The Murders of Richard III (15 page)

“Clarence probably knew about it too,” Thomas said. “He had his eye on the throne, and…”

Nobody seemed to be listening to him, so he moved on. In a corner behind a rubber plant he found Frank, alone. Thomas put his head around the rubber plant.

“Clarence probably knew about it too,” he said. “He had his eye on the throne….”

“Oh, it's you,” Frank said unenthusiastically. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“The precontract,” said Thomas, surprised. “Isn't that what we've been talking about?”

“We haven't been talking. And if you are planning to discuss Richard the Third or any of his kin, don't.”

“If that's the way you feel, I'm leaving,” said Thomas.

“Do.”

Thomas moved on. He wasn't angry with Frank; the poor guy was probably brooding about his fiancêe's tète à tète with Phil. Not that there was anything to brood about; the conversation could hardly have been less romantic.

By an oblique train of reasoning this reminded
Thomas that he hadn't seen anything of Jacqueline for some time. He began to look for her. The torches were burning low, and he was feeling drowsy; it was only by chance that he saw the shimmer of a golden skirt in a shadowy corner. He wandered over.

Jacqueline was not alone. She was not aware of his approach, not even when Thomas leaned forward, squinting, to make sure of his quarry. The red-gold hair flowed down over Jacqueline's shoulder and over the arm of the man who…

“Hey!” said Thomas indignantly. It was bad enough to find Jacqueline in a dark corner with a man. That the man was identifiable by his snowy hair as O'Hagan made matters worse. The white rabbit had been snared by the fox, and Thomas wondered why the fox had bothered. There was something very funny going on….

“Hey!” he repeated. The first exclamation had apparently gone unheard. This one had the desired effect. Jacqueline pulled away. Thomas stared in consternation. The alcove was dark, but there was no mistake; the rabbit's face stared back at him, pale and moustacheless. The moustache…the moustache was…

Jacqueline raised a hand and peeled the luxuriant appendage from her cheek.

“Oh, Thomas,” she said casually. “Would you mind…”

Drunk or sober, Thomas told himself, he had a mind that worked like a steel trap. The pieces of the puzzle fell together with a resounding click; growling joyfully, Thomas leaped at O'Hagan and got a punch on the nose that sent him sprawling on his back. He wallowed among the rushes.

“That's enough of that,” Jacqueline said icily. “Both of you stop it this instant.”

The lights went on in a blinding flash. Whether by design or accident—Thomas suspected the former—the romantic pair had met in the area where the main switches were located.

Her hand still on the switch, Jacqueline studied Thomas with twitching lips.

“Have some hay,” she quoted, rather freely. “It's especially good when you feel faint.”

Thomas began to pluck dried rushes from his wig. His eyes were glued to O'Hagan; he was finding the truth hard to believe. From other parts of the hall people converged on the trio.

“Strangways,” said Thomas. “I'll be
eternally
damned if it isn't James Strangways.”

There could be no doubt; the face now bared to the world by the removal of the moustache was unquestionably that of the man whose photograph Thomas had seen on the back of his biography
of Edward IV. The dark hair was now pure white, and there were a few more wrinkles around the eyes and the wide, mobile mouth, but the features were the same. The moustache had not been the only disguise; there was no trace of the blinking rodent in Strangways's look now. He even looked taller. Jacqueline's hand rested on his arm, and Thomas sensed that if it had not been for this mild restraint, Strangways would have vaulted his fallen form and fled.

If he had meditated flight, it was now too late. They were surrounded by a circle of staring faces, on some of which comprehension and outrage had begun to replace bewilderment.

Frank was the first to speak.

“My God,” he said.

Lady Isobel plucked at his arm.

“What is it? What is happening?”

“Mr. O'Hagan has lost his moustache,” said Mrs. Ponsonby-Jones. “That is very strange.” She glared at Jacqueline, as if blaming her for the shaving of O'Hagan.

Percy burst into a high-pitched giggle. “Mum, you are stupid. This isn't Mr. O'Hagan. Don't you recognize him? I do! I suspected all along—”

“Be quiet,” Weldon said. The tone quieted Percy; he glanced at Weldon in shocked surprise. Sir Richard's self-control was more impressive
than ever. Even the tipsy crown didn't mar his dignity, and Strangways, who had been smiling, lowered his eyes under Weldon's gaze.

“I also recognize you, Mr. Strangways,” Weldon said. “Your behavior surprises me, I confess. I had considered you mistaken, but not unprincipled.”

“I owe you an apology,” Strangways admitted. “Very bad form—isn't that the correct phrase? But I assure, you, deceiving you about my identity was the only way in which I have abused your hospitality.”

His voice was several shades deeper than O'Hagan's had been.

“But how did you manage it?” Thomas demanded. “What have you done with the real O'Hagan? Is there a real O'Hagan?”

“Oh, yes, he's real. He's the jackass who took over the American society after they threw me out for heresy.” Strangways smiled. His front teeth were a trifle prominent, but the effect was now rather canine than rodent. “I still have a few friends in the society; they keep me informed, so I knew when O'Hagan was due to arrive. It was easy to cut him out of the crowd at the airport; I knew what he looked like, and young Frank didn't. I pointed him out to a friend of mine—he wouldn't have gone quietly with me—and my
pal smuggled him away to London, where he is now hiding. The man's a bundle of neuroses; he thinks the meeting has been postponed, and that every reporter in England is in pursuit of him. Meanwhile, I stuck on my moustache and my name tag—I thought that was a particularly good touch—and caught Frank's wandering eye. Simple.”

Although Strangways demonstrated some embarrassment at being caught, Thomas thought this emotion was subordinate. He was having a hard time keeping his mouth straight, and he was standing very close to Jacqueline.

Thomas transferred his accusing stare to that lady.

“How long have you known about this?”

“I suspected it some time ago,” Jacqueline said. “There is an aura, is there not?—a subtle outflow of masculine energies—no true woman could ignore its emanations. I felt it…here….” She clasped her hands over her heaving bosom and grinned at Lady Isobel. Then her voice changed. “I thought it peculiar that Mr. O'Hagan denied knowing Strangways, when both of them had been associated with the American society. That wasn't necessarily damning evidence; but surely it was obvious that if you were harboring a cuckoo in the nest, it had to be Mr.
O'Hagan. He is the only person who is not known by sight to any of you. The moustache was too good to be true; his other features are unmistakably those of the man in the photograph. If you are trying to identify someone, you look at the facial bones—nose, jaw and cheekbones, the setting of the eyes.”

“Most people don't, though,” Strangways said coolly.

“His hair…” Thomas began.

“Turned white overnight when I learned the terrible truth about Richard the Third,” said Strangways.

He ducked, suddenly, as a fist brushed his jaw. Thomas, now completely sober, grabbed Kent just in time to prevent a second attack. The general's face was purple with rage. His arm felt like a steel bar, and he did not subside until Frank had added his weight to Thomas's. Kent began to swear. He was panting so hard that most of the words were obscured, but a few of the riper military adjectives came through intact: Lady Isobel squealed and put her hands over her shell-like ears.

“Let me at the bastard,” Kent said, still wheezing. “Just let me knock that superior smile off his treacherous face. After all he's done to you…and you…” His head bobbed from one
side to the other, indicating Thomas and Frank, who were still holding him.

Frank looked at Thomas. The younger man's cheeks were flushed and his eyes shone with amusement.

“Now then,” he said soothingly. “No harm's been done. Actually, I'm rather relieved to find that Mr. Strangways is our mysterious comedian. It makes the whole thing less disturbing.”

Again his eyes met those of Thomas, and the latter nodded vigorously. “Quite right, Frank. If you and I don't choose to chastise Mr. Strangways, I don't see why anyone else should be vindictive. Let's all cool off and talk rationally.”

Strangways was no longer smiling. “Just a minute,” he said. “There's no reason why you should take my word for it, but for your own sakes you had better do so. I didn't play those damned jokes.”

Against his will Thomas found the avowal convincing. He was still trying to adjust to the transformation. He found Mr. Hyde much more attractive than the former personality. Strangways looked younger and tougher than the false O'Hagan; his eyes were direct and honest.

Then Strangways spoiled the effect by adding, “I don't need to make fools of you. You're about to do it with no help from me.”

Another roar from Kent alerted Thomas; he wound both arms about the general's writhing body.

Then Weldon's voice cut through the uproar like the lash of a whip.

“Stop it! We've had enough of this, Kent,” he said. “Let him go, Thomas. Let go, I say.”

Thomas did so. Kent stood still, his color fading.

“Now,” Weldon went on, “let us disprove Mr. Strangway's opinion of us by acting rationally. I don't mean to hold an inquest into the jokes—if you want to call them that. Unless Mr. Strangways can prove an alibi…”

Strangways was more cowed by his icy courtesy than he had been by Kent's attempted assault. He shook his head. “How can I? Everyone was coming and going.”

“Precisely. The same thing applies to the rest of us,” Weldon continued with scrupulous fairness. “Since, as Frank says, no harm was done, I propose to forget what has happened. A more pertinent question is—what do we do with Mr. Strangways?”

“Throw him out,” Kent growled. “Kick him out the doors.”

“It is one thirty in the morning,” Weldon said. “There is not a room to be had in the village, and it is beginning to rain again. Because Mr. Strangways
has behaved badly is no reason why I should emulate him.”

“Imprison the miscreant,” said Mrs. Ponsonby-Jones angrily. “Fling him into a dungeon!”

“Don't be absurd,” Liz said sharply. She moved forward, her green skirts swaying, and eyed Strangways with cool appraisal. “Perhaps you'd like us to load him with rusty chains, Mother. After that banquet, dry bread and water would be superfluous.”

The rector coughed. “We can hardly imprison the gentleman,” he said. His mild voice was shocked. “That would be violating the law. The police—”

There was an immediate, unanimous murmur of negation. Strangways smiled. “I'm perfectly willing to face the police,” he said.

“You would be.” Philip pushed forward. “Padre, think again. I'm the last man to object to publicity, but if we want to make thorough asses of ourselves for the benefit of the newspaper-reading public of the world, the surest way is to call the police in.”

“Quite right, quite right,” the doctor said. “It must not get out. Dignity…reputations…”

Strangways looked at Philip. The two men were the same height; their eyes met like blades crossing.

“Hearing you was a privilege,” Strangways said. “I may regret my lack of manners, but I don't regret having had the chance to hear your Richard.”

Philip made an impatient gesture.

“These exchanges of courtesy bore me,” he said curtly. “Sir Richard, I agree that we can't convict Mr. Strangways without proof; but surely you aren't going to allow him to be present tomorrow?”

“No, no. Mr. Strangways will leave in the morning. For the present, I fear he will have to endure my company.”

“But…” Kent began.

“I've been anxious to talk with him,” Weldon went on; and Thomas was amazed to see the familiar gentle glow of Ricardian passion warm the little peer's face. “I feel sure I can convince him of his errors.”

Strangways laughed. He turned to Jacqueline, who had been oddly silent. “If I can't have your company, my dear, Sir Richard's is next best. A duel of wits, eh? We'll see who convinces whom.”

He stepped forward. Weldon took him by the arm, as he might have done with any of his friends. As they walked away, Weldon was already talking.

“There'll always be an England,” said Jacqueline, staring after them.

Instead of breaking up after the Great Discovery, the party revived. The event had sobered most of the guests; they took immediate steps to remedy this distressing development. Frank made a beeline for the punch bowl. Kent stood gnawing his lower lip.

“What about a drink?” Thomas asked him.

Kent looked up. He was playing with the jeweled dagger at his belt, and the look on his face chilled Thomas.

“Look here, General,” he began.

“Oh, it's all right,” Kent cut in. “If Dick wants to play the gallant fool, that's up to him. Richard forgave
his
enemies, didn't he? Yes, I'll have a drink—but not that foul brew in the bowl. I need some brandy to take the bad taste out of my mouth. Coming, Rawdon?”

He stamped off, followed by the doctor and Mr. Ellis. Lady Isobel and Mrs. Ponsonby-Jones had struck up a temporary alliance, to express their ladylike disapproval of the whole transaction. Arm in arm, they advanced on the punch bowl. Jacqueline stood like a statue, her eyes slightly crossed, communing with something invisible.