William Monk 07 - Weighed in the Balance

the outer room, past the clerks in their neat, high-buttoned suits, pens in hand, ledgers open in front of them; and out onto the street. They spoke of trivial matters until they were seated in a quietcorner of a public hostelry and had ordered a meal of cold game pie, vegetables and pickle.
    “I am presently nursing Robert Ollenheim,” Hester said after the first mouthful of pie.
    “Indeed.” Rathbone showed no particular interest, and she realized he had not heard the name before and it had no meaning for him.
    “The Ollenheims knew Prince Friedrich quite well,” she explained, taking a little more pickle. “And, of course, Gisela—and the Countess Rostova too.”
    “Oh. Oh, I see.” Now she had his attention. The color deepened in his cheeks as he realized how easily she had read him. He bent his head and concentrated on eating his pie, avoiding her eyes. “I’m sorry. Perhaps I am a trifle preoccupied. Proof for this case may be harder to find than I had anticipated.” He looked up at her quickly with a slightly rueful smile.
    A buxom woman passed by, her skirts brushing their chairs.
    “Have you learned anything yet from Monk?” she asked.
    He shook his head. “He hasn’t reported back to me so far.”
    “Where is he? In Germany?”
    “No, Berkshire.”
    “Why Berkshire? Is that where Friedrich died … or was killed?”
    His mouth was full. He glanced up at her without bothering to reply.
    “Do you think it might be political?” she said, trying to sound casual, as if the idea had just occurred to her. “To do with German unification rather than a personal crime … if indeed there was a crime?”
    “Quite possibly,” he answered, still concentrating on the pie. “If he returned to his own country to lead the fight against forced unification, he would almost certainly have been obliged to leave Gisela, in spite of the fact that he did not apparently believe so, and that was what she dreaded.”
    “But Gisela loved him so much, and always has done. Noone at all, except Zorah, has ever questioned that,” she pointed out, trying not to sound like a governess with a slow child, but she heard her own voice sounding impatient and a little too distinct. “Even if he returned for a short while without her, if he succeeded in the fight for independence, then he could demand she return also as his queen, and they could not deny him. Does it not seem at least equally possible that someone else would have killed him to prevent him returning, perhaps someone who wanted unification?”
    “Do you mean someone in the pay of one of the other German states?” he asked, considering the question.
    “Possibly. Could the Countess Rostova have made the charge at someone else’s instigation, trusting that they know something they have not yet told her but will reveal when the matter comes to trial?”
    He thought about it for a few moments, reaching for his glass of wine.
    “I doubt it,” he said at last. “Simply because she does not seem like a person who would follow someone else’s lead.”
    “What do you know about the other people who were at the house?”
    He poured her a little more wine. “Very little, as yet. Monk is presently learning what he can. Most of them have gathered together there again, I presume to defend themselves against the charge. It is hardly the sort of thing an ambitious hostess wishes said about her country house party.” A very brief flicker of sardonic amusement crossed his face and was gone almost instantly. “But that is no defense for the Countess Rostova.”
    She studied his features carefully, trying to read in them the complexity of his feelings. She saw the quick intelligence that had always been there, the wit, and a flash of the self-assurance which made him at once attractive and irritating. She also caught a glimmer that it was not only this case itself which caused him concern, but the flicker of doubt as to whether he had been entirely wise to take it in the first place.
    “Perhaps she knows it is murder but has accused the wrong person?” she said aloud, watching him with gentleness which surprised her. “She may not be guilty of either mischief or spite, simply of not having understood the complications of the situation. Or is it possible Gisela was the one who gave him the poison without realizing what it was? She may be technically guilty and morally innocent.” She had forgotten the almost finished pie on her plate. “And when it is