The Murders of Richard III - Elizabeth Peters [25]
3
IT WAS SEVERAL SECONDS BEFORE THOMAS 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.”
II
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.