The Murders of Richard III (21 page)

“I can but try,” said Weldon equably. He gestured. One of the footmen stepped into the room. He was the same husky young man who had carried Percy the night before. Apparently Percy recognized him; his damp chins quivered.

“Go along with Charles,” said Weldon.

“Oh, very well.” Percy made a lunge at the table. Lady Isobel, who was closest to him,
shrieked and shied away, but Percy's designs were on the food. Snatching a handful of bread, he sauntered toward the door. Thomas did not find his change of mood reassuring. The boy's furious frown did not wholly conceal the glint in his eyes. Percy enjoyed being the center of attention—the suspect—and he was already planning his next move.

He swaggered out, with the embarrassed footman in close attendance. There was a long, universal sigh. Mrs. Ponsonby-Jones, huddled in her chair, did not speak.

“And those are the precautions you mean to take?” Jacqueline inquired.

“You think them inadequate?”

“I do.”

“What do you suggest?”

“Disperse the house party.”

“I can't do that,” said Weldon good-humoredly. “This is a supreme moment for all of us. Nor will I insult old friends by seeming to suspect them.”

Jacqueline's glasses were slipping. She stared over them at Sir Richard, who smiled affably at her.

“You wouldn't believe me if I told you—”

Weldon laughed. It was a pleasant, low-pitched laugh, but Thomas didn't like the sound of it.

“My dear—no, I wouldn't. I know some of the surmises that have been flying about. Fantastic
theories! They do more credit to the imaginations of my friends than to their intelligence. I feel quite sure of the identity of the person who has been playing these nasty little tricks on us. That is all they are; nothing harmful was ever intended. If any of you wish to leave, of course I shan't stop you. But I do most sincerely hope you will all stay and share this day of triumph.”

Thomas was hypnotized by Jacqueline's glasses, which continued to slide slowly down her nose. At the last possible moment she put her finger on them and pushed them back into place.

“Oh, I'll stay,” she said. “Either everyone goes, or we all remain. But may I suggest that we gather in groups from now on? That particularly applies to you, Sir Richard.”

Weldon continued to smile. Thomas thought he heard Jacqueline's teeth grind together before she spoke again.

“I presume the famous letter is safe?”

“Oh, yes. I have just looked to be sure.”

“Damn it,” Thomas burst out. “You said you wouldn't go near it until—”

“So I did.” The smile seemed to be stamped on Weldon's face. “You must allow me my little subterfuges, Thomas. And now, shall we all retire to the drawing room to await the great moment?”

He walked out, moving as if in time to the
strains of a slow, majestic march. Jacqueline jumped to her feet and followed. The others moved like a herd of animals after a leader.

Thomas remained in his chair. The more he thought about his new theory, the more disturbed he became.

All of them had been affected by the bizarre atmosphere of the past few days. Thomas had felt his own grip on reality slip once or twice. Could an innocent avocation such as historical research fan the spark of incipient schizophrenia? That story of Jacqueline's about the scholar who worshiped at the shrine of Mary, Queen of Scots…That was not an extreme case, but the asylums, he had heard, were full of people who thought they were Julius Caesar or Napoleon. Abnormality sends out invisible waves that touch the people within its range. One seriously disturbed personality could sensitize others and make them behave abnormally too.

Weldon was an authority on medieval manuscripts. He had called the meeting; naturally he knew the roles the others had assumed. He himself was King Richard, and the victims of the jokes were Richard's victims. Had Weldon's sense of identification with his Plantagenet prototype passed the bounds of sanity? Was some sly, submerged segment of Weldon's personality, beset
by doubts as to Richard's innocence, denied by Weldon's conscious mind, seeking an outlet? An outwardly dutiful son, subconsciously rejecting and resenting his father's belief…

Thomas knew he was weltering in a morass of absurd Freudian contradictions, but he couldn't get the idea out of his head. He felt an urgent need to talk with Jacqueline.

A windblown spatter of rain against the windows made him start. The room was horribly quiet. All at once he was afraid to be alone.

W
HEN
T
HOMAS REACHED THE DRAWING ROOM HE
was out of breath, in part from distress of mind, in part from the speed with which he had traversed the long, empty corridor. He tried to catch Jacqueline's eye, but did not succeed; she was chatting with Mrs. Ponsonby-Jones and Lady Isobel. From the shape of the latter's smirk, Thomas deduced that Lady Isobel had taken a nip or two to brace herself for the day's activities.

All the guests were present except the two who were incarcerated upstairs. Even Philip had come down. His eyes closed and his bandaged head resting against the back of the chair, he was expressing courageous suffering. Liz and Frank were seated side by side on a sofa. The rector and Rawdon were discussing music. Kent stood by the window, his back to the room, looking out at the rain; the set of his shoulders expressed anger and frustration. He probably wants to drag
Strangways down and torture him into a confession, Thomas thought.

Weldon wandered around the room, rearranging a pillow here and an ornament there. No one seemed anxious to engage him in conversation; Thomas wondered how many of the others had had the same idea he had. As Weldon passed the sofa on which Liz and Frank were sitting, Thomas thought he saw the girl shrink back. Weldon saw it too. A touch of color came into his face and he walked away.

Finding that his performance was not getting the proper attention, Philip got up and joined Liz and Frank. He said something to Liz. She looked at him with an expression of such fury that Thomas hastened toward them. Her comment reassured him as to the nature of the offense; it was Richard the Third again.

“But that is the crux of the matter,” she exclaimed. “Don't you see—all the other accusations fall to the ground! No one believes in them today. Nothing tarnishes his reputation except the disappearance of the boys. Everything else hangs on that, even the so-called usurpation. Historians admit that the story of the precontract is probably true, and yet they continue to refer to usurpation. Why? Because afterward the princes disappeared. Yet Richard's seizure of the throne was not only justified legally, it was a
moral imperative, given the attitude of the period. The kingship was a divinely sanctioned gift of God. For Richard to stand aside and see the throne go to a bastard would have been to commit an act of impiety, blasphemy! It is true that bastards could be legitimized by royal decree, but a person so legitimized could hardly hope to inherit the throne. And ironically, the only person who could legitimize the children of Edward the Fourth was Richard himself, as king. He may have planned to do just that, if he had lived longer. Everything indicates that he was a man of integrity, courage, and kindness; and yet he has been accused of one of the most dastardly murders of history, on grounds that wouldn't convict a dog. No wonder we harp on it! And we'll clear him of it, too!”

In spite of the fact that he recognized the speech as a quotation from one of Weldon's more pompous articles, Thomas couldn't help cheering.

“Hurray!” he shouted, and began to clap.

The applause was echoed from behind him. Weldon brushed past, his shining eyes intent on the girl. Kent also joined the group. Thomas heard him urging the claims of the Duke of Buckingham as murderer. He went to Jacqueline, who had left the other women and was standing by the window.

“Why don't you put Weldon up as Pretender to
the throne?” she suggested, before Thomas could speak. “After all, if Henry the Seventh succeeded, as the descendant of an illegitimate son, then Sir Richard—”

Thomas was not amused. “I've just had a horrible thought,” he said. He went on to explain his suspicions of Weldon. Jacqueline listened without a visible change of expression.

“Hmmm,” she said, when he had finished.

“What do you think?”

“I think you're very ingenious.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

Jacqueline sat down on a hassock and reached into her purse.

“Not the tatting,” Thomas begged. “My dear old grandmother used to do it. She did it beautifully. I can't stand watching your fingers turn blue. Why don't you take up whittling?”

Jacqueline produced her cigarettes.

“I hate myself,” she said sadly. “If people would just leave me alone and not strain my nerves, maybe I could—”

“What about Weldon?” Thomas insisted.

“Watch him. Like a hawk.”

“Then you agree—”

“I will say no more,
mon ami,
” said Jacqueline. Her French accent was execrable. “The walls have ears.”

Her eyes rolled meaningfully, and Thomas saw Kent bearing down on them. He held a half-filled glass; the amber liquid sloshed with every step.

“Where are you going?” Jacqueline asked.

“Out,” Kent said.

“You mustn't go alone. I'll go with you, to protect you.” Jacqueline batted her lashes and pouted. Thomas thought it a disgusting display, but Kent was not so fastidious.

“I can hardly reject an offer like that,” he said, leering.

Jacqueline took the arm he extended and they went toward the door. Over her shoulder Jacqueline looked at Thomas and winked strenuously.

Thomas wondered what the hell she was trying to tell him. To watch Weldon? That was the only positive suggestion she had made, but it was not as easy as it sounded. The room was large, and the Ricardians paced like restless lions. Sir Richard was the worst of the lot. Thomas kept losing sight of him—first behind the draperies, where he stood for a while peering out into the rain-drenched garden; then momentarily hidden behind Mrs. Ponsonby-Jones's considerable form. Then he darted for the door, ostensibly to check on the preparations going on in the Great Hall, which were reaching a peak of activity audible even in the drawing
room. Thomas headed him off and guided him toward the table where sandwiches and coffee had been laid out.

He was sweating with nervousness by the time Jacqueline and Kent returned; the smug look on the general's face did not quiet his irritation.

“Have a sandwich,” he snarled, shoving a ham-and-cheese concoction into Kent's hand.

The general looked startled. “I don't want a sandwich.”

“Have one anyway. You too, Dick.”

“I don't want—”

“Have a sandwich!” Thomas shouted.

“Now don't get excited, Thomas,” Jacqueline said soothingly. “We'll all have a sandwich. We'll eat sandwiches all day if that will make you happy. And Sir Richard will tell me about the entries in the royal household account books that indicate the princes were still alive in 1485.”

Weldon's puzzled frown smoothed out.

“The payment to the footman of the Lord Bastard—is that the one? Yes, I'm certain it must refer to young Edward. In an earlier entry he is called Lord Edward, and on another occasion, Edward bastard. The 1485 entry—”

“Balderdash,” Kent interrupted. “The boys were dead by then. Buckingham killed 'em. The
Lord Bastard must be Richard's illegitimate son John.”

“Who was not a lord,” Weldon snapped.

“As a king's son he may have been given a courtesy title—”

Thomas took Jacqueline's arm and removed her. “What were you doing out there with the general?” he asked. It was not what he had meant to say.

“Distracting him,” Jacqueline said coolly. “He was heading for Mr. Strangways's room. He's quite drunk, and spoiling for a fight.”

“But Strangways is locked in, isn't he?”

“So far.” Jacqueline was clearly worried. “Thomas, Sir Richard doesn't have anyone guarding his prisoners. The locks are clumsy old things; I'm sure they could be picked.”

“My dear, don't you think you had better tell me what is worrying you?”

“I may be wrong,” Jacqueline said rapidly, “But I don't think so. Thomas, surely you must see it too; it's so obvious! I'd be much more confident if you arrived at the same conclusion.”

Thomas shook his head. “I told you my idea. You haven't told me a damned thing that makes any sense.”

“Oh, dear. Well, then, there are three people whose movements during the next couple of
hours are of crucial importance. If we can keep them under observation, we should be all right.”

“Who?”

“Percy, Sir Richard, and Frank.”

“Frank?” Thomas repeated, in surprise. He turned.

The others had gathered in a group around the refreshment table. Ricardian debate raged, scarcely interrupted by sandwiches and coffee. Weldon stood a little apart, watching…. It was Frank he was watching.

Thomas had suspected that Weldon was in love with his young cousin, but the corollary had not struck his essentially law-abiding mind until that moment. The look on Weldon's face…Thomas saw a possible motive for murder, as well as explanations for the other mystifying events of the past few days.

“I can't believe it,” he whispered. But unwilling conviction showed in his eyes, and Jacqueline let out a little breath of satisfaction.

“At least you see the possibility. That's a relief.”

“But it doesn't make sense. Frank was the first victim—”

“Forget the Ricardian lists. Forget the whole Ricardian mess, it doesn't have anything to do with the problem. Or rather,” Jacqueline
amended, “it does in a way, but not in the way you mean.”

“Wait a minute,” Thomas said, his head spinning. “I'm not sure I do see what you're aiming at. Where does Percy come into it?”

“Oh, for goodness' sakes,” said Jacqueline in ladylike exasperation. “I'll have to spell it out. As soon as Percy gets out of that room—which he will do, you can count on that—then—”

“Here comes the rector,” said Thomas huskily. “Let's—”

It was too late. Mr. Ellis, smiling and refreshed, was upon them.

“The moment approaches,” he said cheerfully. “I confess my agitation is mounting.”

“If my agitation mounts any higher I'll have a stroke,” Thomas muttered. “Oh, my God—there goes Frank. Jacqueline…”

“Go with him.” Jacqueline was just as disturbed. “Don't let him go alone, Thomas.”

Thomas darted off, leaving Jacqueline to make excuses to Mr. Ellis, who was staring at them in understandable confusion. He collided with Frank in the doorway and caught his arm in a steely grip.

“Ouch,” Frank said. “Thomas, what are you—”

Thomas could think of nothing to say except the simple truth.

“Jacqueline thinks we shouldn't wander around alone.”

“Oh? Perhaps she's right.”

Thomas sagged with relief. It was a pleasure to deal with someone reasonable. “I was going upstairs to have a look at the prisoners,” Frank said. “Come along if you like.”

They went to Strangways's room first, since it was nearest. The upper halls were strangely deserted. Thomas glanced uneasily over his shoulder.

“Where are the servants?”

“Gawking at the telly,” Frank said briefly. “The place is in an uproar.”

Thomas knocked on the door. After a moment Strangways answered.

“Who is it?”

“Thomas. Are you all right?”

There was a rich chuckle from within.

“I'm fine and I intend to stay that way. You haven't come to let me out, have you?”

“No.”

“Good. Because I wouldn't come. Anyone who enters this room for any reason whatsoever is going to get crowned with a poker.”

“Are you planning to remain there indefinitely?” Thomas inquired.

“Only until time for the meeting. All hell will
have broken loose by then, but I'll have my alibi. How is Jacqueline?”

“Fine,” said Thomas stupidly.

Another chuckle. “She'll be feeling humble and depressed when my predictions are confirmed. But I'll console the little darling.”

Thomas's eyes opened wide. It seemed incredible to him that anyone could think of Jacqueline in those terms.

“Oh, come along,” Frank said impatiently. “We haven't time for games. Percy is the lad I'm concerned about.”

Percy's incarceration was audible some distance away. Apparently he was kicking the door. The rhythmic thuds reverberated along the hall, and for some reason the noise maddened Thomas. He pounded on the door with his fist.

The thuds stopped. Percy's voice inquired ominously, “Are you going to let me out?”

“No.”

The kicking began again.

“Listen to him,” Frank said angrily. “The way things are going he could ram the door down with a battering ram and no one would notice. There are a dozen ways of getting out of that room. The windows lock only from the inside….”

He had to raise his voice to be heard over the kicking. Thomas shouted back, “Luckily he's too angry to be rational. Let him wear himself out kicking.”

They went back down the hall with the thuds following like drumbeats. Thomas resisted the temptation to comment on restless natives.

The restlessness extended into the drawing room. Only Weldon and Kent, the two diehards, were still arguing. The others prowled around the room. Jacqueline was pacing up and down. The rector chugged along beside her, he had to take two steps to each of Jacqueline's strides. The purse, a shoulder bag with a long strap, swung back and forth in rhythm.

Thomas caught her eye and nodded, but her face did not lose its worried frown. She slowed her step as Thomas joined them.

“Splendid exercise,” said Ellis guilelessly. “Since we cannot be out of doors.”

Jacqueline continued to walk. She was humming drearily to herself; again, Thomas wondered why her sub-vocal performances sounded so lugubrious. It took him some time to identify the music as Gilbert and Sullivan.

“…I'd an appetite fresh and hearty,” crooned Jacqueline.

She caught the rector's astonished eye and lowered
her voice, but the look she gave Thomas was not at all abashed.