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That was not the whole truth. It would last a lot longer than that. In people’s minds he would always be connected with it.
He opened the Times and scanned the pages to find the report. There was bound to be one. It was inconceivable they would ignore such a trial. Everyone in Europe would be following it.
There it was. He had almost missed it because the headline did not mention Gisela’s name, or Friedrich’s. It read TRAGIC ACCIDENT—OR MURDER? Then it went on to summarize the evidence so far with extreme sympathy for Gisela, describing her in detail, her ashen face, her magnificent dignity, her restraint in refusing to blame others or play on the emotions of the crowd. Rathbone nearly tore the paper on reading that. His hands shook with frustration. She had played superbly. Whether by chance or design, she had done it with consummate brilliance. No actress could have done better.
It went on to speak of Rathbone’s own probing of the situation, calling it desperate. Indeed that was true, but he had hoped it was not so obvious. But the burden of the article sent his heart racing with a surge of hope. They wrote that it was now imperative that the truth be known exactly how Prince Friedrich had died.
His eyes scanned the rest of the column, mouth dry, pulse thumping. It was all there, the political summary of the questions of continued independence versus unification, the interests involved, the risks of war, the factions, the struggle for power, their idealism, even reference to the revolutions across Europe in 1848.
The story ended by extolling the British legal system and demanding that it fulfill its great opportunity, and responsibility, to discover and prove to the world the truth as to whether Prince Friedrich had died by accident or there had indeed been a royal murder committed on English soil. Justice must be done, and for that the truth must be known, however difficult or painful to some. Such a heinous crime could not be kept secret to avoid embarrassment, no matter to whom.
He cast the Times aside and turned to the next paper. Its tone was a little different. It concentrated on the more human aspect, and reiterated its cry from the previous day that in the emotion of politics and murder, it must not be lost sight of that the case was about slander. In the very depth of her grief, a tragic and noble woman had been accused of the most appalling of crimes. The court existed not only to discern truth and explore issues which might affect tens of thousands but also, and perhaps primarily, to protect the rights and the good name of the innocent. It was the only recourse they had when falsely accused, and they had the right, the absolute and sacred right, to require it at the hands of all civilized peoples.
Harvester could not have been better served if he had written the story himself.
Rathbone closed the paper with his exhilaration considerably sobered. He had merely begun. He had accomplished the first step, no more.
The seal of displeasure was set upon the remainder of his breakfast by the arrival of the morning post, which included a short note from the Lord Chancellor.
My dear Sir Oliver,
May I commend you upon the tact with which you have so far conducted a most difficult and trying case. We must hope that the weight of evidence will yet persuade the unfortunate defendant to withdraw.
However, I am asked by certain persons at the Palace, who have grave interest in continued good relations in Europe, most especially with our German cousins, to advise you of the delicacy of the situation. I am sure you will in no way allow your client to involve, by even the slightest implication, the dignity or honor of the present royal family of Felzburg.
Naturally, I answered the gentleman in question that all fears in that direction were without foundation.
I wish you good fortune in the negotiation of this miserable matter.
Yours faithfully
The letter was signed with his name but not his title.
Rathbone put it down with a stiff hand, his fingers shaking. He no longer wished even tea or toast.
Harvester began the day by calling Dr. Gallagher to the stand. Rathbone wondered whether he had intended calling him even before the question of murder arose late the previous day. Possibly he had foreseen the newspaper’s reaction and been prepared. Harvester did not seem anxious. But then he was far too good an actor to show what h
e did not wish to have seen.
Gallagher, on the other hand, looked extremely uncomfortable. He climbed the steps to the stand awkwardly, tripping on the last one, only saving himself by grasping the railing. He faced the court and took the oath, coughing to clear his throat. Rathbone felt a certain pity for him. The man had probably been nervous attending the Prince in the first place. It had been a very serious accident, and he might well have expected to lose his patient and be blamed for his inability to perform a miracle. He must have been surrounded by people in deep anxiety and distress. He had no colleagues upon whom to call, as he would have had in a hospital. He must be wishing that he had demanded a second opinion, someone from London, so he would not now have to bear the responsibility alone—and, if there were to be any, the blame.
He looked white; his brow was already beaded with sweat.
“Dr. Gallagher,” Harvester began gravely, striding out to the middle of the floor. “I regret, sir, having to place you in this position, but you are no doubt aware of the charges that have been made regarding the death of Prince Friedrich, whether mischievously or with sincere belief. The fact remains that since they have been made in public, we cannot now allow them to go unanswered. We must find the truth, and we cannot do that without your full testimony.”
Gallagher started to speak and ended coughing. He pulled out a white handkerchief and put it to his mouth, then when he had finished, kept it in his hand.
“Poor man,” Zorah whispered beside Rathbone. It was the first comment she had passed upon any witness.
“Yes, sir, I understand,” Gallagher said unhappily. “I will do all that lies in my power.”
“I am sure you will.” Harvester was standing with his hands behind his back—what Rathbone had come to realize was a characteristic stance. “I must take you back to the original accident,” Harvester continued. “You were called to attend Prince Friedrich.” It was a statement. Everyone knew the answer.
“Where was he and what was his condition when you first saw him?”
“He was in his rooms in Wellborough Hall,” Gallagher replied, staring straight ahead. “He was on a board which had been brought upstairs because they feared the softness of the bed might cause the bones to scrape against each other were he unable to be absolutely flat. The poor man was still conscious and perfectly sensible to all his pain. I believe he had requested this himself.”
Rathbone glanced at Zorah and saw her face stiff with knowledge of the Prince’s suffering, as if in her mind it still existed. He steeled himself to search for guilt as well, but he saw no shadow of it.
