The Murders of Richard III - Elizabeth Peters [19]
Percy’s mouth hung open, giving the viewers an unattractive vista of masticated apple.
“Think you’re clever, don’t you,” he said feebly.
“I don’t think, I know,” said Jacqueline. She added parenthetically to Thomas, “There is no point in being subtle with him, Thomas. Now, Percy, go away. Don’t ever come in here again without knocking and waiting for permission. If you do, I will belt you one—as we crude Americans are wont to say.”
“You wouldn’t dare….” Percy stood up.
“But you can’t be sure. Taking chances lends variety and interest to life.”
Percy began to look trapped. “I’ll tell them you’ve got Thomas in here. I saw you drag him in. My mother would like to hear that.”
Jacqueline laughed.
“What a little horror you are,” Thomas said. “If young Edward was anything like you, it’s no wonder he was smothered.”
“You’re wasting words,” Jacqueline said. “Never tell them more than once. Never bluff. Act.”
She rose and advanced purposefully on Percy, who proved her point by retreating, at full speed, and without further comment. In the doorway he collided with Sir Richard, who was passing along the corridor.
“So there you are,” Weldon said. “Your mother is looking for you, Percy. Run along now.”
Percy left, with an eloquent look at Jacqueline, and Weldon shook his head.
“I do hope he hasn’t been bothering you. He’s a rather difficult child. Extremely intelligent; but it’s not easy for his mother, lacking a man’s authority….”
He looked wistfully at Jacqueline, who smiled brightly.
“Don’t apologize, Sir Richard. I enjoyed my chat with Percy very much.”
III
At the hour appointed, Thomas made his way back to the drawing room. He was wearing slacks and a sport shirt; Weldon had decreed that the evening meeting and meal were to be informal. Thomas was relieved that he did not have to wear his medieval robes. It was an unseasonably warm evening, and he was shy of displaying himself before Jacqueline’s ironical eyes.
He found the drawing room deserted except for Wilkes the butler, who was sourly studying the drinks tray. Thomas rather liked Wilkes; he was as well trained and as formal as Jenkins, but his manner was not so supercilious as that of the tall chauffeur. A stout, balding little man, he looked up as Thomas came in.
“Am I the first one down?” Thomas asked, accepting a whiskey and soda. He didn’t really like whiskey and soda, but it seemed the proper thing to have.
“They have retired to the library,” Wilkes said. “I proposed to Sir Richard that I should follow with the tray, but he assured me they would return immediately.”
Thomas understood the butler’s air of pique. Soothingly he said, “I’ll go after them. Maybe I can casually mention the passage of time.”
Wilkes’s melancholy expression did not change. Thomas had to agree that his errand was probably vain. When Sir Richard got into the library it was hard to get him out, especially when he had a new audience.
The door of the room stood open; from the corridor Thomas could hear Weldon’s voice rising and falling in gentle, uninterrupted cadence. He paused in the doorway for a moment, enjoying the chance of watching the others before they realized they were being observed.
Most of them had abandoned medieval garb, but Percy still wore his messy costume. Either he didn’t know how terrible he looked, or he didn’t care. Philip, leaning gracefully against the carved stone mantel, was also in costume. Unconsciously Thomas pulled in his stomach.
He was next struck by the unnatural alliance between Mrs. Ponsonby-Jones and Lady Isobel, who were seated side by side. They looked comical together,