William Monk 07 - Weighed in the Balance

party?”
    She sighed. “No. Stephan von Emden was there as well. He is from one of the old families. And Florent Barberini. His mother is distantly related to the king, and his father is Venetian. There is no purpose in your asking me what they think, because I don’t know. But Stephan is an excellent friend to me, and will assist you in my case. He has already promised as much.”
    “Good!” he said. “Because, believe me, you will need all the friends and all the assistance you can acquire!”
    She saw that she had annoyed him.
    “I’m sorry,” she said gravely, her eyes suddenly soft and rueful. “I spoke too bluntly, didn’t I? I only wanted to make you understand. No, that is not true.” She gave a little grunt of anger. “I am furious over what they would do to Brigitte, and I desire you to come out of your masculine complacency and understand it too. I like you, Sir Oliver. You have a certain aplomb, an ice-cool Englishness about you which is most attractive.” She smiled suddenly and radiantly.
    He swore under his breath. He hated such open flattery, and he hated still more the acute state of pleasure it gave him.
    “You wish to know what happened?” she went on imperturbably, settling a little back in her seat. “It was the third day after the last of us arrived. We were out riding, rather hard, I admit. We went across the fields and took several hedges at a gallop. Friedrich’s horse fell and he was thrown.” A shadow of distress crossed her face. “He landed badly. The horse scrambled to its feet again, and Friedrich’s leg was caught in the stirrup iron. He was dragged several yards before the animal was secured so we could free him.”
    “Gisela was there?” he interrupted.
    “No. She doesn’t ride if she can avoid it, and then only at a walk in some fashionable park or parade. She is a woman for art and artifice, not for nature. Her pursuits all have a very serious purpose and are social, not physical.” If she was trying to keep the contempt out of her voice she did not succeed.
    “So she could not conceivably have caused the accident?”
    “No. So far as I am aware, it was truly mischance, not aided by anyone.”
    “You took Friedrich back to the house?”
    “Yes. It seemed the only thing to do.”
    “Was he conscious?”
    “Yes. Why?”
    “I can’t think of any reason. He must have been in great pain.”
    “Yes.” Now there was unmistakable admiration in her face. “Friedrich may have been a fool in some ways, but he never lacked physical courage. He bore it very well.”
    “You called a doctor immediately, of course?”
    “Naturally. Gisela was distraught, before you ask me.” A faint smile flickered across her mouth. “She never left his side. But that was not unusual. They were seldom apart at any time. That seemed to be his wish as much as hers, perhaps more. Certainly no one could fault her as the most diligent and attentive nurse.”
    Rathbone returned the smile. “Well, if you could not, I doubt anyone else will.”
    She held up one finger delicately. “Touché, Sir Oliver.”
    “And how did she murder him?”
    “Poison, of course.” Her eyebrows rose in surprise that he should have needed to ask. “What did you imagine, that I thought she took a pistol from the gun room and shot him? She wouldn’t know how to load it. She would barely know which end to point.” Again the contempt was there. “And Dr. Gallagher might be a fool, but not so big a one as to miss a bullet wound in a corpse that is supposed to have died of a fall from a horse.”
    “Doctors have been known to miss a broken bone in the neck before now,” Rathbone said, justifying himself. “Or a suffocation when a person was ill anyway and they did not expect him to make an easy recovery.”
    She pulled a face. “I daresay. I cannot imagine Gisela suffocating him, and she certainly wouldn’t know how to break a bone in his neck. That sounds like an assassin’s trick.”
    “So you deduce that she poisoned him?” he said quietly, making no reference to how she might know anything about assassins.
    She stopped, staring at him with steady, brilliant eyes.
    “Too perceptive, Sir Oliver,” she conceded with a sting. “Yes, I deduce it. I have no proof. If I had, I would not have accused her publicly, I would simply have gone to the police. She would have been charged, and all this would not have been necessary.”
    “Why is it necessary?” he said bluntly.
    “The cause of