“My dear Hester, how delightful to see you,” he said with a pleasure which caught her with a sudden warmth. He closed the book in his hand and set it on the desk with the others. “How is your patient?”
“Much recovered in his health,” she replied truthfully enough. “But I fear he will not walk again. How is your case?”
His face was filled with concern. “Not walk again! Then his recovery is only very partial?”
“I am afraid that is almost certainly so. But please, I should prefer not to speak of it. We cannot help. How is your case going? Have you heard from Venice? Is Monk learning anything useful?”
“If he has, I am afraid he is so far keeping it to himself.” He indicated the chair opposite, and then sat at the corner of the desk himself, swinging his leg a trifle, as if he were too restless to sit properly.
“But he has written?” she urged.
“Three times, in none of them telling me anything I could use in court. Now he is off to Felzburg to see what he can learn there.”
It was not only the total lack of any helpful news which worried her, but the anxiety in Rathbone’s eyes, the way his fingers played with the corner of a sheaf of papers. It was not like him to fiddle pointlessly with things. He was probably not even aware he was doing it. She was unexpectedly angry with Monk for not having found anything helpful, for not being there to share the worry and the mounting sense of helplessness. But panic would not serve anyone. She must keep a calm head and think rationally.
“Do you believe Countess Rostova is honest in her charge?” she asked.
He hesitated only a moment. “Yes, I do.”
“Could she be correct that Gisela murdered her husband?”
“No.” He shook his head. “She is the one person who did not have the opportunity. She never left his side after his accident.”
“Never?” she said with surprise.
“Apparently not. She nursed him herself. I imagine one does not leave a seriously ill patient alone?”
“As ill as he was, I would have someone in to be with him while I slept,” she replied. “And I might well go to the kitchens to prepare his food myself or to make distillations of herbs to ease him. There are many things one can do to help certain kinds of distress once a patient is conscious.”
He still looked slightly dubious.
“Meadowsweet,” she elaborated. “Compresses are excellent for both pain and swelling. Cowslip is also good. Rosemary will lift the spirits. Cinnamon and ginger will help a sick headache. Marigold rinse will assist healing of the skin. Chamomile tea is good for digestive troubles and aids sleeping. A little vervain tea for stress and anxiety, which she might well have benefited from herself.” She smiled, watching his face. “And there is always Four Thieves’ Vinegar against general infection, which is the great danger after injury.”
A ghost of a smile crossed his face. “I have to ask,” he admitted. “What is Four Thieves’ Vinegar?”
“Four healthy thieves were caught during a plague,” she replied. “They were offered their freedom in return for their recipe for their remedy.”
“Vinegar?” he said with surprise.
“Garlic, lavender, rosemary, sage, mint with a specific amount of mugwort and rue,” she answered. “It has to be measured very exactly and made in a precise way, with cider vinegar. A few drops are sufficient, taken in water.”
“Thank you,” he said gravely. “But according to Monk’s information, Gisela did not leave their rooms at all … for anything. Whatever preparations there were came up from the kitchen or were brought by the doctor. And it is stretching the bounds of belief too far to suppose she kept a distillation of yew with her beforehand just in case she might have a need for it!”
“Obviously, you have told the Countess this—and advised her to withdraw and apologize.” She did not make it a question; it would have been insulting. For all his present vulnerability, she would not have dared imply she knew something of his skill that he had omitted. The balance between them was delicate, the slightest clumsiness might damage it.
“I have.” He looked at his fingers, not at her. “She refuses,” he went on before she could ask. “I cannot abandon her, in spite of her foolishness. I have given my undertaking that I will do what I can to protect her interests.”
She hesitated a moment, afraid to ask in case he had no answer. But then the omission would have made it obvious that that was what she thought. She saw it in his eyes, steady and gentle on hers, waiting.
“What can you do?” she said deliberately.
“Not enough,” he replied with the ghost of a smile, self-mockery in it.
“Anything?” She had to pursue it. He expected her to. Perhaps he needed to share the sense of defeat. Sometimes fear put into words become manageable. She had found it with men on the battlefield. The longer it remained unsaid, the larger it grew. Turned and faced, the proportions defined, one could muster forces to fight it. The nightmare quality was contained. And this could not be as bad as battle. She still remembered the bloody fields afterwards with sick horror and a pity which she needed to forget if she were to live and be useful now. Nothing in this case could compare with the past. But she could not say that to Rathbone. For him this was the struggle, and the disaster.
He was collecting his thoughts. He still sat sideways on the edge of the desk, but he had stopped fiddling with the papers.
“If we can prove it was murder, perhaps we can divert people’s attention from the fact that she accused the wrong person,” he said slowly. “I don’t know a great deal about the Princess Gisela. I think perhaps I need to know their relationship in the past, and her present financial arrangements, in order to estimate what reparations she is likely to seek.” He bit his lip. “If she hates Zorah as much as Zorah hates her, then she is very likely to want to ruin her.”
