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“Yes. It seemed the only thing to do.”
“Was he conscious?”
“Yes. Why?”
“I can’t think of any reason. He must have been in great pain.”
“Yes.” Now there was unmistakable admiration in her face. “Friedrich may have been a fool in some ways, but he never lacked physical courage. He bore it very well.”
“You called a doctor immediately, of course?”
“Naturally. Gisela was distraught, before you ask me.” A faint smile flickered across her mouth. “She never left his side. But that was not unusual. They were seldom apart at any time. That seemed to be his wish as much as hers, perhaps more. Certainly no one could fault her as the most diligent and attentive nurse.”
Rathbone returned the smile. “Well, if you could not, I doubt anyone else will.”
She held up one finger delicately. “Touché, Sir Oliver.”
“And how did she murder him?”
“Poison, of course.” Her eyebrows rose in surprise that he should have needed to ask. “What did you imagine, that I thought she took a pistol from the gun room and shot him? She wouldn’t know how to load it. She would barely know which end to point.” Again the contempt was there. “And Dr. Gallagher might be a fool, but not so big a one as to miss a bullet wound in a corpse that is supposed to have died of a fall from a horse.”
“Doctors have been known to miss a broken bone in the neck before now,” Rathbone said, justifying himself. “Or a suffocation when a person was ill anyway and they did not expect him to make an easy recovery.”
She pulled a face. “I daresay. I cannot imagine Gisela suffocating him, and she certainly wouldn’t know how to break a bone in his neck. That sounds like an assassin’s trick.”
“So you deduce that she poisoned him?” he said quietly, making no reference to how she might know anything about assassins.
She stopped, staring at him with steady, brilliant eyes.
“Too perceptive, Sir Oliver,” she conceded with a sting. “Yes, I deduce it. I have no proof. If I had, I would not have accused her publicly, I would simply have gone to the police. She would have been charged, and all this would not have been necessary.”
“Why is it necessary?” he said bluntly.
“The cause of justice?” She tilted her head a little to one side. It was quite definitely a question.
“No,” he said.
“Oh. You don’t believe I would do this for the love of justice?”
“No, I don’t.”
She sighed. “You are quite right; I would leave God or the devil to take care of it when it suited them.”
“So why, madam?” he pressed. “You do it at very great risk to yourself. If you cannot defend your claim, you will be ruined, not only financially but socially. You may even face criminal charges. It is a very serious slander, and you have made it highly public.”
“Well, there’s hardly any point in doing it privately!” she retorted, wide-eyed.
“And what is the point in doing it at all?”
“To oblige her to defend herself, of course. Is that not obvious?”
“But it is you who have to defend yourself. You are the one accused.”
“By the law, yes, but she is accused by me, and in order to appear innocent to the world, she will have to prove me a liar.” Her expression suggested that hers had been the most reasonable of acts, as should be plain enough to anyone.
“No, she doesn’t,” he contradicted. “She simply has to prove that you have said these things about her and that they have damaged her. It is you who have the burden of proof as to whether they are true. If you leave any doubt, the case is hers. She does not have to prove them untrue.”
“Not in law, Sir Oliver, but before the world, of course she does. Can you see her, or anyone, leaving court with the question still open?”
