The Murders of Richard III (7 page)

“Who Murdered the Princes?”

That was the trouble with amateur societies, they kept rehashing the same old material. The “murder” of the princes had been written about so often; there was nothing to be said that hadn't been said a thousand times. But it fretted Ricardians like a bad tooth. They couldn't leave it alone. And some of the poor innocents couldn't tell the difference between logic and wishful thinking, between the relevant and the extraneous. They threw everything in together and served it up, assuming that the warmed-over mixture of fact and fancy would appeal to an audience.

However, Thomas had to admit that amateur historians were not the only ones who suffered from this particular weakness. The scholarly journals were full of trivia and faulty argument.

Absorbed in his own mildly pompous thoughts, he was unaware of the rising murmur of impatience until Philip called out, “Sir Richard, what's happened to Frank? It's nearly half past eight.”

“Probably he's hiding under the bed,” said Percy, with a hoarse chuckle. He was eating jelly beans, or some form of confectionery that resembled them, brightly colored and very slippery. There was a constant rattle of fallen candies from his direction.

“Can he have fallen asleep?” Lady Isobel wondered. She looked groggy herself, and if there was the odor of jelly beans from Percy's direction, a scent of another kind wafted from Lady Isobel. Seeing her flushed face, Thomas felt sure she had taken a nip or two in the privacy of her room before coming to the meeting.

Jacqueline glanced at her watch.

“Is he often absentminded?”

“Quite the reverse; most methodical young fellow I know.” Weldon looked worried. “It's foolish—a healthy specimen like that, nothing could have happened, but perhaps we had better…”

“Quite right,” Kent said briskly. “Let's hunt him out. You ladies stay here, we'll soon find him.”

Lady Isobel didn't look capable of movement, and Mrs. Ponsonby-Jones inclined her head in majestic acquiescence, but Jacqueline was already on her feet, and Liz followed suit. In a disorganized group they trailed one another up the stairs.

The most logical assumption was that Frank had fallen asleep. In fact, Thomas thought with a small shock, there was no other logical assumption. If an emergency had kept the young lawyer from the meeting, he would have sent a message.

Percy was the first to reach Frank's room, not because he was more nimble, but because the others
tended to hang back. The fat boy flung the door open, and as Weldon came forward, he announced with the relish some people feel at proclaiming bad news, “He's not here. Unless he's under the bed.”

He was not under the bed. Feeling like a fool, but driven by an inexplicable compulsion, Thomas looked.

For a few moments they stood staring at one another. Then Kent said brusquely, “Ridiculous. Organization, that's what we need. Ring for Wilkes, Dick. Perhaps one of the servants has seen the lad.”

None of the servants had, not since the whole group had gone upstairs after dinner. This was not surprising, since the staff had been at its own dinner in the servants' hall; but the news cast a pall over the group. Percy's was the only cheerful face.

“All right,” Kent said, after the butler had gone back to his duties. “Let's keep the servants out of this; it's bound to be a tempest in a teapot. I'm going out to inquire of the outdoor staff. Perhaps Frank went for a walk and dozed off. Dick, look in the library, lounge, drawing room. Philip…”

“We'll investigate the bedrooms,” said Philip, taking Liz's hand.

“But what would he—” Liz stopped. The enameled facade of her face was beginning to crack.

“He might have fainted,” Thomas said. “He looks healthy enough, but I suppose he might have a heart condition, or epilepsy, or something…”

“No,” Liz said positively.

Weldon gave her an odd look and then said firmly, “We are becoming fanatical. I feel sure there is some unalarming explanation.”

They separated. Kent, moving briskly, was soon out of sight. The doctor and the rector followed. Weldon gave the others a hesitant smile before heading for the stairs. O'Hagan trailed after him. Percy followed Philip and Liz along the corridor; he had, Thomas thought, a propensity for bedrooms. That left Thomas and Jacqueline, and when they were alone Thomas turned toward her.

“You've been very quiet. What are you thinking?”

Jacqueline didn't answer immediately. She reached into her bag and took out her glasses. The purse was a good deal larger than it looked, as was characteristic of Jacqueline's purses. Settling the glasses firmly on her nose, Jacqueline said, “I think something is wrong. I've thought so ever
since we arrived. If I were psychic, I'd roll my eyes and mumble about auras. Thomas, it is almost nine o'clock. Can you think of any reason why that young man should not be where he is supposed to be?”

“None that convinces me.”

“Nor I. Let's go look for him.”

“Where?”

“We'll check the Hall first; he may have appeared in the meantime. If not—I suppose this place has a cellar?”

“It has a cellar the size of Mammoth Cave. Why do you suppose—”

“I don't suppose anything. But all the other parts of the house are being searched.”

Frank had not gone to the Hall. The two older women were still alone there. Lady Isobel had fallen into a tipsy doze, her head at an uncomfortable angle and her mouth wide open. Mrs. Ponsonby-Jones was watching her with a malicious smile. She did not see the pair in the doorway, who beat a hasty retreat.

The cellars had, of course, been electrified. They were almost as large as Thomas claimed, stretching the full length and width of the house. Thomas saw Jacqueline shiver as they descended into clammy, dust-shrouded silence.

The house was well staffed, but not even Weldon's
fortune could pay enough servants to keep the lower regions dust-free. There was a light coating on the floor, and almost at once they saw signs that someone had been there. There were no footprints, but rather a scuffed, faintly visible path.

“It needn't have been Frank,” Jacqueline said, as Thomas squatted to peer at the marks. “The servants must come down here, at least to the wine cellar.”

“There are no other marks,” Thomas said. “If he was down here, he went this way.”

It took some time to carry out the search. The lighting was poor and the switches were located in obscure corners. The scuffed trail branched off from time to time, toward storerooms and the furnace room. The heating plant was a vast monstrosity, antique but still capable of functioning. Weldon had enough food stored to withstand a siege. Thomas got lost twice.

“Yes, I've been here,” he said irritably, as Jacqueline made a sarcastic comment. “Weldon showed us over the house the first time we came. But that was a couple of years ago, you can't expect me to…That must be the wine cellar, over there. It's about the only place we haven't looked.”

“Then we'll look there.”

“This is silly,” Thomas grumbled, trailing Jacqueline. She had lifted her skirts, and her silver sandals twinkled in the dim light. “I'll bet they found him snoring in the garden.”

Jacqueline opened the door of the wine cellar. She stood quite still; only her fingers moved, a bare fraction of an inch. The shadowy green skirts came whispering down to the floor.

Thomas ran forward.

Frank lay face down in the center of a gleaming dark puddle. Red stained the back of his white shirt and shone wetly in his hair. The only light was the feeble glow from the bulb outside the small room; monstrous shapes loomed in the shadows beyond the fallen body, and sparks of light winked like a thousand squinting eyes.

I
T WAS SEVERAL SECONDS BEFORE
T
HOMAS IDENTIFIED
the shapes as barrels and realized that the light was reflected from the rows of bottles neatly racked along the back wall. There were winking sparks on the floor as well. Broken glass.

He groped for a light switch and found a hanging cord instead. He pulled it. The overhead light came on, giving the scene a distinctness that made it even more unbelievable.

Jacqueline lifted her skirts. Thomas held her back.

“Stay there,” he said, relieved to find his voice even. “No point in ruining your dress.”

“He's alive,” Jacqueline said.

“Of course he is,” Thomas said soothingly. “That's wine, not blood. Must have broken a bottle.”

He picked a careful path through the shattered glass and spilled Burgundy, and ran his hand over Frank's hair. When he took it away,
his fingers were red and sticky, but not with blood.

“Just a bump,” he announced with relief.

Frank groaned and stirred. Thomas put his hand on the young man's shoulder.

“Take it easy, Frank. You have quite a lump on the head. You must have fallen, knocking down a bottle as you collapsed.”

Frank muttered something unintelligible.

“How did he get wine on the back of his shirt?” Jacqueline inquired softly.

Thomas looked at her in surprise. Then Frank rolled over and sat up. Jacqueline gasped, and Thomas saw his comfortable theory go glimmering away down a dark corridor of improbability.

There was only one way of accounting for the marks that disfigured the young man's face. He had been in a fight—and if Frank hadn't lost it, Thomas thought, he would hate to see the other guy. Dark bruises marked jaw, cheekbone, and temple. Cuts ran like jigsaw pieces over the whole of his face, and the crusted stains above his mouth were certainly not wine.

“Good Lord,” Thomas said. “Jacqueline, go for help. We'll have to carry—”

“No, no, I'm all right,” Frank said unconvincingly. “Oh, Lord—what happened?”

“We hoped you could tell us.”

“I don't remember a thing after I followed that fellow in a trench coat down the stairs.”

Thomas glanced at Jacqueline.

“Get him upstairs,” she said. “This is not the time nor the place for a debate.”

It was ten o'clock before the meeting finally began, and the topic of conversation was not the murder of the princes. Frank was present. After vigorous ablutions he had convinced them that the damage wasn't as bad as it looked, and Rawdon had confirmed the diagnosis. Most of the blood on Frank's face came from his nose. Sheepishly he had explained that he was very susceptible to nosebleed. The cuts were mere scratches. The chief damage was to his self-esteem, and on this subject he discoursed with vigor and fluency.

“He must have hit me with a bottle,” he finished bitterly. “I don't remember a thing—not even a fight—but I couldn't have dislodged one of those bottles accidentally. If I could only remember!”

“Temporary amnesia is not uncommon after a blow on the head,” the doctor said reassuringly. “It will probably come back to you.”

“What he does remember is bad enough,” said
Kent. “Some intruder made his way into the house. How?”

“It doesn't seem possible,” Weldon said. “I've men patrolling the grounds….”

“Nevertheless, someone did get in. Frank, you haven't given us a very good description. A trench coat and a wide-brimmed hat, you say?”

“I never saw his face,” Frank said. “Just caught a glimpse of the fellow ducking under the stairs as I came down them. I was early—wanted to get my thoughts organized before the meeting began. I followed him—saw the door of the cellar wide open—and that's all I remember.”

“Obviously one of those horrid reporters,” said Lady Isobel, whose nap had revived her. She shuddered fastidiously. “Isn't that the costume they habitually wear?”

“You ought to know, dear,” said Lady Ponsonby-Jones. “You claim the creatures are always pursuing you.”

“We'd never be able to identify him,” Kent said. “Not from that description.”

Mrs. Ponsonby-Jones gave a little scream. They all jumped.

“Perhaps he is still here!” she cried. “Still in the house!”

“No, no,” Weldon said. “That would be foolish
of him, to remain after committing an assault.”

“I'm not sure,” Philip said thoughtfully. “He might assume we would reason along those lines and feel it safe to remain. We'd better all look under our beds tonight.”

His handsome rakish face was sober, but he glanced at Mrs. Ponsonby-Jones, who cried out again.

“Richard, I'll not be able to sleep a wink!”

“I'll have the servants search the house,” Weldon said reassuringly. “Just to be on the safe side.”

He rang and gave orders to the butler. Percy followed Wilkes out.

“Philip might think it safe to stay,” Liz said. “He's that sort of fool. But I'm sure most reporters have better sense.”

Philip smiled at her, and the rector said, “Quite right, quite right. After all, dear lady, these chaps are not criminals; you would be in no danger if you did find one under…that is…”

Liz burst out laughing.

“You certainly wouldn't need to worry, Mother.”

Kent brought his fist down on the table with a crash.

“Of all the irresponsible fools I've ever seen,
this lot is the worst. We're wasting valuable time. If this chap was a reporter, there's no harm done. I can deal with reporters.” A reminiscent red gleam shone in his eyes. “But what if it wasn't a reporter?”

The others stared at him.

“I've heard a rumor,” Kent went on. “They say that there is a stranger at the village inn. A stranger to them, but not to us…. Ladies and gentlemen, I suspect that the man is no other than—James Strangways!”

An unenlightened outsider would have thought Kent had told them there was a bomb in the room. Faces turned pale; eyes glazed; Lady Isobel sank back in her chair with a gasp; and Mrs. Ponsonby-Jones tried to faint.

Thomas glanced at Jacqueline. He suspected she recognized the name. She gave no indication of it. Clasping her hands in a gesture of exaggerated horror, she gave Sir Richard his cue.

“Good heavens! Sir Richard! Who is—James Strangways?”

Weldon's round face was grim.

“He is the worst enemy I have in the world.”

Mrs. Ponsonby-Jones changed the scene from melodrama to farce.

“Your enemy? What about me? Don't you remember that dreadful insulting letter he wrote
about my little article on Richard's religious beliefs?”

“Oh,” said Jacqueline. “That Strangways.”

Weldon nodded solemnly.

“Perhaps I should call him Richard's worst enemy. The man is a menace. One might call him a renegade, because he was once a strong supporter of Richard's.”

“He wrote a biography of Edward the Fourth,” Jacqueline said. “The authoritative biography.”

“That is correct. In an appendix he asserted his belief in Richard's innocence of the murder in very strong terms.”

There was no need for Weldon to explain which murder he meant; in Ricardian circles the young princes were the only victims worth mentioning.

“But that was ten years ago,” Weldon went on, “when Strangways was a rising young scholar at one of your American universities. Since then he has changed his attitude. Not only has he written derogatory articles about Richard, but he attacks pro-Ricardians on every possible occasion. Until recently he was a member of the American branch of the society, but our colleagues in the States finally had to expel him.”

“For treason?” Jacqueline inquired seriously.

Sir Richard looked at her reproachfully.

“Indeed, Jacqueline—”

“Forgive me; I didn't mean to poke fun at the society.”

“Of course not.” Sir Richard smiled at her. “I suppose we do sound a bit foolish to outsiders; but Strangways is really a most unpleasant chap. We consider him our most pernicious opponent, for the man has prestige and a certain literary style—”

“A most disgusting, cynical style,” Lady Isobel said. Her sallow cheeks were flushed. “It has no literary merit. Pure invective, that is all it is.”

“Strangways was extremely rude about
The Gallant Young King,
” the rector chirped sympathetically. “The review was rather widely read; it appeared in one of your local American newspapers.”

“The New York Times,”
Thomas said, straight-faced. “It does have a moderate circulation.”

Philip gave Thomas an appreciative look.

“Your little local papers,” he said grinning. “Well, we know about Americans, don't we, Lady Isobel? No taste. Barbarians.”

“I resent the implication,” O'Hagan said suddenly. “You denigrate the valiant efforts of the American branch, under whose auspices I am proud to appear here.”

He was an indignant rabbit. His face was flushed and his white moustache twitched vigorously. The group hastened to make apologies, which were interrupted by another bang on the table from Kent.

“Good gad, are we going to sit here babbling all night? Dick, I move we adjourn normal business until tomorrow morning; we can have an extra session at ten
A.M
. to hear the papers that were to have been read tonight. At the moment—”

“This is not proper procedure,” said the rector, looking shocked. “You must entertain a motion—”

“To hell with procedure,” Frank said. “Sorry, Mr. Ellis, but I agree with the general, and so do all my scrapes and bruises. This affair may have more serious implications than you realize. If the intruder was not a newspaperman, he may have been after something more important than scandal.”

Surprisingly, few of them had considered this possibility. Weldon was the exception.

“The letter is locked in my safe,” he said. “No one but myself has the combination.”

“Strangways may not know that,” mumbled the doctor.

“But how do we know—”

“Just a minute,” Thomas interrupted in exasperation. “We're beginning to babble again. First of all we ought to find out whether this business about
Strangways is anything more than an idle rumor. One of us must go to the village in the morning and investigate. Is the stranger really Strangways? If so, can he provide an alibi for tonight?”

“I'm sure he'll be delighted to describe his movements to you,” Liz said sarcastically.

“We needn't ask him. Discreet questioning of the personnel of the inn—”

“Good thinking,” Kent said approvingly. “I'll go 'round in the morning.”

“Not you,” Weldon objected. “Every reporter in England knows your face.”

“Humph,” said Kent.

“I'll go,” Thomas offered. “Jacqueline and I are of no interest to the press.”

“Your faces may not be known,” Philip said, with a cynical smile, “but do you know the face you hope to see? Do any of us know the notorious Strangways by sight?”

A damp silence fell. Finally Jacqueline said mildly, “Would there perhaps be a photograph on the jacket of his book?”

Weldon went trotting out to get the book. When he returned, the others crowded around the head of the table and stared at the small photo on the inside back flap of the jacket.

“No good,” Frank said. “Just a head and shoulders.”

“I like his nose,” Jacqueline said pensively. “Big and bold and Napoleonic. And a good square jaw.”

“This is not a male beauty contest,” Thomas said in exasperation. “The point is that the photo isn't much use as a means of identification. I'll bet it's ten years old. That square jaw you admire may be buried in double chins, and the hair—pardon me, Jacqueline, the thick black hair—may be gone altogether.”

The door burst open. Percy appeared, coated with a blend of cobwebs and crumbs, and followed by the butler. Before Wilkes could speak, Percy announced shrilly, “No one. But we found a window open.”

“That is correct, Sir Richard,” said Wilkes, icily proper. He shot Percy a glance of burning hatred.

“Thank you, Wilkes.”

The butler left. Percy dropped heavily into one of the chairs and his mother exclaimed, “Darling boy, you are absolutely filthy. You must pop straight into a hot tub.”

“No,” Percy said insolently. “I might miss something. What happened while I was gone?”

“Isn't he amusing?” asked Lady Ponsonby-Jones fondly. “To summarize, darling boy—”

“Do you mind summarizing on your own time?” Jacqueline inquired. “I'm rather tired, and
Frank ought to be in bed. His injuries may be superficial, but he suffered quite a shock.”

“Of course.” Weldon got to his feet, running his hand distractedly through his mane of brown hair. “This has been a confusing evening. I'm sure you are all tired and distressed.”

But they weren't, Thomas realized. They were having the time of their lives. Even Frank's abused face showed more anger and excitement than worry. As he had often done before with this group of engaging monomaniacs, he felt as if he were the only adult in charge of a nursery class. He looked at Jacqueline, and thought he saw a similar sentiment on her face. She had once mentioned that she didn't much care for children.

Thomas was up early next morning. Weldon had implied that it would be nice if they all made it to the meeting scheduled for ten o'clock. The society was touchy about its rituals. And after Frank's nonappearance and its melodramatic sequel, a missing member would arouse general hysteria. Before the meeting Thomas and Jacqueline had to undertake their espionage operation in the village, seeking the nefarious James Strangways.

On a sunny summer morning the breakfast room at Weldon House looked particularly charming. It suggested a photograph out of
Country Life
—a prewar
Country Life,
when such items as Georgian silver and Chippendale tables were commonplace. Silver chafing dishes sparkled along the mahogany sideboard, and Thomas's nostrils sorted out a variety of tempting odors. It was not power that corrupted, he thought—it was soft living. Any invading barbarian would succumb to this fare. Bacon—solid English bacon, like slabs of ham marbled with fat; scrambled eggs, boiled eggs, coddled eggs; oatmeal, and a variety of cold breakfast cereals—removed from their plebeian cardboard containers and elegantly encased in crystal; rows of toast in silver toast racks; cut-glass pots of jam; black cherries glowing like dark rubies in crystalline syrup; thick orange marmalade, solid with rind; amber honey from Weldon's own hives; hot biscuits, and…Thomas's eyes widened as he identified a platter of jelly doughnuts. He had mentioned his passion for jelly doughnuts the last time he stayed at Weldon House. Damn it, he thought affectionately, you couldn't help liking a man who remembered a trivial remark like that. He wondered if the tastes of the others had been catered to also, and decided in the affirmative as he saw
the rector piling his plate with what appeared to be deviled kidneys. He waved his fork, adorned with kidney, at Thomas as the latter joined him at the sideboard.