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“I should prefer not to answer that,” Gisela said with icy dignity. “Her reputation is well-known to many. I am not interested in it.”
Harvester did not pursue the point further. “And how did you feel when you heard of this, ma’am?”
She closed her eyes. “I had not thought after the loss of my beloved husband that life could offer me any blow which I should even feel,” she said very softly. “Zorah Rostova taught me my mistake. The pain of it was almost beyond bearing. My love for my husband was the core of my life. That anyone should blaspheme it in such a way is … beyond my ability to express.”
She hesitated a moment. Throughout the room there was utter silence. Not one person looked away from her face, nor did they seem to consider the word blaspheme out of place. “I shall prefer to not, and indeed I cannot, speak of it if I am to retain my composure, sir,” she said at last. “I will testify in this court, as I must, but I will not display my grief or my pain to be a spectacle for my enemies, or even for those who wish me well. It is indecent to ask it of me … of any woman. Permit me to mask my distress, sir.”
“Of course, ma’am.” Harvester bowed very slightly. “You have said quite enough for us to have no doubt as to the justice of your cause. We cannot ease your grief, but we offer you our sincerest sympathies and all the redress that English law allows.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“If you will remain there, ma’am, it is conceivable Sir Oliver may have some questions to ask you, although I cannot imagine what.”
Rathbone rose. He could feel the hatred of the court like electricity in the air, crackling, making the hairs on his neck stand on end. If he even remotely slighted her, was less than utterly sympathetic, he could ruin his own cause far more effectively than anything Harvester could achieve.
He faced Gisela’s steady, dark blue eyes and found them oddly unnerving. Perhaps it was the exhaustion of grief, but there was something dead about her gaze.
“You must have been stunned by such a devastating accusation, ma’am?” he said deferentially, trying not to sound too unctuous.
“Yes.” She did not elaborate.
He stood in the center of the floor looking up at her.
“I imagine you were not in the best of health after the shock of your bereavement,” he continued.
“I was not well,” she agreed. She stared at him coldly. She was waiting for an attack. After all, he represented the woman who had accused her of murder.
“In that season of shock and grief, did you have the time, or the heart, to consider the political happenings in Felzburg?”
“I was not in the least interested.” There was no surprise in her voice. “My world had ended with my husband’s death. I hardly know what I did. One day was exactly like the next … and the last. I saw no one.”
“Very natural,” Rathbone agreed. “I imagine we can all understand that. Anyone who has lost someone very dear knows the process of mourning, let alone a grief such as yours.”
The judge looked at Rathbone with a frown.
The jurors were growing restive.
He must reach the point soon or it would be too late. He knew Zorah was watching him. He could almost feel her eyes on his back.
“Had it ever occurred to you, ma’am, to wonder if your husband had been murdered for political reasons?” he asked. “Perhaps regarding your country’s fight to retain its independence?”
“No …” There was a lift of surprise in Gisela’s voice. She seemed about to add something else, then caught Harvester’s eye and changed her mind.
Rathbone forced a very slight smile of sympathy to his lips.
“But with a love as profound as yours, now that the possibility has been raised, I should not think you can allow the question to go unanswered, can you? Do you not care even more fervently than anyone else here that, if it was so, the culprit must be caught and pay the price for so heinous and terrible a crime?”
She stared at him wordlessly, her eyes huge.
For the first time there was a rumble of agreement from the court. Several of the jurors nodded gravely.
“Of course,” Rathbone said, answering his own question vehemently. “And I promise you, ma’am”—he waved his hand to encompass them all—“this court will do everything in its power to discover that truth, to the last detail, and expose it.” He bowed very slightly, as if she had indeed been royalty. “Thank you. I have no more questions.” He nodded to Harvester and then returned to his seat.
10
“THE NEWSPAPERS, SIR.” Rathbone’s manservant handed them to him as he sat at breakfast, the Times on top.
Rathbone’s stomach tightened. This would be the measure of public opinion. In the pile of newsprint would lie what he was really fighting against, the hope and the fear of what faced him today and for as long as the trial lasted.
