The Murders of Richard III (17 page)

The sight struck her like a physical blow. Thomas saw her body stiffen and sway. The purse fell from her arm and hit the floor with a squashy thud.

Thomas ran. Jacqueline moved jerkily to one side so that he could see too.

The room was lit by a single lamp, on the table at the far end near the windows, and by the glow of a dying fire. Straight ahead, Sir Richard's massive desk filled one corner of the room. In front of it was a good-sized log, similar to others in a wood box next to the fireplace. Philip's body lay on the floor beside the block of wood. Trunk, arms, and legs were visible. The head stood on Sir Richard's desk, staring straight at the onlookers with wide, glassy eyes.

T
HOMAS PUT A SUPPORTING ARM AROUND
J
ACQUELINE.
She was shaking. They crossed the room together. Jacqueline put out her hand and lifted the head by its long flaxen hair.

It was a shocking gesture, even though Thomas had realized by that time that the head was plaster. The eyes had a glassy stare because they
were
glass—or some kind of plastic. The features didn't even resemble Philip's; only the hair and the bizarre setting had lent the object enough verisimilitude to give them a brief but effective shock.

Thomas dropped to one knee beside the actor and lifted the cloth that covered his head.

It was a plain square of cotton the same color as the crimson rug. Crude as the substitute head, it had nevertheless served the same function—to lend illusion, for the necessary moment of horror. Thomas threw it to one side and passed his hands over Philip's head and body.

There was blood on his hand when he looked up. Weldon and Strangways were still in the doorway. Weldon had gone limp; only the white-knuckled clasp of his hands on the door-frame kept him erect. Strangways was kneeling beside Liz, who had collapsed into a moaning heap.

“He's alive,” Thomas said.

“Thank God.” Weldon's voice was barely audible.

“He's had a bad knock on the head, though, and I don't like the way he's breathing. See if you can arouse the doctor. Last time I saw him, he was passed out in the dining room.”

Strangways rose and ran out. He was back in less time than Thomas would have believed possible, pushing Rawdon ahead of him. The doctor was only half awake and mumbling querulously, but the scene in the library woke him with a vengeance. Without realizing it, Thomas had taken up a position that once again concealed the fallen man's head and shoulders; and Jacqueline, leaning against the desk, was still holding the plaster head by its hair.

“Dear God,” said Rawdon, coming to a stop.

He was reassured and put to work; and after examining the actor he was able to reassure the others. Between them the men got Philip upstairs
to his bed. Sir Richard insisted that the servants should not be brought into it, so they used the upper stairs that led to the bedroom wing by way of Sir Richard's sitting room.

Rawdon stayed with his patient. The others returned to the library. Thomas looked at Jacqueline, who was still contemplating the plaster head. He was reminded of Margaret of Navarre admiring the macabre mementos of her dead lovers. Liz lay in a chair like a stuffed dummy; she had not spoken since she came out of her faint, nor taken her eyes from the horrible head.

“It's the sort of thing they use on department-store dummies,” Jacqueline announced, looking up. “The wig was probably purchased elsewhere. It's been glued on, somewhat amateurishly.”

In order to demonstrate, she suspended the head by its hair and bobbed it up and down like a yoyo.

Liz gasped. “Please don't….”

Strangways seated himself behind the desk. “It wasn't meant to convince anyone for long,” he agreed. “But it certainly did the trick for a few seconds. God!…He must have been sitting here when he was struck. Here's a copy of my book, open to page four hundred fifty-seven.”

“But how did the assailant reach him unobserved?”
Weldon was beginning to recover his control. “He was wary and nervous—”

“Not after Mr. Strangways was unmasked,” Thomas said. “He felt safe then.”

“Damn it,” Strangways began.

“No one is accusing you,” Weldon said. “Thomas is merely stating an observed fact. Philip was put off his guard, not only by the discovery of your true identity, but by the fact that Percy was attacked before he was.”

“All right, all right.” Strangway's eyes were as hard as those of the plaster head. It crossed Thomas's mind, not irrelevantly, that the American scholar would be a good man in a fight. “Thanks to Weldon's incompetence I can't prove my innocence in this case. If we are to believe Wilkes, this happened within the past half hour. Does anyone have an alibi?”

“I do,” Thomas said. “Jacqueline was with me the whole time.”

“No one has ever suspected you, Thomas,” Weldon said.

“Thanks.” Thomas was gratified. After thinking it over, he wasn't sure he should be gratified. After all, the joker had displayed ruthlessness, bravado, and cleverness.

“The others were all asleep when we found them,” he said. “At least they appeared to be
asleep. Maybe we should have looked at them more closely, although I don't know how the hell you can tell—”

“Will you stick to the point?” Strangways shouted. He exchanged a glance with Jacqueline that seemed to encourage him. “This is serious, Weldon. You've got to call the police. You should have done it last night.”

“If Philip insists, I shall of course comply with his wishes,” Weldon said calmly. “But I rather imagine he would prefer not to have his weakness exposed.”

“Weakness!” Strangways literally threw up his hands. “Don't any of you have an ounce of common sense? Where is all this going to end? Do you think if you ignore it it will just go away?”

“Well put,” Jacqueline said approvingly. She was still absently juggling the head. Thomas resented her nonchalance. She had been no more immune to the shock than the rest of them. He also resented the admiring way she was looking at Strangways.

“Look here, Strangways,” he said belligerently. “Who appointed you judge and jury and public prosecutor? So far as I'm concerned, you're still chief suspect. You have the best reason of anyone for making fools of us.”

“Oh, God.” Strangways ran a hand through
his white hair. “Let's try it another way. I've been here, on the ground floor, the whole time. Isn't it obvious that the assailant used the upper stairs here? Philip would have had his back to them if he was sitting at the desk. He was facing the door. He'd have seen anyone who came that way.”

“Not necessarily,” Jacqueline said. “He was drugged—probably unconscious before he was hit on the head. The blow was merely an additional precaution, to prevent him from waking and catching a glimpse of the joker while he was being arranged in that charming little tableau.”

Again Strangways was quick to understand. A little too quick? Thomas wondered.

“The wine,” he exclaimed. “Weldon and I had a cup before we left the Hall. I should have suspected—”

“No, why should you?” Jacqueline said. “It was late, and everyone had had a good deal to drink. Most of us would have been asleep by then anyhow. The drugged wine was meant for Philip.”

“And to prevent a hardheaded drinker from poking his nose in where it wasn't supposed to be,” Thomas added. “Our friend thinks of everything, doesn't he? Was there anyone who
didn't drink from the punch bowl after…after…”

“After what?” Jacqueline asked. “That line of inquiry won't get you anywhere, Thomas. We don't know when the drug was added to the wine. The brandy decanter in the dining room must have been doctored too. And if I were the villain, I'd make a point of drinking the fatal brew myself—or pretending to do so.”

She threw the head lightly into the air and caught it.

Liz sat up straight. “Will you please stop playing with that ghastly thing?”

Her voice was high and strained. Jacqueline looked at her thoughtfully and then put the head down on the desk. “Sorry. There is nothing to be learned from this prop.”

“Except,” Thomas said, “that it proves premeditation.”

“I would have thought that was obvious,” said Strangways dryly.

“Premeditation?” Weldon repeated. “How is that possible?”

“Don't be dense, Dick,” Liz said impatiently. She looked better; Jacqueline had considerately placed herself in front of the head so that it was hidden from the girl. “We must try to think. We planned this meeting in July, didn't we? After you learned
of the letter. I don't remember when we assigned the various parts, or how it was determined—”

“That's important,” Jacqueline interrupted. “The head was meant to represent Philip and no other. Look at the hair.”

She reached for the head and Liz said quickly, “Quite right. The—the person must have known Phil would take the role of Hastings, who was decapitated. It's been settled for…at least two weeks, isn't that right? We needed time to prepare our costumes and so on.”

“Each of you knew what part the others would be playing?” Jacqueline asked.

“Yes, of course. We had to agree so there would be no duplications.”

“Then let's go back to the question of motive,” Jacqueline said. “Sir Richard…the letter. How much is it worth?”

“Its worth is incalculable. It is proof that Richard—”

“Never mind Richard the Third,” Jacqueline groaned. “Is the letter worth money? Cash? Filthy lucre?”

“Why, I've no idea. A few hundred pounds, perhaps, a few thousand…Not enough to justify such a complex plot, if that is what you are suggesting. Why do you believe that the letter and these tricks are connected?”

“I don't know that they are. I'm grasping at straws. But none of your friends seem to have broken out before this, and the letter is the only new addition to the proceedings. Don't you think it's time I saw it, Sir Richard?”

“No. I'm sorry.”

“But that's why Jacqueline came,” Thomas exclaimed. “To look at the letter.”

“I know why she is here,” Weldon said. He smiled at Jacqueline. It was his old smile, gentle and apologetic. “Forgive me, Jacqueline, I did not intend to sound so brusque. I'm delighted to have had the opportunity of meeting you, and we have all enjoyed your company. But you are not an expert on medieval manuscripts, any more than I am a naive fool. When Thomas mentioned you, I took the liberty of investigating your antecedents. Don't you see—I couldn't take the risk of introducing a stranger into the household unless I was sure of her. You asked about the value of the letter. When I said it was incalculable, I meant it. It is worth an infinite amount of money—to me.”

“Ah,” said Strangways. “I wondered when someone was going to bring that up.”

Tipped back in the chair, he was totally relaxed, hands clasped on his chest and a faint mocking smile on his lips. After a moment he went on in a cool voice.

“The value of the letter on the open market is irrelevant. It is worthless to an ordinary thief because it is unique. How could he possibly sell it? But he could hold it for ransom.”

Liz's mouth dropped open in a look of astonishment. Jacqueline's face remained impassive.

Weldon nodded. “You are clever, Mr. Strangways.” He turned to Liz. Thomas couldn't see his face, but the change in his voice, from calm appraisal to impassioned pleading, made Thomas wince. “I know most people would think me mad to care so much about a cause that has been dead for hundreds of years. But I do care. That letter must be published. You haven't seen it. You don't know. I tell you, that single document will clear Richard's name of all the charges the Tudors invented. It will restore him to his rightful place as one of England's greatest kings—a martyr, not a murderer. I would do anything—pay any amount—to make sure it is not suppressed.”

He paused. For a moment the room was silent except for the hiss of the dying flames and Weldon's heavy breathing. Liz stared as if she were hypnotized. Her eyes were dilated.

“And that is why,” Weldon said, “I will not take the letter from my safe until I produce it for the public announcement. I would let the house burn
down before I would open that safe. It is flame-proof and the letter would survive.”

He turned to face the others, who were grouped around the desk. His face was transformed.

“You must be a Sherlock Holmes fan,” Jacqueline said. Her matter-of-fact voice broke the spell.

Weldon smiled faintly. “Yes, Holmes pretended to set a house on fire to persuade a certain lady to open her safe. It may sound farfetched, but recent events have been even more bizarre.”

“I gather the warning is meant for me,” Strangways said. “Thanks, Weldon. Once again I strongly advise you to call the police.”

“No.”

“Then I'm going to bed.” Strangways rose. His lean face was taut with anger. “I admire you in a way, Weldon, but you're the biggest fool in this pack of fanatics.”

He walked toward the door, but he walked slowly; and when Liz spoke he stopped, as if he had been expecting her question.

“The letter clears Richard? How, Dick? Can't you tell us what is in it, even if you won't show us?”

“I'm sorry,” Weldon said regretfully. “I've said too much already.”

Strangways turned. His eyes had a wild glow that reminded Thomas of Weldon. “Can't you
guess? There's only one significant charge, and only one way of clearing Richard of it. The letter is from the boys' sister. She says she has seen them or heard from them. Is that right, Weldon? The princes were still alive in the early months of 1485?”

Weldon didn't answer. He didn't have to; Strangways' deduction was the only possible answer.

“But damn it all,” Strangways exclaimed. “Don't you see, Weldon? That proves the letter is a fake.”

“Typical anti-Ricardian reasoning,” Weldon said bitterly. “Richard killed the princes, therefore anything that proves his innocence must be false.”

“But Buck saw the letter.” Strangways' voice shook with suppressed fury. He was trying so hard to control himself that his face turned bright red. “He was Richard's first defender; don't you suppose he would have mentioned that in his book if it had been in the letter?”

“Ah!” Weldon whirled to face him, his slight figure braced as if for physical combat. “So you admit the letter did exist!”

Strangways was speechless. Odd strangled noises issued from his open mouth.