William Monk 07 - Weighed in the Balance

huskily.
    “Perhaps Zorah herself. She is an ardent independent.”
    Rathbone paled.
    “Or anyone else who was of the independent party,” Monk went on. “The worst possibility—”
    “Worst!” Rathbone’s voice was high and sharp with sarcasm. “Worse than my own client?”
    “Yes.” Monk could not withhold the truth.
    Rathbone glared at him with disbelief.
    Monk struck the blow. “Count Lansdorff. The Queen’s brother, acting on her behalf.”
    Rathbone tried to speak, but his voice failed him. His face was paper white.
    “I’m sorry,” Monk said inadequately. “But that is the truth. You can’t fight without knowing it. Opposing Counsel will find it out, if he’s any good at all. She’ll tell him, if nothing else.”
    Rathbone continued to stare at him.
    “Of course she will!” Monk banged the desk impatiently. “Queen Ulrike drove her out in the first place. If Ulrike had been for her, instead of against her, twelve years ago, Gisela might be crown princess now. She knows that. There can’t be any love lost on either side. But this time Gisela held the winning hand. If they wanted Friedrich back, it would be on his terms … which would include his wife.”
    “Would it?” Rathbone was clinging to straws. “You think he would insist, even in these circumstances?”
    “Wouldn’t you?” Monk demanded. “Apart from his love for her, which nobody anywhere questions, what would the world think of him if he abandoned her now? It is an ugly picture of a man setting aside a wife of twelve years, when anyone with brains can see that he doesn’t have to. He can’t plead duty when he has the power… ”
    “Unless Gisela is dead,” Rathbone finished for him. “Yes, all right … I see the logic of it. It is unarguable. The Queen had every reason to want Gisela dead, and none at all to want to kill Friedrich. Oh, God! And the Lord Chancellor told meto handle the defense with suitable discretion.” He started to laugh, but there was a bitterness in it which was close to hysteria.
    “Stop it!” Monk snapped, panic rising inside him too. He was failing again. Rathbone was not only without a defense, he was losing his self-control as well. “It is not your duty to protect the Felzburg royal family. You must defend Zorah Rostova the best way you can … now that you’ve said you will.” His tone conveyed his opinion of that decision. “I assume you have done everything you can to persuade her to withdraw?”
    Rathbone glared at him. “Quite. And failed.”
    “Well, we may at least be able to convince a jury that a reasonable person could believe it was murder,” Monk said, watching Rathbone’s face. “You will be able to put the doctor on the stand and question him pretty rigorously.”
    Rathbone shut his eyes. “An exhumation?” The words came out between stiff lips. “The Lord Chancellor will love that! Are you sure we have grounds for it? We will need something incontrovertible. The authorities will be very loath to do it. Abdicated or not, he was the Crown Prince of a foreign country.”
    “He is buried in England, though,” Monk replied. “He died here. That makes him subject to British law. And he not only abdicated but was exiled. He was no longer a citizen of his own country.” He leaned a little over the desk. “But it may not be necessary actually to exhume the body. Simply the knowledge that we could, and would, might be sufficient to provide some considerably more precise answers from the doctor and from the Wellboroughs and their servants.”
    Rathbone stood up and walked towards the window, his back to the room. He pushed his hands into his pockets, dragging them out of shape uncharacteristically. His body was rigid.
    “I suppose proving that it was murder is about the only course left to me. At least that will show she was not merelymischievous, only grossly mistaken. If it is shown, beyond any doubt, that Gisela is innocent, perhaps she may still apologize. If she doesn’t, there is nothing left I can do to help her. I will have taken on a madwoman as a client.”
    Monk intended to be tactful, and so refrained from comment, but his silence was just as eloquent.
    Rathbone turned from the window, the sun at his back. He had regained some command of himself. His smile was rueful and self-mocking.
    “Then perhaps you had better try Wellborough Hall again and see if you can find something in more detail than before. The only real victory left would be to