William Monk 07 - Weighed in the Balance

suggesting this most pleasant way of life is responsible for the Prince’s death?”
    “I shall not allow our time to be wasted too far, Mr. Harvester,” the judge replied. “But I am inclined to allow Countess Rostova to paint a sufficient picture for us to perceive the household more clearly than we do so far.” He turned to the witness stand. “Proceed, if you please. But be guided, ma’am. We require that this shall pertain to the Prince’s death before much longer.”
    “It does, my lord,” she replied gravely. “If I may describe one day in detail, I believe it will become understandable. You see, it is not one domestic incident which was the cause, but a myriad of tiny ones over a period of years, until they became a burden beyond the will to bear.”
    The judge looked puzzled.
    The jurors were obviously utterly confused.
    People in the gallery shifted in anticipation, whispering to one another, excitement mounting. This was what they had come for.
    Harvester looked at Zorah, then at Rathbone, then at Gisela.
    Gisela sat, pale as ice, without responding. For any change in her expression, she might not have heard them.
    “Then proceed, Countess Rostova,” the judge ordered.
    “It was before the accident, I cannot remember exactly how many days, but it is immaterial,” she resumed, looking at no one in particular. “It was wet and there was quite a sharp wind. I rose early. I don’t mind the rain. I walked in the garden. Thedaffodils were magnificent. Have you smelled the wet earth after a shower?” This remark seemed directed towards the judge, but she did not wait for any reply. “Gisela rose late, as usual, and Friedrich came down with her. Indeed, he was so close behind her he accidentally trod on the hem of her skirt when she hesitated coming in through the door. She turned and said something to him. I cannot remember exactly what, but it was sharp and impatient. He apologized and looked discomfited. It was somewhat embarrassing because Brigitte von Arlsbach was in the room, and so was Lady Wellborough.”
    Rathbone took a deep breath. He had seen the look of surprise and distaste on the jurors’ faces. He did not know whether it was for Zorah or for Gisela. Whom did they believe?
    Please God that Hester was right. Everything rested upon one fact and all she had deduced from it.
    “Please continue, Countess Rostova,” he said with a crack in his voice. “The rest of this typical day, if you please.”
    “Brigitte went to the library to read,” Zorah resumed. “I think she was quite happy alone. Lady Wellborough and Evelyn von Seidlitz spent the morning in the boudoir, talking, I imagine. They both love to gossip. Gisela asked Florent to accompany her to the village. I was surprised, because it was raining, and she hated the rain. I think he does too, but he felt it would be ungallant to refuse her. She had asked him in front of everyone, so he could not do so politely. Friedrich offered to take her, but she said rather tartly that since Rolf had already expressed a desire to talk with him, he should stay and do so.”
    “She did not appear to mind that Friedrich should spend time talking with Count Lansdorff?” Rathbone said with affected surprise.
    “On the contrary, she practically instructed him to,” Zorah replied with a little shake of her head, but there was no hesitation in her voice.
    “Can she have been unaware of Count Lansdorff’s purpose in coming to Wellborough Hall?” Rathbone asked.
    “I cannot imagine so,” Zorah said frankly. “She has never been a foolish woman. She is as aware as any of us of the political situation in Felzburg and the rest of Germany. She lives in Venice, and Italy is also on the brink of a struggle for unification and independence from Austria.”
    “We have heard that she is uninterested in politics,” Rathbone pointed out.
    Zorah looked at him with ill-concealed impatience.
    “To be uninterested in politics in general is not at all the same thing as being unaware of something that is going on which may affect your own survival,” she pointed out. “She has never been uninterested in what may ruin her.”
    There was a murmur in the gallery. One of the jurors leaned forward.
    “Ruin her?” Rathbone raised his eyebrows.
    Zorah leaned a little forward. “If Friedrich had returned to Felzburg without her, she would be a divorced wife, publicly set aside, and have only the worldly means he chose to give her. And even that might