The Murders of Richard III - Elizabeth Peters [26]
“We’d never be able to identify him,” Kent said. “Not from that description.”
Mrs. Ponsonby-Jones gave a little scream. They all jumped.
“Perhaps he is still here!” she cried. “Still in the house!”
“No, no,” Weldon said. “That would be foolish of him, to remain after committing an assault.”
“I’m not sure,” Philip said thoughtfully. “He might assume we would reason along those lines and feel it safe to remain. We’d better all look under our beds tonight.”
His handsome rakish face was sober, but he glanced at Mrs. Ponsonby-Jones, who cried out again.
“Richard, I’ll not be able to sleep a wink!”
“I’ll have the servants search the house,” Weldon said reassuringly. “Just to be on the safe side.”
He rang and gave orders to the butler. Percy followed Wilkes out.
“Philip might think it safe to stay,” Liz said. “He’s that sort of fool. But I’m sure most reporters have better sense.”
Philip smiled at her, and the rector said, “Quite right, quite right. After all, dear lady, these chaps are not criminals; you would be in no danger if you did find one under…that is…”
Liz burst out laughing.
“You certainly wouldn’t need to worry, Mother.”
Kent brought his fist down on the table with a crash.
“Of all the irresponsible fools I’ve ever seen, this lot is the worst. We’re wasting valuable time. If this chap was a reporter, there’s no harm done. I can deal with reporters.” A reminiscent red gleam shone in his eyes. “But what if it wasn’t a reporter?”
The others stared at him.
“I’ve heard a rumor,” Kent went on. “They say that there is a stranger at the village inn. A stranger to them, but not to us…. Ladies and gentlemen, I suspect that the man is no other than—James Strangways!”
An unenlightened outsider would have thought Kent had told them there was a bomb in the room. Faces turned pale; eyes glazed; Lady Isobel sank back in her chair with a gasp; and Mrs. Ponsonby-Jones tried to faint.
Thomas glanced at Jacqueline. He suspected she recognized the name. She gave no indication of it. Clasping her hands in a gesture of exaggerated horror, she gave Sir Richard his cue.
“Good heavens! Sir Richard! Who is—James Strangways?”
Weldon’s round face was grim.
“He is the worst enemy I have in the world.”
Mrs. Ponsonby-Jones changed the scene from melodrama to farce.
“Your enemy? What about me? Don’t you remember that dreadful insulting letter he wrote about my little article on Richard’s religious beliefs?”
“Oh,” said Jacqueline. “That Strangways.”
Weldon nodded solemnly.
“Perhaps I should call him Richard’s worst enemy. The man is a menace. One might call him a renegade, because he was once a strong supporter of Richard’s.”
“He wrote a biography of Edward the Fourth,” Jacqueline said. “The authoritative biography.”
“That is correct. In an appendix he asserted his belief in Richard’s innocence of the murder in very strong terms.”
There was no need for Weldon to explain which murder he meant; in Ricardian circles the young princes were the only victims worth mentioning.
“But that was ten years ago,” Weldon went on, “when Strangways was a rising young scholar at one of your American universities. Since then he has changed his attitude. Not only has he written derogatory articles about Richard, but he attacks pro-Ricardians on every possible occasion. Until recently he was a member of the American branch of the society, but our colleagues in the States finally had to expel him.”
“For treason?” Jacqueline inquired seriously.
Sir Richard looked at her reproachfully.
“Indeed, Jacqueline—”
“Forgive me; I didn’t mean to poke fun at the society.”
“Of course not.” Sir Richard smiled at her. “I suppose we do sound a bit foolish to outsiders; but Strangways is really a most unpleasant chap. We consider him our most pernicious opponent, for the man has prestige and a certain literary style—”
“A most disgusting, cynical style,” Lady Isobel said. Her sallow cheeks were flushed. “It has no literary merit. Pure invective, that is all it is.”
“Strangways was extremely rude about