The Murders of Richard III (24 page)

“Good Lord,” Thomas said, starting up. “It's a wonder Frank didn't attack you, Jacqueline. If I had realized—”

“I was never in any danger.” Jacqueline sounded a little regretful. “Frank couldn't spoil the ‘murders of Richard the Third' by attacking someone who wasn't on the list. Besides, Sir Richard knew from the start that I was no expert, and Lady Isobel made sure everyone else knew it. Where is she, by the way?”

“Resting,” said the rector. “She was totally prostrated, poor lady, by the excitement.”

“Prostrated with frustration,” Kent corrected, with an unpleasant laugh. “She's lost her quarry. By this time she is probably drunk.”

“Never mind her,” Thomas said. “Go on, Jacqueline.”

“Frank dispatched the letter,” Jacqueline said. “Not to Sir Richard—that would have been too obvious—but to Mr. Ellis. I suppose he invented some tale of noble families brought down in the world, of theft and mild skull-duggery, in order to explain his desire for anonymity….”

Mr. Ellis looked down at his folded hands. “I was culpable. And gullible. I cannot excuse myself; I
have allowed a worldly interest to assume monstrous proportions. I wanted so much to believe…”

“You mustn't blame yourself,” Jacqueline said, with the gentleness she always showed to the little man. “Whatever your reservations, you had to show the letter to Sir Richard; you had no choice. You tried to stop the show when it started to turn into a circus….

“Of course Frank sent the letter in order to bring about an early meeting of the executive board. He didn't dare wait until October; Liz was showing signs of restlessness. He planned to commit the crime during a weekend house party, when the place was teeming with eccentric Ricardians. He did not expect that Sir Richard would fall completely for the forged letter and invite the press to the meeting, but he saw that this development could be useful. More confusion, more people wandering around, more suspects.

“The jokes were designed for the same purpose—confusion. But they served several other purposes. The whole setup suggested a joker with a mania about Richard the Third. Sir Richard's death, which horribly simulated the bloody end of his prototype, was supposed to be only a joke gone wrong. Thus it would appear to be one of a series, and the police would look for a monomaniac, not a killer who profited by Sir
Richard's death. And if the worst happened and Frank was caught, the jokes gave him several choices of defense. It would be hard to prove premeditated murder. Insanity, accident—this poor young chap, troubled by his fiancée's sick passion for a dead man…

“I'm sure all this was in Frank's mind, but of course he didn't mean to be caught. The bizarre nature of the jokes suggested Percy as the joker. Adolescence is an unstable period, and adolescent killers commit crimes for the most trivial reasons. That was why I was sure no attempt would be made on Sir Richard today until Percy was free. It took him longer than Frank had anticipated. He got so impatient he went upstairs and shouted directions at the boy.”

“Right under my nose,” Thomas said disgustedly.

“If you hadn't been with him, he might have unlocked the door,” Jacqueline consoled him. “Percy would have gotten out eventually, and Frank took advantage of his appearance at the window. He knew Sir Richard would immediately rush to check on the safety of his precious letter.”

“What if Percy hadn't shown himself?”

“Frank would have thought of some other method of distraction. All he had to do was point
and shout, ‘My God, there's Percy,' or ‘I see Strangways in the garden.' The important thing was that Percy should be out, on the loose, and unable to prove an alibi. I kept Mrs. P.-J. under surveillance, just in case, but I didn't think Frank would bother with her. He had altered the correct sequence before, with Percy and Philip.”

“You had it all figured out,” Thomas said. “My God, yes—that Gilbert and Sullivan thing you were humming.”

Jacqueline raised her voice in song.

“I was trying to give you a hint, and you made a nasty remark about my perfectly normal appetite,” she added severely. “You were very dim, Thomas.”

“I was obsessed by my own theory,” Thomas groaned. “I was sure Sir Richard had slipped a cog, and that he meant to kill Frank. I don't know about you, Jacqueline, but when we first saw Frank flat on his face in the wine cellar, I was sure he was dead. That was the one ‘joke' that could have gone wrong. And Frank was Edward of
Lancaster, the first husband of the girl King Richard loved, as well as the fiancé of the girl Sir Richard loved…”

“That's a good example of pseudopsychological Ricardian mishmash,” Jacqueline said critically. “Really, Thomas, you ought to know better. The brilliant, insane murderers are in books. In real life people kill for practical reasons.”

“Why didn't you tell me?” Thomas shouted. “Just tell me! You let the thing go on—you knew Weldon was in danger—”

“I'll never criticize detective stories again,” Jacqueline said. “It was impossible to tell you, Thomas, with everyone wandering around the room. I couldn't hiss, ‘Frank is the comedian and he's planning to murder Sir Richard,' now could I? You would have thought I was crazy. You wanted to think I was crazy. You wouldn't have believed me without a long, detailed buildup such as the one I've just given you. And…”

Her voice changed, and so did her expression. Watching the still, austere face, Thomas felt a chill. He had never seen this facet of Jacqueline's personality before.

“I had decided, by then, that it was necessary to let him proceed,” she said quietly. “I chickened out, at first, and tried to talk Sir Richard into
breaking up the house party. That would have eliminated the immediate danger; but if Frank meant to kill, he would have tried again. There was no proof. The only way to ensure Sir Richard's safety was to let Frank go ahead and catch him in the act.”

“So you risked Weldon's life.”

“I had to. The man who will kill for money may kill again. If I let Frank get away this time, I was risking not only Sir Richard's life, but Liz's as well—and God knows how many other lives that might one day stand between Frank and what he wanted. I hoped to stop Frank before he killed; but I was sure of convicting him whether he succeeded or failed. It was, if you like, a ruthless act. But the alternative was worse.”

The rector was the first to speak.

“It was not ruthless,” he said. “But it was—if you will forgive me—arrogant. ‘Vengeance is mine….' ”

“I'm not justifying my decision,” Jacqueline said. “I'm not such a hypocrite as that. I act as I must—and I pay for my mistakes, Mr. Ellis.”

“We all pay,” Strangways said. “But few of us have the guts, or the naked honesty, to eschew pious rationalizations.”

Jacqueline looked at him. Thomas didn't like the look; it was almost kindly. He coughed.
Jacqueline glanced at him, and then reached down into her purse. Thomas watched, fascinated. What would emerge from the unknown depths now?

A paperweight emerged. Shaped like a replica of Barnard Castle, it was made of bronze and measured approximately eight inches square.

“Goodness, that's heavy,” Jacqueline said, putting the object back on the table where it normally stood.

“I wouldn't have thought you'd need that,” said Thomas. “Your purse must weigh twenty pounds in its normal state.”

“It's a very effective weapon,” Jacqueline said calmly. “I prowl the campus by night, hoping to be attacked by muggers.”

Monday morning is supposed to be a dismal time, but on this particular Monday, Thomas's mood was almost cloudless. The sun was shining, which in England is enough to make anyone euphoric. Sir Richard was coming along well, and his near brush with death had won him the girl he loved. Very romantic.

As for Thomas's own romantic situation…

He hummed tunelessly to himself as he went buoyantly down the stairs. The house party
was breaking up that morning; they had stayed the night, having their statements taken and resting up after the excitement of the day. He and Jacqueline hadn't discussed their plans, but he assumed they would travel back to London together.

She was not in the breakfast room, but Wilkes was able to inform Thomas that she had been and gone.

“She and Mr. Strangways went off together,” the butler said. “I believe they said something about the library.”

Wondering, Thomas went in search.

He could hear the voices through the closed door of the library, which, in view of the solidity of that structure, suggested tones of considerable passion. Opening the door a crack, he listened. He recognized the voice and he knew the subject as well as he knew his own name. It was the two in combination that stupefied him.

“Richard has been cleared of all the other charges. No one seriously believes them. As for the murder of the boys, the weight of the evidence, such as it is, is strongly in his favor. If you could consider it dispassionately…”

“Now wait a minute.” Strangways sounded a little desperate. “Whether Richard murdered the boys or not, he was morally guilty. By deposing
young Edward the Fifth, he essentially signed the kid's death warrant. He—”

“Are you a historian or an early Church father?” Jacqueline inquired disagreeably. “You are not concerned with ethical questions, but with evidence. Maybe the word isn't familiar to you—”

“You have a tongue like an adder,” Strangways shouted.

The sentiment seemed well expressed. Thomas opened the door.

Jacqueline and Strangways were standing at opposite ends of the room, Jacqueline behind Weldon's desk and Strangways near the long library table. Desk and table were covered with books, most of them open. Jacqueline's hair had been twisted back in a bun, but it was starting to disintegrate; agitated tendrils curled over her ears. Her glasses hung from the tip of her nose. Strangways, attired for travel in the proper English costume of suit, tie, and vest, had wrenched open the collar of his shirt. His navy-blue tie was under one ear.

Neither of them paid the slightest attention to Thomas.

“The hypothesis of Richard's innocence explains every anomaly in the case,” Jacqueline said. “It is the only hypothesis that does so.”

“The fact that the boys weren't seen again…”

“They were seen, or at least heard from. But you ignore that evidence, because it doesn't fit in with your fat theories. Oh, I understand,” Jacqueline said. Her voice was as smooth as cream and as deadly as acid. “You started out being a logical observer. You believed the facts. Then the historical establishment got hold of you. It's hard to fight men like Kendall and Myers and—”

“It is not,” Strangways bellowed.

“What evidence?” Thomas asked, advancing into the room.

Jacqueline didn't look at him, but she answered his question because it happened to suit her purpose.

“The household accounts. The reference to the Lord Bastard, in 1485, must refer to young Edward. That's what I mean about cheating; you say the entry refers to Richard's bastard son, who was never in any other place referred to as a lord, because you can't admit that Edward the Fifth was still alive. If you had not begun with the assumption that he was dead, you would never question the meaning of that entry. You are tailoring facts to fit a theory, not basing a theory on known facts.”

Strangways's mouth opened and closed like that of a fish gasping for water. He was too furious to talk. Jacqueline proceeded.

“Another entry whose significance no one seems to have seen is the list of fancy clothes ordered by Richard for ‘Lord Edward.' Edward was alive then, and getting expensive gifts from his uncle—and those gifts included equipment for horses.

“Was the boy going to practice equestrian exercises in the Tower of London? The inference is plain. Richard was planning to move the boys out of London, no doubt to one of his castles in the north, where the population was loyal to him. We know that certain children of the royal household were at Sheriff Hutton in 1485—but all you historians”—the word was an epithet—“insist that the princes were not among them because Sir Thomas More says the princes were dead by then! If that is scholarship, then give me ESP!”

Her glasses fell off the end of her nose.

“Jacqueline!” Thomas exclaimed. “Darling!”

He rushed across the room and flung his arms around her.

“Hello, Thomas,” Jacqueline said. “Now, then, James, there is another point you—”

“You're converted,” Thomas said. He held her at arms' length, his hands on her shoulders, and beamed at her. “You're one of us. By God, if nothing else had happened this weekend…”

Jacqueline squinted at him. The effect was rather charming.

“My glasses,” she said. “I don't have my glasses on.”

“Here they are.” Thomas bent and picked them up. “Let's go, love. There's a train at eleven. Get packed. I'll ask Wilkes to send the car around—”

“Oh,” Jacqueline said. “I am packed, Thomas. But I'm afraid I can't go to London with you. James and I are going to York for a few days.”

“James—and—you—”

“Purely Ricardian, old boy,” said Strangways. Thomas turned to stare at him in outraged disbelief. Strangways winked.

“There's the car, Jacqueline,” he said, straightening his tie. “Let's be off.”

Thomas stood in silence. Strangways strolled across the room, exuding self-satisfaction. He took Jacqueline's arm and led her to the door.

Jacqueline glanced back. “I'll see you in London on Thursday, Thomas,” she said, and was gone.