The Murders of Richard III - Elizabeth Peters [23]
Frank was the only one who had not arrived. Thomas wondered if the boy really was nervous. Surely a lawyer ought not to suffer from stage fright. It was a hard audience for a novice to face, though. Frank was new to Ricardian controversy, having joined the society after he became engaged to Liz. Now he had to perform before a group of critical experts, and in the presence of his fiancée’s equally critical family—including the wealthy, expert head of that family.
Thomas glanced at the program. Weldon didn’t do things by halves; the document was printed on expensive paper and bound in calf. Frank’s was the first paper of the evening, and Thomas sighed inwardly as he read the title.
“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