The Murders of Richard III (10 page)

From his earlier visits Thomas remembered the Weldon Arms with pleasure, even if it had changed its name to flatter the current lord of the manor. It was an authentic fourteenth-century inn, and its former name, The Blue Boar, reminded Ricardians of their hero. Richard's badge
of the white boar had furnished the inspiration for a number of inn signs during his brief reign; when the Tudors took over, sensible innkeepers hastily painted the boar azure in order to avoid offense.

Now he let out a hiss of exasperation as they turned the corner and saw the inn ahead. The narrow street was lined with cars and motor skooters. A thin blue veil of exhaust smoke dulled the brilliance of sunlight and flower gardens. Gaping tourists filled the gaps between vehicles, such as they were, and Thomas found himself trying to decide which nation could claim the least-attractive tourists.

Jacqueline jabbed him in the ribs as he studied a long-legged blonde damsel—Swedish, perhaps?—wearing a sleeveless low-cut open knit top.

“Don't become a dirty old man, Thomas, it's so boring. How are we going to get to the inn? The place is teeming.”

“Let's go around to the private entrance,” Thomas said. “I was introduced to Mr. Doakes last time I was here; maybe he'll remember me.”

The harassed Doakes did not remember Thomas, but when the latter mentioned his name and Sir Richard's, the man's broad red face lost its worried frown.

“I'm sorry, sir, I truly am. I ought to 'ave known
you. But you can see—” He gestured toward the crowded street. “Not that I'm complaining, mind. It's good for trade. Come into the parlor, I keep that clear for my regulars. And this lady is…? A pleasure, Mrs. Kirby, I'm sure.”

The inn parlor was a haven of peace and a gem of English architecture. The massive beams were genuine, though Thomas was a little suspicious of the copper pots strewn about. The small leaded windows muted the sunlight, so that the room was pleasantly shadowed. It smelled of ale and sausage and brass polish.

One of the regular customers was asleep in a corner. He was so old, so brownly withered, and so silent that Thomas wondered for a moment whether he was real. Jacqueline shared his qualms; when their host left to get them food and drink, she nudged Thomas and whispered, “Thomas, I think he's stuffed. Mr. Doakes keeps him around to add atmosphere.”

“Maybe he died just recently, and nobody noticed the difference.”

Doakes returned with ale and home-baked bread and some of the excellent Wensleydale cheese. He seemed glad to get away from the uproar in the public bar; when Thomas asked him to join them, he accepted with alacrity.

“Forty years I've been 'ere, and every day I've
missed old London,” he said. “But now, when I see what the town is breeding up….” He shook his head and applied himself to his modest pint. It did not cheer him. He continued gloomily, “With all respect to Sir Richard, it's 'is fault we've this crowd on our 'ands. All that nonsense up at the manor….”

A grinding noise, like that of rusty gears, turned Thomas's head toward the shadowy corner where the elderly apparition sat. He started. A pair of evil blue eyes had opened in the mummified face, and a toothless mouth was emitting sounds. The lack of dentures and an incredible Yorkshire accent made the resultant speech unintelligible. Thomas turned to Doakes for enlightenment.

“Will says Sir Richard is the best master in the West Riding and 'e won't 'ear a word against 'im,” Doakes translated. “All right, Will, all right, I'm of your opinion. Didn't Sir Richard send my own little grandchild to that 'ospital in London when she was ailing last year? But I still say it's no way for grown men and women to carry on. Fancy dress and playacting, that's bad enough, that is; but when it comes to pretending you're a dead man—well, all I can say is, it isn't 'olesome.”

Apparently the aged Will agreed; the blue eyes had closed and the rusty jaws remained shut.
Thomas exchanged a glance with Jacqueline and saw that she was thinking the same thing he was. The proceedings at Weldon house were not secret. No doubt the whole village knew what was going on.

Jacqueline finished her ale and stared pointedly at her empty glass. Thomas ordered another round. Under the influence of his own excellent brew, Doakes began to brighten.

“Ah, well,” he said philosophically. “Sir Richard is a fine little man, for all his foolishness, and I wish 'im well. Here's to 'im, and the lady of 'is choice.”

“Mrs. Ponsonby-Jones?” Thomas asked dubiously.

Old Will's mouth opened again. The sight was horribly reminiscent of Boris Karloff on the Late Late Show; from the black cavity came a series of sounds like a prolonged death rattle. Thomas would not have identified them as laughter if Doakes had not chuckled.

“The gentleman will 'ave 'is joke, Will. Not that the old—er—woman wouldn't like to be Lady Weldon, and the skinny old one too. Sir Richard's not that foolish. All of us will be glad to see Miss Liz as lady of the manor. She's a fine lass, for all 'er modern ideas.”

“But…” Thomas began. He subsided as
Jacqueline trod heavily on his foot. She was right; they were wasting time.

“Sir Richard sent me to ask for your help, Mr. Doakes,” he said. “Someone broke into the house last night.”

Doakes's grinning face sobered as Thomas explained. He shook his head.

“Now we can't 'ave that. Breaking and entering—that's against the law, that is.”

He made no objection to fetching the hotel register and going over it with Thomas. There were only six strangers resident in the inn, and Doakes's descriptions made it clear that none of them could be James Strangways. Further questioning elicited the information that no man of that description was renting a room in any of the cottages that accepted boarders. They thanked Doakes and rose to leave.

“Tell Sir Richard not to worry,” said the host. “There'll be no more breaking in. We'll see to that.”

Thomas glanced at Old Will and was not surprised to see that the blue eyes were open and alert. He believed Doakes's promise. The village would close ranks when one of its own was threatened, and Thomas pitied the unwary reporter who ran afoul of any of them—even old Will. The very sight of him limping out of a dark
doorway with his toothless mouth agape would set a nervous man screaming.

They were about to go out the door when old Will made his final pronouncement. The rolling “ooms” and “oops” filled the room like thunder. Doakes hesitated a moment before translating.

“He says the playacting is all to the good if it clears King Richard,” he said finally. “He says King Richard never done it. And he says they'll all be watching, on Sunday, to see it proved that he never done it.”

Old Will was mumbling furiously, and Thomas knew the old man was off in some imaginary world of his own. He wondered if that world was the same one in which Weldon spent part of his time. How could anyone believe for a moment that the dead past was really dead? It animated this semiliterate octogenarian as well as a group of supposedly sophisticated worldings. The thought was a little frightening.

Doakes ushered them out the back door into the street. He seemed embarrassed at Will's outburst; before closing the door he said under his breath, “You'll excuse old Will, sir and madam. He wanders a bit…. But then they're all strange on the subject of King Richard in these parts. I tell you, it isn't 'olesome!”

J
ACQUELINE WAS PREOCCUPIED AND SILENT ON
the way back. When they reached the house, she went to change. The return trip over the fence proved that while her physical condition was excellent, white slacks were impractical for climbing rusty iron fences.

Thomas wandered into the gardens. He was full of bread and cheese and disinclined to face a horde of contentious Ricardians. Passing through the rose garden, he headed for an area he remembered from an earlier visit—a secluded paved courtyard whose mellow brick walls supported swags of ivy and trellised vines. There were stone benches, if he remembered correctly, and a fountain.

His memory was accurate, and the glory of late-summer flowers rewarded the effort it took to find the place. Seated on one of the benches were Liz and Frank.

Thomas hesitated in the gateway. It was an appropriate
spot for a pair of lovers, but he had the impression that his arrival had interrupted a spat rather than a fond tête-à-tête. The warmth of Liz's greeting and Frank's brusque “hello” confirmed the impression. Thomas sat down between them—they were at opposite ends of the bench—and tried to think of something to say. He was remembering the innkeeper's gossip about Weldon and the girl. It made him self-conscious.

“Any luck?” Liz asked.

“No Strangways.” Thomas told them what he had found out.

“Hell and damnation,” Frank said gloomily. “I didn't really expect you'd come up with anything, but I hoped…”

“There's nothing to worry about,” Thomas said, with an optimism he did not feel. “No one has been hurt. In fact, the comedian, as Jacqueline calls him, has been rather considerate.”

“Hah,” said Frank, fingering his scratches.

“Superficial,” Liz said, looking at him contemptuously. “You're right, Thomas. Rawdon is on his feet again.”

“What was in his food?”

Liz giggled. She looked absolutely delightful.

“An emetic of some kind, apparently. Rawdon won't say which one. The names that come to mind create amusement rather than sympathy.”

“So he, too, was more humiliated than hurt,” Thomas said. “As for me—”

“I think that was frightfully dangerous,” Liz said. Thomas thought what a charming, sympathetic girl she was. “Surely you'd have been in bad shape if you hadn't been found right away.”

“But I was found right away. Everyone knew we were going to the village, and Jacqueline is not the patient type. When I didn't appear on schedule, the joker could assume she would go looking for me.”

“And how did she know where to look?” Liz inquired.

“Wilkes saw me heading for the nether regions,” Thomas said, remembering the explanation Jacqueline had given as they returned from the cellars. “But it was partly intuition, I suppose. After Frank's encounter…” He broke off with a gasp. “Oh, now, you can't suspect Jacqueline. She's a stranger—”

“Precisely. She's the only newcomer in our midst and the only one who isn't dedicated to the cause. And I imagine she has a rather weird sense of humor.”

Thomas sputtered. Frank burst out laughing.

“Come off it, Liz. You're accustomed to having every damned male in the crowd flap his wings
and crow as you walk past. Now you have a bit of competition.”

Liz glared at him. Frank evidently felt he had gone too far. He added quickly, “Jacqueline isn't the only stranger.”

“O'Hagan,” Thomas said thoughtfully. “Hadn't any of you met him before?”

“No,” Liz said. “I must admit he's odd. Maybe he has a few screws loose.”

“It seems to me,” Frank said, “that the most important thing is to forestall any further accidents. If we can't identify the comedian, perhaps we can anticipate his next move.”

“Good,” Thomas said approvingly. “So far he seems to be following the Tudor legend. So the next victim should be—”

“Lord Hastings,” said Frank. “Who is, of course, our popular idol of stage and screen.”

Liz had been inspecting the foxgloves with what seemed to Thomas sinister interest. Now she turned. “And you are looking forward to that, aren't you?”

“Why not?” Frank looked defiant. “I've been made a fool of; allow me to enjoy watching someone else deflated. If anybody asked for deflation—”

They glowered at one another, and Thomas felt a sentimental amusement. It had been many years since he had engaged in a battle of
words with a pretty girl…. His debates with Jacqueline were hardly in the same category.

“The point is not to enjoy Philip's humiliation but to catch the miscreant,” he said mildly. “If you are right, then all we have to do is guard Philip.”

“Right,” Frank said reluctantly. “Don't worry, Thomas; I'm not foolish enough to neglect my obvious duty simply because—”

“You're jealous,” Liz said. “You accuse me of jealousy; why, you're livid with it! Phil is handsome and famous and talented and confident—”

“And I'm not.” Frank stood up. His face was red but there was dignity in his anger, and in his control of it. “All right, Liz, that's all I'm going to take today. Find yourself another whipping boy.” He stalked out of the garden.

When he had gone, Liz seemed to droop. She gave Thomas a glance in which defiance and misery were equally mixed, and turned back to the foxgloves. “You think I'm frightful, don't you?”

“Of course not. I think you're worried. But you ladies don't have any cause for concern. Not even his enemies accused Richard of murdering women.”

“Except his wife.” Liz turned. She was smiling faintly. “And that is my darling mum. How do
you suppose your comedian plans to counterfeit consumption?”

“It will be poison, if our boy is following the Tudor myth,” Thomas said uneasily. “Your mother is not a young woman, my dear. I don't like the idea of someone playing tricks on her.”

Liz smiled. She rose and held out her hand to pull Thomas to his feet.

“You really are a darling. Come along, Thomas, the afternoon meeting will be starting shortly. We mustn't miss it. Dickon has strictly forbidden discussion of our mystery; he says we've wasted enough time already.”

“So we're to hear Frank rehashing the murder of the princes,” Thomas said, falling in step beside her.

“And Lady Isobel reading her new poem—if time permits.”

“Time probably won't permit,” Thomas said, cheered by the thought. “We're two meetings behind schedule now. All the same, Liz, are you certain about Hastings being the next victim? Haven't the Tudor slanderers implied Richard murdered Edward the Fourth?”

“Not even Sir Thomas More would be that absurd.” Liz frowned thoughtfully. She looked very pretty when she frowned. Thomas was tempted to put his arm around her, but thought better of it.

“Unless,” Liz went on, “one might claim that Richard was indirectly guilty of Edward's death because he made no attempt to dissuade him from the debauchery that hastened his end.”

“Beautiful,” Thomas said, laughing. “I'm surprised More didn't think of that one. Remember his statement that Richard was responsible for Clarence's execution, although he protested publicly against it, but that he didn't really protest as loudly as he might have done, and so probably didn't mean it?”

“This isn't getting us anywhere, Thomas.”

“No. But we will have to watch Philip closely.”

“That,” said Liz, “I can do.”

Earlier, Thomas had found the Ricardians exasperatingly emotional. He now found himself in the inconsistent position of deploring a demonstration of British phlegm. The afternoon meeting was proceeding according to schedule, and so far no one had referred to the unfortunate tricks.

However, as he glanced around the room, Thomas saw that the mystery had left its marks. The effect showed in flushed faces and glittering eyes, in the rector's troubled frown and in Rawdon's sickly pallor. It showed most plainly in Philip. The hard, handsome face was calm as he
followed Weldon's introductory remarks. The actor's long, flexible hands were relaxed. But one foot tapped in a restless rhythm on the carpeted floor.

They were meeting in the library, since the Great Hall was being decorated for the evening's festivities. Nervously Thomas rehearsed in his mind the steps of the dance he had been practicing. Then he forced himself to pay attention to the proceedings.

Weldon looked more like his hero than ever. There was only one sign of nervousness, and that was a gesture he might have borrowed from Richard III, whose portrait showed him fingering a ring on one hand—a habit mentioned by historians. In the portrait Richard wore three rings on his right hand—a modest collection for a man of his clothes-conscious era. Weldon wore only one; he kept twisting it and pushing it up and down as he talked.

His remarks included a welcome to the distinguished American visitor, who squeaked an acknowledgment, and a hint of the joys in store for the evening. Weldon ended by introducing the first speaker, and Frank walked up to the temporary rostrum.

Thomas had not expected to do so, but he found Frank's talk fairly interesting. The young
man had a logical mind, in spite of his legal training. Even the bruises on his unhandsome face did not detract from his poise, and his low voice, with its beautifully modulated vowels, was a pleasure to hear.

Thomas glanced at Jacqueline. He suspected she was more sympathetic to Richard than she admitted; but it would be like her to take the negative side out of sheer perversity. And she knew quite a bit about the subject. That was another of her irritating qualities, Thomas thought, trying to harden his heart against the effect of the elegant profile framed in ruddy hair. If she would just admit she knew, instead of pretending girlish ignorance and then walloping the unwitting victim with a cartload of specialized data….

Frank took the conventional—among Ricardians—view that the real murderer of the princes was Henry VII. He recalled Henry's inexplicable failure to discover the fate of the boys after he entered London, and summarized the inconsistencies in More's story of the confession. He pointed out that Richard's behavior was equally illogical if he was guilty of the crime. As England's grim history proved, a deposed monarch was often as good as dead; but the bodies of the other murdered kings had been publicly displayed so that there could be no doubt of their deaths. If
Richard wanted to prevent rebellions in favor of his nephews, he had to make sure they were known to be dead.

As Frank went on, Thomas found his attention straying from the speaker to Sir Richard. Weldon's hands were not still for a moment, the ring moved up and down, around and around. There was a queer little smile on his face as he listened to the lecture.

With a sudden thrill Thomas remembered the letter. The fantastic events of the past twenty-four hours had put it out of his mind, and yet it was the raison d'être of the whole weekend. What was in that letter? Was it the cause of Weldon's secretive smile?

If so, the rector did not share Weldon's feelings; he was sober and preoccupied, nodding absently from time to time as Frank made a point. So far as Thomas knew, Ellis was the only other member of the group who had seen the letter. That wasn't right. The committee should have its chance before the public fanfare began. Wasn't that why they were here? Thomas wondered if the others, like himself, had been so worried about the unpleasant jokes that they had forgotten the purpose of the meeting. He promised himself that he would corner Weldon as soon as the session ended.

He had to contain himself while the doctor spoke on medieval medicine and Percy read a pompous long-winded paper on the education of a boy of noble rank in the fifteenth century. As the afternoon wore on, the room began to darken. The sun had vanished behind the rain clouds Jacqueline had predicted earlier. A cool wind came through the open window, and Thomas fidgeted impatiently. A burst of applause brought him out of his brown study. Percy had finished and his fond mama was clapping. Thunder rolled in ominous echo as Sir Richard brought his gavel down, ending the meeting.

Thomas caught up with his host at the library door and drew him aside. The others were heading for their rooms to prepare for the banquet. Jacqueline lingered, but Thomas scowled at her and made shooing motions with his hand. He wanted to tackle Sir Richard alone. For a wonder, Jacqueline obeyed.

The interview was not satisfactory. Weldon was vague. Of course he meant to show the letter to his colleagues. There had been so many distractions…. Tonight? Possibly…. They would discuss it later. Would Thomas excuse him? He had to consult with Wilkes about the arrangements for the banquet….

Weldon slid away, smiling sweetly. Thomas swore. He felt the need of something to calm his
nerves, so he rang and ordered a drink. It was brought by one of the footmen; Wilkes was evidently busy. Carrying his glass, Thomas went upstairs.

He took off his coat, tie, and shoes, and settled himself comfortably on the bed with a copy of Sir Thomas More. Rain hissed softly against the window; drawn draperies and an excellent reading light gave a warm, enclosed feeling to the room. The slanders of Sir Thomas exacerbate the feelings of Ricardians, but his prose is not particularly stimulating. Thomas's eyelids drooped….

He was awakened by a tap on the door. He fumbled for the book, with the unreasonable sense of guilt people feel when they are caught sleeping during the day.

Jacqueline slipped into the room. She was wearing a dark-green housecoat that matched her eyes. Thomas sat up. He was no longer sleepy, but one look at Jacqueline's face told him that his hope was in vain.

“I came for a chat,” she said, sitting down in an armchair. “What are you reading? Oh, Sir Thomas More. Or do you follow the school that claims Morton wrote the book?”

Thomas sighed. Really, Jacqueline's expertise was very exasperating.