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He turned slowly so he was half facing the jury, half the gallery.
“It is not lightly that the New Testament of Our Lord states that ’In the beginning was the Word—and the Word was with God—and the Word was God.’ Nor is it by chance that to take the name of God in vain is the unutterable sin of blasphemy.” His voice altered suddenly until it was grating with anger, cutting across the silence of the room. “To take any man’s or woman’s name in vain, to bear false witness, to spread lies, is a crime that cries out for justice and for reparation!”
It was the opening Rathbone would have used had he been conducting Gisela’s case himself. He applauded it grimly in his mind.
“To steal another’s good name is worse than to steal his house, or his money, or his clothes,” Harvester went on. “To say of another what has been said of my client is beyond understanding, and for many, beyond forgiveness. When you have heard the evidence, you will feel as outraged as I do—of that, I have no doubt whatever.”
He swung back to the judge.
“My lord, I call my first witness, Lord Wellborough.”
There was a murmur in the gallery, and several scores of people craned their necks to watch as Lord Wellborough came through the doors from the outer chamber where he had been waiting. He was not immediately an imposing figure because he was of fractionally less than average height and his hair and eyes were pale. But he carried himself well, and his clothes spoke of money and assurance.
He mounted the steps to the witness stand and took the oath. He kept his eyes on Harvester, not looking at the judge—nor at Zorah, sitting beside Rathbone. He seemed grave but not in the least anxious.
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bsp; “Lord Wellborough,” Harvester began as he walked out into the small space of open floor in front of the witness stand and up its several steps, almost like a pulpit. He was obliged to look upward. “Are you acquainted with both the plaintiff and the defendant in this case?”
“Yes sir, I am.”
“Were they both guests in your home in Berkshire at the time of the tragic accident and subsequent death of Prince Friedrich, the plaintiff’s late husband?”
“They were.”
“Have you seen the plaintiff since she left your home shortly after that event?”
“No sir. Prince Friedrich’s funeral was held in Wellborough. There was a memorial service in Venice, where the Prince and Princess spent most of their time, so I believe, but I was unable to travel.”
“Have you seen the defendant since that time?” Harvester’s voice was mild, as if the questions were of no more than social interest.
“Yes sir, I have, on several occasions,” Wellborough replied, his voice sharpening with sudden anger.
In the gallery, several people sat a little more uprightly.
“Can you tell me what happened at the first of these occasions, Lord Wellborough?” Harvester prompted. “Please do describe it with a modicum of detail, sufficient so that the gentlemen of the jury, who were naturally not present, may perceive the situation, but not so much as to distract them from what is germane to the case.”
“Most certainly.” Wellborough turned to face the jury.
The judge’s face so far wore an expression of unemotional interest.
“It was a dinner party given by Lady Easton,” Wellborough told the jurors. “There were about two dozen of us at the table. It had been a very agreeable occasion and we were in good spirits until someone, I forget who, reminded us of the death of Prince Friedrich some six months earlier. Immediately we all became a trifle somber. It was an event which had saddened us all. I and several others spoke of our sorrow, and some of us also spoke of our grief for the widowed Princess. They expressed concern for her, both her devastating loss, knowing how deeply and utterly they had cared for each other, and also for her welfare, now that she was completely alone in the world.”
Several of the jurors nodded. One pursed his lips.
There was a murmur of commiseration from the gallery.
Harvester glanced at Gisela, who sat motionless. She had removed her gloves, and her hands lay on the table in front of her, bare but for the gold wedding ring on her right hand and the black mourning ring on the left. Her hands were small and strong, rather square.
“Proceed,” Harvester said softly.
“The Countess Zorah Rostova was also present among the dinner guests,” Wellborough said, his voice thick with distaste, and there flickered across his eyes and mouth something which could have been anxiety.
Rathbone thought of Monk’s last trip to Wellborough, and wondered precisely how he had elicited Wellborough’s cooperation, almost fruitless though it had proved.
Harvester waited.
The room was silent except for the slight whispers of breathing. A woman’s whalebone corset creaked.
