William Monk 07 - Weighed in the Balance

butler and the housekeeper, two parlormaids, four housemaids and two tweenies. One lady’s maid spoke on behalf of three upstairs maids, a valet and three laundresses.
    The Princess Gisela had been seen outside her rooms by no one at all, and there was almost always someone about.
    On the other hand, there were unquestionably yew trees in the gardens, several of them.
    “And could any person who walked in the gardens haveaccess to these yew trees?” Harvester asked the housekeeper, a comfortable, good-tempered woman with graying fair hair.
    “Yes sir. The yew walk is a most agreeable place, and a natural way to it if one wishes a little time alone. It leads up towards the best views across the fields.”
    “So it would not occasion surprise to see anyone there, even walking alone?” Harvester said cautiously.
    “No sir.”
    “Did you ever see or hear of anyone in particular walking there?”
    “I’m far too busy with a house full of guests to be looking out of windows seeing who’s out walking, sir. But a good sunny day, an’ it was a very nice spring, most of the guests would be out at one time or another.”
    “Except the Princess Gisela?”
    “Yes sir, ’cept her, poor lady.”
    “The Countess Rostova, for example?”
    “Yes sir,” she said more cautiously. “Liked a good walk. Not a lady to sit inside the house on a fine day.”
    “And after his accident, were the Prince’s meals taken up from the kitchen to his rooms regularly?”
    “Always, sir. He never came out. Sometimes it was no more than a little beef tea, but it was always sent up.”
    “Carried by a maid or a footman?”
    “Maid, sir.”
    “And might such a maid pass another guest on the stairs or on the landing?”
    “Yes sir.”
    “And would automatically stand aside and make way for such a guest?”
    “Of course.”
    “Guests might pass closely enough on the stairs for something to be surreptitiously added to a dish by sleight of hand?”
    “I don’t know, sir. Dishes should be covered on a tray, and a cloth over them as well.”
    “But possible, Mrs. Haines?”
    “I suppose so.”
    “Thank you.” Harvester turned to Rathbone. “Sir Oliver?”
    But Rathbone could make no argument of any value. There was nothing to contradict. He himself had proved that Friedrich was poisoned. Harvester had proved that it could not have been by Gisela. Rathbone could not implicate anyone else. It would be an act of desperation to suggest a name, and looking at the jurors, he was wise enough to know any attempt to lay specific blame could rebound against him. He had not yet irrefutably argued a plot to restore Friedrich, and it would be a plot, because it would automatically depose Waldo. No one was going to admit to it in the present climate. It would be political suicide, and anyone passionate enough about the struggle might sacrifice himself or herself in its cause, but never sacrifice the cause itself, and certainly not to save Zorah.
    Harvester smiled. He had sought to protect Gisela by proving her innocence, and thus Zorah’s guilt of slander. Now he was on the brink of seeing Zorah indicted, at least in the public mind, of murder. And unless Rathbone found some way of proving the contrary, it might be in law as well.
    By the time the day was ended, Henry Rathbone was correct—Zorah herself was close to the shadow of the gibbet.
    As the court rose, press reporters burst through the doors and raced for the hansoms outside, shouting out to drivers to take them to Fleet Street. The crowds craned their necks and surged forward to see Gisela and cheer her, shout out blessings and encouragement, praise and admiration.
    For Zorah, there were cries of hatred. Rotten fruit and vegetables were thrown. More than one stone cracked sharply against the wall behind her, and she made her way, ashen-faced, head high, eyes terrified, to where Rathbone had ordered a coach to wait. He knew he dared not trust to finding a hansom in that enraged throng which was now threatening physical violence.
    “Hang ’er!” someone yelled. “Hang the murderin’ bitch!”
    “’Ang ’er!” the crowd roared. “’Ang ’er! ’Ang ’er by ’er neck! Send ’er ter the rope!”
    It was only with great difficulty and some buffeting that Rathbone managed to guide her to the coach and help her up into it, bruised and breathless.
    She sat close beside him as the coach lurched forward and the horses stepped and jibbed, trying to make their way through the