The Murders of Richard III - Elizabeth Peters [2]
“He wasn’t sexy,” said Jacqueline regretfully. She had moved on; Thomas joined her in front of the portrait of Henry VII. “Grasping hands, and a mouth like a steel trap. And a shifty, suspicious expression.” She turned to the neighboring portrait. “Who’s the simpering doll-faced blond lady?”
“Henry’s queen, Elizabeth of York. His marriage with her united the houses of Lancaster and York, and ended the Wars of the Roses. She was Richard’s niece, the daughter of his elder brother, Edward the Fourth. Whom you see before you, in this portrait. He was supposed to have been one of the handsomest kings England ever had—a big blond six-footer, with an eye for the ladies.”
“He doesn’t look very sexy,” said Jacqueline, eyeing the flat, doughy features of Edward IV critically.
“Sexy, hell. If I had realized you suffered from historical necrophilia, I’d never have brought you here. Ready to leave?”
“Oh, no. You brought me here, and I’m not leaving till I’ve seen all my heroes. Keats, Shelley—and of course King Charles. Where is he? ‘Here’s a health unto his Majesty—’ ”
“I had forgotten your regrettable habit of bursting into song at odd moments. Jacqueline…”
It took Thomas over an hour to extract Jacqueline from the gallery. The portrait of Charles II had to be admired and the long line of his official mistresses subjected to a scathing commentary. Jacqueline said they were all too fat. When Thomas finally got her out the door, Trafalgar Square was raucous with late-afternoon traffic, and Jacqueline said she was faint from hunger.
“No wonder I love England,” she remarked some time later, after devouring most of a plate of cream-filled buns. “People eat so often here. Morning tea, breakfast, elevenses, lunch, afternoon tea—”
“I don’t think I can afford you,” said Thomas.
“I know you can’t.” Jacqueline gave him a look that left him momentarily speechless. She pushed her glasses firmly back onto the bridge of her nose and regarded him severely. “All right, Thomas. I know you’re up to something. First you invite me to a country weekend with a lot of people I’ve never met; then you deluge me with information about one of the most mixed-up periods in English history. There must be a connection, but I can’t figure out what it is. Go on; I can see you’re dying to lecture about something. I recognize your classroom scowl.”
“I’m not going to lecture,” Thomas said self-consciously. “How much do you know about—”
He stopped, staring at Jacqueline. She had slipped sideways in her chair. One arm dangled; the hand at its end was out of sight under the tea table, but it seemed to be making violent motions.
“For God’s sake,” Thomas snapped. “What are you looking for? If it’s cigarettes, I’ll buy you some. You’ll never find anything in that purse. Or is it a briefcase? Anyhow, I thought you had kicked the habit.”
Jacqueline resumed an upright position. In one hand she held a ball of white thread; in the other, a metal shuttle. Thomas watched, openmouthed, as she wound the thread around her fingers in a pattern that resembled a one-handed form of cat’s cradle.
“I have kicked the habit nine times since you last saw me. I have taken up tatting in order to help me kick it once again. I tried knitting, but that didn’t work; every time I reached in my purse I stabbed myself on a knitting needle.”
“I suspect this isn’t going to work either,” said Thomas. “Forgive me for mentioning it, but your fingers are turning blue. I think the thread is too tight.”
Jacqueline put the shuttle down and began unwinding the thread.
“Thomas, you are too easily distracted. If I should choose to chin myself on the chandelier, it should not interrupt your discourse. I am listening. How much do I know about what?”
With an effort Thomas wrenched his eyes away from the struggle between Jacqueline and her fancywork.
“It wouldn’t surprise