The Murders of Richard III - Elizabeth Peters [24]
“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