William Monk 07 - Weighed in the Balance

face that he had been able to accomplish something to help Rathbone, her belief in him that he could, and his own now so familiar knowledge that he had not.
    “Gisela did not kill Friedrich,” he said quietly. “It was not possible physically, and she had even less reason when it happened than ever before. I can’t help Rathbone.” As he said it his fury was raw in his voice. He loathed Rathbone for being vulnerable, for being so stupid as to put himself in this position, and for hoping that Monk could get him out of it. He was angry with Hester for expecting the impossible of him, and also for caring so much about Rathbone. He could see it in her face, the endless ability to be hurt.
    She looked stunned. It was several seconds before she found words to say anything.
    “Was it really just—just his accident?” She shook her head a little, as if to brush away an annoyance, but her face was creased with anxiety and her eyes were frightened. “Isn’t there anything which can help Oliver? Some sort of excuse for the Countess? If she believed it … there must have been a reason. I mean—” She stopped.
    “Of course she had a reason,” he said impatiently. “But not necessarily anything she would benefit from announcing in court. It looks more and more like an old jealousy she was never able to forget or forgive, and she had taken this moment of vulnerability to try to settle an old score. That is a reason, but it is an ugly and very stupid one.”
    Temper flashed in her face. “Are you saying he died by accident, and that is all you have learned? It took you two weeks, in two countries, to discover that? And I assume you used Zorah’s money to pay your way?”
    “Of course I used Zorah’s money,” he retorted. “I went in her cause. I can only discover what is there, Hester, just as you can. Do you cure every patient?” His voice was rising with his own hurt. “Do you give back your wages if they die? Perhaps you’d better give them back to these people, since you say their son will never walk again.”
    “This is stupid,” she said, turning away from him in exasperation. “If you cannot think of anything more sensible to say,you had better go!” She swung to face him again. “No!” She took a deep breath and lowered her voice again. “No, please don’t. What we think of each other is immaterial. We can quarrel later. Now we must think of Oliver. If this comes to trial and he has nothing with which to defend her, or at least offer an explanation and excuse, he is going to face a crisis in his reputation and career. I don’t know if you have seen any of the newspapers lately, I don’t suppose you have, but they are very strongly in support of Gisela and already painting Zorah as a wicked woman who is bent not only on injuring an innocent and bereaved woman but also on attacking the good qualities in society in general.”
    She moved forwards, closer to him, her wide skirt catching on the chairs. “Several of them have already suggested a very lurid life, that she has taken foreign lovers and practiced all sort of things which are better left to the imagination.”
    He should have thought of that, but somehow he had not. He had seen it only in political terms. Of course, there would be ugly speculation about Zorah and her life and her motives. Sexual jealousy was the first thing that would leap to many people’s minds.
    It was on his tongue to tell Hester that there was nothing anyone could do to prevent that, but he saw the hurt and the hope in her face. It caught at him as if it had been his own, taking him by surprise. It had nothing to do with her life, and yet she was absorbed in it. Her whole mind was bent towards fighting the injustice—or, in Rathbone’s case, even if it should prove just, of trying to prevent the wound and do something to ease the harm.
    “There is quite a strong possibility he was murdered,” he said grudgingly. “Not by Gisela, poor woman, but by one of the political factions.” He could not resist adding, “Perhaps the Queen’s brother.”
    She winced but refused to be crushed. “Can we prove he was murdered?” she said quickly. She used the plural as if shewere as much involved as he. “It might help. After all, it would show that she was mistaken as to the person who did it but that she was not imagining there really was a crime. And only her accusation has brought it to light.” Her voice was getting faster and rising in tone. “If she had