William Monk 07 - Weighed in the Balance

not know for myself.”
    Harvester’s composure was unruffled. “Are you referring to that same dinner party or to some other occasion?”
    “Both …” Wellborough straightened up. “She made the statement again that evening when Sir Gerald Bretherton remonstrated with her, protesting that she surely could not mean such a thing. She assured him that she did—”
    “And what was the reaction to her charge?” Harvester interrupted. “Did anyone argue with her, or did they dismiss it as bad behavior, possibly the act of someone overwrought or who had indulged too much?”
    “They tried to do that,” Wellborough agreed. “Then she made the same charge again about a week later, at a theater party. The play was a drama. I cannot remember the title, but she said again that the Princess Gisela had murdered Prince Friedrich. It was an appalling scene. People tried to pretend they had not heard, or that it had been somehow a wretched joke, but it was perfectly apparent that she meant precisely what she said.”
    “Are you aware, Lord Wellborough, of whether anyone gave the charge the slightest credence?” Harvester spoke softly, but his words fell with great deliberation and clarity, and he glanced towards the jury and then back again at the witness stand. “Please be most careful how you answer.”
    “I shall be.” Wellborough did not take his eyes off Harvester’s face. “I heard several people say it was the most malicious nonsense they had ever heard, and of course there could be no question of there being an atom of truth to it.”
    “Hear, hear!” a man called from the gallery, and was met with immediate applause.
    The judge gave the audience a warning look, but he did not intervene.
    Rathbone’s jaw tightened. His best hope might have been a strong and subtle judge. But perhaps he was being foolish to believe he had a hope at all. The Lord Chancellor’s words rang in his ears. Was this discretion or simply absolute surrender?
    Beside him, Zorah was impassive. Maybe she still did not realize her position.
    “From those who knew her, of course,” Wellborough said, still answering the question. “And from a great many who did not. But there were those who repeated it, and the ignorant began to question. There were servants who spread tittle-tattle. It caused much distress.”
    “To whom?” Harvester said quietly.
    “To many people, but the Princess Gisela in particular,” Wellborough said slowly.
    “Did you meet anyone personally for whom her reputation had suffered?” Harvester pressed.
    Wellborough shifted his weight from one foot to the other.
    “Yes, I did. I heard ugly remarks on several occasions, and when the Princess wished to return to England for a short stay, it became impossible to employ acceptable staff to look after a small house for her.”
    “How very unpleasant,” Harvester sympathized. “Have you reason to believe this occurred as a result of these accusations by the Countess Rostova?”
    “I am quite sure it did,” Wellborough replied coldly. “My butler attempted to employ a household so she could stay peacefully for a few months during the summer, to get away from the heat of Venice. She wished to retire here away from public life, quite naturally in the circumstances. This fearful business has made it impossible. We were unable to obtain a satisfactory staff. Rumor had already spread by word of mouth of the ignorant.”
    There was a murmur of sympathy from the gallery.
    “How distressing.” Harvester shook his head. “So the Princess was unable to come?”
    “She was obliged to stay with friends, which did not offer her either the privacy or the seclusion which she had desired in her bereavement.”
    “Thank you, Lord Wellborough. If you could remain where you are, my learned friend may have questions to ask you.”
    Rathbone rose to his feet. He could almost feel the tension crackle in the air around him. He had racked his brain to think of anything to say to Wellborough, but everything that came to his tongue could only have made matters worse.
    The judge looked at him inquiringly.
    “No questions, thank you, my lord,” he said with a dry mouth, and resumed his seat.
    Lord Wellborough moved down the steps, walked smartly to the door and went out.
    Harvester called Lady Wellborough.
    She took the stand nervously. She was dressed in a mixture of dark brown and black, as if she could not make up her mind whether she should be in mourning or not. A death