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“Oh. Yes. They spoke together quite often. They appeared to be healing some of the rift between them. It was rather prickly and uncomfortable to begin with. They had barely spoken in the twelve years since the abdication and Friedrich’s leaving the country.”
“But they were at least amicable before the accident?”
“They seemed so, yes. Are you saying Rolf asked him to return and he agreed? If he did, it would have been with Gisela, not without.” She said it with complete certainty, and at last she moved over to the large sofa and sat down, spreading her huge skirts with automatic grace. “I saw them too closely to be mistaken.” She smiled, biting her lip a little. “That may sound overconfident to you, because you are a man. But it is not. I saw her with him. She was a very strong woman, very certain of herself. He adored her. He did nothing without her, and she knew that.”
She looked at him, and a shadow of amusement crossed her eyes. “There are dozens of small signs when a woman is uncertain of a man or when she feels she needs to make tiny efforts, listen, be obedient or flattering in order to hold him. She loved him, please do not doubt that for an instant. But she also knew the depth of his love for her, and that she had no cause to question any part of it.” She shook her head a little. “Not even duty to his country would have made him leave her. I would even say he needed her. She was very strong, you know. I said that before, didn’t I? But she was.”
“You say it in the past,” he observed, sitting as well.
“Well, his death has robbed her of everything,” she pointed out, her blue eyes wide. “She has been in seclusion ever since.”
Monk realized with surprise that he did not even know where Gisela was. He had heard nothing about her since Friedrich’s death.
“Where is she?” he asked.
“Why, in Venice, of course.” She was surprised at his ignorance.
He should have known, but he had been too occupied with learning about the past to think of Gisela as she was now. He wondered who had reported Zorah’s slander to her. Not that it was important.
“When he was being nursed here, how was his food prepared?” he asked. “Who brought it to him? I presume he always ate in his rooms?”
“Yes, of course. He was too ill to leave his bed. It was prepared in the kitchen …”
“By whom?”
“Cook … Mrs. Bagshot. Gisela never left his side, if that is what you are thinking.”
“Who else visited him?”
“The Prince of Wales was here for dinner one evening.” In spite of the nature of the conversation, and her fear for her reputation as a hostess and the notoriety that was about to beset her, there was still a lift of pride in her voice when she spoke his name, or perhaps more accurately, his title. “He went up briefly to visit him.”
Monk’s heart sank. It was another board for Rathbone’s professional coffin.
“No one else?” he pressed. Not that it was really relevant. It would have been simple enough, in all probability, to waylay a maid on the stairs and slip something unseen into a dish or a glass. A tray might even have been left on a side table for a few moments, giving someone the opportunity to drop in a distillation of yew. Anyone could have walked in the garden and picked the leaves—except Gisela.
Making the leaves or bark into a usable poison presented rather more difficulty. They would have to be boiled for a long time and the liquid taken off. It could hardly be done in the kitchen, except at night, when all the staff were in their beds, and then the evidence would have to have been completely removed. Finding anything to indicate that someone had been in the kitchen at night, or that a saucepan had been used by someone other than the cook, would be helpful but probably give no indication as to by whom.
Lady Wellborough had already answered him and was waiting for his next question.
“Thank you,” he said, rising to his feet. “I think I will speak to the cook and the kitchen staff.”
She paled and almost lurched forward, grasping his arm.
“Please do be careful what you say, Mr. Monk! Good cooks are fearfully hard to come by, and they take offense easily. If you imply she was in even the remotest way possible …”
“I shan’t,” he assured her. He smiled fleetingly. What a totally different world it was where the loss of a cook could create such anxiety and almost terror. But then he did not know Lord Wellborough, and how Lady Wellborough’s happiness depended upon his temper, and how that in turn was dependent upon the good cook’s remaining. Perhaps she had cause for her fear.
“I shall not insult her,” he promised more decidedly.
And he kept his word. He found Mrs. Bagshot, far from his conception of the average cook, standing at the large, scrubbed, wooden kitchen table with the rolling pin in her hand. She was a tall, thin woman with gray hair screwed back into a tight knot. The orderliness of her kitchen spoke much of her nature. Its warm smells were delicious.
“Well?” she demanded, looking him up and down. “So you think that foreign prince was poisoned in this house, do you?” Her voice already bristled with anger.
“Yes, Mrs. Bagshot, I think it is possible,” he replied, looking at her steadily. “I think most likely it was done by one of his own countrymen for political reasons.”
“Oh.” Already she was somewhat mollified, though still on her guard. “Do you, indeed. And how did they do that, may I ask?”
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