William Monk 07 - Weighed in the Balance

slippers were so near the fire the soles were beginning to scorch, but he had not noticed, his mind was so intent on the problem.
    “Then she cannot be guilty,” he said frankly. “Unless one supposes she habitually carries distillation of yew about with her, or else that she planned this from before the accident. Either of which supposition would require total proof before anyone at all is even going to entertain it.”
    “I know,” Oliver conceded quickly. “It wasn’t she.”
    They sat in silence again except for the ticking of the tall clock against the wall and the comfortable flickering of the fire.
    “Your feet are burning,” Oliver remarked absently.
    Henry moved them, wincing as he became aware of the hot soles.
    “Then you must find out who it was,” the older man said.
    “Either Rolf or Brigitte, if it was meant to be Gisela in order to free Friedrich to return home, or Klaus von Seidlitz, if Friedrich was the right victim—to prevent his return.”
    “You have not yet proved that there was a conspiracy,” Henry pointed out. “You can’t leave that to assumption. The jury won’t return any verdict which indicates that if you don’t show it.”
    “It doesn’t matter,” Oliver said miserably. “The charge isslander, and they can only bring in a verdict that she is guilty, because she is guilty. I might manage to persuade them she did it to expose the fact that he was murdered and she dared not accuse anyone else—or that somehow she originally imagined it could have been Gisela, although I can’t think anyone would believe that. One would only have to ask her why she thought so; she does not provide a single coherent answer.”
    He got up and went over to the cabinet, opened it and took out a glass. He returned to the fire, filled his glass with Port, and sat down.
    “I daren’t call her to the stand. She’ll hang herself.”
    Henry stared at him.
    “Sorry,” Oliver apologized for the exaggeration. Henry hated overstatement. “Would you like some more?” He gestured towards the decanter of Port.
    “She may indeed.” Henry ignored the Port as if he had not heard. “She may do exactly that, Oliver, if you are not very careful. If you don’t prove a plot to return Friedrich, and even if you do, the question is going to arise: Did Zorah kill him herself? Did she have the opportunity?”
    “Yes.” Even the Port could not help the deepening chill inside him.
    “Could she have obtained the yew and distilled it?”
    “She could certainly have obtained it. Anyone could, except Gisela. We haven’t found out yet how it was distilled. That is the biggest break in the chain of evidence. The kitchen staff seem quite sure no one used the kitchen for it. But she is no better or worse than anyone else in that aspect.”
    “Had she the motive?”
    “I don’t know, but it won’t be hard to suggest several, from personal jealousy and resentment for Gisela’s marrying Friedrich twelve years ago,” Oliver answered, “to political hatred because Gisela was the one person stopping Friedrich from returning home to lead the battle for independence—or,for that matter, stopping him from having filled his duty to be king in the first place.”
    “So the answer is very much that she had a motive—the oldest in the world and the easiest to understand.” Henry shook his head. “Oliver, I am afraid you and your client have created for yourself an extremely unpleasant situation. You are going to be very fortunate indeed if she escapes the threat of the gallows in this.”
    Oliver said nothing. He knew it was true.
    As Rathbone had foreseen, Harvester spent the entire next day calling the servants from Wellborough Hall. He must have been prepared for the necessity, unless he had sent someone for them the day before, after court adjourned, and they had traveled all night—assuming there were trains at night from that part of Berkshire.
    It all confirmed Rathbone’s worst expectations. Servant after servant took the stand, very sober, very frightened, dressed in their Sunday best, transparently honest, twisting their hands in embarrassment.
    The Princess Gisela had at no time left the suite of rooms she occupied with the Prince, God rest his soul. No one had ever seen her on the other side of the green baize door. She had certainly never been into the kitchens. Cook swore to that, so did the kitchen maid, both scullery maids, the pastry cook, the bootboy and three of the footmen, the