William Monk 07 - Weighed in the Balance

greedy, vain and cruel, but she is not a fool.” Her face was filled with deep anger and a terrible sense of loss, as if something precious had slipped away through her fingers, even as she watched it and strove desperately to cling on. Her features, which had seemed so beautiful to him when he first came in, were now too strong, her eyes too clever, her mouth pinched hard with pain.
    He rose to his feet.
    “Thank you for your frank answers, Countess Rostova. I will go back to Mr. Rathbone and consider the next steps to be taken.”
    It was only after taking his leave, when he was outside in the sun, that he remembered he had omitted Rathbone’s new title.
    “I can’t imagine why you took the case!” he said abruptly to Rathbone when he reported to
him
in his office an hour later. The clerks had all gone home, and the dying light was golden in the windows. Outside in the street the traffic was teeming, carriage wheels missing each other by inches, drivers impatient, horses hot and tired and the air sharp with droppings.
    Rathbone was already on edge, aware of his own misjudgment.
    “Is that your way of saying you feel it is beyond your ability to investigate?” he said coldly.
    “If I had meant that, I would have said it,” Monk replied,sitting down unasked. “When did you ever know me to be indirect?”
    “You mean tactful?” Rathbone’s eyebrows shot up. “Never. I apologize. It was an unnecessary question. Will you investigate her claim?”
    That was more bluntly put than Monk had expected. It caught him a little off guard.
    “How? Unless, of course, you have formed some opinion that the original fall was contrived?”
    Monk went on, “Even she is quite certain it was exactly what it seemed. She thinks Gisela poisoned him, although she doesn’t know how, or with what, and has only a very general idea why.”
    Rathbone smiled, showing his teeth only slightly. “She has you rattled, Monk, or you would not be misquoting her so badly. She knows very precisely why. Because there was a strong possibility Friedrich might return home without her, divorcing her for his country’s sake. She would cease to be one of the world’s most glamorous lovers, titled, rich and envied, and would instead become an abandoned ex-wife, dependent, her erstwhile friends pitying her. It doesn’t take a great leap of the imagination to understand her emotions faced with those alternatives.”
    “You think she killed him?” Monk was surprised, not that Rathbone should believe it, that was easy enough, but that he should be prepared to defend that belief in court. At the very kindest, it was foolish; at the unkindest, he had taken leave of his wits.
    “I think it is highly probable that someone did,” Rathbone corrected coldly, leaning back in his chair, his face hard. “I would like you to go to Lord and Lady Wellborough’s country home, where you will be introduced by Baron Stephan von Emden, a friend of the Countess who will know who you are.” He pursed his lips. “You will be able to learn all that is now possible of the events after the accident. You will have tomake the opportunity to question the servants and observe the people who were there at the time, with the exception, of course, of the Princess Gisela. Apparently this accusation has brought them together again, not unnaturally, I suppose.
    “I hope you will be able to deduce at least who had opportunity to have poisoned the Prince, and if anything whatever was observed that could be used in evidence. You will also question the doctor who attended the Prince and wrote the death certificate.”
    From outside in the street the noise of the traffic drifted up through the half-open window. In the office beyond the door there was silence.
    There were many reasons to accept the case: Rathbone needed help urgently, and it would give Monk considerable satisfaction to be in a position where for once Rathbone was in his debt. Monk had no other cases of any importance at the moment and would value the occupation and the income from it. But most of all, his curiosity was so sharp he could feel it as distinctly as an itching of the skin.
    “Yes, of course I will,” he said with a smile, perhaps more wolfish than friendly.
    “Good,” Rathbone accepted. “I am obliged. I shall give you Baron von Emden’s address and you can introduce yourself to him. Perhaps you could go to Wellborough Hall as his manservant?”
    Monk was appalled. “What?”
    “Perhaps you