William Monk 07 - Weighed in the Balance

or played the piano, or read books, or looked at pictures. The men played cards or billiards, or smoked. And, of course, they gambled on anything and everything—who would win at cards, or which servant would answer a bell. In the evenings, we had musical entertainment, or theatricals, or played games.”
    “And Friedrich and Gisela were always as devoted as you have described?”
    “Always.”
    Harvester rose to his feet. “My lord, this is intrusive, unproven and still totally irrelevant.”
    Rathbone ignored him and hurried on, speaking over the other lawyer’s protest, almost shouting him down.
    “Countess Rostova, after the accident, did you ever visit Prince Friedrich in his rooms?”
    “Once.”
    “Would you describe the room for us, please?”
    “My lord!” Harvester was shouting now as well.
    “It is relevant, my lord,” Rathbone said even more loudly. “I assure the court, it is critical.”
    The judge banged his gavel and was ignored.
    “My lord!” Harvester would not be hushed. He was now on his feet and facing Rathbone in front of the bench. “This witness has already been impugned by circumstances. Her own interest in the matter is the issue before us. Nothing she says she saw—”
    “You cannot impugn it before it is said!” Rathbone cried furiously. “She must be allowed to defend herself—”
    “Not by—” Harvester protested.
    The judge held up his hands. “Be silent!” he roared.
    They both stopped.
    “Mr. Rathbone,” the judge said, resuming a normal tone. “I hope you are not about to add a further slander to your client’s already perilous situation.”
    “No, my lord, I am not,” Rathbone said vehemently. “Countess Rostova will not say anything which cannot be substantiated by other witnesses.”
    “Then her evidence is not the urgent matter you stated,” Harvester said triumphantly. “If other witnesses can say the same thing, why did you not have them do so?”
    “Please sit down, Mr. Harvester,” the judge requested firmly. “Countess Rostova will continue with her evidence. You will have the opportunity to question her when Sir Oliver has finished. If she makes any remarks detrimental to your client’s interests, you have the recourse which you are presently taking. Proceed, Sir Oliver. But do not waste our time, and please do not push us to make moral judgments of issues other than the death of Prince Friedrich and whether your client can substantiate the terrible charge she has made. That is your sole remit here. Do you understand me?”
    “Yes, my lord. Countess Rostova, will you please describe Prince Friedrich’s bedroom and the suite of rooms he and Princess Gisela occupied during his illness at Wellborough Hall?”
    There was a whispering of consternation and disappointment from the crowd. They had expected something far more titillating.
    Even Zorah looked a little puzzled, but she began obediently.
    “They had a bedroom, dressing room and sitting room. And, of course, they had the private use of a bathroom and water closet, which I did not see. Nor did I see the dressing room.” She looked at Rathbone to know if this was what he wished.
    “Would you describe the sitting room and bedroom, please.” He nodded to her.
    Harvester was growing impatient, and even the judge wasbeginning to lose his tolerance. The jury were clearly lost. Suddenly the proceedings had degenerated from high tension to total banality.
    Zorah blinked. “The sitting room was quite large. It had two bay windows, facing west, I think, over the knot garden.”
    “My lord!” Harvester had risen to his feet again. “This cannot possibly be of any relevance whatsoever. Is my learned friend going to suggest that Princess Gisela somehow climbed out of the sitting room window and down the wall to the yew walk? This is becoming absurd, and it is an abuse of the court’s time and intelligence.”
    “It is precisely because I respect the court’s intelligence that I do not wish to lead the witness, my lord,” Rathbone said desperately. “She does not know which piece of her observation pertains to and explains the whole crime. And as far as time is concerned, we would waste a lot less of it if Mr. Harvester did not keep interrupting me!”
    “I will allow you another fifteen minutes, Sir Oliver,” the judge warned. “If you have not reached some point of relevance by then, I shall entertain Mr. Harvester’s objections.” He turned to Zorah. “Please make your