It was all there in his mind as his hand touched the small piece of jewelry. He was back in his mentor’s house in London, twenty or more years before, about to go to dinner. The occasion was important. Something was going to happen, and he was afraid. He had enemies, and they were powerful. It was within their ability to destroy his career, even to have him arrested and imprisoned. He had been accused of something profoundly dishonorable. He was innocent, but he could not prove it … not to anyone. The fear gripped ice-cold inside him and there was no escape. It took all the strength he had to quell the panic which rose like a scream in his throat.
But it had not happened. At least he was almost sure of that. Why not? What had prevented it? Had he rescued himself? Or had someone else? And at what cost?
Monk had tried desperately to fight against injustice before, and lost. It had come to him before, a fragment at a time. He had remembered his mentor’s wife, her face as she wept silently, the tears running down her cheeks in despair.
He would have given anything he possessed to be able to help. But he had nothing. No money, no influence, no ability that was a shred of use.
He did not know what had happened after that. All he could claw back from the darkness of amnesia was the sense of tragedy, rage and futility. He knew that was why he had given up banking and gone into the police: to fight against injustices like that, to find and punish the cheaters and destroyers, to prevent it happening again, and again, to other innocent men. He could learn the skills, and find the weapons, forge them if necessary.
But what was the debt he had recalled with such a stomach-freezing fear? It was specific, not a general gratitude for years of luridness, but for a particular gift. Had he ever repaid that?
He had no idea … no idea at all. There was simply a darkness and a weight in his mind—and a consuming need to know.
The reception was held in a huge hall brilliant with chandeliers hung from a carved and painted ceiling. There must have been a hundred people present, no more, but the enormous skirts of the women, gleaming pale in pastel and muted flower tones, seemed to fill the space. Black-suited men stood like bare trees among clouds of blossom. The light sparked prisms of fire off diamonds as heads and wrists moved. Now and again, above the chatter and occasional laughter, Monk heard the snap as some gentleman bowed and brought his heels together.
Most communications were naturally in German, but as Eugen introduced Monk, in deference to his unfamiliarity with that language, people changed to English.
They spoke of all sorts of trivialities: weather, theater, international news and gossip, the latest music or philosophical notions. No one mentioned the scandal about to break in London. No one even mentioned Friedrich’s death. It had happened six months before and it might have been six years, or even the twelve since he had renounced his throne and his country and left forever. Perhaps in their minds he had died then. If they cared whether Gisela defended herself successfully or, indeed, if Zorah Rostova were ruined, they did not mention it.
Now and again conversation did become serious; then it was the aftermath of the conflicts of ’48 that was spoken of, and the fiercer oppression which had followed, most especially in Prussia.
All the conversation was of politics, of unification or independence, of social or economic reforms, new freedoms and how they might be won, and above all, like a chill in the air, the possibility of war. Not once did Monk hear Gisela’s name mentioned, and Friedrich’s came up only in an aside—that he could no longer be a focus for the independence party, and speculating whether Rolf had the popular following to take his place. Zorah was mentioned, but as an eccentric, a patriot. If anyone commented on her accusation, Monk did not hear it.
Towards the end of the evening, Eugen found Monk again and presented him to Prince Waldo, the man who would inherit the crown by default. He saw a man of average height, rather stolid appearance, a face almost handsome but marred by a certain heaviness. His manner was careful. There was little humor about his mouth.
“How do you do, Mr. Monk,” he said in excellent English.
“How do you do, sir,” Monk answered respectfully, but meeting his eyes.
“Colonel Eugen tells me you have come from London,” Waldo observed.
“Yes sir, but more immediately from Venice.”
A spark of interest flared in Waldo’s dark eyes. “Indeed. Is that coincidence, or are you pursuing some thread in our unfortunate affairs?”
Monk was startled. He had not expected such perception or directness. He decided candor was best. Remembering Rathbone, he had no time to lose.
“I am pursuing a thread, sir. There is a strong suggestion that your brother, Prince Friedrich, did not die solely as a result of his riding accident.”
Waldo smiled. “Is that what is known as a British understatement?”
“Yes sir,” Monk acknowledged.
“And your interest in it?”
“A legal one, to assist British justice to deal fairly …” Monk made a rapid calculation as to which answers would be likely to offend Waldo least. After all, Waldo had had a great deal to gain or lose by Friedrich’s decision—not only his personal leadership of the country, but also his vision for the country’s future. Friedrich had been for independence. Waldo apparently believed the best hope lay with unification. He could lose his own throne, but perhaps he was genuinely more concerned with the safety and prosperity of his people.
Monk stared at him and tried to make a judgment.
Waldo was waiting. Monk must answer quickly. The swirl of laughter and music continued around them, the hum of voices, the clink of glass. Light shattered into a thousand fragments from jewels.
If Waldo really believed the lives and the peace of his country lay in unification, then he had more reason than anyone to kill Friedrich.
“… with the issue of slander,” Monk finished his sentence.
Waldo’s eyes widened. It was not the answer he had expected.
