The Murders of Richard III (16 page)

Thomas turned to Philip.

“ ‘Oh, what a rogue and peasant slave am I,' ” he said, smiling. “Kent thinks I ought to challenge Strangways, or something.”

“Wrong play, right interpretation,” Philip said. “There's nothing wrong with the general except that he's out of place in a civilized society. He'd have been first rate in the fifteenth century.”

The actor looked more cheerful than he had for hours. Thomas didn't have to search far for the reason. Deny it though he might, Strangways was the obvious candidate for the part of the comedian, and he wouldn't be fool enough to try another trick now that he had been unmasked. Philip was relieved of his worst fear—humiliation.

“Let's all have a drink,” he said. “Come along, Liz…Jacqueline….”

The four of them went toward the dais. As they approached the table, Frank lifted his cup in a mock toast.

“This is a slight improvement over the last batch,” he said cheerfully.

“It could hardly be worse,” Philip said. He filled a cup and offered it to Jacqueline, who refused, and then served the others.

Across the room Thomas saw Weldon and Strangways seated on a bench in one of the alcoves. Their heads were together; Weldon gestured
animatedly as he talked. Something stirred the branches of the plant next to them.

“Look at that,” Thomas said, nudging Jacqueline. “It's Percy, eavesdropping on the debate.”

“What does he expect to overhear?” Frank asked, perplexed.

“It isn't what you hear, it's how,” Philip said. “When you're young you think adult conversation is loaded with forbidden secrets. Didn't you ever eavesdrop, Frank, my lad?”

“No,” Frank said.

“The little paragon,” Philip murmured. He reached for the dipper, jostling Frank.

“Let's dance,” Liz said quickly.

Frank gave the other man a black look, but went with her. Philip drained his second cup with the air of a man who drinks for a set purpose, and filled it again.

“Thomas,” said Jacqueline. “You haven't danced with me yet.”

Thomas was delighted to oblige. Neither of them tried to follow the rhythm of the jigging, bouncing medieval dance. They moved languidly about the floor; after a while Thomas began to hum “Stardust.” It was a delicious, relaxing interval, except for one small irritation….

A hard, lumpy object banged rhythmically against his hip.

“Do you have to carry that purse even when you….” A thought struck him and he stopped in his tracks. “What did you do with it when you were hugging Strangways?” he asked, with genuine curiosity.

“Hugging?” Jacqueline repeated. She laughed softly.

“Never mind,” Thomas mumbled against her hair.

“Now, Thomas, don't do…We're right out in the middle of the floor; everybody can see us.”

“I don't care,” Thomas repeated. “Unless you want to go someplace more private?”

“Not now,” Jacqueline said, with another soft laugh. “I adore you, Thomas, but you are not completely sober, and I want a man's complete attention when I—‘hug' was the word, wasn't it?”

“Like this,” Thomas said, demonstrating. “Perfectly good word—so far as it goes.” He began to hum “Stardust” again.

When he next became aware of his surroundings, it was dark. It was cold. It was wet. Something kept falling on his head. Raindrops? Someone's lawn sprinkler? Niagara Falls?

Where the hell was he?

“Stand still,” said a voice, as he struggled
blindly. “Please, Thomas, for God's sake, don't fall down! I'll never get you up….”

She slapped him. The outrage of the act woke Thomas more effectively than the pain. He reached out, snarling. Jacqueline got in several more hard smacks before he located her wrists. He was awake by then, and fighting mad. He shook her.

“What the hell are you doing?”

Jacqueline, always an excellent tactician, collapsed like a folding umbrella, and Thomas caught her in his arms.

He was standing on the terrace outside the Hall, with rain streaming down his face and—no doubt—ruining his rented wig. The light from the nearest window stretched out across the flagstones like a fiery pathway to Hell. Biblical and Miltonian images swam through Thomas's brain, assisted by the demoralizing warmth of the body he clasped.

The body turned rigid and shoved at his chest with both hands. “Are you awake now, or shall I slug you again?” Jacqueline inquired.

“I'm awake…I think.” Thomas shook his head. “What happened? How did we get out here?”

“We came out for some fresh air—the phrase was yours. There are some garden chairs, if you
recall, under a roofed section of the terrace. We sat there for a while. I remember thinking,” said Jacqueline remotely, “that you were not at your best. I admit to becoming mildly vexed when you started snoring. But then, when I tried to wake you, and couldn't…”

“So you dragged me out into the deluge. ‘Greater love than this…' I hope your dress isn't ruined.”

“It's drip-dry. Thomas, you aren't concentrating. I don't think you were drunk.”

“Oh, oh,” said Thomas.

“Yes. Are you okay now?”

“Let's go.”

When they reentered the Hall, Thomas understood why the beam of light had been ruddily red. Someone had turned out the electric lights. The torches were burning low. In the soft, hellish glow they searched the darkening Hall.

Thomas stumbled over the first body. It lay on its back in the middle of the dance floor, and even in that position it presented a formidable obstacle. Mrs. Ponsonby-Jones snored. Her expression was as affable as Thomas had ever seen it.

“She's all right.” Jacqueline tugged at him as he bent over for a closer look. “She wouldn't be snoring like that if she were…Where are the others?”

In the great chair of state that Weldon had occupied they found Liz, curled up like a sleepy child. Her head was pillowed on her arms and her brown hair tumbled over the curved armrest.

Percy was still behind the rubber plant. He snored even louder than his mother.

The Hall had no other occupants. They searched all the alcoves before heading for the door. Jacqueline paused for a moment to switch on the lights. In the bright glare the place looked ghastly. Thomas squinted at the heap of crimson velvet in the middle of the floor, the trampled rushes, the smoldering torches.

“The last act of
Hamlet,
” he muttered. “ ‘Give me the cup—there's yet some poison left….' ”

“Good old Shakespeare,” said Jacqueline. “A
bon mot
for every occasion.”

She led the way to the dining room, where they found the doctor taking his forty winks. He stirred and mumbled when Jacqueline poked him.

“Brandy,” she said. “I suppose that was drugged too. Come on, let's see how many of them made it upstairs.”

Kent was the only one of the crowd who had gone to bed in the conventional fashion. His clothes were piled neatly on a chair, and Thomas was pained to observe that he wore bright-striped pajamas. He did not stir, even when Jacqueline callously
switched on the overhead lights. After sniffing the air, she nodded.

“Brandy again.”

Lady Isobel was lying in the corridor in front of Sir Richard's bedroom door. She reeked of wine, and her fingers were crooked, as if she had clawed at the door as she fell.

“Good God,” Thomas said devoutly.

Weldon's room was unoccupied. The lights shone softly on pure white sheets, unwrinkled, and on Weldon's navy-blue pajamas laid out on the pillow.

Frank and the rector were sprawled on their respective beds, fully clothed. The rector's crown remained defiantly in place, although his head drooped over the edge of the bed.

Philip's bed was turned down. Neither he nor his pajamas were in evidence. Thomas considered the alternatives and decided that Philip probably didn't wear pajamas. Jacqueline leaped to the same conclusion.

“Where can he be?” she muttered.

“Weldon is missing too,” Thomas pointed out. “And what about O'Hagan—I mean Strangways? You haven't looked in his—”

“Weldon,” Jacqueline said in a strange voice. “He's already skipped one. Or has he?”

She trotted off down the corridor, her purse swinging.

Strangways's room was empty too.

Thomas turned to face Jacqueline.

“Now what?”

“Downstairs.”

In the drawing room they found two of the missing persons.

“Not
Hamlet,
” said Thomas. “The Sleeping Beauty. Is everybody asleep, for God's sake?”

“Considering the hour and the activities of the evening, that's not surprising. We're the ones who are abnormal.”

Reasonable as this was, it did not dispel Thomas's superstitious uneasiness. The house was like the legendary castle in which all the inhabitants had been cast into a spell, dropping where they stood. Weldon and Strangways faced one another. Both were more or less upright in their chairs; Weldon's crowned head had fallen against the back of the chair. Strangways was sitting up. His eyes were closed.

Jacqueline pressed the switch that turned on the overhead lights. Strangways flung up a hand to shield his eyes; his reflexes were as quick as a cat's.

“Who is it?” he asked. “What…oh. Fell asleep. What's the time?”

“Three
A.M
.,” Jacqueline answered. “Have you and Sir Richard been together all this time?”

“Together in body but not in spirit.” Strangways lowered his hand.

“When did you fall asleep?”

“How should I know? He dropped off first; poor fellow has had a busy day. I was drowsy myself, so I just continued to sit.” The searching dark eyes narrowed. “What's wrong?”

Jacqueline didn't answer him.

“Thomas, see if you can wake Sir Richard.”

Sir Richard's slumber was sound; it took Thomas some time to rouse him, and several minutes more to explain their present errand. Strangways was on his feet by that time, and when Thomas had finished the American exploded angrily.

“Damn, I might have known. Weldon, you're a hell of a jailer. Or are you setting me up as a patsy?”

“You are jumping to conclusions,” Weldon said. His voice was blurred with sleep. “We all drank too much. No doubt Philip has fallen asleep somewhere.”

“Then let's find him,” Jacqueline said.

In the hall they encountered an unexpected note of comedy. A procession winding its slow way across the marble floor. It was led by Mrs. Ponsonby-Jones, supported by Wilkes and one of the menservants. Her arms hung over the men's shoulders and her feet dragged. She was
crooning quietly to herself, interrupting the monologue from time to time with a hoarse chuckle.

When he saw his employer, Wilkes stopped. Mrs. Ponsonby-Jones, suspended, hung like a massive red effigy. The butler's face flushed with chagrin. “Sir Richard, I am sorry to have—”

“You seem to be doing splendidly under the circumstances,” Weldon said with a flash of sour amusement. “Carry on, Wilkes.”

“Yes, Sir Richard.”

The intertwined trio gallantly tackled the stairs. Following behind, one of the huskier servants carried Percy. The boy was upside down over the man's shoulder; the view presented to the onlookers was appalling. The servant touched his forehead to Sir Richard, who nodded formally. Bringing up the rear was Liz, stumbling and hazy-eyed. Sir Richard moved like a boy, putting his arm around her waist. She leaned against him and yawned.

“So sleepy,” she murmured. “Carry me.”

Sir Richard looked as if the idea appealed to him. Before he could carry out the suggestion, Jacqueline spoke.

“If she can't walk, prop her up against the wall and leave her,” she said sharply. “We must find Philip.”

“Phil?” The girl blinked. “What's wrong with Phil? Has something happened?”

“That's what we're trying to find out,” said Jacqueline.

“I'll help her upstairs first,” Weldon said.

“No,” Liz was waking up. “No, I won't go up, I want to know what's happening.”

“Come on, then.”

From the head of the stairs the butler's voice floated down to them.

“I beg your pardon, Sir Richard, but if you are looking for Mr. Philip—”

“Have you seen him?”

“Perhaps half an hour ago I encountered the gentleman going in the direction of the library. He spoke to me; something—” The butler's voice broke in a grunt and a gasp of pain. A deep feminine chuckle reverberated; Wilkes could be heard savagely admonishing his assistant.

“Wilkes!” shouted Weldon.

“I beg your pardon, Sir Richard. Lady Isobel is at your—”

“Never mind Lady Isobel. What did Mr. Philip say to you?”

“It was not entirely clear, Sir Richard. Something to do with the date of the death of Queen Elizabeth.”

“Thank you, Wilkes. Carry on.”

“Thank you, Sir Richard,” said the butler faintly. The sound of elephantine progress resumed along the hall above.

“Queen Elizabeth Woodville, of course,” Weldon explained, turning to the others. “It is interesting that Henry the Seventh did not put out the story of Tyrrell's confession until after the boys' mother—”

“Now that's a good example of how you people try to find hidden meanings in meaningless events,” Strangways interrupted.

“Are you going to stand here all night arguing?” Jacqueline demanded. “Or shall we resume the search?”

“Surely there is no need for concern,” Weldon said. “We will no doubt find Philip napping over a volume of fifteenth-century history.”

Jacqueline didn't wait; she had already turned and was marching down the corridor, her purse swinging in a rhythm that threatened nameless things. The others followed more leisurely, so that when Jacqueline threw open the door to the library she was the first to see what was within.