The entree plates were cleared away and the removes were served, which that night were iced asparagus. The table sparkled with crystal, the facets reflecting the myriad candles of the chandeliers. Silver cutlery, condiment sets, goblets and vases gleamed. The flowers from the conservatory scented the air and were piled around with ornamental fruit.
Monk dragged his attention from Evelyn and discreetly studied the other guests in turn. They had all been present when Friedrich fell, during his seeming convalescence, and at the time of his death. What had they seen or heard? What did they believe had happened? How much truth did they want, and at what price? He was not there to eat exquisite food and playact at being a gentleman, subtle anguish as that was, lurching from one social tightrope to another. Zorah’s reputation, her whole manner of life, hung in the balance, and so very possibly did Rathbone’s. In a sense Monk’s honor did too. He had given his word to help. The fact that the cause was almost impossible was irrelevant. There was also the chance that Prince Friedrich had indeed been murdered, probably not by his widow but by one of the people talking and laughing around this splendid table, lifting the wine goblets to their lips, diamonds winking in the candlelight.
They finished the asparagus and the game course was brought, a choice of quails, grouse, partridge or black cocks, and of course more wine. Monk had never seen so much food in his life.
The conversation swirled around him, talk of fashion, of theater, of social functions at which they had seen this person or that, who had been in whose company, possible forthcoming betrothals or marriages. It seemed to Monk as if every major family must be related to every other in ramifications too complex to disentangle. He felt more and more excluded as the evening wore on. Perhaps he should have taken Rathbone’s suggestion, repugnant as it was, and come as Stephan’s valet. It would have galled his pride, but it might in the long run have been less painful than being shown to be a social inferior, pretending to be something he was not, as if being accepted mattered to him so much he would lie! He could feel the rage at such a thought tightening his stomach till he was sitting so rigidly in his carved, silk-covered chair that his back ached.
“I doubt we shall be invited,” Brigitte was saying ruefully to some suggestion Klaus had made.
“Why ever not?” He looked annoyed. “I always go. Been every year since, oh, ’53!”
Evelyn put her fingers up to cover her smile, her eyes wide.
“Oh, dear! Do you really think it makes that much difference? Shall we all be personae non grata now? How perfectly ridiculous. It’s nothing to do with us.”
“It has everything to do with us,” Rolf said flatly. “It’s our royal family, and we specifically were all here when it happened.”
“Nobody believes the damn woman!” Klaus said, his heavy face set in lines of anger. “As usual, she has only spoken out of a desire to draw attention to herself at any price, and possibly from revenge because Friedrich threw her over twelve years ago. The woman’s mad … always was.”
Monk realized with sharpened interest that they were speaking of Zorah and the effect her accusation was having upon their social lives. It was an aspect that had not occurred to him, and it was peculiarly repugnant. But he should not lose the opportunity to make something of it.
“Surely it will all be forgotten as soon as the case is heard?” he asked, trying to affect innocence.
“That depends on what the wretched woman says,” Klaus replied sourly. “There’s always someone fool enough to repeat a piece of gossip, however fatuous.”
Monk wondered why Klaus should care what anyone whom he held in such contempt thought, but there were more profitable questions to ask.
“What could she say that any sane person could credit?” he asked, with the same air of sympathy.
“You must have heard the gossip.” Evelyn stared at him, wide-eyed. “Simply everyone is talking about it. She has virtually accused Princess Gisela of having killed poor Friedrich … I mean intentionally! As if she would! They adored each other. All the world knows that.”
“It would have made more sense if someone had killed Gisela,” Rolf said with a grimace. “That I could believe.”
Monk did not have to feign interest. “Why?”
Everyone at the table turned to look at him, and he realized with anger at himself that he had been naive and too abrupt. But it was too late to retreat. If he added anything he would only make it worse.
It was not Rolf who answered but Evelyn.
“Well, she is very quick-witted, very glamorous. She does overshadow people a bit. It wouldn’t be hard to imagine someone being the butt of her wit and feeling so angry, and perhaps humiliated, they could”—she shrugged her beautiful shoulders—“lose their temper and wish her ill.” She smiled as she said it, robbing it of any viciousness.
It was a picture of Gisela that Monk had not seen before; not merely funny, but a cruel wit. Perhaps he should not be surprised. These people had little to fear, little need to guard what they said or whether they offended, unlike most of the people he knew. He wondered fleetingly how much of anyone’s good manners was a matter of self-preservation, how much genuine desire for the comfort of mind of others. Only in those with nothing at all to fear would he know.
He looked from Evelyn’s charming face to Lady Wellborough, then Klaus, and then Rolf.
“Surely, if it actually comes to a trial, it will be easy enough to prove what happened?” he asked mildly. “Everyone who was here can testify, and with you all of one accord, she will be shown up for a liar, or worse.”
“We shall have to see that we do agree first,” Stephan said with a twisted smile and serious eyes. “After all, we do know more or less what happened. We shall have to be clear about what we don’t know so we don’t contradict each other.”
“What the devil do you mean?” Lord Wellborough demanded, his face pinched till his already thin lips all but disappeared. “Of course we know what happened. Prince Friedrich died of his injuries.” He said it as if even the words pained him. Monk wondered uncharitably if the pain came from his affection for Friedrich or from the stain on his reputation as a host.
Monk set down his spoon and ignored his confiture of nectarines. “I imagine they will require greater detail. They will wish to know what happened in the moment-to-moment running of the house, who had access to the
