The Murders of Richard III (5 page)

All the same, he had to admit that Frank did not stand out in a crowd. He was of medium height and build, with one of those pleasantly nondescript faces that blur in one's memory. His dark hair was long but neatly barbered and his clothes were conservative. Thomas remembered that the young man was a budding solicitor, a very lowly member of the firm that handled Sir Richard's affairs. It was through this connection that he had met Liz. Thomas had wondered, when their engagement was announced, what the girl saw in him.

The American Ricardian was a tall, stooped man of about Thomas's age. His square-jawed, hawk-nosed face might have been attractive if it had not been set in an expression of timid terror.
Projecting front teeth increased his resemblance to a nervous rabbit, and a bushy white moustache vibrated like whiskers when he was agitated. There was no doubt as to his identity; fastened to his left lapel with a large safety pin was a name tag. Thomas had an insane vision of the American society affixing the label as they pushed their president onto his plane like a bundle. Or had O'Hagan labeled himself? It was an equally insane idea. Weldon had said the American sounded apprehensive. That was an understatement. What was wrong with the man? Maybe he couldn't talk.

He could. The voice was a high-pitched whine and the moustache vibrated like a hummingbird's wings.

“Frightful, frightful,” he exclaimed. “Those people at the gate—like a howling mob, ladies and gentlemen! I felt quite hunted, I assure you!”

“Not very bright of you, Frank, old boy,” Philip said. “You ought to have driven in the stable gate instead of coming to the front of the grounds.”

“No one bothered to warn me.” Frank's voice was low and well modulated, with impeccable vowels, but he sounded irritated. He glanced betrayingly at Liz, who raised a languid hand in greeting, before he went on. “I hadn't realized
you were turning this meeting into a circus. It's been a rotten day. I had difficulty finding Mr. O'Hagan; he wasn't where he was supposed to be—”

“It is such a confusing place,” said Mr. O'Hagan pathetically. “All those
large
buildings—and people running around, bumping into you and pushing you—”

“The worst is over, Mr. O'Hagan,” Weldon said soothingly. “You are perfectly safe with us. Do you…do you feel up to meeting the others?”

Mr. O'Hagan was able to nerve himself to the ordeal, but the introductions were marred by Liz's tendency to giggle. As soon as they were completed, Thomas excused himself. Jacqueline followed suit, and a neat parlormaid showed them to their rooms.

They needed a guide. Weldon House was like a maze. The copy of Crosby Hall was not the only accretion; wings and annexes proliferated. As they paced along behind the maid, Thomas heard Jacqueline mutter something about rabbits. He didn't know whether she was referring to the warren of corridors and rooms, or to Mr. O'Hagan, and he didn't inquire. He was not looking forward to his next conversation with Jacqueline.

Their rooms were adjoining. Thomas wondered
whether this was accidental or not. The maid was certainly well trained. She didn't even blink when Jacqueline reached out a long arm and dragged Thomas into her room.

“I've got to unpack,” he said, retreating.

“I expect you have been unpacked. I see I have. Doesn't the maid unpack for guests at these high-class affairs?”

“They do here, at any rate, and I hate it,” said Thomas, still backing toward the door. “I always feel as if I have holes in my underwear even when I know I don't. Maybe I can get there before—”

“Close the door,” said Jacqueline ominously.

There was no use putting it off. Thomas obeyed. When he had done so, Jacqueline dropped into a chair and beamed at him.

“Thomas, you are the love of my life. How can I ever thank you for bringing me here?”

“You aren't mad? I didn't warn you about Sir Richard—”

“Being an expert on the fifteenth century? Oh, that's all right. His appraisal is meaningless anyhow. He wants to believe in the letter. That's fatal to objectivity.”

Masochistically Thomas continued, “And those frightful old women! I'm sorry you had to put up with their insults. Of course both of them are after poor Dick, and they regard every other woman as
a rival. He's years younger than either of them, but he is quite a matrimonial catch.”

“He's a catch, all right. He's sweet. Oh, Thomas, I am enjoying this! Let me see if I've got everybody straight in my mind. Sir Richard is Richard the Third, of course; no one else could possibly play Richard. And that enormous Ponsonby-Jones woman copped the role of Richard's queen—pale, frail consumptive Queen Anne. How did she get away with that?”

“The Ponsonby-Joneses are Sir Richard's only relatives. They are distant relatives, but he feels responsible for them. He's particularly fond of young Elizabeth Ponsonby-Jones.”

“Who is Elizabeth of York,” Jacqueline resumed her summary, “Richard's niece, and later the queen of Henry the Seventh. The nice little rector is Edward the Fourth, Richard's brother—does he see himself in his secret day-dreams as a lusty lecher? Dr. Rawdon is poor, weak Henry the Sixth, which is equally inappropriate—he's so healthy-looking, it hurts to look at him. General Kent isn't suited to the role of Buckingham, either; Buckingham must have been a vacillating character, he changed his mind so often. Kent is certainly not indecisive. Lady Isobel—oh, Lord, Thomas, have you read any of her ghastly books?—is Edward the Fourth's queen, Elizabeth
Woodville. She probably would have preferred to be Richard's queen, but she wouldn't object to playing Elizabeth Woodville, the fabulous beauty with the silver-gilt hair who seduced a king into marriage. Philip Rohan as Lord Hastings—yes, but he could play any part. He's a gifted actor. He has a beautiful voice.”

“It wasn't his voice you were admiring,” said Thomas.

“Now, Thomas. Whom have I forgotten?”

“Well, you know I'm playing Clarence, the brother of Richard and Edward. You've forgotten Frank, Liz's fiancé. Everybody forgets the poor guy.”

“I know one reason why I forgot him; I don't know what part he's playing. Did you tell me?”

“I guess not. He's Edward of Lancaster, the son of Henry the Sixth. He was the first husband of Anne, whom Richard later married. Edward was killed in battle, but the Tudor historians accused Richard of murdering him.”

“I know that. Okay, I guess I've got them sorted out. Thomas, do you realize what this is? It's an English house party, darling, straight out of all those British detective stories I revel in. These people are classic characters. They couldn't be better if you had invented them. The doctor, the vicar, the village squire; the catty middle-aged
hags and the sulky, beautiful young heroine, and the two juveniles—homely and nice, handsome and rakish. There is one missing. But I suppose it would be too much—”

The door burst open.

“Ah,” said a voice. “You must be thinking of me—the missing character! The offensive, precocious small boy!”

The final adjective could only have referred to the apparition's relative age. His cheeks were still soft and downy, his voice high tenor. Otherwise he was more than large; he was elephantine. His puffy pink face was perfectly spherical. His features were regular and well shaped, but they were drowned in fat. His costume was unfortunate. The tights, stretched to bursting point, enclosed legs like Karnakian pillars, and his tunic was dragged up in front by a pot belly that would have disgraced a middle-aged beer drinker. The front of this garment was streaked with food and drink stains.

“Offensive is right,” said Thomas distastefully. “Jacqueline, this is Percival Ponsonby-Jones, the son and heir of the lady you met downstairs. I needn't introduce you to him; he knows who you are. He knows everything. How long have you been eavesdropping, Percy?”

“Long enough to hear my mother referred to
as a middle-aged hag.” Percy came into the room and dropped heavily onto the bed. From a pouch at his belt he took a handful of cookies and began to eat them, scattering crumbs deliberately.

“Hag was an ill-chosen word,” admitted Jacqueline. “It suggests someone who is haggard and undernourished…. What part are you taking in this charade, child? The court jester? Or perhaps Clarence's son, the one who was mentally retarded?”

Thomas blinked. Jacqueline was not usually so brutal. The attack disconcerted the boy. He hesitated, trying to decide which insult to answer first.

“I'm Edward the Fifth,” he said. “The one who was murdered by Henry Tudor.”

“Not smothered in the Tower by Richard?” Jacqueline asked.

Percy finished the cookies and extracted an apple from the same place.

“Everyone knows Richard didn't kill the princes,” he said scornfully. “That's a Tudor slander. I expect you don't know who the Tudors were.”

“But I thought the bones of the boys had been found in the Tower,” said Jacqueline gently.

Percy expanded. Thomas felt a faint twinge of
pity for the boy; he ought to have been warned by Jacqueline's earlier comments, but he was too young and too conceited to know better.

“The bones were found in 1674, when some workmen were demolishing a staircase outside the White Tower. It wasn't till 1933 that the bones were examined by a doctor and a dentist.
They
said the skeletons were of two children, aged about ten and twelve.

“Now…” Percy took another bite of apple and continued in a muffled voice, “you wouldn't know this, of course, but the very precision of the ages given is suspect. In order to blame Richard for the crime, you have to prove that the boys were exactly ten, and between twelve and thirteen, when they died, and you can't prove that because it's impossible to determine the ages of bones of young people that accurately. You can't even tell whether they were boys or girls before puberty. The description of where the bones were found doesn't agree with Sir Thomas More's story, either, but I won't go into that, because it's too complicated for you to understand.”

He smirked at Jacqueline and took another huge bite.

“More says they were buried ‘at the stair foot, meetly deep in the ground under a great heap of
stones,' ” Jacqueline murmured. “The accounts of the seventeenth-century workmen who found the bones imply that they were under the foundations of the stairs. Not only would that have been a much more laborious operation than the one More describes, but it doesn't agree with his statement that the bones were later removed and reburied elsewhere by a certain priest. There is also the evidence of one anthropologist consulted by Kendall, who believed that the older child could not have been more than nine years of age. In the absence of a dating process, which cannot at present be used effectively on human bone, we do not know how long the remains were in the Tower. They could have been buried at any time after 1100
A.D
. I must admit I share your doubts as to the identification of these skeletal remains with the two princes.”

Percy's mouth hung open, giving the viewers an unattractive vista of masticated apple.

“Think you're clever, don't you,” he said feebly.

“I don't think, I know,” said Jacqueline. She added parenthetically to Thomas, “There is no point in being subtle with him, Thomas. Now, Percy, go away. Don't ever come in here again without knocking and waiting for permission. If you do, I will belt you one—as we crude Americans are wont to say.”

“You wouldn't dare….” Percy stood up.

“But you can't be sure. Taking chances lends variety and interest to life.”

Percy began to look trapped. “I'll tell them you've got Thomas in here. I saw you drag him in. My mother would like to hear
that.
”

Jacqueline laughed.

“What a little horror you are,” Thomas said. “If young Edward was anything like you, it's no wonder he was smothered.”

“You're wasting words,” Jacqueline said. “Never tell them more than once. Never bluff. Act.”

She rose and advanced purposefully on Percy, who proved her point by retreating, at full speed, and without further comment. In the doorway he collided with Sir Richard, who was passing along the corridor.

“So there you are,” Weldon said. “Your mother is looking for you, Percy. Run along now.”

Percy left, with an eloquent look at Jacqueline, and Weldon shook his head.

“I do hope he hasn't been bothering you. He's a rather difficult child. Extremely intelligent; but it's not easy for his mother, lacking a man's authority….”

He looked wistfully at Jacqueline, who smiled brightly.

“Don't apologize, Sir Richard. I enjoyed my chat with Percy very much.”

At the hour appointed, Thomas made his way back to the drawing room. He was wearing slacks and a sport shirt; Weldon had decreed that the evening meeting and meal were to be informal. Thomas was relieved that he did not have to wear his medieval robes. It was an unseasonably warm evening, and he was shy of displaying himself before Jacqueline's ironical eyes.

He found the drawing room deserted except for Wilkes the butler, who was sourly studying the drinks tray. Thomas rather liked Wilkes; he was as well trained and as formal as Jenkins, but his manner was not so supercilious as that of the tall chauffeur. A stout, balding little man, he looked up as Thomas came in.

“Am I the first one down?” Thomas asked, accepting a whiskey and soda. He didn't really like whiskey and soda, but it seemed the proper thing to have.

“They have retired to the library,” Wilkes said. “I proposed to Sir Richard that I should follow with the tray, but he assured me they would return immediately.”

Thomas understood the butler's air of pique.
Soothingly he said, “I'll go after them. Maybe I can casually mention the passage of time.”