William Monk 07 - Weighed in the Balance

narrow wooden door which was half open.
    Monk was cold only because he was tired, but he was glad to go up into the warmth and brightness of a wide entrance hall, marble floored but with thick Eastern carpets giving it a luxury and sense of immediate comfort.
    Stephan followed him up, and the servant could be heard calling for a footman to fetch the cases.
    Monk was shown his room in Stephan’s house, which was palatial, high-ceilinged, hung with dramatic tapestries now faded to earth tones of great beauty. Deep windows looked south onto the larger canal, where the light still played on the water, sending reflected waves rippling across the ceiling.
    He walked straight over, ignoring the bed and the chairs, and leaned out as far as he could through the stone embrasure, staring down. There were still at least a score of barges and gondolas plying their slow way up and down the canal. On the far side, the carved and pillared facades were lit by torchflare, making the marble look rose and rust and the windows black sockets through which someone else might be staring, just as he was, from a darkened room, utterly enthralled.
    Over dinner in a larger chamber, looking onto the Ca’ Grande, he forced his mind to the purpose for which he was there.
    “I need to know a great deal more about the political alliances and interests of the people who were at the Wellboroughs’ when Friedrich died,” he said to Stephan.
    “Of course,” Stephan agreed. “I can tell you, but I imagine you need to observe for yourself. My word is hardly evidence, and certainly not my opinion.” He leaned back and touched his napkin to his lips after the shellfish of the first course. “Fortunately, there are all sorts of occasions within the next few days to which I can take you and where you will meet the sort of people you need to.” His voice was full of optimism, but there was anxiety shadowing his eyes.
    Again Monk wondered why he was so loyal to Zorah and what he knew of Friedrich’s death that moved him to take so much trouble trying to prove it had been murder. Was he part of the story or only an onlooker? What were his own loyalties? What would he lose or gain if Gisela were proved guilty—or if Zorah were? Perhaps Monk had been rash to have taken Stephan so completely at his word. It was a mistake he did not often make.
    “Thank you,” he accepted. “I should be grateful for your advice and your opinion. You know these people far better than I ever will. And while certainly your view is not evidence, it may be the wisest counsel I shall have and the best guide towards finding proof other people will be obliged to believe, however much they may prefer not to.”
    Stephan said nothing for quite some time. He looked at Monk at first with surprise, and then curiosity, and finally with a certain amusement, as if at last he had some measure of him in his mind.
    “Of course,” he conceded.
    “What do you believe happened?” Monk said bluntly.
    The light was almost gone from the sky outside. There was only the occasional reflection of a drifting torch on the windows, and then more dimly on the water and back again on the glass. The air smelled of damp and salt, and in the background to everything there was always the constant murmur of the tide.
    “I believe the atmosphere was right for murder,” Stephan said guardedly, watching Monk’s face as he spoke. “There was much to win or lose. People can convince themselves of all sorts of moralities where patriotism is concerned.”
    A servant brought a dish of baked fish and vegetables, and Monk accepted a generous portion.
    “Ordinary values of life or death can be set aside,” Stephan went on. “Almost as they can in war. You say to yourself, ’This is for my country, for my people. I commit a lesser evil that a greater good may be obtained.’ ” He was still watching Monk closely. “All through history people have done that, and depending on the outcome, they are either crowned or hanged. And history afterwards will call them hero one day and traitor another. Success is the common judge. It takes a rare man to set his values on other standards.”
    Monk was caught by surprise. He had thought Stephan shallower, less thoughtful of the motives of those he seemed totreat with such casual friendship. His eye was keener than Monk had supposed. Again, he should not have been so quick to judge.
    “Then I had better learn a great deal more,” Monk replied. “But a political