rathbone is a better courtroom lawyer than you seem to be giving him credit for.” It was an idiotic thing to say, and he winced inwardly as he heard himself, but he wanted to comfort her, even if comfort was meaningless and temporary. He hated to see her so frightened—for her own sake, apart from anything he might feel towards Rathbone, which was a confusion of anxiety, friendship, anger and envy. Rathbone had all Hester’s attention; her entire mind was taken up with her care for him. She had barely noticed Monk, except as he might be of help.
“He may be able to elicit all sorts of information on the witness stand,” he went on. “And we certainly have enough to compel all the people who were at Wellborough Hall that week to testify.”
“Have we?” She seemed genuinely cheered. “Yes, of course you are right. He has made such a disastrous judgment in taking the case that I forget how brilliant he is in the courtroom.” She let out her breath in a sigh and then smiled at him. “Thank you, William.”
In a few words she had betrayed her awareness of Rathbone’s vulnerability and her willingness to defend him, her admiration for him, and how much she cared. And she had thanked Monk so earnestly it twisted like a knife inside him as, startlingly, he perceived in her a beauty far brighter and stronger than the charm of Evelyn which had faded so easily.
“I must go,” he said stiffly, feeling as if his protective mask had been stripped from him and she had seen him as nakedly as he had seen himself. “I have a train to catch this evening if I am to be in Wellborough in time to find lodgings. Good night.” And almost before she had time to answer, he turned on his heel and marched to the door, flinging it open and walking out.
In the morning, after a poor night spent at the village inn during which he tossed and turned in an unfamiliar bed, he hired a local coachman to take him out to Wellborough Hall and alighted with his case. He had no intention of lying about himself or his purpose this time, whatever Lord Wellborough should say.
“You are what?” his lordship demanded, his face icy, when Monk stood in the morning room in the center of the carpet. Wellborough straightened up from where he had been leaning against the mantel, taking the largest share of the fire.
“An agent of inquiry,” Monk repeated with almost equal chill.
“I had no idea such a thing existed.” Wellborough’s broad nose flared as if he had swallowed something distasteful. “If one of my guests has committed an indiscretion, I do not wish to know. If it was in my house, I consider it my duty as host to deal with the matter without the like of a … whatever it is you call yourself. The footman will show you out, sir.”
“The only indiscretion I am interested in is murder!” Monk did not move even his eyes, let alone his feet.
“I cannot help you,” Wellborough replied. “I know of no one who has been murdered. There is no one dead to my knowledge. As I have said, sir, the footman will show you to the door. Please do not return. You came here under false pretenses. You abused my hospitality and imposed upon my other guests, which is inexcusable. Good day, Mr. Monk. I presume that is your real name? Not that it matters.”
Monk did not look away, let alone move.
“Prince Friedrich died in this house, Lord Wellborough. There has already been a very public accusation that it was murder—”
“Which has been vigorously denied,” Wellborough cut across him. “Not that anyone worth anything at all gave it a moment’s credence. And as you are no doubt aware, the wretched woman, who must be quite mad, is to stand trial for her slander. I believe in a week or so’s time.”
“She is not standing trial, sir,” Monk corrected. “It is a civil suit, at least technically. Though the matter of murder will be exhaustively explored, naturally. The medical evidence will be examined in the closest detail—”
“Medical evidence?” Wellborough’s face dropped. He was at once appalled and derisive. “There isn’t any, for God’s sake! The poor man was dead and buried half a year ago.”
“It would be most unfortunate to have to have the body exhumed,” Monk agreed. He ignored the expression of disbelief and then horror on Wellborough’s face. “But if suspicion leaves no other alternative possible, then it will have to be done, and an autopsy performed. Very distressing for the family, but one cannot allow an accusation of murder to fly around unanswered …”
Wellborough’s skin was mottled dark with blood, his body rigid.
“It has been answered, man! Nobody in their right mind believes for an instant that poor Gisela would have harmed him in any way whatever, let alone killed him in cold blood. It’s monstrous … and totally absurd.”
“Yes, I agree, it probably is,” Monk said levelly. “But it is not so absurd to believe that Klaus von Seidlitz might have killed him to prevent him from returning home and leading the resistance against unification. He has large holdings of land in the borders, which might be laid waste were there fighting. A powerful motive, and not in the least difficult to credit … even if it is, as you say, monstrous.”
Wellborough stared at him as if he had risen out of the ground in a cloud of sulfur.
Monk continued with some satisfaction. “And the other very plausible possibility is that actually it was not Friedrich who was intended as the victim but Gisela. He may have died by mischance. In which case there are several people who may have been desirous of killing her. The most obvious one is Count Lansdorff, brother of the Queen.”
“That’s …” Wellborough began, then trailed off, his face losing its color and turning a dull white. Monk knew in that moment that he had been very well aware of the designs and negotiations that preceded Friedrich’s death.
