William Monk 07 - Weighed in the Balance

unpleasant.”
    “It did her harm?” Suddenly Harvester’s voice rose sharply. He was a lean figure, leaning a little backwards to stare up at the witness, but there was no mistaking the authority in him.“Do not be evasive, sir! Did she cease to be invited to certain houses?” He spread his hands. “Were people rude to her? Were they slighting or offensive? Was she insulted? Did she find it embarrassing in certain public places or among her social equals?”
    Florent smiled. It took more than even the best barrister to shake his nerve. “You seem to have very slight understanding of the situation, sir,” he answered. “She went into deep mourning as soon as the service of remembrance was over. She remained in her palazzo, seldom receiving visitors or even being seen at the windows. She went out nowhere, accepted no invitations and was seen in no public places. I do not know whether fewer people sent her flowers or letters than would have otherwise. And if they did, one can only guess the reasons. It could have been any of a hundred things. I know what was said, nothing more. Whatever the rumor, there will always be someone to repeat it.” His expression did not change at all. “Ugo Casselli started a story of having seen a mermaid sitting on the steps of the Santa Maria Maggiore in the full moon,” he added. “Some idiot repeated that, too!”
    There was a titter of laughter around the gallery which died away instantly as Harvester glared at them.
    But Rathbone saw with a sudden, reasonless lift of his heart that the judge was smiling.
    “You find the matter humorous?” Harvester said icily to Florent.
    Florent knew what he meant, but he chose to misunderstand.
    “Hilarious,” he said with wide eyes. “There were two hundred people out in the lagoon next full moon. Business was marvelous. I think it might have been a gondolier who started it.”
    Harvester was too clever to allow his temper to mar his performance.
    “Most entertaining.” He forced a dry smile. “But a harmless fiction. This fiction of the Countess Rostova’s was anythingbut harmless, don’t you agree, even if as absurd and as untrue?”
    “If you want to be literal,” Florent argued, “it is not of equal absurdity, in my opinion. I do not believe in mermaids, even in Venice. Tragically, women do sometimes murder their husbands.”
    Harvester’s face darkened, and he swung around as if to retaliate.
    But the rumble of fury from the gallery robbed him of the necessity. A man called out “Shame!” Two or three half rose to their feet. One of them raised his fist.
    Several jurors shook their heads, faces tight and hard, lips pursed.
    Beside Rathbone, Zorah put up her hands to cover her face, and he saw her shoulders quiver with laughter.
    Harvester relaxed. He had no need to fight, and he knew it. He turned to Rathbone.
    “Your witness, Sir Oliver.”
    Rathbone rose to his feet. He must say something. He had to begin, at least to show that he was in the battle. He had fought without weapons before, and with stakes as high. The judge would know he was playing for time, so would Harvester, but the jury would not. And Florent was almost a friendly witness. He was obviously disposed to make light of the offense. He had once glanced at Zorah with, if not a smile, a kind of softness.
    But what could he ask? Zorah was wrong, and she was the only one who did not accept it.
    “Mr. Barberini,” he began, sounding far more confident than he felt. He moved slowly onto the floor, anything to give him a moment’s time—although all the time in the world would not help. “Mr. Barberini, you say that, to your knowledge, no one believed this charge the Countess Rostova made?”
    “So far as I know,” Florent said guardedly.
    Harvester smiled, leaning back in his chair. He glanced atGisela encouragingly, but she was staring ahead, seemingly unaware of him.
    “What about the Countess herself?” Rathbone asked. “Have you any reason to suppose that she did not believe it to be the truth?”
    Florent looked surprised. Obviously, it was not the question he had expected.
    “None at all,” he answered. “I have no doubt that she believed it absolutely.”
    “Why do you say that?” Rathbone was on very dangerous ground, but he had little to lose. It was always perilous to ask a question to which you did not know the answer. He had told enough juniors never to do it.
    “Because I know Zorah—Countess Rostova,” Florent replied.