The Murders of Richard III (4 page)

“You are Elizabeth of York?” Jacqueline asked. “The writer of the famous letter?”

Liz laughed. “Yes, that's me. I'm Dickon's niece and I'm supposed to show a hopeless incestuous passion for him.”

She leered at Sir Richard, who smiled fondly.

Mrs. Ponsonby-Jones moved in. She was so much larger than Sir Richard that she seemed about to engulf him like a giant amoeba, and the look she gave her daughter held no maternal warmth.

“Don't be offensive, Elizabeth. You are distracting your cousin Richard from his duties as host.”

“Elizabeth distracts all of us.” A man sauntered toward them. “My name's Kent, Dr. Kirby. I'm glad you could join us. As the only heretic in this group, I welcome support. Hello, Thomas.”

Kent's short, stocky body appeared almost cylindrical in his long black-and-gold robe. He wore his gray hair clipped short. All his hirsute efforts had been concentrated on his moustache, which curled out and up like the horns of a buffalo. The sleeves of his robe were slit to the shoulders, and the heavy hanging folds were fur-trimmed, as was the hem of the garment. On Kent's head was perched an absurd tall hat with a rounded top and a yellow padded edge.

“Major General Sir Archibald Kent?” Jacqueline asked, shaking hands.

“Thomas has briefed you?”

“He had no need to do so. Even in the wilds of America the newspapers follow your career with interest. Don't you find Ricardiana research a little dull after your—er—activities in the Middle East?”

“Not at all.” Kent displayed long, yellowing teeth in a wolfish smile. “The Arabs and Israelis are easy to deal with compared with my colleagues.”

“Why do you regard yourself as a heretic?” Jacqueline asked. “I thought membership in this society was contingent upon belief in Richard's innocence.”

“You make us sound rather like a peculiar religious sect,” Weldon said with a smile.

Kent gave a brusque, barking laugh. “That's what we are, Dick. You see, Doctor, the others admire Richard because they believe he was innocent of the vital crime—the murder of his nephews. I admire him because I think he was guilty. They want to make him a medieval liberal left-winger; I see him as a practical politician and a damn good soldier. It was sound policy in those days to rid yourself of disinherited princes; they were a focus for rebellion.”

“Fascinating,” said Jacqueline.

“Disgusting,” said Mrs. Ponsonby-Jones.

“He doesn't mean it,” said Lady Isobel, with a high-pitched giggle. “He loves to tease us.”

Jacqueline hadn't taken her eyes from Kent. “What part are you playing?” she asked.

“Buckingham.” Kent barked again. “Very appropriate, eh? I insisted on the role. The duke is one of the strong suspects for the murder, you know. His behavior was damn peculiar; first his solid support of Richard against the Woodvilles—he was one of the first to urge that Richard take the crown. Then suddenly he is leading a rebellion against his former ally.”

“It was peculiar behavior.”

“Not at all,” Kent said promptly. “Buckingham wanted to be the power behind the throne. Richard wouldn't stand for it. So Buckingham decided to play Kingmaker with Henry Tudor, who might prove more malleable. Perhaps he planned to claim the throne himself, after he had made use of the Tudor. Perfectly sensible plan.”

“It makes more sense than you do,” Thomas said, scowling. “Ignore him, Jacqueline; he'll argue on either side of a question just for the fun of it. No more debate, colleagues, until the formalities are over.”

There were only three others to be introduced. Donald Ellis, a chubby man with eyes of luminous innocence, wore gorgeous purple velvet
and a crown. A pastor of the Church of England, he had chosen to portray the lusty, virile Edward IV. Thomas's eyes, meeting Jacqueline's, saw the amusement in them and knew she had not missed the implications. The roles played by these people had meaning on a number of levels.

John Rawdon looked alarmingly like Abraham Lincoln, even to the wart on his cheek. He was a Harley Street specialist who was prominently featured in the newspapers because of his advocacy of natural foods. His reputation as an internist made it difficult for his exasperated colleagues in the medical profession to denigrate his recent enthusiasm. Certainly the doctor was a living testimonial to his eating habits; his tall, thin body moved with the vigor of a young man's, and his coarse black hair had not a touch of gray. His head was uncovered; the chaperon, a cap with a formal version of the medieval hood, was flung back over his shoulder and attached to his belt by a long liripipe. His velvet skirts did not suit his vigorous stride; he kept kicking them out of the way as he walked. He represented the last Lancastrian King. Saintly, feeble Henry VI.

Then the last member of the group rose from behind the grand piano, which had hitherto concealed all but his head and shoulders.

Alone of the men, Philip Rohan had chosen to wear the short tunic. And short meant very short. It was belted in at the waist like the long robe, but its skirts were only six inches long. The rest of Rohan was covered by tights as revealing as those of a dancer. Thomas couldn't even suspect him of padding the tights. The ripple of muscle fore and aft indicated that the shape was all Rohan. And Jacqueline was taking it in with fascinated interest.

Finally her eyes moved up from the pale-gray tights to the green-and-silver tunic, with its padded sleeves and fur-trimmed neck. Rohan's chest was broad enough without the extra width of the sleeves; he looked almost wasp-waisted. The chaperon, which he wore on his head, was very becoming. The fall of cloth along one side of the face softened features that were too hard for conventional handsomeness, but which had a rakish appeal. He too wore his hair long. It was fair, so pale a gold that it looked like silver, and as fine as a girl's. But there was nothing girlish about the rest of him.

“Well, well,” he said softly, surveying Jacqueline as candidly as she had observed him. “What a pleasant surprise. I expected any expert Thomas collected would be hawk-nosed and hideous.”

“You are an actor, of course,” said Jacqueline.

“How did you know?” The deep, controlled voice quivered with amusement. “I am also Hastings, Richard's best friend, whom he beheaded one morning between elevenses and lunch.”

“After he had treacherously plotted against Richard,” squeaked Lady Isobel indignantly.

“And conspired with the Woodvilles,” added Weldon. “It is difficult to explain Hastings' change of loyalty. No doubt he was seduced by—”

“You sound like one of your own articles,” Liz interrupted. “Do be quiet, darling Uncle Dickon, and let Jacqueline have some tea.”

“She'd much rather have a drink,” said Philip. “Wouldn't you, darling?”

“No,” said Jacqueline. With Philip's assistance she removed her jacket, displaying a sleeveless green jersey top. Looking cool and relaxed, she settled on one of the sofas and smiled at Weldon. “Tea would be splendid.”

For a time no one spoke. The silence was unusual and, to Thomas, slightly disturbing. It was as if they were all wary in the presence of a stranger—afraid of giving something away.

“Why all the cops and robbers about our arrival, Dick?” he asked, to break the silence.

“I meant to ask if you had had any difficulty,” Weldon said.

“Difficulty? Why should we?”

“The wolves are gathering,” said Mrs. Ponsonby-Jones melodramatically. “We are virtually besieged, Thomas.”

“I did notice the village was unusually crowded. You mean those people are—”

“Newspaper persons,” said Lady Isobel, as one might say “burglars.” “Frightful people! One of them actually tried to creep into the house.”

“But you're going to admit the press on Sunday,” Thomas objected. “What's all the fuss about?”

It was Kent who answered, with his barking laugh.

“They want to catch us—what's your popular phrase?—with our pants down. Attired in ludicrous costumes, playing childish games—drunken and lecherous, hopefully. Fleet Street is quiet this week; no crises, only the same boring old wars.”

“The silly season,” Jacqueline said. “You must admit you make good copy. Many of you are famous in your own fields.”

“And some of us simply adore being good copy,” said Liz. Her eyes moved from Lady Isobel, who pretended not to notice, to Philip, who laughed aloud.

“I've no objection to being photographed,” he said, striking a pose.

“Well, the rest of us do object,” said Mrs. Ponsonby-Jones vigorously. “I cannot imagine why people are so ill-bred!”

“Piltdown man,” said Jacqueline unexpectedly. They all stared at her; most of them looked blank, but a few got the point. The vicar chuckled, and Philip's mouth widened in a cynical smile.

“The disclosure of the Piltdown hoax made headlines,” Jacqueline went on. “People love to see the experts deflated. You have publicized your find extensively. If, after the publicity, it should turn out to be another hoax…”

“Impossible,” cried Lady Isobel.

“I only wish we could be certain.”

It was the rector who spoke. Ruffled white hair framed his rosy face like a halo, but the cherubic features were worried.

“But you were the one who found the letter,” Weldon said.

“I did not find it,” said Mr. Ellis irritably. Thomas sensed that he had tried to make this point before, without convincing his fanatical audience of its importance. “It was sent to me anonymously, and if that is not significant….” He glanced at Jacqueline, who was watching him steadily, and smiled. “Yes. Mrs. Kirby sees my point, if the rest of you do not. Now, Mrs. Kirby, I have stated the fact somewhat baldly. The letter
enclosed with the manuscript gives adequate reasons for the sender's wishing to remain unknown at present. It also provides a plausible history for the manuscript, which was last seen by Buck, in the seventeenth century. We are not so naive as we appear; all of us are familiar with manuscripts and letters of this period, and there are no egregious errors in this letter which would suggest forgery. All the same…”

“Yes,” Jacqueline said. “All the same…frankly, Mr. Ellis, I wouldn't touch it with a ten-foot pole. What prompted you to go ahead with this unnecessary publicity?”

“I deplore it!” Ellis looked like a vexed baby. “I have always argued against that aspect. After I had shown Sir Richard the letter, we agreed that the executive committee should examine it. Sir Richard very kindly suggested a weekend here, so that we could discuss the problem at leisure. I don't understand quite how these arrangements evolved….”

“All sorts of strange things evolve when this committee meets,” said Kent sarcastically. “However, Ellis, you are too timid. What do we risk? There can be no question of legal fraud, since our anonymous donor has not asked for money; he is willing to wait until the manuscript has been officially authenticated before he is paid, and even
then he throws himself on our generosity. How can we object to that?”

“But the embarrassment…”

“Bah,” said Kent. He was the only man Thomas had ever met who actually said “bah,” and he said it with emphasis. “There will be controversy in any case. Have you ever known two experts who can agree on a technical point? Every important scientific or cultural discovery has been greeted with mingled cheers and hisses. The Piltdown skull was accepted by experts for years; the authentic cave paintings of Altamira were considered fakes by most of the historians of the day. If our letter is a forgery, it's a damned good one. Some experts will accept it and some will reject it, and the same thing will happen if it is genuine. I'm not keen on the publicity either, but it can't do any harm—unless we manage to make asses of ourselves in some other way.”

Silence followed this pronouncement, which was, Thomas had to admit, a perfectly reasonable summary of the situation. Kent was no fool, for all his outspoken belligerence and his deplorable tendency to punch reporters in the nose.

Jacqueline looked at Weldon.

“Why not call in an expert?” she asked.

“But we have.” Weldon smiled engagingly at her.

“Have we, though?” Lady Isobel giggled maliciously. “As an
expert,
Mrs. Kirby, you surely are familiar with Sir Richard's reputation. He is one of the foremost authorities in the world on fifteenth-century manuscripts.”

“Yes, I surely must be familiar with that, mustn't I,” said Jacqueline. She glanced at Thomas in a way that boded no good.

“Well,” said that gentleman hastily, “I think I'll just run upstairs and change. All that bus travel—”

“I'm being a bad host again,” Weldon said sadly. “Dr. Kirby, you must be tired too. I'll ring…”

Before he could do so, the door opened.

“They have arrived, Sir Richard,” said the butler.

“They?” Thomas repeated. “Who is missing?”

“Why, Thomas,” said Liz, in an affected drawl. “Don't tell me you haven't noticed that my fiancé is not here? Frank is so conspicuous.”

“Frank is a nice young fellow,” Thomas said. “I like him. It's just that the rest of us are rather obtrusive.”

Liz smiled mockingly. Mildly embarrassed, Thomas went on, “Who else is coming?”

“A most distinguished guest,” said Mrs. Ponsonby-Jones. “The new president of the American branch of our society is flying over in
order to be present at this great moment. His name is O'Hagan.”

“Frank is the only one of us coming by automobile,” Weldon explained. “That is why I asked him to meet Mr. O'Hagan at Heathrow. O'Hagan has never been out of the States before, and I gather from his letters that he is somewhat apprehensive about traveling alone. This is a difficult place to find….”

Two men appeared in the doorway. After his
faux pas
Thomas made a point of greeting Frank Acton with particular warmth.