William Monk 07 - Weighed in the Balance

vestibule of rather formal and uninteresting character into a room of so extraordinary a decor he drew in his breath involuntarily. The farther wall was hung with a gigantic shawl woven in russets, Indian reds, bitter chocolate browns and stark black. It had a long, silk fringe which hung in complicated woven knots. There was a silversamovar on an ebony table, and on the floor a series of bearskin rugs, again of warm browns. A red leather couch was swamped in embroidered cushions, each different.
    By one of the two tall windows stood a young man with fair brown hair and a charming face, at the moment filled with concern.
    “Baron Stephan von Emden,” Zorah said almost casually. “Sir Oliver Rathbone.”
    “How do you do, Sir Oliver.” Stephan bowed from the waist and brought his heels together, but almost silently. “I am enormously relieved that you are going to defend the Countess Rostova.” The sincerity of this remark was apparent in his face. “It is an extraordinarily difficult situation. Anything I can do to help, I will, gladly.”
    “Thank you,” Rathbone accepted, uncertain if this was merely a show of friendship or if there could be anything whatever the young baron might achieve. Remembering Zorah’s own candor, he spoke directly. It was a room in which it was impossible to be halfhearted. One would either be honest, whatever the consequences, or else be appalled and retract entirely. “Do you believe the Princess to be guilty of having murdered her husband?”
    Stephan looked startled, then a flash of humor lit his eyes.
    Zorah let out her breath in a sigh, possibly of approval.
    “I’ve no idea,” Stephan replied, his eyes wide. “But I have no doubt whatever that Zorah believes it, so I expect it is true. I am sure she did not say it either lightly or maliciously.”
    Rathbone judged he was in his early thirties, probably ten years younger than Zorah, and he wondered what their relationship might be. Why was he prepared to risk his name and reputation supporting a woman who made such a claim? Could it be that he was sure, not only that she was correct, but also that it could be proved? Or had he some more emotional, less rational motive, a love or a hate of someone in this tragedy?
    “Your confidence is very assuring,” Rathbone said politely.“Your help will be greatly appreciated. What have you in mind?”
    If he had expected Stephan to be thrown off balance, he was disappointed. Stephan straightened up from the rather relaxed attitude he had adopted and walked towards the chair in the center of the room. He sat sideways on it and looked at Rathbone intently.
    “I thought you might wish to send someone—discreetly, of course—to the Wellboroughs’ to ask questions of all the people who were there at the time. Most of them will be there again because of this furor, of course. I can tell you everything I can remember, but I imagine my evidence would be considered biased, and you’ll need a great deal more than that.” He shrugged his slim shoulders. “Anyway, I don’t know anything useful, or I would have told Zorah already. I don’t know what to look for. But I do know everyone, and I would vouch for anyone you cared to send. Go with him, if you wish.”
    Rathbone was surprised. It was a generous offer. He could see nothing in Stephan’s hazel-gold eyes but candor and a slight concern.
    “Thank you,” he accepted. “That might be an excellent idea.” He thought of Monk. If anyone could find and retrieve evidence of the truth, good or bad, it would be he. Nor would the magnitude of the case and its possible repercussions frighten him. “Although it may not be sufficient. This will be an extremely difficult case to prove. A great many vested interests lie against us.”
    Stephan frowned. “Of course.” He regarded Rathbone very seriously. “I am most grateful you have the courage, Sir Oliver. Many a lesser man would have balked at trying. I am completely at your service, sir, at any time.”
    He was so utterly serious Rathbone could only thank him again and turn to Zorah, who was now sitting on the red sofa, leaning back against the arm of it, her body relaxed amid her billowing, tawny skirts, her face tense, her eyes on Rathbone’s.She was smiling, but there was no laughter in her, no brilliance or ease.
    “We will have other friends,” she said in her slightly husky voice. “But very few. People believe what they need to, or what they have committed themselves