"But you said he wouldn't do that."

"No, he wouldn't, not even to save his country." Florent's voice was flat, as if he were trying to be objective, but there was condemnation in it, and looking at him, Monk saw anger in his face.

"That would be a very romantic thing to do," he pointed out. "Both personally and politically."

"And also very lonely," Florent added. "And Friedrich was never one to bear loneliness."

Monk thought about that for several minutes, hearing the hum of laughter and conversation behind them as a group of people came out of the theater and hailed a gondola, and the splash of water as its wake slurped over the steps.

"What are Zorah's feelings?" Monk asked when they had moved away. "For independence or unification? Could this charge she has made be political?"

Florent considered before he replied, and then his voice was thoughtful.

"How? What could it serve now? Unless you think she is trying to suggest someone else is behind Gisela. I can't see that as likely. She never kept any affiliations to anyone at home."

"I meant if Zorah knew Friedrich was murdered, not necessarily by Gisela at all, but felt accusing her would be the best way of bringing the whole issue out into the open," Monk explained.

Florent stared at him. "That is possible," he said very slowly, as if still mulling it over in his mind. "That hadn't occurred to me, but Zorah would do something like that-especially if she thought it was Klaus."

"Would Klaus kill Friedrich?"

"Oh, certainly, if he thought it was the only way to prevent him from going home and leading a resistance which could inevitably result in a war of independence which we would lose, sooner or later."

"So Klaus is for Waldo?"

"Klaus is for himself," Florent said with a smile. "He has very considerable properties on the borders which would be among the first to be sacked if we were invaded."

Monk said nothing. The dark waters of the ca.n.a.l lapped at the marble behind him, and from inside came the sound of laughter.

The autumn days continued warm and mellow. Monk pursued Evelyn because he enjoyed it. Her company was delightful, making every event exciting. And he was flattered because she obviously found him interesting, different from the men she was used to. She asked him probing questions about himself, about London and the darker side of it he knew so well. He told her enough to tantalize her, not enough to bore. Poverty would have repelled her. He mentioned it once and saw the withdrawal in her eyes. The subject required an answering compa.s.sion, even a sense of guilt, and she did not wish either of those emotions to cloud her pleasure.

Also, since she was Klaus's wife, he was able to ask just as many questions of her. In the pursuit of truth he needed to know as much as possible about Klaus and his alliances with either Waldo or any other German power.

He saw her at dinners, theaters and a magnificent ball thrown by one of the expatriate Spanish aristocrats. He danced till he was dizzy and slept until noon the following day.

He drifted in the lazy afternoon along quiet backwaters, hearing little but the lapping of the tide against the walls, lying on his back and seeing the skyline slip past, exquisite towers and facades, lace carved in stone against the blue air, holding Evelyn in his arms.

He saw the Doge's palace, and the Bridge of Sighs, leading to the dungeons from which few returned. He thought of going back to the winter in London, to his own small rooms. They were quite agreeable by most standards, warm and clean and comfortably furnished. His landlady was a good cook and seemed to like him well enough, even if she was not at all certain if she approved of his occupation. But it was hardly Venice. And inquiring into the tragedies of people's lives which led to crime was a very different thing from laughter and dancing and endless charming conversation with beautiful women.

Then, when walking up a flight of stairs, he had a jolt of memory, one of those flashes that came to him now and again, a sense of familiarity without reason. For an instant he had been, not in Venice, but going up the stairs in a great house in London. The laughing voices had been English, and there was someone he knew very well standing near the newel post at the bottom, a man to whom he was immeasurably grateful. It was a feeling of warmth, a comfortable sort of certainty that the friendship required no questioning, no constant effort to keep it alive.

It was so sharp he actually turned and looked behind him, expecting to see...and there the image broke. He could bring no face into focus. All that remained was the knowledge of trust.

He saw the large, rather shambling figure of Klaus von Seidlitz, his face lit by the ma.s.sed candles of the chandeliers, its broken nose more accentuated in the artificial light. The people beyond him were all speaking a medley of languages: German, Italian and French. There was no English anymore.

Monk knew who it was he had expected to see, the man who had been his mentor and friend, and who had since been cheated out of his good name and all his possessions, even his freedom. Monk could not remember what had happened, only the weight of tragedy and his own burning helplessness. It was that injustice which had caused him to leave the world of investment and banking and turn instead to the police.

Had he been good at banking? If he had remained with it, would he now be a wealthy man, able to live like this all the time, instead of only on Zorah's money and on Zorah's business?

What had caused the overwhelming grat.i.tude he felt towards the man who had taught him finance and banking? Why, in the moment when he turned on the stairs, had he felt such a knowledge that he was trusted and that there was an unbreakable bond between himself and this man? It was more than the general relationship he already recalled. This was something specific, an individual act.

It was broken now. He could not even remember what it had been, except the sense of debt. Had their relationship been so unequal? Had he been given, in money, friendship, faith, so much more than he was worth?

Evelyn was talking to him, telling him some story of Venetian history, a doge who had risen to power in a spectacular way, over the ruin of his enemies.

He made an appropriate remark indicating his interest.

She laughed, knowing he had not heard.

But the feeling remained with him all evening, and would not be shaken, that he had owed something profound. The harder he tried to recapture it, the more elusive it was. And when he turned away to think of something else, it was there, touching everything.

The following day, as he drifted along a ca.n.a.l with Evelyn warm beside him, it still crowded his mind.

"Tell me about Zorah," he said abruptly, sitting upright as they moved out of a byway into another of the main ca.n.a.ls. A barge with streamers rippling in the breeze moved across their bow, and they were obliged to wait. Their gondolier rested his weight, balancing with unconscious grace. He made it look as if it were quite natural to stand with the shifting boat beneath him, but Monk knew it must be difficult. He had nearly lost his own footing and pitched into the water more than once.

"Why are you so interested in Zorah?" Evelyn was equally blunt. There was a sharp light in her eye.

Monk lied perfectly easily. "Because she is going to make an extremely unpleasant scene, but it might bring you back to London, and I shall like that, but not if she has the power to hurt you."

"She cannot hurt me," Evelyn said with conviction, smiling at him now. "But you are very charming to worry. People at home don't take her as seriously as you imagine, you know."

"Why not?" He was genuinely curious.

She shrugged, sliding a little closer to him. "Oh, she's always been outrageous. People with any sense will simply think she is trying to draw attention to herself again. She's probably had an affair die on her, and she wants to do something dramatic. She gets bored very easily, you know. And she hates to be ignored."

Thinking of Zorah as he had seen her, he could not readily imagine anyone ignoring her. He could understand finding her intimidating, or embarra.s.sing, but never boring. But perhaps even eccentricity could become tedious in time, if it were contrived for effect rather than springing from genuine character. Was Zorah a poseur after all? He would be surprisingly disappointed if it should prove to be true.

"Do you think so?" he said skeptically, touching her hair, feeling its softness slide through his fingers.

"I have no doubt. Look across the lagoon, William. Do you see the Santa Maria Maggiore over there? Isn't that marvelous?" She pointed across the great stretch of blue-green tide to the distant marble of the domed church which seemed to be floating on the water's face.

He saw it with a sense of unreality. Only the breeze on his skin and the slight movement of the boat made him realize it was not a painted scene.

"Last time Zorah had an affair which went wrong, she shot him," Evelyn said casually.

He stiffened. "What?"

"Last time Zorah had an affair and the man left her, she shot him," Evelyn repeated, twisting around to look up at Monk with wide, pansy-brown eyes.

"And she got away with it?" Monk was incredulous.

"Oh, yes. It was all quite fair. Dueling is accepted in our country." She regarded his amazement with satisfaction. Then she started to laugh. "Of course, it is normally men who duel, and then with swords. I think Zorah chose a pistol deliberately. She used to be quite good with a sword, but she's getting slower as she gets older. And he was quite young, and very good."

"So she shot him!"

"Oh, not dead!" she said happily. "Just in the shoulder. It was all very silly. She was furious because he appeared at a ball and made much play with this other woman, who was very pretty and very young. It all degenerated into a quarrel a few days later. Zorah behaved appallingly, striding into his club wearing boots and smoking a cigar. She challenged him to a duel, and without looking a complete coward, he had to accept, which made him seem a fool when she won." She nestled a little closer to him. "He never really got over it. I'm afraid people laughed. And, of course, the story grew in the telling."

Monk had some sympathy with the man. He had had his fill of overbearing women. It was an extremely unattractive trait. And it required more courage than many have, especially the young, to withstand mockery.

"And you thought she might have made this accusation simply to become the center of attraction again?" he asked, smiling down at her and tracing his finger over the curve of her cheek and neck.

"Not entirely." She was smiling. "But she has little compunction where she feels strongly."

"Against Gisela?"

"And against unification," she agreed. "She spends very little time at home, but she is a patriot at heart. She loves individuality, character, extremes, and the right to choose. I doubt she will see the benefits of trade and protection of a larger state. It is unromantic, but then most people lead very unromantic lives."

"And you?" he asked, kissing her cheek and her throat. Her skin was soft and warm in the sunlight.

"I am very practical," she said seriously. "I know that beauty costs money; you cannot have great parties, lovely works of art or theater, horse races, operas and b.a.l.l.s if all your money is going into arms and munitions to fight a war." She pushed her fingers gently through his hair. "I know land gets trampled, villages destroyed, crops burned and men killed when a country is invaded. There is no point whatever in fighting against the inevitable. I would rather pretend it was what I wanted all along and give in to it gracefully."

"Is it inevitable?" he asked.

"Probably. I don't know a great deal about politics. Only what I overhear." She pulled back a little and stared up at him. "If you want to know more, you'll have to come home with me when we go, next week. Perhaps you should?" There was laughter in her face. "Discover if there was really a plot to bring Friedrich back to the throne and someone murdered him to prevent it!"

"What a good idea." He kissed her again. "I think that will be absolutely necessary."

.6.

RATHBONE SEIZED THE LETTER Simms was holding and tore it open. It was from Venice, and that had to mean Monk. It was not as long as he had hoped. Simms was holding and tore it open. It was from Venice, and that had to mean Monk. It was not as long as he had hoped.

Dear Rathbone,I believe I have exhausted the opportunity to gain information here in Italy. Everyone speaks well of the devotion between Friedrich and Gisela, even those who did not care for them, or specifically for her. The further I examine the evidence, the less does there appear to be any motive for her to have killed him. She had everything to lose. No one believes he would have left her, even to go home and lead the fight for independence.However, it does seem possible that others may have wished him dead for political reasons. Klaus von Seidlitz is an obvious choice, since apparently he had personal and financial interests in unification, which Friedrich's return might have jeopardized. Although no one seems to think Friedrich would have gone without Gisela, and the Queen would not have had Gisela back even if it were to save the country's independence. I should like to know why the Queen nurtures such a pa.s.sionate hatred after more than a decade. I am told it is out of her character to allow any personal emotion to stand in the way of her devotion to duty and patriotism.I am going to Felzburg to see if I can learn more there. It may all hang on whether there actually was a plot to bring Friedrich back or not. Naturally, I shall let you know anything I discover, whether it is to Zorah's benefit or not. At present I fear it may well be of no service to her at all.What I hear of her is only partially to her credit. If you can persuade her to withdraw her accusation, that may be the greatest service you can do for her, as her legal adviser. If Friedrich was murdered, and that does seem possible, it may have been by one of a number of people, but they do not include Gisela.I wish you luck.Monk Rathbone swore and threw the letter down on his desk. Perhaps it was foolish, but he had hoped Monk would discover something which would show a new aspect of Gisela, perhaps a lover, a younger man, a brief obsession which had led her to long for her freedom. Or perhaps Friedrich had discovered her indiscretion and threatened to make it public, and leave her.

But Monk was right. It was almost certainly a political crime, if there were a crime at all, and Zorah's accusation was motivated more by jealousy than any basis in fact. The only legal advice he could honestly give her was to withdraw her charge and apologize unreservedly. Perhaps if she pleaded distress at Friedrich's death, and deep disappointment that he could not lead the battle for independence, there might be some compa.s.sion towards her. Damages might be moderated. Even so, she would almost certainly have ruined herself.

"Apologize?" she said incredulously when Rathbone was shown into her room with its exotic shawl and red leather sofa. "I will not!" The weather was considerably colder than when he had first come, and there was a huge fire roaring in the grate, flames leaping, throwing a red light into the bearskins on the floor and giving the room a barbaric look, curiously warming.

"You have no other reasonable choice," he said vehemently. "We have found no proof whatever of your charge. We are left with suppositions, which may well be true, but we cannot demonstrate them, and even if we could, they are no defense."

"Then I shall have to make an unreasonable choice," she said flatly. "Do I a.s.sume this is your very proper way of retreating from my case?" Her eyes were level and cold, a flare of challenge in them, and acute disappointment.

Rathbone was irritated, and if he were honest, a little stung. "If you do a.s.sume it, madam, you do so wrongly," he snapped. "It is my duty to advise you as to facts and my considered opinion as to what they may mean. Then I shall take your instructions, providing they do not require me to say or do anything that is contrary to the law."

"How terribly English." There was both laughter and contempt in her face. "It must make you feel impossibly safe-and comfortable. You live in the heart of an empire which stretches all 'round the world." She was angry now. "Name a continent and your British redcoats have fought there, carried by your British navy, subdued the natives and taught them Christianity, whether they wished to learn it or not, and instructed their princes how to behave like Englishmen."

What she said was true, and it startled him and made him feel suddenly artificial, violated and rather pompous.

Her voice was charged with emotion, deep and husky in her throat.

"You've forgotten what it is like to be frightened," she went on. "To look at your neighbors and wonder when they are going to swallow you. Oh, I know you read about it in your history books! You learn about Napoleon and King Philip of Spain-and how you were on the brink of invasion, with your backs against the wall. But you beat them, didn't you! You always won." Her body was tight under its silk gown, and her face twisted with anger. "Well, we won't win, Sir Oliver. We shall lose. It may be immediately, it may be in ten years, or even twenty, but in the end we shall lose. It is the manner of our losing that we may be able to control, that's all. Have you the faintest idea what that feels like? I think not!"

"On the contrary," Rathbone said sardonically, although his words were only a defense against his own misjudgment and vulnerability. "I am imagining losing very vividly, and I am about to experience it in the courtroom." He knew as he said it that his own small personal defeat did not compare with the defeat of nations, the loss of centuries-old ident.i.ty and concepts of freedom, however illusionary.

"You've given up!" she said with a lift of surprise which was contempt rather than question.

In spite of determining not to be, he was provoked. He would not let her see it. "I have faced reality," he contradicted. "That is a different side of the same coin. We have no alternative. It lies with me to tell you the facts and give you the best chance I can; and with you to choose."

Her eyebrows rose sharply. "Whether I surrender before the battle or fight until I may be beaten? What a nice irony. That is exactly the dilemma my country faces. For my country I think I do not choose a.s.similation, even though we cannot win. For myself I choose war."

"You cannot win either, madam," he said reluctantly. He hated having to tell her. She was stubborn, foolish, arrogant and self-indulgent, but she had courage and, after her own fashion, a kind of honor. Above all, she cared pa.s.sionately. She would be hurt, and that knowledge pained him.

"Are you saying I should withdraw my charge, say that I lied, and ask that creature's pardon for it?" she demanded.

"You will have to eventually. Do you want to do it privately now, or publicly, when she proves you incapable of supporting your charge?"

"It would not be private," she pointed out. "Gisela would make sure everyone knew or there would be no purpose. Not that it matters. I will not withdraw. She murdered him. The fact that you cannot find the proof of it alters nothing."

He was galled that she should place the responsibility upon him.

"It alters everything in the law!" he retorted. "What can I say to make you understand?" He heard desperation rising in his voice. "It seems very likely that we may be able to give serious evidence to the theory that Friedrich was murdered. His symptoms are closer to yew poison than internal bleeding. We may even be able to force an exhumation of his body and an autopsy." He saw her wince of distaste with satisfaction. "But even if that proves us correct, Gisela was the one person who had no access to yew leaves. She never left his side. For heaven's sake, ma'am, if you believe he was a.s.sa.s.sinated for some political reason, say so! Don't sacrifice your own reputation by making a charge against the one person who cannot be guilty, simply in order to force the matter to justice!"

"What do you suggest?" she asked, her voice tense, cracking a little under the strain of effort to be light. "That I accuse Klaus von Seidlitz? But he is not guilty!"

She was still standing, the firelight reflecting red on her skirt. It was growing dark outside.

"You know it was not Klaus. You have no proof it was Gisela." Hope suddenly lifted inside him. "Then withdraw the charge, and we will investigate until we have enough evidence, then we'll take it to the police! Tell the truth! Say you believe he was murdered but you don't know by whom. You named Gisela simply to make someone listen to you and investigate. Apologize to her. Say you now realize you were wrong to suspect her, and you hope she will forgive your error of judgment and join with everyone to discover the truth. She can hardly refuse to do that. Or she will indeed look as if she may have colluded. I will draw up a statement for you."

"You will not!" she said fiercely, her eyes hot and stubborn. "We shall go to trial."

"But we don't have to!" Why was the woman so obtuse? She was going to cause such unnecessary pain to herself! "Monk will learn everything he can-"

"Good!" She swung around and stared towards the window. "Then let him do it by the time we meet in court, and he can testify for me."

"That may not be in time..."

"Then tell him to hurry!"

"Withdraw the charge against Gisela. Then the trial will not take place. She may ask damages, but I can plead on your behalf so that-"

She jerked back to glare at him. "Are you refusing to take my instructions. Sir Oliver? That is the right term, is it not? Instructions."

"I am trying to advise you-" he said desperately.

"And I have heard your advice and declined it," she cut across him. "I do not seem able to make you understand that I believe Gisela killed Friedrich and I am not going to accuse someone else as a device. A device, I may add, which I do not believe would work."

"But she did not kill him." His voice was getting louder and more strident than he wished, but she was trying him to exasperation. "You cannot prove something which is not true! And I will not be party to trying."

"I believe it is true," she said inflexibly, her face set, body rigid. "And it is not your calling to be judge as well as counsel, is it?"

He took a deep breath. "It is my obligation to tell you the truth...which is that if Friedrich was indeed murdered, by the use of yew leaves, then Gisela is the one person whose actions and whereabouts are accounted for at all times, and she could not have killed him."

She stared at him defiantly, her chin high, her eyes wide. But she had no answer to his logic. It beat her, and she had to acknowledge it.

"If you wish to be excused, Sir Oliver, then I excuse you. You need not consider your honor stained. I seem to have asked of you more than is just."

He felt an overwhelming relief, and was ashamed of it "What will you do?" he asked gently, the tension and the sense of doom skipping away from him, but in their place was a whisper of failure, as if some opportunity had been lost, and even a sort of loneliness.