William Monk 07 - Weighed in the Balance

one.”
    “Very natural,” Rathbone agreed. “I imagine we can all understand that. Anyone who has lost someone very dear knows the process of mourning, let alone a grief such as yours.”
    The judge looked at Rathbone with a frown.
    The jurors were growing restive.
    He must reach the point soon or it would be too late. He knew Zorah was watching him. He could almost feel her eyes on his back.
    “Had it ever occurred to you, ma’am, to wonder if your husband had been murdered for political reasons?” he asked. “Perhaps regarding your country’s fight to retain its independence?”
    “No …” There was a lift of surprise in Gisela’s voice. She seemed about to add something else, then caught Harvester’s eye and changed her mind.
    Rathbone forced a very slight smile of sympathy to his lips.
    “But with a love as profound as yours, now that the possibility has been raised, I should not think you can allow the question to go unanswered, can you? Do you not care even more fervently than anyone else here that, if it was so, the culprit must be caught and pay the price for so heinous and terrible a crime?”
    She stared at him wordlessly, her eyes huge.
    For the first time there was a rumble of agreement from the court. Several of the jurors nodded gravely.
    “Of course,” Rathbone said, answering his own question vehemently. “And I promise you, ma’am”—he waved his hand to encompass them all—“this court will do everything inits power to discover that truth, to the last detail, and expose it.” He bowed very slightly, as if she had indeed been royalty. “Thank you. I have no more questions.” He nodded to Harvester and then returned to his seat.

10
    “T
HE NEWSPAPERS, SIR.
” Rathbone’s manservant handed them to him as he sat at breakfast, the
Times
on top.
    Rathbone’s stomach tightened. This would be the measure of public opinion. In the pile of newsprint would lie what he was really fighting against, the hope and the fear of what faced him today and for as long as the trial lasted.
    That was not the whole truth. It would last a lot longer than that. In people’s minds he would always be connected with it.
    He opened the
Times
and scanned the pages to find the report. There was bound to be one. It was inconceivable they would ignore such a trial. Everyone in Europe would be following it.
    There it was. He had almost missed it because the headline did not mention Gisela’s name, or Friedrich’s. It read TRAGIC ACCIDENT—OR MURDER ? Then it went on to summarize the evidence so far with extreme sympathy for Gisela, describing her in detail, her ashen face, her magnificent dignity, her restraint in refusing to blame others or play on the emotions of the crowd. Rathbone nearly tore the paper on reading that. His hands shook with frustration. She had played superbly. Whether by chance or design, she had done it with consummate brilliance. No actress could have done better.
    It went on to speak of Rathbone’s own probing of thesituation, calling it desperate. Indeed that was true, but he had hoped it was not so obvious. But the burden of the article sent his heart racing with a surge of hope. They wrote that it was now imperative that the truth be known exactly how Prince Friedrich had died.
    His eyes scanned the rest of the column, mouth dry, pulse thumping. It was all there, the political summary of the questions of continued independence versus unification, the interests involved, the risks of war, the factions, the struggle for power, their idealism, even reference to the revolutions across Europe in 1848.
    The story ended by extolling the British legal system and demanding that it fulfill its great opportunity, and responsibility, to discover and prove to the world the truth as to whether Prince Friedrich had died by accident or there had indeed been a royal murder committed on English soil. Justice must be done, and for that the truth must be known, however difficult or painful to some. Such a heinous crime could not be kept secret to avoid embarrassment, no matter to whom.
    He cast the
Times
aside and turned to the next paper. Its tone was a little different. It concentrated on the more human aspect, and reiterated its cry from the previous day that in the emotion of politics and murder, it must not be lost sight of that the case was about slander. In the very depth of her grief, a tragic and noble woman had been accused of the most appalling of crimes. The court existed not