William Monk 07 - Weighed in the Balance

have they declined you as their leader?” Rathbone inquired.
    Rolf looked at him as if he had spoken in an unintelligible language.
    Rathbone moved a little across the floor, to command his attention again.
    “Is your sister, Queen Ulrike, of that conviction, Count Lansdorff?”
    “She is.”
    “And your nephew, Crown Prince Waldo?”
    Rolf’s face remained almost expressionless, only an increased rigidity in his shoulders betraying his feelings.
    “He is not.”
    “Naturally, or he would lead the party and Friedrich’s return would not be necessary. I understand the health of His Majesty the King gives cause for great concern?”
    “The King is extremely ill. He is failing,” Rolf agreed.
    Rathbone turned again, facing slightly the other way.
    “Your motives for wishing Prince Friedrich’s return are very easily understandable, sir. Indeed, I imagine almost everyman or woman here could sympathize with you and, given the same circumstances, would probably do as you have done. What is far harder to understand—in fact, for me it is impossible—is why your hatred of Princess Gisela ran so deeply as to make her abandonment a condition of Prince Friedrich’s return. It does not seem to make sense.”
    He turned his head to glance momentarily at Gisela. “She is a charming and attractive woman, and has proved an excellent wife to Prince Friedrich—loyal, dignified, witty, one of the most successful hostesses in Europe. There has never been a word even whispered against her reputation in any sense. Why were you prepared to jeopardize your battle for independence simply to see that she did not return home with her husband?”
    Rolf stood stiffly in the box. He did not move his hands from his sides but remained at attention.
    “Sir, the situation is an old one, of some twelve-odd years. You know nothing of it except the last few months. For you to assume that you could possibly understand it is ridiculous.”
    “I need to understand it,” Rathbone assured him. “The court needs to.”
    “You do not!” Rolf contradicted. “It has nothing to do with Friedrich’s death or with the Countess Rostova’s slander.”
    The judge looked at Rolf, a slight frown creasing his forehead, but when he spoke his voice was still infinitely polite.
    “You are not the jury in this matter, Count Lansdorff. You are in an English court now, and I will decide what is necessary and what is not, according to the law. And those twelve gentlemen”—he indicated the jury—“will deliberate and decide what they believe to be true. I cannot force you to answer Sir Oliver’s questions. I can only advise you that should you fail to do so, you will invite an adverse opinion as to the reason for your silence. And murder is a capital crime. This particular murder was committed on English soil and is subject to English law, whoever the man or woman who committed it may be.”
    Rolf looked ashen.
    “I have no idea who killed Friedrich or why. Ask your questions.” He did not add “and be damned,” but it was in his face.
    “Thank you, my lord,” Rathbone acknowledged, then turned back to Rolf.
    “Was the Princess Gisela aware of your negotiations, Count Lansdorff?”
    “Not from me. Whether Friedrich told her or not, I don’t know.”
    “You could not deduce from her behavior?” Rathbone said with surprise.
    “She is not a woman whose thoughts or feelings are readily visible in her expression,” Rolf answered coldly and without even glancing towards Gisela. “Whether her continued”—he searched for the word—“enjoyment of the party was due to ignorance of our mission or to confidence that Friedrich would never leave her, I have no way of knowing.”
    “Had you ever joined such a party before, Count Lansdorff?”
    “Not if Friedrich was there, no. I am the Queen’s brother. Friedrich chose to go into exile rather than fulfill his destiny.” The damnation was complete in his expression and in the tone of his hard, precise voice.
    “So we may deduce that Gisela believed Friedrich would not leave her?”
    “You may deduce what you please, sir.”
    Harvester smiled bleakly. Rathbone caught it out of the corner of his eye. He tried another approach.
    “Were you empowered to make any decisions regarding terms or concessions to Prince Friedrich, Count Lansdorff? Or did you have to refer back to the Queen?”
    “There were no concessions to make,” Rolf answered with a frown. “I thought I had made that plain,