Weighed in the balance - Anne Perry [129]
Oliver said nothing. He knew it was true.
As Rathbone had foreseen, Harvester spent the entire next day calling the servants from Wellborough Hall. He must have been prepared for the necessity, unless he had sent someone for them the day before, after court adjourned, and they had traveled all night—assuming there were trains at night from that part of Berkshire.
It all confirmed Rathbone’s worst expectations. Servant after servant took the stand, very sober, very frightened, dressed in their Sunday best, transparently honest, twisting their hands in embarrassment.
The Princess Gisela had at no time left the suite of rooms she occupied with the Prince, God rest his soul. No one had ever seen her on the other side of the green baize door. She had certainly never been into the kitchens. Cook swore to that, so did the kitchen maid, both scullery maids, the pastry cook, the bootboy and three of the footmen, the butler and the housekeeper, two parlormaids, four housemaids and two tweenies. One lady’s maid spoke on behalf of three upstairs maids, a valet and three laundresses.
The Princess Gisela had been seen outside her rooms by no one at all, and there was almost always someone about.
On the other hand, there were unquestionably yew trees in the gardens, several of them.
“And could any person who walked in the gardens have access to these yew trees?” Harvester asked the housekeeper, a comfortable, good-tempered woman with graying fair hair.
“Yes sir. The yew walk is a most agreeable place, and a natural way to it if one wishes a little time alone. It leads up towards the best views across the fields.”
“So it would not occasion surprise to see anyone there, even walking alone?” Harvester said cautiously.
“No sir.”
“Did you ever see or hear of anyone in particular walking there?”
“I’m far too busy with a house full of guests to be looking out of windows seeing who’s out walking, sir. But a good sunny day, an’ it was a very nice spring, most of the guests would be out at one time or another.”
“Except the Princess Gisela?”
“Yes sir, ’cept her, poor lady.”
“The Countess Rostova, for example?”
“Yes sir,” she said more cautiously. “Liked a good walk. Not a lady to sit inside the house on a fine day.”
“And after his accident, were the Prince’s meals taken up from the kitchen to his rooms regularly?”
“Always, sir. He never came out. Sometimes it was no more than a little beef tea, but it was always sent up.”
“Carried by a maid or a footman?”
“Maid, sir.”
“And might such a maid pass another guest on the stairs or on the landing?”
“Yes sir.”
“And would automatically stand aside and make way for such a guest?”
“Of course.”
“Guests might pass closely enough on the stairs for something to be surreptitiously added to a dish by sleight of hand?”
“I don’t know, sir. Dishes should be covered on a tray, and a cloth over them as well.”
“But possible, Mrs. Haines?”
“I suppose so.”
“Thank you.” Harvester turned to Rathbone. “Sir Oliver?”
But Rathbone could make no argument of any value. There was nothing to contradict. He himself had proved that Friedrich was poisoned. Harvester had proved that it could not have been by Gisela. Rathbone could not implicate anyone else. It would be an act of desperation to suggest a name, and looking at the jurors, he was wise enough to know any attempt to lay specific blame could rebound against him. He had not yet irrefutably argued a plot to restore Friedrich, and it would be a plot, because it would automatically depose Waldo. No one was going to admit to it in the present climate. It would be political suicide, and anyone passionate enough about the struggle might sacrifice himself or herself in its cause, but never sacrifice the cause itself, and certainly not to save Zorah.
Harvester smiled. He had sought to protect Gisela by proving her innocence, and thus Zorah’s guilt of slander. Now he was on the brink of seeing Zorah indicted, at least in the public mind, of murder. And unless Rathbone found some way of proving the contrary, it