Weighed in the balance - Anne Perry [83]
Waldo smiled. “Is that what is known as a British understatement?”
“Yes sir,” Monk acknowledged.
“And your interest in it?”
“A legal one, to assist British justice to deal fairly …” Monk made a rapid calculation as to which answers would be likely to offend Waldo least. After all, Waldo had had a great deal to gain or lose by Friedrich’s decision—not only his personal leadership of the country, but also his vision for the country’s future. Friedrich had been for independence. Waldo apparently believed the best hope lay with unification. He could lose his own throne, but perhaps he was genuinely more concerned with the safety and prosperity of his people.
Monk stared at him and tried to make a judgment.
Waldo was waiting. Monk must answer quickly. The swirl of laughter and music continued around them, the hum of voices, the clink of glass. Light shattered into a thousand fragments from jewels.
If Waldo really believed the lives and the peace of his country lay in unification, then he had more reason than anyone to kill Friedrich.
“… with the issue of slander,” Monk finished his sentence.
Waldo’s eyes widened. It was not the answer he had expected.
“I see,” he said slowly. “It is so serious a matter in England?”
“When it concerns the royal family of another country, yes sir, it is.”
A strange flicker of emotion crossed Waldo’s face. Monk could not read it. It might have been any of a dozen things. A few yards away, a soldier in resplendent uniform bowed to a lady in pink.
“My brother gave up his duties in his family over twelve years ago, and with it his privileges,” Waldo said coolly. “He chose not to be one of us. Gisela Berentz never was.”
Monk took a deep breath. He had little to lose.
“If he was murdered, sir, then the question arises as to who did such a thing. With the political situation as it is at present, speculation will touch many people, including those whose views were different from his.”
“You mean me,” Waldo replied unflinchingly, his brows raised a little.
Monk was startled. “More precisely, sir, someone who holds your views,” he corrected hastily. “Not necessarily, of course, with your knowledge or upon your instructions. But it might be difficult to demonstrate that.”
“Extremely,” Waldo said, his eyes steady and hard, as if already he faced the charge and was steeling himself to it. “Even proof will convince only those who wish to be convinced. It will follow a long path before it reaches the ears of the common man.”
Monk changed the subject. “Unfortunately, we cannot prevent the trial. We have tried. We have done everything in our power to persuade the Countess Rostova to withdraw her allegation and apologize, but so far we have failed.” He did not know if that was true, but he assumed it would be. Rathbone must have at least that much sense—and desire for his own survival.
A flicker of humor crossed Waldo’s face for the first time.
“I could have told you as much,” he replied. “Zorah has never been known to back away from anything. Or, for that matter, to count the personal cost of it. Even her enemies have never called her a coward.”
“Could she have killed him herself?” Monk asked impulsively.
Waldo did not hesitate an instant, nor did his expression change. “No. She is for independence. She believes we can survive alone, like Andorra or Liechtenstein.” Again the shadow of humor crossed his face. “If it had been Gisela who was killed, I would have said certainly she could …”
Monk was stunned. The words raced around his head. He tried to grasp their dozen possibilities. Was it conceivable that Zorah had meant to poison Gisela and, through some grotesque mischance, had killed Friedrich instead? This thought opened up vast possibilities. Could Rolf have done it, on his own or for his sister, the Queen? Then Friedrich would have had no impediment to returning to lead the independence party. Or could Brigitte have tried to kill Gisela so that Friedrich could return and