William Monk 07 - Weighed in the Balance

of us do.”
    “I’m going to leave personal judgments and try to apply my intelligence to reasoning it through.” Rathbone reached for the poker and prodded the fire. It settled with a crackle, and he carefully placed a few more coals onto it, using the brass fire tongs. “My judgments of people in this case do not seem to have been very perceptive.” He colored very slightly. “I reallybelieved in the beginning that Zorah was right and that somehow or other Gisela had poisoned him.”
    Monk sat down opposite Rathbone, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. “Let us consider what we know beyond question to be true and what we can deduce from it. Maybe we have been assuming things we should not have. Reduce to the unarguable, and let us start again from there.”
    Rathbone responded obediently. It was another mark of his despair that he did not resent Monk’s giving him orders. “Friedrich fell and was injured very seriously,” he said. “He was treated by Gallagher.”
    Monk ticked the points off on his fingers as Rathbone outlined them.
    “He was cared for by Gisela,” Rathbone went on. “No one else came or went apart from servants—and one visit from the Prince of Wales.”
    “He appeared to be recovering,” Monk interposed. “At least, as far as anyone could tell. They must all have thought so.”
    “Important,” Rathbone agreed. “It must have seemed as if the plan were viable again.”
    “But it wasn’t,” Hester contradicted. “His leg was broken in three places … shattered, Gallagher said. At that point Gisela had already won. He wouldn’t have served the independence party except as a figurehead, and they needed a lot more than that. An invalid, dependent, in pain, easily tired, would be no use to them.”
    They both stared at her, then turned slowly to stare at each other.
    Rathbone looked beaten. Even Monk looked suddenly exhausted.
    “I’m sorry,” Hester said very quietly. “But it’s true. At the time he was killed, the only ones it makes sense should want him dead are the people of the independence party, so that they could legitimately find a new leader.”
    They remained in silence for minutes. The fire burned up, and Monk rose and took a step away from it.
    “But no one was alone with him, apparently,” he said finally. “The servants were there coming and going. The doors were not locked. Everyone agrees Gisela never left the suite.”
    “Then the food was poisoned between the kitchen and the bedroom,” Rathbone said. “We knew that before. It may have been poisoned with yew. We knew that also. It could have been anyone in the house, except for the difficulty of knowing how they prepared it.”
    “Unless they brought it with them,” Monk continued. “They might fairly safely assume that a large country house like Wellborough Hall would have a yew tree, either on the grounds or in a nearby churchyard. Unless if Rolf brought it with him, intending to use it if Friedrich refused … and then lay the blame on Gisela?”
    “Only it is all going wrong,” Hester said quietly. “Because the court is insisting on having the chain of evidence, and that is going to lead back to Rolf … or Brigitte … or Florent or Zorah … and it could not have been Gisela! He is not nearly as clever, or as thorough, as he supposes.”
    They sat in silence for several more minutes, Rathbone staring into the fire, Monk frowning in thought, Hester looking from one to another of them, knowing the fear was only just beneath the surface, as it was in her, tight and sick and very real.
    They were engaging their minds in reason, but the knowledge of failure, and its cost, was ready to overwhelm them the moment they let go of that thin, bright light of logic.
    “I think I shall go and see Zorah Rostova,” she said, rising to her feet. “I would like to talk to her myself.”
    “Feminine intuition?” Monk mocked.
    “Curiosity. But if you have both met her, and not had your judgment addled, why shouldn’t I? I can hardly do worse.”
    *   *   *
    She found Zorah in her extraordinary room with the shawl pinned on the wall, a roaring fire sending flames halfway up the chimney and reflecting on the blood red of the sofa. The bearskins on the floor looked almost alive.
    Zorah remained seated where she was and surveyed Hester with only the slightest interest. “Who did you say you were? You mentioned Sir Oliver’s name to my maid, otherwise I would not have let you