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He got up and went over to the cabinet, opened it and took out a glass. He returned to the fire, filled his glass with Port, and sat down.
“I daren’t call her to the stand. She’ll hang herself.”
Henry stared at him.
“Sorry,” Oliver apologized for the exaggeration. Henry hated overstatement. “Would you like some more?” He gestured towards the decanter of Port.
“She may indeed.” Henry ignored the Port as if he had not heard. “She may do exactly that, Oliver, if you are not very careful. If you don’t prove a plot to return Friedrich, and even if you do, the question is going to arise: Did Zorah kill him herself? Did she have the opportunity?”
“Yes.” Even the Port could not help the deepening chill inside him.
“Could she have obtained the yew and distilled it?”
“She could certainly have obtained it. Anyone could, except Gisela. We haven’t found out yet how it was distilled. That is the biggest break in the chain of evidence. The kitchen staff seem quite sure no one used the kitchen for it. But she is no better or worse than anyone else in that aspect.”
“Had she the motive?”
“I don’t know, but it won’t be hard to suggest several, from personal jealousy and resentment for Gisela’s marrying Friedrich twelve years ago,” Oliver answered, “to political hatred because Gisela was the one person stopping Friedrich from returning home to lead the battle for independence—or, for that matter, stopping him from having filled his duty to be king in the first place.”
“So the answer is very much that she had a motive—the oldest in the world and the easiest to understand.” Henry shook his head. “Oliver, I am afraid you and your client have created for yourself an extremely unpleasant situation. You are going to be very fortunate indeed if she escapes the threat of the gallows in this.”
Oliver said nothing. He knew it was true.
As Rathbone had foreseen, Harvester spent the entire next day calling the servants from Wellborough Hall. He must have been prepared for the necessity, unless he had sent someone for them the day before, after court adjourned, and they had traveled all night—assuming there were trains at night from that part of Berkshire.
It all confirmed Rathbone’s worst expectations. Servant after servant took the stand, very sober, very frightened, dressed in their Sunday best, transparently honest, twisting their hands in embarrassment.
The Princess Gisela had at no time left the suite of rooms she occupied with the Prince, God rest his soul. No one had ever seen her on the other side of the green baize door. She had certainly never been into the kitchens. Cook swore to that, so did the kitchen maid, both scullery maids, the pastry cook, the bootboy and three of the footmen, the butler and the housekeeper, two parlormaids, four housemaids and two tweenies. One lady’s maid spoke on behalf of three upstairs maids, a valet and three laundresses.
The Princess Gisela had been seen outside her rooms by no one at all, and there was almost always someone about.
On the other hand, there were unquestionably yew trees in the gardens, several of them.
“And could any person who walked in the gardens have access to these yew trees?” Harvester asked the housekeeper, a comfortable, good-tempered woman with graying fair hair.
“Yes sir. The yew walk is a most agreeable place, and a natural way to it if one wishes a little time alone. It leads up towards the best views across the fields.”
“So it would not occasion surprise to see anyone there, even walking alone?” Harvester said cautiously.
“No sir.”
“Did you ever see or hear of anyone in particular walking there?”
“I’m far too busy with a house full of guests to be looking out of windows seeing who’s out walking, sir. But a good sunny day, an’ it was a very nice spring, most of the guests would be out at one time or another.”
“Except the Princess Gisela?”
“Yes sir, ’cept her, poor lady.”
“The Countess Rostova, for example?”
“Yes sir,” she said more cautiously. “Liked a good walk. Not a lady to sit inside the house on a fine day.”
“And after his accident, were the Prince’s meals taken up from the kitchen to his rooms regularly?”
“Always, sir. He never came out. Sometimes it was no more than a little beef tea, but it was always sent up.”
“Carried by a maid or a footman?”
