The Murders of Richard III - Elizabeth Peters [28]
“Of course.” Weldon got to his feet, running his hand distractedly through his mane of brown hair. “This has been a confusing evening. I’m sure you are all tired and distressed.”
But they weren’t, Thomas realized. They were having the time of their lives. Even Frank’s abused face showed more anger and excitement than worry. As he had often done before with this group of engaging monomaniacs, he felt as if he were the only adult in charge of a nursery class. He looked at Jacqueline, and thought he saw a similar sentiment on her face. She had once mentioned that she didn’t much care for children.
III
Thomas was up early next morning. Weldon had implied that it would be nice if they all made it to the meeting scheduled for ten o’clock. The society was touchy about its rituals. And after Frank’s nonappearance and its melodramatic sequel, a missing member would arouse general hysteria. Before the meeting Thomas and Jacqueline had to undertake their espionage operation in the village, seeking the nefarious James Strangways.
On a sunny summer morning the breakfast room at Weldon House looked particularly charming. It suggested a photograph out of Country Life—a prewar Country Life, when such items as Georgian silver and Chippendale tables were commonplace. Silver chafing dishes sparkled along the mahogany sideboard, and Thomas’s nostrils sorted out a variety of tempting odors. It was not power that corrupted, he thought—it was soft living. Any invading barbarian would succumb to this fare. Bacon—solid English bacon, like slabs of ham marbled with fat; scrambled eggs, boiled eggs, coddled eggs; oatmeal, and a variety of cold breakfast cereals—removed from their plebeian cardboard containers and elegantly encased in crystal; rows of toast in silver toast racks; cut-glass pots of jam; black cherries glowing like dark rubies in crystalline syrup; thick orange marmalade, solid with rind; amber honey from Weldon’s own hives; hot biscuits, and…Thomas’s eyes widened as he identified a platter of jelly doughnuts. He had mentioned his passion for jelly doughnuts the last time he stayed at Weldon House. Damn it, he thought affectionately, you couldn’t help liking a man who remembered a trivial remark like that. He wondered if the tastes of the others had been catered to also, and decided in the affirmative as he saw the rector piling his plate with what appeared to be deviled kidneys. He waved his fork, adorned with kidney, at Thomas as the latter joined him at the sideboard.
“Good morrow, brother Clarence, good morrow! How is it with you?”
Thomas rolled an eye toward the table, where Jacqueline sat in more than oriental splendor. The sunlight streaming through the bay windows made her hair glow like fire; she was wearing white slacks and a silky garment printed in shades of green, peacock blue, and gold. She looked up from the austere cup of tea and piece of toast on which she was breakfasting, and winked. Reassured, Thomas turned back to the rector, who was, he recalled, his Ricardian brother, Edward IV.
“Hail, my liege,” he said valiantly. “How is it with you?”
The doctor, who had just entered, clucked disapprovingly.
“No, no Thomas; ‘your Grace’ would be more suitable.” He put a heaping spoonful of a pale-gray substance on his plate and studied the rector’s pile of kidneys disparagingly. “As for my fellow king here, he isn’t going to be at all well if he eats that frightful mess. I shudder, friend Edward, to think of the lining of your stomach.”
“Then don’t think about it,” said Mr. Ellis cheerfully. “Really, Rawdon—forgive me, King Henry—we ought to exchange roles. Not that I claim to be a saint, and there are those who believe poor mad Henry qualified for that position—”
“As a man of the cloth you are closer to the role of saint than I,” Rawdon admitted. “Actually, I believe Henry was a mental case, not a saint, but that may be a professional prejudice.”
“You may both be right,” said Thomas, helping himself to bacon. “Henry was a gentle, kindly man who was