William Monk 07 - Weighed in the Balance

perhaps the next day,” Monk answered with regret.
    Evelyn looked at him, her brown eyes wide. “I suppose you have to go?”
    “Yes,” he replied. “I have a moral obligation to a friend. He is in considerable difficulty. I must be there when his time of crisis comes.”
    “Can you help him?” It was almost a challenge in her voice.
    Beyond her a woman laughed, and a man proposed a toast to something or other.
    “I doubt it, but I can try,” Monk replied. “At the very least I can be beside him.”
    “What purpose is there, if you can’t help?” Evelyn was looking very directly at him, and there was an edge of ridicule in her voice.
    He was puzzled. It seemed a pointless question. It wassimply a matter of loyalty. One did not leave people to suffer alone.
    “What sort of trouble is he in?” she pressed.
    “He made a misjudgment,” he replied. “It seems as if it will cost him very dearly.”
    She shrugged. “Then it is his own fault. Why should you suffer for it?”
    “Because he is my friend.” The answer was too simple to need elaboration.
    “That’s ridiculous!” She was half amused, half angry. “Wouldn’t you rather be here with us—with me? At the weekend we go to our lodge in the forest. You could come. Klaus will be busy with his Prussians most of the time, but you shall find plenty to do. We ride in the forest, have picnics and wonderful nights by the fire. It is marvelously beautiful. You can forget the rest of the world.”
    He was tempted. He could be with Evelyn, laugh, hold her in his arms, watch her beauty, feel her warmth. Or he could return to London and tell Rathbone that if Friedrich had been the intended victim, then Gisela could not have killed him, but Klaus could have. However, it was far more likely that actually it was Gisela who was meant to be the one who died, and it was only mischance that it had been Friedrich, which doubly proved her innocence. Lord Wellborough could have been guilty, or someone acting for Brigitte or, far worse, for the Queen. Or Zorah could have done it herself.
    He could attend the trial and watch Rathbone struggle and lose, watch helplessly as the lawyer damaged his reputation and lost all he had so carefully built in his professional life.
    Of course, Hester would be there. She would be trying every last instant there was, racking her brain for anything to do to help, lying awake at night, worrying and hurting for him.
    And when it was all over, even if he was criticized, ridiculed and disgraced for his foolishness, his alliance against the establishment, she would be there to stand beside him. She wouldhelp to defend him to others, even if in private she castigated him with her tongue. She would urge him to get up and fight again, face the world regardless of its anger or contempt. The greater his need, the more certainly would she be there.
    He recalled with a surge of warmth how she had knelt in front of him in his own worst hour, when he was terrified and appalled, how she had pleaded with him, and browbeaten him into the courage to keep on struggling. Even at the very darkest moment, when she must have faced the possibility of his guilt, it had never entered her mind to abandon him. Her loyalty went beyond trust in innocence or in victory, it was the willingness to be there in defeat, even in one which was deserved.
    She had none of Evelyn’s magic, her beauty or glorious charm. But there was something about her clean courage and her undeviating honor which now seemed infinitely desirable—like ice-cold pure water when one is cloyed with sugar and parched with thirst.
    “Thank you,” he said stiffly. “I am sure it is delightful, but I have a duty in London … and friends … for whom I care.” He bowed with almost Germanic formality, touching his heels. “Your company has been utterly delightful, Baroness, but it is time I returned to reality. Good night … and good-bye.”
    Her face dropped slack with amusement, then tightened into a blazing, incredulous rage.
    Monk walked back towards the staircase and the way out.

8
    O
N THE LONG
and tedious journey home, Monk turned over in his mind what he could tell Rathbone that could be of any service to him in the case. He reviewed it in his mind over and over again, but no matter how many times he did, there was nothing of substance that could be used to defend Zorah Rostova. Whichever of the couple had been the intended victim, there was no way in which Gisela could be