The Murders of Richard III (13 page)

Something snapped into place in his mind with a horrible click. He leaped up and followed Jacqueline. Liz and Frank reached the door at the same time. Their faces were shaped into the same expression of pallid fear.

“Where?” Frank asked. “The cellars…”

Thomas saw Jacqueline taking the stairs two at a time. Her skirts were raised to her knees.

“Upstairs,” he grunted, and shoved past the others.

Jacqueline didn't bother investigating the boy's room; she looked in the other bedrooms. Thomas had never realized the sheer size of Weldon House until that time. It was nightmarish. The doors seemed to go on forever, down one unending corridor after another.

“How the hell many doors are there in this museum?” Jacqueline wailed, opening another door.

She hardly paused; but there was a split second's hesitation before she flung herself across the threshold. Thomas reached the door in time to see what was within.

The figure sprawled on the bed was Percy;
there was no mistaking that gross shape. The face was hidden by a fat white pillow.

“Smothered in the Tower,” someone behind him was babbling. Thomas could not identify the voice; it was shrill with horror. “Smothered between two feather beds!”

I
N THE SPLIT-SECOND PAUSE BETWEEN DISCOVERY
and action, Thomas's ingenious imagination presented him with a series of horrific pictures. It was a wasted effort. When Jacqueline snatched the pillow away, he saw Percy's familiar pink face, open mouthed and wet-lipped; the lips vibrated perceptibly to the sound of Percy's regular breathing.

Along the corridor came the pounding of feet. Not even maternal love could drive Mrs. Ponsonby-Jones's heavy frame beyond a certain rate of speed; she was the last to arrive. The staring onlookers in the doorway staggered back as she thrust through them. Catching sight of the pillow in Jacqueline's hand and the outstretched feet of her son, she gave a heartrending cry. She flung herself onto the bed. The springs squealed and Percy's relaxed body bounced before she gathered it into her arms.

It took considerable time to convince the
woman that Percy was alive and well. Percy's head drooped over her arm; his mouth had sagged into an idiotic grin.

“He's drunk,” Thomas said.

“No. Drugged, though, I think. Mrs. Ponsonby-Jones, if you would let the doctor have a look at him…”

Rawdon was on the other side of the bed, trying to get at his patient. It took Jacqueline's and Thomas's combined efforts to pry the distracted mother from her son, and they had to wrestle with her again when the doctor, after peering into Percy's eye, administered a few hearty slaps. The next time he lifted the boy's lid, it stayed up. The expression of the single blue eye boded no good for the slapper.

Mrs. Ponsonby-Jones was removed; she was only a hindrance. The others set about the work of restoration, and Thomas, for one, enjoyed it. Percy's howl, when he was thrust into a cold shower, warmed the cockles of his heart. The boy emerged dripping and blue, but by then he was sufficiently restored to regain his natural curiosity.

“You mean I was doped?” he inquired, through chattering teeth. “Really doped? How marvelous!”

Thomas left the boy to the tender mercies of the
doctor and Weldon and returned to the drawing room, where the others had reassembled. Joining Jacqueline, who was sitting with Liz, he said, “Percy is himself again. It must have been a mild dose.”

“No harm done except to our nerves,” Jacqueline agreed. That her nerves were indeed affected Thomas deduced by the presence of the purse—large, white, and bulging. She must have gone to her room to fetch it as a child reaches for a furry animal in time of stress. She lifted it to her lap and began to burrow in it with both hands.

“Do you think he took the stuff himself?” she inquired.

Shocked, Thomas silently indicated the presence of the boy's sister. Liz looked at him. She was dry-eyed and unnaturally calm.

“He might have done,” she said. “He has a bottle of tranquilizers.”

There was a short, uncomfortable silence. Jacqueline continued to burrow. Finally she came up with a battered pack of cigarettes.

“This is the tenth time I've failed to quit smoking,” she said, as Thomas took a lighter from the table. “Liz just told me about the tranquilizers.”

“Mother keeps pressing them on him,” the girl said in the same expressionless voice. “She thinks he's nervy and sensitive. I know he's a little horror, but…”

“It's too fashionable these days to blame everything on poor old Mum,” Jacqueline said, blowing out a neatly rounded smoke ring. “That doesn't mean she isn't sometimes culpable. But you're all right.”

Her tone was matter-of-fact. The girl's face lost some of its pallor. She managed a faint smile.

“I'm okay, you're okay,” she said. “Sometimes I'm not altogether sure of that.”

She got up and crossed the room to the fireplace, where Frank was standing. He put his arm around her and she leaned against him.

“Well?” Thomas asked.

Jacqueline blew out another smoke ring. The first one had been a fluke; this attempt resembled a mashed doughnut. Jacqueline's eyes narrowed in annoyance. She tried again, producing a gusty blob with no discernible shape.

“The boy might have drugged himself,” she said. “But that isn't the most interesting thing about this last incident.”

“What is?” Thomas inquired resignedly.

“You were terrified, weren't you?”

“You're damned right I was, and I'm not ashamed to admit it. Percy is an obnoxious brat, but I don't want to see him—”

He broke off, staring at Jacqueline. She looked more enigmatic than usual, thanks to the veil of
smoke that obscured her features like the vapor surrounding the pythoness.

“You were scared too,” Thomas said. “Like the rest of us, you expected a catastrophe. And the interesting question is—why did we?”

“Precisely. No one has been hurt or seriously injured. Percy's absence could have been explained in a number of harmless ways. Yet the moment his mother announced he was not in his room, we panicked.”

“The triumph of instinct over reason,” Thomas said. “God knows the atmosphere around here is thick enough. Darkness, rain, the mournful sighing of the wind, and all that sort of thing—not to mention the shades of dead kings and queens gliding through shadowy halls. We're haunted by the memories of old murders. But it's more than that, isn't it?”

“How poetic.” But Jacqueline's tone was affectionate; she smiled at him in a way that made his head spin. Or possibly, Thomas told himself, it was the wine.

“I know what worries me,” he said, “and it isn't the atmosphere. The joker has taken care not to injure anyone seriously, but what if something goes wrong? What if he picks on someone with a weak heart or an unusual susceptibility to a drug?”

Jacqueline nodded. There wasn't time for her to comment; they were joined by the doctor, who had completed his ministrations.

“Is Percy all right?” Thomas asked.

Rawdon nodded. His gilt crown bobbed, and he made a grab for it.

“I keep forgetting the damned thing,” he complained, looking as gloomy and cadaverous as Henry VI probably had looked most of the time. “Apparently the drug was in some vile fruit drink the boy habitually consumes. Did you see his room? Stocked like a shop! Biscuits, sweets—even the fruit is deadly unless it was organically grown, which is unlikely. Insecticides—”

“It would have been easy for someone to drug him, then,” Jacqueline interrupted the diatribe.

“Oh, quite. The unfortunate boy never stops eating. If I had him under my care—”

Thomas had heard enough.

“I wonder what's going to happen now. Will Dick want to go on with the banquet?”

Weldon answered the question himself. He appeared in the doorway with his arm around the shoulders of a swaggering Percy.

“Here we are,” he said. “Ready to take up where we were—er—interrupted. Mrs. Ponsonby-Jones will join us later on.”

For a moment Thomas didn't think Weldon
was going to get away with it. The room rang with unspoken questions. But Weldon stood firm, his dark eyes challenging; and no one spoke.

Liz was the first to respond. Like someone in a trance she walked forward, and Sir Richard moved to meet her. He offered her his arm, in the old courtly gesture; she placed her hand on his. The candles flickered in a sudden gust of wind; the two slight figures, robed and crowned, seemed to flicker too, like the unsubstantial fabric of a dream.

Thomas heard a voice remark softly.

“Stands the wind in that quarter? ‘Nay, do no pause; for I did kill King Henry, But 'twas thy beauty that provoked me. Nay, now dispatch; 'twas I that stabb'd young Edward, But 'twas thy heavenly face that set me on.' ”

The voice was Philip's, of course. Thomas turned. “I hope your quotation does not constitute an accusation.”

“Did you see Weldon's face when she took his hand?” The actor's face was covered with a faint sheen of perspiration.

“Don't be ridiculous,” Thomas said shortly. “At any rate, you're in the clear. The comedian appears to have skipped you. I'm inclined to agree with Sir Richard. It was Percy.”

“After this last episode?” The lines in Philip's
forehead smoothed out. “Yes, I see. A typically juvenile attempt to remove suspicion from himself.”

“Sir Richard lectured him—accused him of perpetrating the tricks. This would be a predictable reaction.”

“I wish I believed it,” Philip muttered. “I can deal with Percy.”

“Come along,” Thomas said. “To the feast! Begone, dull care!”

Philip laughed hollowly.

The Great Hall was alive with ruddy, shifting light. A fire roared in the hearth, and along the wall torches set in iron brackets sent up streams of orange flame. The long table on the dais was covered with snowy linen. The floor was strewn with rushes; they were semi-dry and rustled underfoot, giving out a sweet scent as the herbs and flowers among them were crushed by the feet of the guests. Along the walls, stiff as statues, stood rows of servants in full medieval costume. Thomas was reassured to see the snout of a portable fire extinguisher poking out from under a tapestry. It was still raining outside, but Weldon was taking no chances.

Weldon led his lady into the Hall as a blare of
trumpets assailed the ears of the guests. Waiting for them near the dais was the stoical figure of Wilkes, in the uncongenial role of the medieval marshal. With his small gilt baton he indicated the chairs each diner was to occupy. As Weldon took his place, the trumpets died. Thomas let out a breath of relief. The musicians did not lack ardor, but at least one of them had to be tone deaf as well as untrained.

The unfortunate Wilkes now reappeared in the role of the medieval butler, the mandatory white napkin draped around his neck. Thomas watched with amusement as he poured wine into the cover of Weldon's cup and raised it to his own lips. He hoped the butler didn't have to go through the rest of the taster's ritual; it would take forever, if he dipped into every dish.

Weldon had tactfully dispensed with the massive salt-cellar that separated the nobles from the nonentities at a medieval table. Thomas found himself seated between Frank and Rawdon. Liz was some distance away, between the rector and Philip. Frank's expression made it clear that he did not approve of this arrangement.

Thomas took a heady swallow of wine and slapped the younger man on the back.

“Cheer up,” he said expansively. “Enjoy. Dick has gone all out on this affair.”

“Yes, but that damned actor—”

“He hasn't got a chance,” Thomas said. He finished his wine.

Frank's dark hair brushed the back of his collar and waved over his ears. His expression was lugubrious and he was sweating. The Hall was already uncomfortably hot, and the fire was roaring like a blast furnace.

“You know something?” he asked.

“Where's your crown?” Thomas demanded. “You oughta have—”

“It kept falling off.”

“So does mine. But you're a prince. You oughta have—”

“You know something?”

“No, what?”

“You're drunk,” Frank said seriously. “And I'm getting drunk. And I mean to get a lot more…” He stopped, his eyes widening. “Good Lord,” he said.

Thomas read his lips. He couldn't hear a thing except the off-key bray of trumpets. The door of the Hall opened. Through it came the vision that had astounded Frank.

It might be described as a bevy of serving wenches. Thomas assumed they were village girls; surely the house didn't have a staff of this size. Kirtled and laced and buskined to a dizzying
degree, they were having a hard time controlling their laughter, as their red faces and popping eyes showed. They carried platters and bowls and flagons. As the procession entered, it divided, and down the center marched two stalwart village lads wearing baggy tights and long wigs. Between them they supported a mammoth platter on which sat a swan in full feather.

Thomas knew the swan was safely dead and roasted, its feathers restored to present a replica of life. The idea repelled him, although he knew such frivolities had been common at medieval banquets. He reached for the goblet, which one of the servants had just refilled.

Medieval diet suggests a group of lowly peasants munching stale black bread, or Henry VIII chomping on a leg of lamb while the fat drips down his front. In fact, the
haute cuisine
of the fifteenth century was extremely elaborate. Thomas let out a low whistle of approval after he tasted the soup that constituted the first course. Wilkes was dissecting the swan at a serving table—“plucking” might be a more accurate word—and his fleshy nose indicated what he thought of the task. Thomas did not watch.

Frank was not so appreciative. “What in God's name…” he began, indicating the thick liquid in his bowl.

“Blandissory,” Thomas said, dipping into the brew again. “Made of beef broth, almonds, and sweet wine boiled together as a base and strained; then you add capon, ground in a mortar—I suppose they would use a blender today—tempered with milk of almonds and sugar. Add blanched almonds….” He lifted his spoon and studied the nut peeping coyly out of the soup before putting the spoon in his mouth. It was impossible to sip blandissory genteelly from the spoon; the almonds got caught in your teeth.

“Too sweet,” said Frank grumpily. “Give me a nice clear consommé.”

Nobody did. By the end of the first course, even Thomas's stomach was beginning to feel the strain.

The everyday fare for a lordly household usually involved two separate courses, each consisting of three or four dishes. Picking jadedly at swan, Thomas thought with consternation of one famous medieval banquet that had included sixty separate dishes. Surely Weldon wouldn't try to outdo that feast.

The subtlety that ended the first course—which had included three other dishes of meat and fish in addition to soup and swan—was a masterpiece. It was borne in by the same grinning footmen who had opened the ball with the swan. A
concoction of spun sugar and egg white, it had been formed by some Michelangelo of a chef into a representation of Sampson pulling down the pillars of the Temple.