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“Yes, I did. I heard ugly remarks on several occasions, and when the Princess wished to return to England for a short stay, it became impossible to employ acceptable staff to look after a small house for her.”
“How very unpleasant,” Harvester sympathized. “Have you reason to believe this occurred as a result of these accusations by the Countess Rostova?”
“I am quite sure it did,” Wellborough replied coldly. “My butler attempted to employ a household so she could stay peacefully for a few months during the summer, to get away from the heat of Venice. She wished to retire here away from public life, quite naturally in the circumstances. This fearful business has made it impossible. We were unable to obtain a satisfactory staff. Rumor had already spread by word of mouth of the ignorant.”
There was a murmur of sympathy from the gallery.
“How distressing.” Harvester shook his head. “So the Princess was unable to come?”
“She was obliged to stay with friends, which did not offer her either the privacy or the seclusion which she had desired in her bereavement.”
“Thank you, Lord Wellborough. If you could remain where you are, my learned friend may have questions to ask you.”
Rathbone rose to his feet. He could almost feel the tension crackle in the air around him. He had racked his brain to think of anything to say to Wellborough, but everything that came to his tongue could only have made matters worse.
The judge looked at him inquiringly.
“No questions, thank you, my lord,” he said with a dry mouth, and resumed his seat.
Lord Wellborough moved down the steps, walked smartly to the door and went out.
Harvester called Lady Wellborough.
She took the stand nervously. She was dressed in a mixture of dark brown and black, as if she could not make up her mind whether she should be in mourning or not. A death was being discussed, a murder was being denied.
“Lady Wellborough,” Harvester began gently, “I do not have many questions to ask you, and they all concern what may have been said by Countess Rostova and what effect it had.”
“I understand,” she replied in a small voice. She stood with her hands folded in fro
nt of her and her eyes wandering to Gisela, then to Zorah. She did not look at the jury.
“Very well. May I begin by taking your mind back to the dinner party you and Lord Wellborough attended at Lady Easton’s house in London? Do you recall that occasion?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Did you hear the Countess Rostova make the reference to Princess Gisela and Prince Friedrich’s death?”
“Yes. She said that the Princess had murdered him.”
Rathbone looked across to where Gisela sat. He tried to read the expression in her face and found himself unable to. She appeared unmoved, almost as if she did not understand what was being said. Or perhaps it was that she did not care. Everything that had passion or meaning for her was already irretrievably in the past, had died with the only man she had loved. What was being played out in the courtroom barely impinged on her consciousness—a farce with no reality.
“Did she say it once or several times?” Harvester’s voice brought Rathbone’s attention back.
“She repeated it again on at least three other occasions that I know of,” Lady Wellborough answered. “I heard it all over London, so heaven knows how many times she said it altogether.”
“You mean it became a subject of discussion—of gossip, if you like?” Harvester prompted.
Her eyes widened. “Of course. You can hardly hear something like that and not react to it.”
“So people repeated it whether they believed it or not?”
“Yes … yes, I don’t think anyone believed it. I mean … of course they didn’t.” She colored. “It’s preposterous!”
“But they still repeated it?” he insisted.
“Well … yes.”
“Do you know where the Princess was at the time, Lady Wellborough?”
