The Murders of Richard III - Elizabeth Peters [36]
“Maybe he died just recently, and nobody noticed the difference.”
Doakes returned with ale and home-baked bread and some of the excellent Wensleydale cheese. He seemed glad to get away from the uproar in the public bar; when Thomas asked him to join them, he accepted with alacrity.
“Forty years I’ve been ’ere, and every day I’ve missed old London,” he said. “But now, when I see what the town is breeding up….” He shook his head and applied himself to his modest pint. It did not cheer him. He continued gloomily, “With all respect to Sir Richard, it’s ’is fault we’ve this crowd on our ’ands. All that nonsense up at the manor….”
A grinding noise, like that of rusty gears, turned Thomas’s head toward the shadowy corner where the elderly apparition sat. He started. A pair of evil blue eyes had opened in the mummified face, and a toothless mouth was emitting sounds. The lack of dentures and an incredible Yorkshire accent made the resultant speech unintelligible. Thomas turned to Doakes for enlightenment.
“Will says Sir Richard is the best master in the West Riding and ’e won’t ’ear a word against ’im,” Doakes translated. “All right, Will, all right, I’m of your opinion. Didn’t Sir Richard send my own little grandchild to that ’ospital in London when she was ailing last year? But I still say it’s no way for grown men and women to carry on. Fancy dress and playacting, that’s bad enough, that is; but when it comes to pretending you’re a dead man—well, all I can say is, it isn’t ’olesome.”
Apparently the aged Will agreed; the blue eyes had closed and the rusty jaws remained shut. Thomas exchanged a glance with Jacqueline and saw that she was thinking the same thing he was. The proceedings at Weldon house were not secret. No doubt the whole village knew what was going on.
Jacqueline finished her ale and stared pointedly at her empty glass. Thomas ordered another round. Under the influence of his own excellent brew, Doakes began to brighten.
“Ah, well,” he said philosophically. “Sir Richard is a fine little man, for all his foolishness, and I wish ’im well. Here’s to ’im, and the lady of ’is choice.”
“Mrs. Ponsonby-Jones?” Thomas asked dubiously.
Old Will’s mouth opened again. The sight was horribly reminiscent of Boris Karloff on the Late Late Show; from the black cavity came a series of sounds like a prolonged death rattle. Thomas would not have identified them as laughter if Doakes had not chuckled.
“The gentleman will ’ave ’is joke, Will. Not that the old—er—woman wouldn’t like to be Lady Weldon, and the skinny old one too. Sir Richard’s not that foolish. All of us will be glad to see Miss Liz as lady of the manor. She’s a fine lass, for all ’er modern ideas.”
“But…” Thomas began. He subsided as Jacqueline trod heavily on his foot. She was right; they were wasting time.
“Sir Richard sent me to ask for your help, Mr. Doakes,” he said. “Someone broke into the house last night.”
Doakes’s grinning face sobered as Thomas explained. He shook his head.
“Now we can’t ’ave that. Breaking and entering—that’s against the law, that is.”
He made no objection to fetching the hotel register and going over it with Thomas. There were only six strangers resident in the inn, and Doakes’s descriptions made it clear that none of them could be James Strangways. Further questioning elicited the information that no man of that description was renting a room in any of the cottages that accepted boarders. They thanked Doakes and rose to leave.
“Tell Sir Richard not to worry,” said the host. “There’ll be no more breaking in. We’ll see to that.”
Thomas glanced at Old Will and was not surprised to see that the blue eyes were open and alert. He believed Doakes’s promise. The village would close ranks when one of its own was threatened, and Thomas pitied the unwary reporter who ran afoul of any of them—even old Will. The very sight of him limping out of a dark doorway with his toothless mouth agape would set a nervous man screaming.
They were about to go out the door when old Will made