The Murders of Richard III (19 page)

“What do you want to do now?” he asked.

The damp air made Jacqueline's hair curl. Little tendrils, like copper shavings, coiled distractingly over her ears and at her temples.

“What I should do is call the police,” she said, in a voice that did not match the charming curls.

“And what is your complaint?”

“Half a dozen people have been physically attacked. What do you want before you call the police? A couple of murders, or…” Jacqueline's mouth remained open, shaping the word she had not said.

Thomas peered at her. When she did not continue, he said, “The people who have been attacked are the ones who ought to complain. If they won't, and Sir Richard won't, there is nothing much you can do. Nothing has happened to you.”

“Aha,” said Jacqueline, turning on him. “So that's what's bugging you. You'd like to see me upside down in a barrel, I suppose.”

“No thrill in that. I've seen your legs. They are good legs; one might even call them excellent legs; but—” Thomas looked closely at her. “For God's sake,” he said, in a different voice, “of course I don't want you to be attacked. You drive me crazy with your arrogance and your sarcasm and your know-it-all airs, but I don't want anything to happen to you. I adore you.”

He kissed her. She came into his arms willingly enough, but after a brief interval he realized that she was not responding. If an embrace could be called preoccupied, this one was.

He raised his head. Jacqueline's lips were parted, receptive; her face had the same expression of severe cogitation it had worn before the embrace.

Thomas sat down on the edge of one of the raised, brick-lined flower beds. “Sorry to have interrupted your train of thought,” he said.

“You didn't interrupt it.” Jacqueline sat down beside him.

“No, you wouldn't let a little thing like that interfere with your thinking. Who do you think is going to be murdered?”

“Why do you think I think—”

“Oh, come now. I don't mind being Watson, but I refuse to emulate Watson's superb stupidity. Murder was the operative word. You said it and
then you went into a—if I may say so—theatrical double-take. If this were a comic strip, you'd have a light bulb over your head. I think you're bananas, but if I am to have your complete undivided attention in matters of more importance, I see I must let you exorcise this weird idea first. Who do you think is going to be—”

“Whom,” said Jacqueline. “Wouldn't it be ‘whom'?”

“No. Subjective pronoun. ‘Do you think
he
is going to be murdered?' Not ‘do you think
him
is…?' ” Thomas hit himself on the forehead with the palm of his hand. “Grammar lessons,” he exclaimed wildly. “No, no, no, not grammar lessons. Who, where, when, and why? Especially why?”

Jacqueline followed this incoherent statement without difficulty.

“Why depends on who,” she explained. “If I knew for sure who was going to be murdered, then I would know—”

“Whether,” Thomas interrupted. “Now there's a relevant adverb. What makes you suppose somebody's going to be murdered? Go ahead, I'm listening. Ratiocinate.”

“What?”

“Ratiocinate. Reason. Think.”

“Someone has said that only Americans could
put up signs ordering the reader to think,” Jacqueline said coldly. “All right, I will.”

“Be the great detective,” Thomas went on. His head felt better. Perhaps the damp air had cleared his sinuses. “I'm no male chauvinist; I don't mind your showing off. Throw out mysterious hints. Ask meaningless questions. I'll say I don't know the answers. I'll make admiring noises from time to time, and look as stupid as I can.”

“Just be yourself,” said Jacqueline, breathing through her nose.

They glared at one another. After a moment the corners of Thomas's mouth lifted, and Jacqueline's snarl relaxed. Thomas put his arm around her and she leaned comfortably against him.

“There are some advantages to being my age, even if it does make walking in the rain hazardous,” Thomas said after a peaceful moment. “If we were stronger we'd have had a loud screaming fight. Then I wouldn't have learned the solution until the last chapter, after three or four murders. Why murders, for God's sake?”

“The murders of Richard the Third,” said Jacqueline.

“What?”

“That's what we've seen, in the not-so-funny jokes. Richard's reputed murders.”

“Well, obviously,” Thomas said impatiently.
“You pointed that out yourself after I….” He thought for a moment. “Oh. I see what you mean.”

“I don't see what I mean myself. I'm on the verge of an idea and I can't quite grasp it. But…murders. Why reproduce ancient deaths? Carefully, painstakingly, and harmlessly? When is a murder not a murder?
Why
is a murder not—”

“There you go again.”

“I'm letting my stream of consciousness trickle on. When, why, who? Mrs. Ponsonby-Jones has to be the next victim….”

“There is a more crucial who,” Thomas said. “Who is the comedian? If we knew that—”

“I do know.”

Thomas stood up so he could see her face more clearly. He had been getting a trifle farsighted the last few years.

“You know?”

“Oh, let's not have another one of those conversations. It's so obvious, Thomas. So obvious I can't believe it,” she added in a rare burst of candor.

“So you aren't going to tell me.”

Jacqueline smiled at him. Her eyes were glinting with humor; they looked like clear green water.

“Thomas, do you know why the detective
doesn't tell until the last chapter? So he won't make a fool of himself in case he's wrong. It's much easier to deduce the identity of the murderer when you catch him in the act of murdering, or when all the other suspects are dead. Ellery Queen made that mistake in one of his books, I forget which one, but it was funny; he kept presenting complicated solutions that were promptly exploded. So after a while he decided—”

“Damn Ellery Queen!” Thomas thought of something. “You can't eliminate the people who have been victims of the joker, you know. In the form of literature to which you refer the victims were dead. They couldn't commit murders after they were—”

“Darling Thomas, aren't you belaboring the obvious? As a matter of fact, that one has been done. By Agatha Christie. The murderer was one of the supposed victims. He was supposed to have been shot through the head, but he—”

“I am not going to say anything rude about Agatha Christie,” Thomas told himself aloud. “I am going to continue with my ratiocinations. You can't eliminate our victims just because they were victimized. But maybe you can eliminate some of them. In my case—”

“I never suspected you, Thomas,” said Jacqueline earnestly.

“I wish people would stop saying that. I couldn't have rigged myself up in that uncomfortable position.”

“You could have had an accomplice. There may be two jokers.”

“Maybe everybody is guilty,” said Thomas wildly. “And don't tell me that's been done. I know, I read that book. Okay. For the sake of argument let's say I had an accomplice. I suppose Frank could have staged his accident and Percy could have drugged himself and the doctor could have poisoned his own mush—”

“Or just pretended to be sick. Rawdon is the only doctor in the group. No one questioned his diagnosis.”

“Okay, so he could have done it himself. But Philip got a nasty knock on the head. Or are you going to tell me that his hypothetical accomplice miscalculated?”

“I don't have to say it, you did. But Philip didn't need an accomplice. Head injuries are tricky things. There are medically documented cases of people getting a blow on the head and walking around for hours, even days, before collapsing. Philip could have produced the wound by banging his head up against a firedog or something equally hard. He wouldn't realize the extent of the damage. He might have had time to
arrange himself artistically on the floor before he passed out.” Jacqueline paused.

“Aren't you being rather fantastical?” Thomas said.

“I'm not the one who is fantastical. Even I couldn't have thought up these tricks.”

“That's been suggested,” said Thomas.

“Naturally. But we know better.”

“Do we? Okay, I'll eliminate you. And you will eliminate me? Thank you…I think. Anybody else?”

“Oh, Thomas, this is a waste of time. You're on the wrong track.”

Thomas began to pace. Gravel crunched under his feet. He brushed at a trailing vine that seemed to be eyeing him hungrily.

“So what's your solution, Holmes?”

“You really can't see it? Maybe I'm wrong….” Jacqueline sounded uncharacteristically meek. Thomas turned and looked at her.

“So it is going to be one of those conversations. That's one of the reasons why I hate mystery stories. The detective, or some vital witness, is always being interrupted in the middle of a clue, and the damned fool never gets around to finishing what he was about to say.”

“Sometimes he gets killed,”' Jacqueline said
cheerfully. “ ‘The murderer is…' Wham! Bang! Crash!”

“That's enough of that. Is there any reason why you can't tell me what you're thinking?”

“Several reasons. My inflated ego, for one.”

“That's an accurate description, but it is not a valid reason.”

“All right,” Jacqueline said unexpectedly. She was sitting bolt upright, with her hands folded on her knees. Her head was cocked as if she were listening to an inner voice. “The comedian is…”

She stopped. Thomas stiffened. His nerves were in worse shape than he had realized; for a moment he half expected to hear a shot ring out and see Jacqueline collapse in a pool of blood. Then he heard the sound her keener ears had already picked up, over the drum of the rain. Someone was coming.

He scowled at Jacqueline, who smiled back at him. Around a palm tree came James Strangways.

“There you are,” he announced triumphantly. “Wilkes said he thought he saw you heading for the conservatory. Though why the hell anyone would pick this place on a day like this…”

He glanced distastefully at the lush greenery. Thomas found himself warming to the man, in
spite of the fact that he was looking far too bright and healthy. His sleek white head and erect body, clad in neatly pressed slacks and a blue shirt, made Thomas feel grubby.

“Jacqueline's idea,” he said. “She was about to tell me—”

“Hm,” said Jacqueline loudly.

Strangways looked from one of them to the other. His wide-lipped, attractive smile warmed his lean face. “The identity of the criminal? Don't let me interrupt. I've a few ideas of my own.” He sat down beside Jacqueline.

“So you think of him as a criminal,” Jacqueline said.

“I consider assault a criminal act,” Strangways said dryly. “That puts me in a minority in this madhouse, I know. I thought you two had a little more sense. That's why I wanted to talk to you.”

“What about?” Thomas asked suspiciously. He sat down on Jacqueline's left. There was barely room for the three of them.

“What about? A plan of action, naturally. We three are the only ones in the crowd who have our wits about us. Or don't you agree with me that the situation is dangerous?”

“Yes,” Jacqueline said slowly. “I do.”

“Do you know the identity of the comedian?” Thomas asked.

Strangways looked at him without moving his head. The rolling eyes gave him a crafty expression. “It has to be one of two people,” he said finally. “I'm not sure which. And even if I were sure, I couldn't prove it.”

“Who?” Thomas demanded.

“Uh-uh.” Strangways's smile was not so attractive. “I'm not sticking my neck out. I'm in enough trouble as it is.”

“Then what do you propose we do?” Thomas asked. “My God, I'm tired of egotists,” he added.

“It's very simple,” Strangways said. “The point of all these unpleasant activities is the letter. I didn't believe in the letter to begin with, and I don't now, especially after Weldon's disclosure last night.”

“How biased can you get?” Thomas said angrily. “Dick is right, you are so hung up—”

Jacqueline regarded Thomas without affection over the tops of her glasses. “Who was it who was complaining about distractions and interruptions and extraneous comments?” she inquired.

“Oh, hell,” said Thomas.

“Let me finish,” Strangways said loudly. The last word echoed uncannily through the muggy air. “The letter is a fake. It was concocted by the character who planned the series of jokes. He is going to steal it and hold it for ransom. The jokes
are merely a distraction. They focus our attention on the victims of the moment; while we stand around yelling at each other, the criminal will have his chance to steal the letter.”

“From Sir Richard's safe?” Thomas demanded. “How?”

“You don't suppose the letter is in the safe, do you?”

“But Dick said…” Thomas stopped. “Oh.”

“I can read Weldon like a book,” Strangways said arrogantly. “He thinks he's Machiavellian, poor devil. He mentioned the safe to put us off the track. I'll give you ten to one that he's got his precious letter tucked away in some hiding place he innocently considers clever. I'll also bet he keeps sneaking in and gloating over it. The criminal now has everybody so frantic, they don't know what's going on. He'll play his last joke and snatch the letter. Well?” He turned to Jacqueline. “What do you think?”

“I think,” said Jacqueline calmly, “that your theory has so many holes, it leaks like a colander.”

Strangways's face darkened. Thomas watched with interest. He had never seen the man so angry, even when his identity had been disclosed.