The Murders of Richard III (9 page)

Jacqueline was curled up in one of the big
chairs. She was wearing her glasses. Her green eyes flickered as she glanced from one gesticulating speaker to the next.

Finally she rose. Conversation gradually died as she walked slowly to the head of the table. She smiled at Weldon, who stepped back and, with a wordless gesture, invited her to take his place. When she faced the group, the silence was almost complete.

“I'd like to say a few words,” she began in a soft voice. “May I please have your attention? No comments, no questions—and no bloody interruptions!”

A mouse's squeak would have been distinctly audible.

“Very well,” Jacqueline went on, glaring at them over her glasses. “I'll begin at the beginning. Last night Frank was attacked by a figure that was in essence that of a masked man. Or perhaps I should say masked person….

“In your Ricardian charades, Frank is taking the part of the Lancastrian Prince Edward, the son of Henry the Sixth. The Tudor propaganda accuses your hero, Richard, of being responsible for the death of this young prince. Edward was killed in battle, and the earliest commentators simply state that fact. Later historians imply that he was killed after he had surrendered, by the attendants
of the victorious Edward the Fourth. One of the Tudor propagandists says Richard stabbed him as he knelt and begged for mercy.

“I apologize for repeating what you all know. I do so in order to set the record straight and clarify my thoughts as well as your own.”

It was admirably done, Thomas thought. A professor of English history couldn't have sounded more pompous.

“The death of this prince,” Jacqueline continued, “may be considered the first of Richard's murders, if one follows the Tudor line. Edward's injuries are not specified, but we might suppose that a man killed in battle would suffer wounds from sharp-bladed instruments such as swords and daggers, plus blows from maces, battle-axes, and the like. His body would have been bruised and cut.”

She went on without waiting for a reaction. The reaction had begun; the sharper-witted listeners showed signs of horror and disbelief.

“The second of the murders of which Richard has been accused was that of Henry the Sixth, who was a prisoner in the Tower of London. The Tudors added this death to Richard's account, saying that he had personally stabbed the poor old man. I don't know whether anyone suggested that Henry was poisoned, but the body, when publicly displayed,
as was the custom, showed no marks of violence, and poison was often suspected in cases of sudden death.

“This morning Dr. Rawdon, who represents Henry the Sixth, was taken ill after eating a dish specially prepared for him.

“Up to this point no one could have seen the connection between the seeming accidents. Thomas's adventure makes the connection explicit. The comedian among us is getting more direct. Thomas, who represents the Duke of Clarence, was knocked on the head and placed in a barrel of wine. Fortunately the barrel was empty, but the joker went to considerable lengths to make the position ignominious. Thomas was held erect—if I may use that word—by rope attached to his ankles and then looped around the top of the barrel.

“No reputable historian believes that Richard was really responsible for the death of his exasperating brother, but the Tudor legend blamed him nevertheless. Now,” said Jacqueline, in the same mild, pleasant voice, “do you really want us to go to the village looking for imaginary villains, or shall we start collating our alibis?”

The amazed Ricardians stared dumbly, too thunderstruck to speak at first. Thomas leaned back in his chair and folded his hands across his
stomach. By finding a common denominator, Jacqueline had reduced his ludicrous adventure to part of a puzzle. One does not mind being made a fool of quite so much if one has plenty of company.

“I cannot believe it,” the rector said finally. His ruddy face had paled. “Dear lady, are you certain—”

“Let's not waste time denying the obvious,” Kent interrupted. “The connection is there. But I question your conclusion, Jacqueline. Alibis?”

“It seems equally obvious to me,” Jacqueline said. She looked so smug that Thomas wanted to throw something at her. “We cannot completely eliminate the possibility of an outsider. But in order to act, such a person would have to have access to the house as well as knowledge of the roles you are playing. The first is not impossible. Despite Sir Richard's precautions, this place is not really secure. It is not a medieval castle with a moat and a drawbridge, but an open, modern house surrounded by a wall that I can guarantee to climb in ten seconds flat. As for the special knowledge required, that, too, might have been accessible to an outsider. The servants could have been bribed; none of them would feel they were betraying a trust by divulging such trivial information. Some of you may have talked to your friends. However—”

“But you've just contradicted your own suggestion,” Frank said, frowning. “You've proved that an outsider could have the necessary opportunity. As for the motive—obviously someone wants to make us look foolish. None of us would do such a thing.”

The rector made noises of enthusiastic agreement. Mrs. Ponsonby-Jones, whose slow-moving brain had finally grasped the situation, nodded her massive head. The others were silent; and gradually all eyes focused on a single object.

Percy giggled.

“I wish I had thought of it. I'd love to have seen Thomas in the butt of malmsey.”

“Now, young man,” Sir Richard began angrily.

He was interrupted by Mrs. Ponsonby-Jones, whose wits moved more rapidly in the face of a threat to her son and heir. With a piercing cry of indignation she gathered Percy to the maternal bosom.

“How dare you accuse Percy? Why, the poor boy hasn't the strength, even if he were capable of imagining such nasty things.”

Thomas had to admit that the woman had a point. Most of Percy was fat, and he doubted that the boy had the muscle to overpower and move a grown man. Otherwise Percy was a perfect candidate.
Childish, precocious, malicious…Malice. As he considered the word, Thomas understood why Jacqueline looked so grave.

A squeaky cough from the end of the table drew everyone's attention. The American visitor cleared his throat.

“Must be an outsider,” he said, breathing agitatedly. “And I know who. Strangways! The man is capable of anything. Must be here. Look for him!”

“Do you know him, Mr. O'Hagan?” Jacqueline asked.

“Good gracious, no.” The suggestion seemed to infuriate O'Hagan. His moustache quivered. “Would I associate with such a scoundrel? Know of him, though. Capable of anything.”

“You said that before,” Philip remarked. “I've another idea. Some particularly enterprising newsman could have engineered these tricks. It would make a marvelous article—the mad Ricardians carrying their roles to insane extremes. If the chap carried a camera and took pictures of the victims…”

A low groan of horror issued from Thomas's unguarded lips. Frank didn't actually groan, but he looked as if he wanted to.

“My God, I'll have to emigrate,” he muttered.

“Me, too,” Thomas said. “If my students ever saw a photo—”

“Nonsense,” Jacqueline exploded. “What's wrong with all of you? Theoretically an outsider might have played these tricks, but he'd have to have had the luck of the Irish and the cloak of invisibility to play them without being caught. If this is not an inside job, I'll—”

Liz said something under her breath. She seemed more shocked than any of the others; under the mask of makeup her face was pale.

“What?” Jacqueline asked.

“I think everyone is mad,” Liz muttered. “I'm tempted to pack up the whole business and clear out of here.”

“There's no need for you to worry, darling,” Philip said. He was no longer smiling, and his handsome face looked hard and dangerous. “Elizabeth of York survived Richard for a good many years. I'm the one who ought to pack it up. Hastings was Richard's next victim—if our comedian continues to follow the Tudor chronology.”

“Think about that for a while.” Jacqueline dropped the words like stones into the stricken silence. “Come on, Thomas, let's go to the village. If we can eliminate the possibility of an outsider, maybe your friends will face the facts.”

She walked out of the room.

Thomas had to run to catch up with her. They were outside the house, walking along the terrace,
before Jacqueline was calm enough to speak rationally.

“It's not the logic of the situation,” she muttered. “It's the atmosphere. Can't they see it? The malice, the nasty sense of humor—it's a domestic crime, that's what it is. People don't play vicious practical jokes on total strangers. And if they aren't practical jokes…”

Thomas took her arm as they descended the shallow steps that led from the terrace into the rose garden.

“That's precisely why they won't face the facts. The facts aren't very pleasant. Stop seething, love, and smell a rose. It's too nice a day to stay mad.”

“I'll bet it will rain before night,” Jacqueline said.

But the beauty of the morning would have moved a stone; her face cleared as she took a deep breath. She stopped on the path and cupped a full-blown rose gently in her hand. It had a heart of pure pink that shaded off into ice-white petals.

“I've never cared much for roses,” Thomas said placidly.

“What are your favorite flowers?”

“What red-blooded American male will admit to having a favorite flower? I don't think much about 'em. Deadly nightshade? It reminds me of you.”

He put his arm around her, and Jacqueline burst out laughing.

“Thank you, Thomas, I'm touched. Was I too awful just now?”

“No, they had it coming.” They strolled on, their arms around one another, and Thomas felt a wave of sheer felicity sweep over him. “An English garden in the sunshine, and the woman I love,” he said poetically. “What could be better?”

“A loaf of bread and a jug of wine. I'm getting hungry. Do you suppose we could get beer and cheese at the pub?”

Jacqueline's face was alight with a radiance the roses had not inspired. Thomas hugged her.

“You can have a barrel of beer if you want it.”

“Let's not talk about barrels.”

“If I can talk about them, you have no reason to object. Do you really think we'll find out anything in the village?”

“To tell you the truth, the thought of beer predominated when I agreed to go,” Jacqueline said pensively. “But I suppose we have to check.”

“You think Strangways is there?”

“I would be, if I were he. He is as obsessed by Richard as your friends; more obsessed, in a way, because his feelings are a sort of love-hate combination. He's been so abusive that his scholarly reputation
hangs on Richard's villainy. Any discovery that supports Richard threatens Strangways. Yes, I would certainly be on hand if I had heard of a startling new document.”

They had entered a belt of trees that protected the back of the gardens. The shade felt cool and refreshing. Thomas took his arm away so they could proceed single file.

“How do you know so much about Strangways?”

“Naturally I've read his articles. I don't walk into situations like this one without doing my homework.”

“Ah. Wednesday afternoon, when you said you had to go to the hairdresser—”

“I merely implied that was my goal. I spent the afternoon at the British Museum.”

“Where, to be sure, you have professional connections in the Reading Room. You are really the most…. If I may say so, your Freudian analysis of the unfortunate Strangways is a bit farfetched.”

“Not at all,” Jacqueline said coldly. “My professional duties necessitate contact with the weird world of historical scholarship. I know one man who is besotted with Mary, Queen of Scots. In his study at home there is a little shrine with a portrait of that appalling female draped in crimson
velvet, with an eternal light and a white lily in a vase. Owing to the difficulty of procuring a constant supply of lilies on a professor's meager salary, the flower is plastic; but the sentiment is no less sickening.”

“Anybody I know?” Thomas inquired, fascinated.

“You know him.” Jacqueline grinned at him over her shoulder. “But my lips are sealed. I've never told anybody about your crush on Nefertiti, have I?”

“Everybody had a crush on Nefertiti at some point in his life,” Thomas said. He could feel himself blushing, and changed the subject.

“Here's the fence. Ten seconds, did you say? One thousand, two thousand…”

He should have known better. Jacqueline was over the fence by the time he got to eight thousand. Thomas followed. Before Jacqueline could announce his time, he said quickly,

“You've torn your slacks.”

“Cripes.” Jacqueline tried to look over her shoulder, with a notable lack of success.

Thomas brushed at the seat of her pants and then announced mendaciously, “No, it's okay, just a streak of rust. Where did you acquire your stock of expletives? I haven't heard anyone say ‘cripes' since I was eight years old.”

“I'm trying to reform my vocabulary. The students have a bad effect on me. The words sound foul enough coming from them, but from a lady of my years and dignity…Which way do we go?”

The path led along the fence and then wandered off into a hilly meadow decorated, as if deliberately, by black-and-white cows. Jacqueline began to sing. It was a maddening sound. Thomas wouldn't have minded if she had sung aloud, for she had a pleasant voice and the pastoral surroundings were appropriate for gentle harmony; but Jacqueline's singing was a kind of musical soliloquy, not an expression of well-being, and it issued as a low drone. Nor did Thomas find her choice of melodies soothing. She started with a snatch of the Mad Scene from
Lucia,
edited for untrained contralto, and went on to “Elinor Rigby” and that grisly memorial of old English murder, “Edward.” Thomas was relieved when they finally reached the village and Jacqueline stopped muttering about drops of gore.