William Monk 07 - Weighed in the Balance

was being discussed, a murder was being denied.
    “Lady Wellborough,” Harvester began gently, “I do not have many questions to ask you, and they all concern what may have been said by Countess Rostova and what effect it had.”
    “I understand,” she replied in a small voice. She stood with her hands folded in front of her and her eyes wandering to Gisela, then to Zorah. She did not look at the jury.
    “Very well. May I begin by taking your mind back to the dinner party you and Lord Wellborough attended at Lady Easton’s house in London? Do you recall that occasion?”
    “Yes, of course.”
    “Did you hear the Countess Rostova make the reference to Princess Gisela and Prince Friedrich’s death?”
    “Yes. She said that the Princess had murdered him.”
    Rathbone looked across to where Gisela sat. He tried to read the expression in her face and found himself unable to. She appeared unmoved, almost as if she did not understand what was being said. Or perhaps it was that she did not care. Everything that had passion or meaning for her was already irretrievably in the past, had died with the only man she had loved. What was being played out in the courtroom barely impinged on her consciousness—a farce with no reality.
    “Did she say it once or several times?” Harvester’s voice brought Rathbone’s attention back.
    “She repeated it again on at least three other occasions that I know of,” Lady Wellborough answered. “I heard it all over London, so heaven knows how many times she said it altogether.”
    “You mean it became a subject of discussion—of gossip, if you like?” Harvester prompted.
    Her eyes widened. “Of course. You can hardly hear something like that and not react to it.”
    “So people repeated it whether they believed it or not?”
    “Yes … yes, I don’t think anyone believed it. I mean … of course they didn’t.” She colored. “It’s preposterous!”
    “But they still repeated it?” he insisted.
    “Well … yes.”
    “Do you know where the Princess was at the time, Lady Wellborough?”
    “Yes, she was in Venice.”
    “Was she aware of what was being said about her?”
    She colored faintly. “Yes … I … I wrote and told her. I felt she should know.” She bit her lip. “I hated doing it. It took me over an hour to compose a letter, but I could not allow this to be said and go uncontested. I could defend her by denying it, but I could not initiate any proceedings.” She stared at Harvester as she said it, a slight frown on her brow.
    Rathbone thought she seemed very concerned that Harvester should understand her reasons, and it occurred to himthat perhaps he had coached her to give this answer, and she was watching him to see if she had done so correctly. But it was a fact that was of no use. There was nothing he could make of it to help Zorah.
    “You gave her the opportunity to defend herself in law,” Harvester concluded. “Which she is now taking. Did you receive a reply to your letter?”
    “Yes, I did.”
    There was a murmur of approval from the gallery. One of the jurors nodded gravely.
    Harvester produced a piece of pale blue paper and offered it to the usher.
    “My lord, may I place this letter into evidence and ask the witness to identify it?”
    “You may,” the judge agreed.
    Lady Wellborough said that it was the letter she had received, and in a slightly husky voice, she read it aloud to the court, quoting the date and the plantiff’s address in Venice. She glanced at Gisela only once and met with the merest acknowledgment.
    “ ’My dear Emma,’ ” she began in an uncertain voice “ ’Your letter shocked and grieved me beyond words. I hardly knew how to set pen to paper to write you a sensible answer.’ ”
    She stopped and cleared her throat without looking up from the paper.
    “ ’First may I thank you for being such a true friend to me as to tell me this terrible news. It cannot have been easy even to think how to say it. Sometimes the cruelty of life seems beyond bearing.
    “ ’I thought when my beloved Friedrich died there was nothing else left to hope or fear. For me it was the end of everything that was happy or beautiful or precious in any way. I truly did not think any other blow could wound me. How very wrong I was. I cannot begin to describe how this hurts. To imagine that anyone at all, any human being with a heart or asoul, could think that I could have injured the man who was the love and core of my