Page 73 of Weighed in the Balance (William Monk 7)

“You have no case!” he shouted, then instantly regretted losing his self-control. It was undignified and served no purpose whatever. He should never have allowed himself to become so uncontrolled. “You have no case,” he repeated in a calmer voice. ’The very best we can do is present evidence indicating that Friedrich was murdered by someone, but we cannot possibly prove it was Gisela! You will have to withdraw and apologize so

oner or later, or suffer the full punishment the law may decide, and it may be very high indeed. You will lose your reputation …”

“Reputation.” She laughed a little nervously. “Do you not think I have lost that already, Sir Oliver? All I have left now is what little money my family settled on me, and if she takes that, she is welcome. She cannot take my integrity or wit, or my beliefs.”

Rathbone opened his mouth to argue, and then conceded the total pointlessness of it. She was not listening. Maybe she had never really listened to him.

“Then …” he began, and realized that what he was about to suggest was futile also.

“Yes?” she inquired.

He had been going to advise her to keep her bearing modest, but that would no doubt be a wasted request. It was not in her nature.

The first witness of the afternoon was Florent Barberini. Rathbone was curious to see him. He was extremely handsome in a Latin fashion, somewhat melodramatic for Rathbone’s taste. He was inclined not to like the man.

“Were you at Wellborough Hall at the time of Prince Friedrich’s death, Mr. Barberini?” Harvester began quite casually. He chose to use an English form of address, rather than the Italian or German forms.

“Yes, I was,” Florent replied.

“Did you remain in England afterwards for some time?”

“No, I returned to Venice for Prince Friedrich’s memorial service. I did not come back to England for about six months.”

“You were devoted to Prince Friedrich?”

“I am Venetian. It is my home,” he corrected.

Harvester was unruffled.

“But you did return to England?”

“Yes.”

“Why, if Venice is your home?”

“Because I had heard word that the Countess Rostova had made an accusation of murder against Princess Gisela. I wished to know if that were so, and if it was, to persuade her to withdraw it immediately.”

“I see.” Harvester folded his hands behind his back. “And when you arrived in London, what did you hear?”

Florent looked down, his brow furrowed. He must have expected the question, but obviously it made him unhappy.

“That apparently the Countess Rostova had quite openly made the charge of which I had heard,” he answered.

“Once?” Harvester pressed, moving a step or two to face the witness from a slightly different direction. “Several times? Did you hear her make it yourself, or only hear of it from others?”

“I heard her myself,” Florent admitted. He looked up, his eyes wide and dark. “But I did not meet anyone who believed it.”

“How do you know that, Mr. Barberini?” Harvester raised his eyebrows.

“They said so.”

“And you are sure that was the truth?” Harvester sounded incredulous but still polite, if only just. “They disclaimed in public, as is only civil, perhaps only to be expected. But are you as sure they still thought the same in private? Did not the vaguest of doubts enter their minds?”

“I know only what they said,” Florent replied.

Rathbone rose to his feet.

“Yes, yes,” the judge agreed before he spoke. “Mr. Harvester, your questions are rhetorical, and this is not the place for them. You contradict yourself, as you know perfectly well. Mr. Barberini has no possible way of knowing what people thought other than as they expressed it. He has said all those whom he knew spoke their disbelief. If you wish us to suppose they thought otherwise, then you will have to demonstrate that for us.”