Weighed in the Balance

Of course, Hester would be there. She would be trying every last instant there was, racking her brain for anything to do to help, lying awake at night, worrying and hurting for him.

And when it was all over, even if he was criticized, ridiculed and disgraced for his foolishness, his alliance against the establishment, she would be there to stand beside him. She would help to defend him to others, even if in private she castigated him with her tongue. She would urge him to get up and fight again, face the world regardless of its anger or contempt. The greater his need, the more certainly would she be there.

He recalled with a surge of warmth how she had knelt in front of him in his own worst hour, when he was terrified and appalled, how she had pleaded with him, and browbeaten him into the courage to keep on struggling. Even at the very darkest moment, when she must have faced the possibility of his guilt, it had never entered her mind to abandon him. Her loyalty went beyond trust in innocence or in victory, it was the willingness to be there in defeat, even in one which was deserved.

She had none of Evelyn’s magic, her beauty or glorious charm. But there was something about her clean courage and her undeviating honor which now seemed infinitely desirable—like ice-cold pure water when one is cloyed with sugar and parched with thirst.

“Thank you,” he said stiffly. “I am sure it is delightful, but I have a duty in London … and friends … for whom I care.” He bowed with almost Germanic formality, touching his heels. “Your company has been utterly delightful, Baroness, but it is time I returned to reality. Good night … and good-bye.”

Her face dropped slack with amusement, then tightened into a blazing, incredulous rage.

Monk walked back towards the staircase and the way out.

8

ON THE LONG and tedious journey home, Monk turned over in his mind what he could tell Rathbone that could be of any service to him in the case. He reviewed it in his mind over and over again, but no matter how many times he did, there was nothing of substance that could be used to defend Zorah Rostova. Whichever of the couple had been the intended victim, there was no way in which Gisela could be guilty.

The only mitigating fact was the extreme likelihood that Friedrich had indeed been murdered.

On arrival in London, Monk went straight to his rooms in Fitzroy Street and unpacked his cases. He had a steaming bath and changed his linen. He requested his landlady to bring him a hot cup of tea, something which he had not had since leaving home over two weeks before. Then he felt as ready as he could be to present himself at Vere Street. He dreaded delivering such news, but there was no alternative.

Rathbone did not pretend any of the usual preliminary courtesies. He opened his office door as soon as he heard Monk’s voice speaking to Simms. He looked as perfectly dressed as always, but Monk saw the signs of tiredness and strain in his face.

“Good afternoon, Monk,” he said immediately. “Come in.” He glanced at the clerk. “Thank you, Simms.” He stood aside to allow Monk past him into the office.

“Shall I bring tea, Sir Oliver?” Simms asked, glancing from one to the other of them. He knew the importance of the case and of the news which Monk might bring. He had already read from Monk’s manner that it was not good.

“Oh … yes, by all means.” Rathbone was looking not at Simms but at Monk. He searched Monk’s eyes and saw defeat in them. “Thank you,” he added, his voice carrying his disappointment, too heavy for his self-mastery to conceal it.

Inside, he closed the door and walked stiffly around his desk to the far side. He pulled his chair back and sat down.

Monk sat in the nearer one.

Rathbone did not cross his legs as usual, nor did he lean back. His face was calm and his eyes direct, but there was fear in them as he regarded Monk.

Monk saw no purpose in telling the story in chronological order. It would only spin out the tension.

“I think it very probable Friedrich was murdered,” he said flatly. “We have every cause to raise the issue, and we may even be able to prove it, with good luck and considerable skill. But there is no possibility that Gisela is guilty.”

Rathbone stared back without replying.

“There really is none,” Monk repeated. He hated having to say this. It was the same feeling of helplessness again, carrying all the old sense of watching while someone you ought to save was suffering, losing. He owed Rathbone nothing, and it was entirely his own fault that he had taken such an absurd case, but all that touched his reason, not his emotions.

He took a deep breath. “Friedrich was her life. She did not have a lover, and neither did he. Friend and enemy alike knew that they adored each other. They did nothing apart. Every evidence I found indicates they were still as deeply in love as in the beginning.”

“But duty?” Rathbone urged. “Was there a plot to invite him back to Felzburg to lead the fight for independence, or not?”

“Almost certainly—”

“Then …”

“Then nothing!” Monk said tartly. “He didn’t bow to duty twelve years ago, and nothing whatever suggests there has been the slightest change.”

Rathbone clenched his fist on the desk, his knuckles shining. “Twelve years ago his country was not facing forced unification with the rest of the German states. Surely he had that much honor in him—that much patriotism and sense of who he was. Damn it, Monk, he was born to be king!”

Monk heard the rising desperation in Rathbone’s voice. He could see it in his eyes, in the spots of color in his