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“Maid, sir.”
“And might such a maid pass another guest on the stairs or on the landing?”
“Yes sir.”
“And would automatically stand aside and make way for such a guest?”
“Of course.”
“Guests might pass closely enough on the stairs for something to be surreptitiously added to a dish by sleight of hand?”
“I don’t know, sir. Dishes should be covered on a tray, and a cloth over them as well.”
“But possible, Mrs. Haines?”
“I suppose so.”
“Thank you.” Harvester turned to Rathbone. “Sir Oliver?”
But Rathbone could make no argument of any value. There was nothing to contradict. He himself had proved that Friedrich was poisoned. Harvester had proved that it could not have been by Gisela. Rathbone could not implicate anyone else. It would be an act of desperation to suggest a name, and looking at the jurors, he was wise enough to know any attempt to lay specific blame could rebound against him. He had not yet irrefutably argued a plot to restore Friedrich, and it would be a plot, because it would automatically depose Waldo. No one was going to admit to it in the present climate. It would be political suicide, and anyone passionate enough about the struggle might sacrifice himself or herself in its cause, but never sacrifice the cause itself, and certainly not to save Zorah.
Harvester smiled. He had sought to protect Gisela by proving her innocence, and thus Zorah’s guilt of slander. Now he was on the brink of seeing Zorah indicted, at least in the public mind, of murder. And unless Rathbone found some way of proving the contrary, it might be in law as well.
By the time the day was ended, Henry Rathbone was correct—Zorah herself was close to the shadow of the gibbet.
As the court rose, press reporters burst through the doors and raced for the hansoms outside, shouting out to drivers to take them to Fleet Street. The crowds craned their necks and surged forward to see Gisela and cheer her, shout out blessings and encouragement, praise and admiration.
For Zorah, there were cries of hatred. Rotten fruit and vegetables were thrown. More than one stone cracked sharply against the wall behind her, and she made her way, ashen-faced, head high, eyes terrified, to where Rathbone had ordered a coach to wait. He knew he dared not trust to finding a hansom in that enraged throng which was now threatening physical violence.
“Hang ’er!” someone yelled. “Hang the murderin’ bitch!”
“’Ang ’er!” the crowd roared. “’Ang ’er! ’Ang ’er by ’er neck! Send ’er ter the rope!”
It was only with great difficulty and some buffeting that Rathbone managed to guide her to the coach and help her up into it, bruised and breathless.
She sat close beside him as the coach lurched forward and the horses stepped and jibbed, trying to make their way through the pressing bodies. Hands reached up for the harness, and the driver cracked his whip. There was a howl of rage, and the coach plunged forward again, throwing Zorah and Rathbone off balance. Without thinking, he put out his hand to steady her and kept hold of her. He could not think of anything to say. He wanted to be able to tell her it would be all right, somehow or other he would rescue them both, but he knew of no way, and she would not have been comforted by a lie, only angered.
She looked at him gratefully but without hope.
“I did not kill him,” she said, her voice barely audible over the rattling of the wheels and the roaring of the crowd behind them, but perfectly steady. “She did!”
Rathbone felt a chill of despair settle over his heart.
Hester also traveled home from the court in a state of profound misery. She was deeply afraid for Rathbone, and the more desperately she tried to think of a way out for him, the less could she see one.
She went in through the front door at Hill Street shivering with cold, although it was quite a mild afternoon; she felt so crushed she had no heart to give herself energy.
She did not want to speak to either Bernd or Dagmar, and she was sure they would have arrived home before she did. They had their own carriage, and they had not stayed to the bitter end to see Rathbone and Zorah mobbed as they left, bearing the rage and the hatred of the crowd.
She went straight upstairs to her room, and after taking off her outer cape, knocked on Robert’s door, which was ajar.
“Come in?” he said immediately.
She opened the door and was surprised to see Victoria sitting in the easy chair and Robert in his wheelchair, not on the bed. They looked at her eagerly, but there was no tension in them, and their chairs were close together, as though they had been talking earnestly before she knocked. Robert’s face was not pale anymore. The late autumn sun and wind had given him color as he had sat out in the garden, and his hair, flopping forward over his brow, was shining. It really was time they had a barber in to cut it.
“What happened?” he asked. Then he frowned. “It wasn’t good, was it? I can see it in your face. Come and tell us.” He indicated a second bedroom chair. His eyes were full of concern.
She was aware of the warmth of his feeling. Suddenly she was furious that someone she liked so much should be crippled, confined to a chair, almost certainly for the rest of his life, denied the chance of a career, of love and marriage, the things his peers expected as a matter of course. She found herself almost choked with emotion.
