Hester returned to the sewing she was doing, and a little while later she heard Robert’s voice in a loud guffaw, and then a moment after, another.
As Robert grew stronger and needed less constant care, Hester was able to leave Hill Street on occasion. At the first opportunity she wrote to Oliver Rathbone and asked if she might call upon him at his chambers in Vere Street.
He answered that he would be pleased to see her, but it would be necessary to restrict the meeting to a luncheon because of the pressure of the case he was preparing.
Accordingly, she presented herself at midday and found him pacing the floor of his chamber, his face showing the marks of tiredness and unaccustomed anxiety.
“How very nice to see you,” he said, smiling as she was shown in and the door closed behind her. “You look well.”
It was a meaningless comment, a politeness, and one that could not be returned with any honesty.
“You don’t,” she said with a shake of her head.
He stopped abruptly. It was not the reply he had expected. It was tactless, even for Hester.
“The Countess Rostova’s case is causing you concern,” she said with a faint smile.
“It is complex,” he said guardedly. “How did you know about it?” Then instantly he knew the answer. “Monk, I suppose.”
“No,” she replied a trifle stiffly. She had not seen Monk in some time. Their relationship was always difficult, except in moments of crisis, when the mutual antipathy between them dissolved in the bonds of a friendship founded in instinctive trust deeper than reason. “No, I heard from Callandra.”
“Oh.” He looked pleased. “Would you accompany me to luncheon? I am sorry I can spare so little time, but I am having to deal with other matters rather hastily in order to try to gather some of the defense in what I am sure will prove a very public affair.”
“Of course,” she accepted. “I should be delighted.”
“Good.” He led the way out of his office; through the outer room, past the clerks in their neat, high-buttoned suits, pens in hand, ledgers open in front of them; and out onto the street. They spoke of trivial matters until they were seated in a quiet corner of a public hostelry and had ordered a meal of cold game pie, vegetables and pickle.
“I am presently nursing Robert Ollenheim,” Hester said after the first mouthful of pie.
“Indeed.” Rathbone showed no particular interest, and she realized he had not heard the name before and it had no meaning for him.
“The Ollenheims knew Prince Friedrich quite well,” she explained, taking a little more pickle. “And, of course, Gisela—and the Countess Rostova too.”
“Oh. Oh, I see.” Now she had his attention. The color deepened in his cheeks as he realized how easily she had read him. He bent his head and concentrated on eating his pie, avoiding her eyes. “I’m sorry. Perhaps I am a trifle preoccupied. Proof for this case may be harder to find than I had anticipated.” He looked up at her quickly with a slightly rueful smile.
A buxom woman passed by, her skirts brushing their chairs.
“Have you learned anything yet from Monk?” she asked.
He shook his head. “He hasn’t reported back to me so far.”
“Where is he? In Germany?”
“No, Berkshire.”
“Why Berkshire? Is that where Friedrich died … or was killed?”
His mouth was full. He glanced up at her without bothering to reply.
“Do you think it might be political?” she said, trying to sound casual, as if the idea had just occurred to her. “To do with German unification rather than a personal crime … if indeed there was a crime?”
“Quite possibly,” he answered, still concentrating on the pie. “If he returned to his own country to lead the fight against forced unification, he would almost certainly have been obliged to leave Gisela, in spite of the fact that he did not apparently believe so, and that was what she dreaded.”
“But Gisela loved him so much, and always has done. No one at all, except Zorah, has ever questioned that,” she pointed out, trying not to sound like a governess with a slow child, but she heard her own voice sounding impatient and a little too distinct. “Even if he returned for a short while without her, if he succeeded in the fight for independence, then he could demand she return also as his queen, and they could not deny him. Does it not seem at least equally possible that someone else would have killed him to prevent him returning, perhaps someone who wanted unification?”
“Do you mean someone in the pay of one of the other German states?” he asked, considering the question.
“Possibly. Could the Countess Rostova have made the charge at someone else’s instigation, trusting that they know something they have not yet told her but will reveal when the matter comes to trial?”
He thought about it for a few moments, reaching for his glass of wine.
“I doubt it,” he said at last. “Simply because she does not seem like a person who would follow someone else’s lead.”
“What do you know about the other people who were at the house?”
He poured her a little more wine. “Very little, as yet. Monk is presently learning what he can. Most of them have gathered together there again, I presume to defend themselves against the charge. It is hardly the sort of thing an ambitious hostess wishes said about her country house party.” A very brief flicker of sardonic amusement crossed his face and was gone almost instantly. “But that is no defense for the Countess Rostova.”
