"Go?"

"To the trial." She could not give up. Rathbone's long, meticulous face, with its humorous eyes and precise mouth, was very sharp in her mind. She had never seen him doubting himself before. He had confronted defeat for others with resolution and skill and unflagging strength. But for himself it was different. She did not doubt his courage, but she knew that underneath the habitual composure he was profoundly disconcerted. He had discovered qualities in himself he did not care for, vulnerabilities, a certain complacency which had been shattered.

"Will he not?" she went on. "After all, it concerns not only the life and death of people you knew quite well but perhaps the murder of a man who could once have been your king."

Dagmar stopped even pretending to sew. The fabric slipped out of her hands.

"If anyone had told me three months ago that this could happen, I would have said they were ridiculous. It is so completely absurd!"

"Of course, you must have known Gisela," Hester prompted. "What was she like? Did you care for her?"

Dagmar thought for a moment. "I don't suppose I did know her, really," she said at length. "She was not the sort of woman one knows."

"I don't understand..." Hester said desperately.

Dagmar frowned. "She had admirers, people who enjoyed her company, but she did not seem to have close friends. If Friedrich liked someone, then she did; if he did not, then for her that person barely existed."

"But Friedrich did not dislike you," Hester said, hoping profoundly that was true.

"Oh, no," Dagmar agreed. "I think in a slight way we were friends, at least better than mere acquaintances, before Gisela came. But she could make him laugh, even when he had thought he was tired, or bored, or weary with duty. I could never do that. I have seen him at the kind of long banquets where politicians make endless speeches, and he was growing gla.s.sy-eyed pretending to listen." She smiled as she remembered, for once forgetting Robert in the garden below, or the slight breeze stirring the curtains.

"Then she would lean across and whisper something to him," she continued. "And his eyes would brighten; it would all matter again. It was as if she could touch his mind with just a word, or even a glance, and give him of her vitality and laughter. She believed in him. She saw everything that was good in him. She loved him so very much." She stared into the distance, her face soft with memory, and perhaps a touch of envy for such a perfect closeness of heart and mind.

"And he must have loved her," Hester prompted. She tried to imagine it. With the people she cared about most, she seemed to be always on the brink of some misunderstanding or other, if not a downright quarrel. Was it a shortcoming in her? Or did she choose the wrong people to be drawn to? There was some darkness in Monk which every so often would close her out. It seemed unbreachable. And yet there were moments when she knew, as surely as she knew anything on earth, that he wanted never to hurt her, whatever the cost to himself.

"Absolutely and without reservation," Dagmar said wistfully, cutting across Hester's thoughts. "He adored her. One always knew where she was in a room, because every now and then his eyes would go to her, even if he was talking to someone else.

"And he was so proud of her, her grace, and wit, and the way she carried herself, her elegance and style of dress. He expected everyone to like her. He was so happy if they did, and could not understand it if they did not."

"Were there many who did not?" Hester asked. "Why did the Queen dislike her so intensely? And, it seems, the Countess Rostova?"

"I don't know of any reason, except that, of course, the Queen wanted him to marry Brigitte von Arlsbach," Dagmar explained. "Gisela did encourage him to kick over the traces rather." She smiled at some memory. "He was very used to doing everything he was told. Royal protocol is pretty rigid. There was always some equerry or adviser to remind him of the proper att.i.tude, the correct behavior, whom he should speak to, spend time with, compliment, and who should be ignored, what was improper. Gisela would just laugh and tell him to please himself. He was Crown Prince; he should do as he liked."

She shrugged. "Of course, that is not the way it is. The higher one's calling, the more one must obey one's duty. But she was not born even to aristocracy, let alone royalty, so she did not understand that. I think for him that was a great deal of her charm. She offered him a kind of freedom he had never known. She poked fun at the courtiers who ruled his life. She was witty and outrageous and full of fun." Dagmar took a deep breath and let it out in a snort. "To Ulrike she was only irresponsible, selfish and ultimately a danger to the throne."

"But would she not have grown out of such behavior were she to have married him?" Hester asked. "I mean, with the Queen's approval?"

"I don't know," Dagmar answered ruefully. "The approval was never given."

The leaves were falling gently in the garden. A swirl of wind carried a handful against the window. Dagmar looked anxiously towards Robert.

"Did Brigitte love Friedrich?" Hester said quickly.

Dagmar looked back. "I don't think so. But she would have married him, as her duty, and, I expect, made a good queen."

"The Countess Rostova must hate Gisela pa.s.sionately to make such an accusation." Hester was learning nothing that was the slightest help. All this would make Rathbone's case worse, not better. "It must be more than merely envy. Do you think she is being prompted by someone else who has a deeper motive?" She leaned forward a little. "Who does she know who might receive some personal gain from making a charge which cannot possibly be proved?"

"I have wondered that myself," Dagmar said, frowning. "And I have racked my brain to think of an answer. Zorah was always an extraordinary creature, willful and eccentric. Once she was nearly killed trying to defend some quite mad revolutionary. It was in '48. The wretched man was making a ridiculous speech in the street, and a crowd attacked him. Zorah strode in shouting like a...a barrack room soldier. Called them terrible names and fired a pistol over their heads. Heaven only knows where she got it from, or how she knew how to use it!" Her voice rose in incredulity. "The most absurd thing about it all was that she didn't even agree with what the man was saying." She shook her head. "And yet she can be most kind as well. I have known her to take time and trouble to care for people no one else would bother with, and do it so discreetly I knew only by accident."

Hester found herself liking Zorah in spite of herself. She did not wish to. Zorah had beguiled Rathbone into an impossible situation. Hester resented her doubly for having the skill to intrigue him so he lost his sense of judgment, something she had seen no one else do, and for the danger she had led him into. If she wished to ruin herself, that was her privilege, but to ruin someone else was inexcusable.

But Hester must concentrate on the present need. What she did or did not feel about Zorah personally was irrelevant.

"Could she be in love with someone who is using her in this?" she asked, regarding Dagmar with intelligent interest.

Dagmar considered. "It is the sort of thing she would do," she agreed after a moment. "In fact, some mistaken love, or misplaced idealism, is about the only thing which makes any sense. Perhaps she trusts him to come forward with some fact which will rescue her at the last moment." Her eyes softened. "Poor Zorah. What if he doesn't? What if he is merely using her?"

"To what purpose? Perhaps we are beginning at the wrong end. We should be considering who would benefit from this trial. Who will?"

Dagmar was silent for so long Hester thought she might not have heard.

"Who will benefit politically?" Hester asked again.

"I don't see how anyone can," Dagmar answered thoughtfully. "I have racked my head, but the situation doesn't seem to affect anything that I can think of. I am afraid it is just a stupid mistake made by a woman who has allowed her imagination and her envy to overrule her sense, and it will destroy her. I am very sorry about it."

Bernd's opinion was quite different, when Hester managed to speak to him alone and introduce the subject, this time a trifle more skillfully. She had just returned from an errand in the rain and was brushing the water off her skirt where her cloak had not covered it when Bernd crossed the hall, a newspaper in his hand.

"Oh, good afternoon, Miss Latterly. I see you got wet. There is a good fire in the withdrawing room if you wish to warm yourself. I am sure Polly would bring you some tea, and perhaps crumpets if you wish."

"Thank you," she accepted eagerly. "Will I not disturb you?" She glanced at the newspaper.

"No, not at all." He shook it absently. "I've finished. Full of scandal and speculation, mostly."

"I am afraid now that the trial is nearing, people are beginning to wonder a great deal," she said quickly. "The story is romantic, and although the charge seems unfounded, one cannot help wondering what is the truth behind it."

"I should imagine revenge," he replied with a frown.

"But how can she be revenged when she will lose the case?" Hester argued. "Could it have to do with the Queen?"

"In what way?" He looked puzzled.

"Well, apparently the Queen strongly dislikes Gisela. Is Zorah a great friend of the Queen's?"

Bernd's face hardened. "Not that I am aware." He started towards the withdrawing room as though to end the conversation.

"You don't think the Queen's dislike could be behind this, do you?" Hester asked, hurrying after him. It was an idea which had a glimmer of sense. Ulrike had apparently never forgiven Gisela, and perhaps now she felt Gisela was somehow to blame for Friedrich's death-if not directly, then indirectly. "After all," she continued aloud as they went into the withdrawing room and Bernd pulled the bell rope, rather hard, "he might never have had the accident in the first place if he had not been in exile. And even if he had, he would have received different treatment had he been at home. Maybe, in her mind, she had convinced herself from one step to another, until now she really believes Gisela capable of murder. Maybe..." She swung around in front of him as he sat down, her wet skirts cold against her legs. "She has probably not seen Gisela for twelve years. She knows only what other people have told her and what she imagines."

The maid answered the summons of the bell, and Bernd ordered afternoon tea for two and hot b.u.t.tered crumpets.

"I think it unlikely," he said when the maid had gone and closed the door. "It is a very unpleasant affair, but not one in which I have any part. I would prefer to discuss your opinion of how we may best help my son. He does appear in these last few days to be better in spirits...although I do not wish him to become too dependent on the young woman, Miss Stanhope. She is not strong enough to employ on any permanent basis, and also, I think, not suitable."

"Why did the Queen hate Gisela even before she married Friedrich?" Hester said desperately.

His face froze. "I do not know, Miss Latterly, nor do I care. I have sufficient grief in my own family not to be concerned with the self-inflicted misfortune of others. I should appreciate your advice upon what sort of person to employ to be with Robert permanently. I thought you might know of a young man of good character, gentle disposition, perhaps one with a leaning towards reading and study, who would like a position which offers him a home and agreeable company in return for such help as Robert needs."

"I shall make inquiries, if you wish," she replied with a sinking heart, not only for Rathbone but for Victoria. "There may well be someone the job would suit very nicely. Is that what Robert wishes?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Is that what Robert wishes?" she repeated.

"What Robert wishes cannot be obtained," he said, his voice tight with pain. "This is what he requires, Miss Latterly."

"Yes, Baron Ollenheim," she conceded. "I will make inquiries."

.7.

MONK SET OUT on his journey northward with far more pleasure than the situation warranted. Evelyn was on the same train, and he looked forward to time in her company. She was delightful, elegant, always feminine. She carried her enjoyment of life and people in such a manner it spilled over onto all around her. Her humor was infectious, and he found himself laughing as well. on his journey northward with far more pleasure than the situation warranted. Evelyn was on the same train, and he looked forward to time in her company. She was delightful, elegant, always feminine. She carried her enjoyment of life and people in such a manner it spilled over onto all around her. Her humor was infectious, and he found himself laughing as well.

He left Venice with regret. Its beauty made it unlike any other city, and he would never again see light on rippling water without thinking of it. But there was also a sadness there. It was a city in decay, and occupied by a foreign army, a society looking to the past and disturbed and angry, fighting for the future. The people were divided among Venetians, who were crushed and resentful, awaiting the moment to strike back; Austrians, who knew they were away from home, in an old and lovely culture which did not want them; and expatriates, who belonged nowhere and lived on memories and dreams which even they no longer believed.

He had tried to express this to Evelyn when he met her briefly at the train station, but she was concerned about the comfort of travel arrangements and had no interest in such reflections. Klaus was gloomy, his huge figure looming in the background, shoulders a little hunched, mind preoccupied with what he would do when he reached Felzburg. He was impatient with railway officials, short-tempered with his own servants, and did not appear even to see Monk.

Evelyn rolled her eyes expressively and gave Monk a dazzling smile, as if the whole performance were somehow funny. Then she followed after her husband with an outward semblance of duty, but also a little swagger to her step, and a glance backward over her shapely shoulder at Monk before stepping up into her carriage.

They were several hours north, and Monk drifted off to sleep watching the countryside roll past. He woke with a jolt, both physical and of memory. For a moment he could not recall where he was traveling to. He had Liverpool in mind. He was going there to do with shipping. Huge Atlantic clippers filled his inner vision, a tangle of spars against a windy sky, the slap of water at the dockside, the gray stretch of the Mersey River. He could see the wooden sides of ships riding on the tide, towering above him. He could smell salt and tar and rope.

There was immense relief in him, as of rescue after terrible danger. It had been personal. Monk had been alone in it. Someone else had saved him, and at considerable risk, trusting him when he had not earned it, and it was this trust which had made the difference to him between survival and disaster.

He sat in the train with unfamiliar trees and hills rushing past the windows. The rattle and lurch were comforting. There was a rhythm to them which should have eased him.

But this did not look like any part of England he knew. It was not green enough, and it was too steep. He could not be going to Liverpool. His mind was blurred, as if sleep still clung to him. He owed an immense debt. But to whom?

The train had high divisions between each row of seats, giving a certain amount of privacy, but he could see that the man on the far side of the aisle was reading a newspaper. It was in Italian. Where would a man buy an Italian newspaper?

Monk glanced up at the luggage rack and saw his own cases. The label which was hanging down said "Felzburg."

Of course. Memory came back quite clearly now. He was trying to find evidence to clear Zorah Rostova of slander, which meant finding proof that Princess Gisela had killed Prince Friedrich. And that was impossible, because she had not only had no reason, she had also had no opportunity.

It was a fool's errand. But he had to do everything he could to help Rathbone, who had been uncharacteristically rash in taking the case in the first place. But it was too late to retreat now.

And Evelyn von Seidlitz was on the train. He smiled as he remembered that. With luck he would see her at dinner. That was bound to be a pleasure; it always was. And if they stopped somewhere agreeable, then the food might be good also. Although he was not looking forward to a night spent in a semireclining seat where it would be extremely difficult to do anything better than take short naps. He seemed to recall that somewhere in the world they had invented a proper sleeping car in the last four or five years. Perhaps it was America. Certainly it was not this train, even though he was traveling in the best accommodation there was.

It felt very natural. That was another discomfort to his mind. Once he had earned the kind of money which had made luxury an everyday thing. Why had he given it up to become a policeman?

This debt he owed was at the heart of it, but rack his mind as he might, it remained clouded. The emotion was sharp enough: obligation, a weight of fear lifted by someone else's loyalty when he had not yet earned it. But who? The mentor and friend he had remembered earlier with such growing clarity and grief? Had he ever repaid that debt, or was it still owing, and that was why it was so sharp now in his mind? Had he walked away from it, leaving it? He wanted to believe that was not possible. He may have been abrupt, at times unfair. He had certainly been overwhelmingly ambitious. But he had never been either a coward or a liar. Surely he had not been without a sense of honor?

How could he know? It was not merely a matter of going back, if that were possible, and paying now. And if it were his mentor, then it was too late. He was dead. That much had come back to him months before. It was necessary he should understand himself, to get rid of the pain of doubt, even if his fears about himself proved to be true. In a sense they were already true, unless he could prove them false. He could not leave this unresolved.

The train stopped regularly to take on coal and water, and for the needs of the pa.s.sengers. Still, fifty years before, or less, he would have had to make this same journey by coach, and that would have been immeasurably slower and less comfortable.

As he had foreseen, dinner was taken at a hostelry along the way and was excellent. Klaus von Seidlitz had returned to the train a little earlier, in the company of two very solemn, militarily dressed men, so Monk spent a few minutes by the side of the track in the s.n.a.t.c.hed company of Evelyn. He could see her face in the clear mountain starlight, in the sudden red flares of the sparks from the engine, and in the distant torches held by men as they labored to shovel coal and replenish the water for the night's journey northward across France.

He would like to have spoken to her for hours, asked her about herself, told her things he had seen and done which would bring the flash of interest to her face, intrigue her with the mystery and reality of his world. He would like to amuse her.

But Rathbone weighed heavily on his mind. Time was growing short, and he had nothing of worth to take back to the barrister. Was he going to indulge himself, perhaps again, at someone else's expense? Was this the kind of man he was at heart?

He stared up at the sharp, glittering sky with its sweeping darkness, and at the pale clouds of steam windblown across the platform. The heavy noises of coal and steam seemed far away, and he was acutely conscious of Evelyn beside him.

"Has Zorah no friends, no family who could prevail on her to withdraw this insane charge?" he asked.

He heard Evelyn's sigh of impatience, and was furious with circ.u.mstances for offering him so much and at the same time preventing him from taking it. d.a.m.n Rathbone!

"I don't think she has any family," Evelyn replied sharply. "She always behaved as if she hadn't. I think she's half Russian."

"Do you like her? At least did you, until she did this?"

She moved a step closer to him. He could smell her hair and feel the warmth of her skin near his cheek.

"I don't care about her in the slightest," she replied softly. "I always thought she was a little mad. She fell in love with the most unsuitable people. One was a doctor, years older than herself and as ugly as an old boot. But she adored him, and when he died she behaved atrociously. She simply ignored everyone. Had him burned, of all things, and threw his ashes off the top of a mountain. It was all rather disgusting. Then she went off on a long trip somewhere ridiculous, up the Nile, or something like that Stayed away for years. Some said she fell in love with an Egyptian and lived with him." Her voice was thick with disgust. "Didn't marry him, of course. I suppose you couldn't have a Christian marriage with an Egyptian anyway." She laughed abruptly.

Monk found all this peculiarly jarring. He remembered Zorah as he had seen her in London. She was an extraordinary woman, eccentric, pa.s.sionate, but neither overtly cruel nor, as far as he could tell, dishonest He had liked her. He saw no offense in falling in love out of your generation or with someone of another race. It might well be tragic, but it was not wrong.

Evelyn lifted her face to look at him. She was smiling again. The starlight on her skin was exquisite. Her wide eyes were all softness and laughter. He leaned forward and kissed her, and she melted into his arms.

The train arrived in Felzburg at noon. After several days' travel, Monk was tired and longed to stand in an unconfined s.p.a.ce, to walk without turning after three paces, and to sleep stretched out in a proper bed.

But there was little time to be spent on such business. He had a letter of introduction from Stephan, whom he had left in Venice, and went immediately to present himself to Colonel Eugen.

"Ah, I was expecting you!" The man who received Monk was much older than he had imagined, in his middle fifties, a lean, gray-haired soldier who bore the marks of dueling on his cheeks and stood ramrod stiff to welcome his guest. "Stephan wrote to me that you might come. How may I be of help? My home is yours, as is my time and such skill as I possess."

"Thank you," Monk accepted with relief, although he was unsure even of what he was seeking, let alone how to find it. At least he was delighted to accept the hospitality. "That is most generous of you, Colonel Eugen."

"You will stay here? Good, good. You will eat? My man will take care of your luggage. The journey was good?" It was a rhetorical question. Monk had a powerful feeling that the Colonel was a man to whom any journey would be good if he reached his destination alive.

Monk agreed without additional comment and followed his host to where a good luncheon was set out on a dark wood table gleaming with embroidered linen and very heavy silver. A small fire burned halfheartedly in the grate. The paneled walls were hung with swords of varying weights from rapiers to sabers.

"What may I do to a.s.sist you?" Eugen asked when the soup had been served. "I am at your disposal."

"I need to learn the truth of the political situation," Monk replied candidly. "And as much of the past as I am able to."

"Do you consider it possible someone murdered Friedrich?" Eugen frowned.

"On the basis of the factual evidence, yes, it is possible," Monk replied. "Does it surprise you?"

He expected shock and anger. He saw neither in Eugen's response, only a philosophical sadness.

"I do not believe it could be Gisela Berentz, but I would not find it hard to believe that someone did it, for political reasons," he answered. "We are on the brink of great changes in all the German-speaking states. We survived the revolutions of '48." He dipped his spoon into his soup and drank without seeming to taste it. "The tide of nationalism is rising all over Europe, and most especially here. Sooner or later, I think we will be one nation. Sometimes princ.i.p.alities like ours survive independently. Some chance of history, or geography, makes them unique, and the large powers are content to let them be. Usually, they are swallowed up. Friedrich believed we could remain as we are. At least," he corrected, "that is what we thought. Count Lansdorff is a strong protagonist for that view, and, of course, so is the Queen. She has dedicated her life to serving the royal dynasty. No duty whatsoever has been too hard for her, no sacrifice too great."

"Except forgiving Gisela," Monk said, watching Eugen's face.

He saw no humor in it, no understanding of irony.

"To forgive Gisela would mean to allow her to return," Eugen answered, finishing his soup and breaking a little bread on his plate. "That is impossible! If you knew Ulrike, you would have understood that from the beginning."

A solitary manservant removed the soup plates and brought in roasted venison and boiled vegetables.