closely for years. It was something you would not accept as true unless you had seen it. Friedrich seemed hardly able to do anything without her. If she left the room, one was aware he was waiting for her to return. He asked her opinion, waited for her praise, depended upon her approval.”
Rathbone hesitated. Was it too soon? Had he laid sufficient foundation yet? Perhaps not. He must be sure. He glanced at the jurors’ faces. They were looking confused. It was too soon.
“So on that day they played croquet together through the afternoon?”
“Yes.”
“And the rest of the gathering?”
“I spent the afternoon with Stephan von Emden. I’m not sure about anyone else.”
“But you are sure about Friedrich and Gisela?”
“Yes. I could see the croquet lawn from where I was.” Harvester rose to his feet.
“My lord, all the witness is establishing is that Prince Friedrich and Princess Gisela were devoted to each other, which the world already knows. We have all watched their meeting, their romance, their love and the sacrifice it has cost them. We have rejoiced for them and wept for them. And even after twelve years of devoted marriage, we now know that their love had not dimmed in the slightest. If anything, it was even deeper and more total than before. Countess Rostova herself acknowledges that Prince Friedrich would never have returned home without his wife, and she was as abundantly aware of that as was anyone else.”
He waved expansively towards Zorah in the witness stand. “She has said that she does not understand how even Count Lansdorff could so delude himself as to keep any hope of his mission’s being successful. She has told us she knew of no plans he had to overcome that obstacle, nor did Count Lansdorff himself. Princess Gisela could not physically have poisoned her husband, and she had no possible motive whatever for wishing to. The defense is wasting everyone’s time proving my case for me. I am obliged, but it is unnecessary. I have proved it for myself.”
“Sir Oliver?” the judge asked. “Surely this expedition of yours cannot be as pointless as it seems?”
“No, my lord. If the court would be patient a little longer?”
“A little, Sir Oliver. A very little.”
“Thank you, my lord.” Rathbone bowed his head a fraction, then turned back to Zorah. “Countess Rostova, the evening, if you please.” He had hoped this would be unnecessary, but now he had no weapon left but this. “What happened in the evening?” he asked.
“There was a dinner party, and we had games to entertain us afterwards. There were several guests. It was an excellent meal, nine or ten courses, and a magnificent choice of wines. All the women wore their best gowns and jewels. As usual, Gisela outshone us all, even Brigitte von Arlsbach. But then Brigitte was never ostentatious, in spite of being the wealthiest person present.”
She looked at the wooden paneling above the heads of the farthest row of the gallery, recalling the party to her mind’s eye.
There was complete silence again. Everyone was straining to catch each word.
“Gisela was very entertaining that evening.” Her voice was tight in her throat. “She made us all laugh. She became more and more daring in her wit … not vulgar, I have never known her to be vulgar. But she could be very outspoken about other people’s weaknesses. She had an acute insight into what made people vulnerable.”
“That sounds a little cruel,” Rathbone observed.
“It is extremely cruel,” she corrected. “But when coupled with a sharp enough wit, it can be very funny as well—to anyone except the victim.”
“And who was the victim on this occasion?”
“Mostly Brigitte,” she answered. “Which was possibly why neither Stephan nor Florent laughed. But everyone else did. I assume they did not appreciate what was involved and knew no better. The wine flowed freely. Why should they care about the feelings of a baroness from some obscure German principality, when one of the most glittering and romantic figures of Europe was holding court at the dinner table?”
Rathbone did not express his opinion. His stomach was knotted tight. This was going to be the worst moment of all, but without it there was no case.
“And after dinner, Countess Rostova?” His voice sounded almost steady. Only Monk and Hester, sitting in the gallery, could guess how he felt.
“After dinner we played games,” Zorah answered with a half smile.
“Games? Card games? Billiards? Charades?”
The judge was looking at Zorah, frowning.
Zorah’s mouth tightened. “No, Sir Oliver, rather more physical than that. I cannot recall every game, but I know we played blindman’s buff. We blindfolded each of the gentlemen in turn. We all fell over rather often and ended on couches or on the floor together.”
Harvester rose to his feet.
“Yes, yes,” the judge agreed. “The point of all this, Sir Oliver? Young people do play games which to some of us are of a bawdy and somewhat questionable nature.”
He was trying to rescue the situation, even to rescue Rathbone from himself, and he knew it.
For a moment Rathbone hesitated. Escape was still possible, and with it defeat, not only for Zorah but for the truth.
“There is a point, my lord,” he said quickly. “The rest of the evening, if you please, Countess Rostova.”
“We played hunt the thimble,” she went on obediently. “It was hidden in some extremely indiscreet places …”
