The Murders of Richard III (3 page)

“Stores, not store. They're all over England. But you'll like Sir Richard,” Thomas added with seeming irrelevance. “He's a nice guy, even if he does have an
idée fixe.
The house party is to be at his home in Yorkshire. It is a special meeting of the executive board of the society. Usually we forgather on the anniversary of Richard's birthday—October second.”

“He was a Libra,” said Jacqueline, interested. “That's a point for your side. Libras are well-balanced individuals, not liable to bursts of passion or ungoverned rage. They are sensitive to beauty, fond of justice—”

“Now stop that!”

Jacqueline grinned. Then she sobered and shook her head.

“Thomas, I'd adore coming to the meeting, but I don't think I can manage it. I had planned to go home early next week.”

“Why must you? College doesn't open till the middle of September. You're not worried about the offspring, are you? Surely they're old enough to manage for another fortnight.”

“Oh, they'd be delighted to have me stay away permanently. They have my car, my TV set, my refrigerator, and my bank account—such as it is—at their mercy. They are probably having nightly orgies.”

“They can't be doing anything too bad….”

“Oh, yes, they can. However,” Jacqueline said, brightening, “they manage to keep me unwitting. So far they seem to have buried the bodies and settled out of court.”

“You're a damned unnatural mum. I don't know how they put up with you. Jacqueline, you've got to come. I'm counting on you.”

“It's not polite to visit people without an invitation. I was brought up to be a lady.”

“I've already told Sir Richard you're coming. He's delighted.”

“Oh, you have, have you?”

“Don't be so hostile. You haven't asked me why the meeting is extraordinary.”

“Why,” said Jacqueline in the same steely voice, “is the meeting extraordinary?”

“We've found the letter. The one from Elizabeth of York, Richard's niece.”

The bald statement had the desired effect. Jacqueline's hard stare softened.

“You're kidding.”

“No.”

“The letter in which the girl says she's in love with her uncle and wants to marry him? That she wishes the queen would hurry up and die? That Richard is her—”

“ ‘Only joy and maker in this world,' ” said
Thomas, thoroughly pleased with himself. “That's the letter.”

“The girl was at court,” Jacqueline said thoughtfully. “Her mother let her and the other princesses leave sanctuary after Richard was crowned. He agreed to provide for them, and not to force them into unsuitable marriages. But the letter is apocryphal, Thomas. I remember; it was quoted by one of Richard's earliest defenders, back in the seventeenth century—”

“Buck.”

“Yes, Buck. He said he had seen the original, in Elizabeth's own handwriting. But then it disappeared. Most authorities doubt it ever existed. Because, if it did—”

“Uh-huh,” said Thomas. “If it exists, it absolves Richard of one of the Tudor slanders—that he tried to force his unwilling niece into an incestuous marriage in order to improve his claim to the throne.”

“Yes, I remember. I was particularly struck by one part of that story—the Christmas party at court, where Queen Anne and young Elizabeth appeared in identical dresses.”

“Everyone at court was struck by it. The gesture was in singularly bad taste. The queen was dying of tuberculosis; she must have looked like a haggard ghost next to a handsome, healthy
young girl. Richard was accused of thinking that one up, of course.”

“A man would never think of a thing like that. It's a woman's trick. Not the queen's; she wouldn't give another woman a gown like hers, especially if the other woman was younger and prettier. I thought, when I read about it, that Elizabeth must have planned the trick herself—had the dress copied.”

“Excellent,” Thomas said approvingly. “I hadn't thought of that, but it bears out my own theory. There certainly was a rumor going around that Richard planned to marry the girl. When Richard heard it, he denied the story, publicly and emphatically. It would have been an extremely stupid move from his point of view. The girl was illegitimate, a commoner, his own niece, one of the hated Woodvilles. He had everything to lose and nothing to gain by such a marriage.

“No, I'm sure young Elizabeth started the rumor herself. Wishful thinking. Richard was only about ten years older than she was, and the queen was dying….”

Jacqueline shook her head violently. “No, Thomas, it's too much. Granted that the girl was ambitious—granted that she was in love with her uncle. Even so…”

Thomas finished the sentence. “…it is inconceivable
that she should want to marry the murderer of her brothers. I couldn't agree more. It's hard enough to explain how the queen mother could have entrusted her daughters to Richard's protection after he had ruthlessly slaughtered her sons. She accepted a pension from him, even wrote to her son by her first marriage, who had fled abroad, urging him to return because Richard would treat him well.”

Jacqueline was still shaking her head. “Maybe the two Elizabeths didn't know the boys were dead. The date, Thomas. What was the date of the letter?”

“That won't wash. The letter was probably written in January or February of 1485—a year and a half after the boys were supposed to have been killed. All England prayed for saintly Henry Tudor to come over and rescue them from the monster. You can't have it both ways. Either the truth was known—and in that case the boys' family couldn't help knowing it—or the boys were still alive and the accusations were malicious lies spread by Henry's agents. Agitprop is not a modern invention, you know.”

“Hmm.” Jacqueline acknowledged his logic by abandoning the argument. “The letter would support your second alternative. It isn't absolute proof, but—Good Heavens, Thomas,
it's an important document! And your little society is sitting on it like a broody hen. Who found it? Where was it found? Has the provenance been checked? Have any reputable authorities seen it?”

“An authority is about to see it.”

He had rarely seen Jacqueline taken aback. Now she gaped at him, unable to believe her ears.

“Me? Is that how you got me invited? Thomas, I'm not—”

“You took a course in authenticating manuscripts, didn't you?”

“Oh, for God's sake—just the usual survey sort of thing. I'm no—”

“And you studied handwriting analysis, didn't you?”

“I can read your fortune in the Tarot, too, if you like. That has nothing to do with—”

“Could you spot an out-and-out fake?”

Jacqueline studied him thoughtfully. Her indignation faded as she realized his concern was genuine.

“A crude one—of course. Errors in vocabulary, spelling, and the like…. So could you. For anything more complex I'd need a laboratory. They can test the paper, the ink…. And I'm no expert on fifteenth-century orthography. What's wrong,
Thomas? Do you think one of your fellow enthusiasts forged this letter?”

“I don't know! I'm sure the letter did exist. Buck couldn't have invented it out of whole cloth. But it's too damned fortuitous to have it turn up now, after all these years. The scholarly world and the press think we're a bunch of crackpots now. If we make a big public spectacle of this—as we are planning to do—and then some goateed expert strolls in and says, ‘You've been had, ladies and gents; this is Woolworth's best stationery….' You can see how idiotic we would look. And…maybe you won't understand this. But we honestly are concerned with a little matter of justice, even if it's five hundred years late. A fiasco like this…”

“…could hurt Richard's cause,” said Jacqueline, as he hesitated. She spoke tentatively, as if the words were too bizarre to be uttered; but as she studied the flushed face of the man across the table, her own face changed. “My God. You really feel…”

“I guess it sounds silly,” Thomas said, with no sign of anger. “I can't explain it. In part, it's the fun of an unsolved puzzle; in part, the famous Anglo-Saxon weakness for the underdog. But it's more than that. Do you remember what they wrote about Richard in the official records of the
city of York, after they heard the news of Bosworth? ‘King Richard, late mercifully reigning upon us, was…piteously slain and murdered, to the great heaviness of this City.' The men of Yorkshire knew him well; he had lived among them for many years. It took guts to write that epitaph with Henry Tudor on the throne and Richard's cause buried in a felon's grave at Leicester…. If there is such a thing as charisma, maybe some people have an extra-large dose. Enough to carry through five hundred years.”

Jacqueline's eyebrows went up. “That's a scary idea, Thomas. I refuse to pursue it…. Okay. If you feel that strongly, I'm your woman. In a limited sense,” she added. “What is going on this weekend? Do you reenact the Battle of Bosworth, or what?”

“It's like a regular professional meeting,” Thomas explained. He didn't thank her, they knew each other too well for that. “We start on Friday with a dinner at Dick's place; after dinner we'll hear papers, have discussions, the way they do at the scholarly society meetings. More lectures, etcetera, on Saturday. Saturday night we're having our big banquet and ball. The Sunday afternoon meeting is when Dick is producing the letter. God, they've invited the BBC, and I understand half the papers in England are sending reporters.
Not because the find is important, you understand; they just want to see a bunch of nuts making a spectacle of themselves.”

“It sounds rather dull.”

“Well…”

“Ah! Come clean, Thomas. You
are
going to reenact the Battle of Bosworth. Only this time Richard wins?”

“That's an idea,” said Thomas interestedly. “History as it should have been. I'll have to propose that some time.”

“Thomas.”

Thomas came as near to squirming as a dignified adult male can come. “We—er—dress up,” he said reluctantly. “In costume of the period.”

“Indeed.”

“You don't have to, it's optional. And then we—well, we take parts. Various historical characters.”

He looked at Jacqueline and saw with regret, but without surprise, that her green eyes were sparkling. Her mouth was fixed in a line of exaggerated composure.

“Really, Thomas? What fun! And who are you, darling?”

“Clarence.”

“Richard's brother, the Duke of Clarence? The one who was drowned…”

“Yes, that one. Really, Jacqueline, for a woman
of your age and supposed refinement, you have the most raucous laugh.”

“I'm sorry.” Jacqueline wiped tears of mirth from her eyes. “I had a sudden mental picture of you, head down in—”

“That story about the butt of malmsey is ridiculous! Can you imagine anyone drowning an enemy in a barrel of wine? It would ruin the wine, for one thing.” Thomas grinned unwillingly. “Sorry to disappoint you, but I'm not going to dive into a barrel with my feet kicking in the air just to entertain you.”

He was to remember this statement later as a particularly dazzling example of “famous last words.”

T
HOMAS HAD TOMATO ON HIS TIE.

“I'm getting tomato on my tie,” he said.

“Lean forward and drip on the floor,” Jacqueline advised.

She was also eating an egg-tomato-and-cucumber sandwich. Thomas was irked to see that there wasn't a spot on her snowy-white pants suit.

He followed her advice and her example. At least there was no one to see the ridiculous picture he made. They were sitting side by side in the front row of seats on the top of the double-decker bus. There were only two other passengers on this level; both were local people, far at the back, and superbly disinterested in the foreigners up front. An occasional bird or squirrel in the leafy branches that brushed past the windows might be observing his graceless posture, but they were probably equally disinterested.

Thomas dabbed at the spot on his maroon tie. It
bothered him more than it ought to have done, and this fact made him wonder, in his introspective fashion, whether he was as indifferent to worldly concerns as a scholar ought to be. He had been only mildly vexed when Jacqueline insisted on traveling into Yorkshire by local bus; he was undisturbed at the idea of disembarking from one of the lumbering green monsters, along with a crowd of yokels, at the gates of his titled host's country residence. At least his conscious mind was undisturbed. Then why, he asked himself, had he been relieved when Sir Richard suggested that they disembark in the next village but one, where they would be met by Sir Richard's chauffeur? Why did he hope the bus would be early and Jenkins would be late with the car? He had encountered Jenkins before, and the thought of the supercilious chauffeur watching him descend from this plebeian form of transport induced a definite qualm. Jenkins, who doubled as Sir Richard's valet, would certainly notice the spot on his tie.

Jacqueline, who had been staring at the panorama of English countryside unrolling before them at a genteel speed of ten miles an hour, delved into her purse and eventually produced a small tube.

“Spot remover,” she said, proffering the tube without looking at Thomas.

“I don't see why we couldn't have a decent lunch instead of munching sandwiches on top of a bus,” he grumbled.

“We'd have missed the bus,” Jacqueline said patiently. “And there isn't another one till tomorrow.”

“Ridiculous idea, anyhow.” The spot remover worked beautifully. Thomas went on, in a more affable tone, “We have had to transfer three times already.”

“You've lived in England for years. Have you ever taken local buses before?”

Memory gripped Thomas, so unexpectedly and so strongly that he felt an actual physical pain.

“Thirty-five years ago,” he said. “Before the war. I was sixteen. It was my first trip abroad.”

Jacqueline was silent, which was just as well; Thomas would not have heard her. What was the name of that girl? He had written to her for almost a year…. He had forgotten her name, but he could see her as vividly as if he had parted from her, in the bluebell-carpeted woods, only yesterday. Hair like pale-yellow silk and eyes as blue as the flowers…

With a nostalgic sigh he turned to Jacqueline.

“You're a witch. Are those rumors about your purse true?”

“What rumors?”

“The students claim it's magic. That you can produce anything you want out of it.”

“Such nonsense.”

“You mean you always carry spot remover?”

“When I'm wearing a white suit and taking buses to visit a noble peer of the realm I do. Be sensible, Thomas.”

In the year 1466 Sir John Crosby, alderman of London, built a town house in the city district called Bishopsgate. The Great Hall of this handsome residence still survives in a new location on the Embankment. Since Richard III, for whom Jacqueline was developing a distinctly ambivalent attitude, had once rented Sir John's house, Jacqueline had been taken to Chelsea to see Crosby Hall. Ricardians liked to visit the place and gaze sentimentally at the walls that had once enclosed their hero. They are perhaps among the few who appreciate the irony of the Hall's present location. The adjacent building was the home of the saint and martyr and questionable historian, Sir Thomas More, whose biography of Richard infuriates that king's modern admirers.

The Yorkshire copy of Crosby Hall looked just as out of place as its London original. It was an
exact replica, but instead of building a house to go with it, Herman Weldon, the father of the present owner, had attached the Hall onto an existing country residence. This mansion, Georgian in date, seemed to turn its back on the addition. The mellow red brick did not clash with the pale stone of the Hall; it ignored it.

Jacqueline didn't comment directly on the unfortunate juxtaposition. She merely remarked that bastardized combinations of architectural styles sometimes succeeded, but only, in her opinion, when they grew naturally through the centuries. Thomas said nothing. He agreed with the aesthetic judgment, but the romantic appeal of a fifteenth-century Hall superseded taste; he would have liked it if it had been built onto a high-rise apartment building.

He could tell by Jacqueline's face that the architectural monstrosity had confirmed her prejudice against its owner. He had given her a brief biography of their host. Sir Richard had inherited his title, his house, and his Ricardian enthusiasm from his father, who had been a highly successful merchant. It was inevitable that the merchant's son should be named Richard, but far less likely that Old Crouchback's namesake should have reacted so positively to his father's obsession. Instead of rejecting it, as a healthily antagonistic offspring is
supposed to do, the boy had embraced it with even greater fervor. The Weldon fortune having survived war, post war inflation, and death duties, Sir Richard was a member of that increasingly rare breed, a gentleman of wealth. He lived with, for, and among his collection of Ricardiana.

Jacqueline and Thomas were received at the door by a member of that equally rare breed, a genuine butler. As he took their suitcases, a door at the far end of the hall opened, and from the shadow of the arch the original of the portrait at the National Gallery came walking out of time to greet them.

Weldon wore his brown hair at shoulder length. His head was covered with a black velvet hat pinned with a jeweled brooch—copied from the portrait, as was his long fur-trimmed gown. The pleated garment was belted in at the waist. The neck was open, showing the high-necked undertunic, or paltock.

Thomas heard Jacqueline's breath catch at the first sight of this fantastic figure; as it moved out into the light he heard another sound, which was one of courteously suppressed amusement. He smiled to himself. Whatever Jacqueline's prejudices, they would soon be dispelled. No one could dislike a man as cheerful and gentle as Richard Weldon.

The resemblance to Richard of Gloucester was cultivated and not really very close. Weldon's short, slight figure suited the image, but his snub-nosed face had no resemblance to Gloucester's somber countenance. It was pathetic to watch Weldon struggle with his facial muscles; he tried to keep his face as sober as that of its painted prototype, but his features were not designed for melancholy.

He was beaming as he marched forward, both hands extended. After greeting Jacqueline warmly, he turned to Thomas.

“Brother!” he exclaimed, and flung both arms around Thomas. “Noble Clarence! God wit ye well!”

“Now, now,” said Thomas, disentangling himself from yards of loose velvet sleeve. “Hadn't we better stick to our own names? It's confusing enough as it is.”

“Oh, dear,” said Weldon, looking chagrined. “Of course you're right. Do come into the drawing room and meet the others.”

The drawing room was a lovely Georgian chamber, but its fine lines and discreet ornament were obscured by an outré collection of bric-a-brac and furniture, an overflow from the famous Weldon collection of Ricardiana. A mammoth carved chest, black with age, loomed threateningly
over a little ormolu table. An ivory sofa was disfigured by a plush cushion with the legend “Souvenir of Middleham Castle.” Clearly Weldon could not bear to throw anything away if it had the slightest connection with Richard of Gloucester.

All the people present were wearing medieval costume. Some were sweating inelegantly under the muffling folds of velvet and the heavy fur trim. The feminine garb of the period, romantic and graceful as it was, only suited the slim. The woman who strode forward to meet them, with the air of one who knows her rights of precedence, was far too massive for the dress. The full skirts were supposed to be belted in just under the breasts, but in this case it was hard to tell where that area was located. Her massive bosom went out and out and further out; from its extremity the crimson cloth of gold billowed instead of falling in graceful folds. The neckline and skirt of the dress were trimmed with bands of ermine. Against the white fur the woman's neck was scarlet, streaked with runnels of perspiration. She had a visible moustache, and her iron-gray hair was almost concealed under a velvet-banded hennin—the tall pointed hat popular with assorted fairy princesses. From its peak a long gauzy veil stood straight out every time
the wearer moved. It was an impractical appendage, as the tears and snags in the fragile fabric indicated.

“Mrs. Ponsonby-Jones,” said Weldon in a subdued voice. “My late cousin's wife.”

“And your queen,” said Mrs. Ponsonby-Jones, in a voice that made her gauze veil flutter. She gave Weldon a coy glance and a dig with her elbow. “Richard's wife, Queen Anne. Good day, Thomas—dear brother Clarence, I should say, though you were not very kind to poor little Anne, were you? You must get into costume at once, we are having such a jolly time pretending.” Thomas, who had been opening and closing his mouth, had no chance to reply. Mrs. Ponsonby-Jones turned her attention to Jacqueline, not liking what she saw and making no effort to conceal it. “Hem. Yes, as Richard's hostess, let me welcome you, Miss—er—hem. Of course you will want to join our little game of make-believe. I fear that all the major parts are taken; but you will no doubt enjoy portraying one of the ladies of the court, or perchance a serving wench. I am sure I can find some costume for you in the old-clothes basket, Miss—er—Mrs—hem.”

“How nice of you, Mrs. Ponsonby-Jones,” said Jacqueline. She turned to the other older woman in the group, and Richard Weldon said quickly,
“Lady Isobel Crawford.”

The only word for Lady Isobel was “skinny.” “Thin” would have been an understatement. She was barely five feet tall, and thirty years earlier she might have been a petite, dainty little woman. Her robe was a copy of one worn by Edward IV's queen, Elizabeth Woodville, in a National Gallery portrait. The truncated hennin of gold brocade matched the metallic sheen of her bleached hair and was adorned with a butterfly veil, supported by three fine wires that gave it its shape. Her gown of black velvet was trimmed at cuffs and neckline with matching gold brocade. The neckline was cut low, showing an embroidered undertunic and a pair of bony shoulders. Chains and pendants jangled when she moved.

“How do you do, Dr. Kirby,” said Lady Isobel. She went on, with an amused glance at Mrs. Ponsonby-Jones, “I fear our little charades must strike you as foolish. I assure you, they are not—to those of us who share a touch of the divine spark of creativity….”

Modestly she examined her fingernails, and Weldon said,

“I'm sure you have read Lady Isobel's novels, Dr. Kirby. Her book about Richard is particularly admired.”

“The Gallant Young King,”
said Jacqueline. “Oh, yes. I read it.”

“How sweet,” murmured Lady Isobel. She examined Jacqueline. Suddenly she gave a little squeal and clapped her hands. “Oh, my dear, you must participate. You've no idea of the mystical insight of identification—the understanding one derives of the person one is representing—the passions, the suffering, the—I've always thought…the aura, in short. One feels it—here.” She clasped her hands over her flat bosom, and smiled at Jacqueline. “Unfortunately, all the major parts do seem to be taken. I would offer you my own part of Elizabeth Woodville, but I'm afraid you would simply pop out of my costume!”

“So sweet of you,” said Jacqueline enthusiastically. “But I couldn't take such an important part—a visitor like myself. Oh!” It was a diabolical imitation of Lady Isobel's squeal. Jacqueline clapped her hands girlishly. “I know! I shall be Richard's mistress. That is, if Sir Richard doesn't mind?”

She beamed at Sir Richard, who was looking a little bewildered.

“Not at all,” he said heartily. “Jolly good.”

“Mistress!” Lady Ponsonby-Jones exclaimed. “Richard, I really do not think it is suitable—”

“Get on with the introductions, Dick,” said Thomas.

Weldon presented the third woman in the party. She was young and slim. Her pale-pink robes were trimmed with brown fur and belted high under shapely breasts; the lifted skirt showed an embroidered underskirt of deeper rose. Brown curls escaped from under her tall cap with its dependent veil. Her features would have been unusually pretty if they had not been marred by a sulky pout and by the latest in mod makeup. To Thomas's conservative eyes her face looked like a mask; but the overall effect was not unpleasing.

Certainly Weldon did not find it so. His eyes shone with fond affection as he made the introductions.

“Here is our young Elizabeth of York. Her real name is Elizabeth Ponsonby-Jones, so that's one less for you to remember, Jacqueline. I may call you that, I hope? We are all friends here.”

“Well, don't call me Elizabeth,” drawled the girl. “Liz or Bessy or Hey-you, but not Elizabeth. I'm an unwilling sacrifice on the altar of family feeling. I think I ought to be Dickon's mistress instead of ghastly Elizabeth of York. She's the sickest character of the lot.”