The Murders of Richard III - Elizabeth Peters [35]
“Everybody had a crush on Nefertiti at some point in his life,” Thomas said. He could feel himself blushing, and changed the subject.
“Here’s the fence. Ten seconds, did you say? One thousand, two thousand…”
He should have known better. Jacqueline was over the fence by the time he got to eight thousand. Thomas followed. Before Jacqueline could announce his time, he said quickly,
“You’ve torn your slacks.”
“Cripes.” Jacqueline tried to look over her shoulder, with a notable lack of success.
Thomas brushed at the seat of her pants and then announced mendaciously, “No, it’s okay, just a streak of rust. Where did you acquire your stock of expletives? I haven’t heard anyone say ‘cripes’ since I was eight years old.”
“I’m trying to reform my vocabulary. The students have a bad effect on me. The words sound foul enough coming from them, but from a lady of my years and dignity…Which way do we go?”
The path led along the fence and then wandered off into a hilly meadow decorated, as if deliberately, by black-and-white cows. Jacqueline began to sing. It was a maddening sound. Thomas wouldn’t have minded if she had sung aloud, for she had a pleasant voice and the pastoral surroundings were appropriate for gentle harmony; but Jacqueline’s singing was a kind of musical soliloquy, not an expression of well-being, and it issued as a low drone. Nor did Thomas find her choice of melodies soothing. She started with a snatch of the Mad Scene from Lucia, edited for untrained contralto, and went on to “Elinor Rigby” and that grisly memorial of old English murder, “Edward.” Thomas was relieved when they finally reached the village and Jacqueline stopped muttering about drops of gore.
From his earlier visits Thomas remembered the Weldon Arms with pleasure, even if it had changed its name to flatter the current lord of the manor. It was an authentic fourteenth-century inn, and its former name, The Blue Boar, reminded Ricardians of their hero. Richard’s badge of the white boar had furnished the inspiration for a number of inn signs during his brief reign; when the Tudors took over, sensible innkeepers hastily painted the boar azure in order to avoid offense.
Now he let out a hiss of exasperation as they turned the corner and saw the inn ahead. The narrow street was lined with cars and motor skooters. A thin blue veil of exhaust smoke dulled the brilliance of sunlight and flower gardens. Gaping tourists filled the gaps between vehicles, such as they were, and Thomas found himself trying to decide which nation could claim the least-attractive tourists.
Jacqueline jabbed him in the ribs as he studied a long-legged blonde damsel—Swedish, perhaps?—wearing a sleeveless low-cut open knit top.
“Don’t become a dirty old man, Thomas, it’s so boring. How are we going to get to the inn? The place is teeming.”
“Let’s go around to the private entrance,” Thomas said. “I was introduced to Mr. Doakes last time I was here; maybe he’ll remember me.”
The harassed Doakes did not remember Thomas, but when the latter mentioned his name and Sir Richard’s, the man’s broad red face lost its worried frown.
“I’m sorry, sir, I truly am. I ought to ’ave known you. But you can see—” He gestured toward the crowded street. “Not that I’m complaining, mind. It’s good for trade. Come into the parlor, I keep that clear for my regulars. And this lady is…? A pleasure, Mrs. Kirby, I’m sure.”
The inn parlor was a haven of peace and a gem of English architecture. The massive beams were genuine, though Thomas was a little suspicious of the copper pots strewn about. The small leaded windows muted the sunlight, so that the room was pleasantly shadowed. It smelled of ale and sausage and brass polish.
One of the regular customers was asleep in a corner. He was so old, so brownly withered, and so silent that Thomas wondered for a moment whether he was real. Jacqueline shared his qualms; when their host left to get them food and drink, she nudged Thomas and whispered, “Thomas, I think he’s