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“I can imagine the Lord Chancellor’s face!” Harvester skirted around a group of clerks in intense discussion and rejoined Rathbone as they went down the steps into the raw, late October wind.
“So can I.” Rathbone meant it only too truthfully. “But I have no alternative. She is adamant that Gisela killed him, and short of abandoning the case, for which I have no grounds, I have to follow her instructions.”
Harvester shook his head. “I’m sorry.” It was commiseration, not apology. He would not stay his hand, nor would Rathbone had their roles been reversed, as he profoundly wished they were.
When they returned in the afternoon, Rathbone called Klaus von Seidlitz, who was obliged to substantiate what Stephan had said. He was reluctant to concede it at first, but he could not deny that he was for unification. When Rathbone pressed him, he argued the case against war and its destruction, and his large, crooked face filled with growing passion as he described the ruin created by marching armies, the death, the waste of the land, the confusion and loss to the border regions, the maimed and bereaved. There was something dignified in his shambling figure as he told of his lands and his love for the little villages, the fields and the lanes.
Rathbone did not interrupt him. Nor, when Klaus had finished, did he make any implication that he might have murdered Friedrich to prevent him from returning home and plunging their country into just such a war.
If there was anything good in this, it was that there would be no question that there were abundant reasons for Friedrich’s murder, or the mischance which had killed Friedrich rather than Gisela. There were passions and issues involved which anyone could understand, perhaps even identify with.
But it was far from enough to help Zorah yet. He must make it last as long as he could, and hope that in probing he unearthed something specific, something which pointed unarguably to someone else.
He glanced to where she sat beside him, pale-faced but at least outwardly composed. He would be the only one who saw her hands clenched in her lap. He had never been aware of knowing so little of the true mind of a client. Of course, he had been duped before. He had been convinced of innocence, only to find the ugliest, most callous guilt.
Was it so with Zorah Rostova?
He looked at her now, at her turbulent face, so easily ugly or beautiful as the light or the mood caught it. He found her fascinating. He did not want her to be guilty, or even deluded. Perhaps that was part of her skill? She had made herself matter to him. He had not the faintest idea what was passing through her mind.
He asked to recall Florent Barberini to the witness stand. The judge made no demur, and his single look in Harvester’s direction silenced any objection. The jury was sitting bolt upright, waiting for every word.
“Mr. Barberini,” Rathbone began, walking slowly out onto the floor. “I formed the opinion from your previous testimony that you are aware of the political situation both in the German states and in Venice. Since you were on the stand before, many further facts have come to light which make the politics of the situation relevant to the death of Prince Friedrich and to our attempt to discover exactly who brought that about, either intentionally or in a tragic and criminal accident—when, in fact, they had meant to murder Princess Gisela instead …”
There was a gasp around the room. Someone in the gallery stifled a scream.
Gisela winced, and Harvester put out his hand as if to steady her, then, at the last moment, changed his mind. She was not an approachable woman. She sat as if an invisible cordon of isolation were wrapped around her. She seemed only peripherally aware of the drama playing itself out in the thronged room. She wore her grief more visibly than simply clothes of black, mourning jewelry or a black-veiled hat. She had retreated to some unreachable place within herself. Rathbone knew the jury was acutely sensitive to it. In a way, it was a louder proclamation of her injury than anyone else’s words could have been. Harvester had an ideal client.
Zorah was at the opposite pole. She was full of turbulent color and energy, completely alien, challenging far too many of the assumptions upon which society rested its beliefs.
Rathbone returned to Florent as the murmuring died down.
“Mr. Barberini, the crux of this case hangs on the question of whether there was indeed a plan to ask Prince Friedrich to return to his country to lead a party to fight to retain its independence from any proposed unification into a greater Germany. Was there such a plan?”
Florent did not hesitate or demur.
“Yes.”
There were a hundred gasps in the gallery. Even the judge tensed and moved forward a little, staring at Florent. Zorah let out a long sigh.
Rathbone felt the relief flood through him like a blast of warmth after an icy journey. He did not mean to smile, but he could not help it. He found his hands shaking, and for a moment he could not move, his legs were weak.
“And …” He cleared his throat. “And who was involved in this concern?”
“Count Lansdorff principally,” Florent replied. “Assisted by the Baroness von Arlsbach and myself.”
“Whose idea was it?”
This time Florent did hesitate.
“If that is politically compromising,” Rathbone interjected, “or if honor forbids you to mention names, may I ask you if you believe the Queen would have approved your cause?”
Florent smiled. He was extraordinarily handsome. “She would have approved Friedrich’s return to lead the party for independence,” he replied. “Providing it met with her terms, which were absolute.”
“Are you aware what they were?”
“Naturally. I would not be party to negotiating any arrangement which did not meet with her approval.” His face relaxed into a kind of black humor. “Apart from any loyalty to her, no such plan could work.”
Rathbone relaxed a little as well, giving a slight shrug. “I assume the Queen is a woman of great power?”
