The Murders of Richard III - Elizabeth Peters [44]
Philip lowered the bottle—but only, Thomas thought, because he needed to breathe. The theatrical profession was not noted for sobriety, but surely, in this case, getting drunk was contraindicated. Philip was no fool….
And maybe he wasn’t worried, for the best of all possible reasons. The man was an actor, Thomas reminded himself. The display of nerves could be pretense. If Philip was the joker, he could drink himself insensible, knowing himself to be safe.
Thomas drank. He had been born with a constitutionally weak head and ordinarily was careful about imbibing, but now he felt the need to steady his nerves.
“Did Jacqueline send you along to protect me?” Philip asked suddenly.
“What makes you think that?”
“She read me a long lecture about drinking.” Philip smiled. “That is quite a woman, Thomas.”
The smile and the narrowed eyes were offensive, but Thomas refused to rise to the bait. After a moment Philip went on,
“Yes. A shrewd and sexy woman. She makes Liz look like a scrappy schoolgirl.”
“Well, I wouldn’t—”
“Not that I give a damn about the wench.”
“You have been rather—”
“Oh, well, one has to keep one’s hand in. Give the girl a thrill. That poor stick she’s engaged to—can’t imagine what she sees in him.”
Thomas smiled to himself. The stock phase almost constituted a declaration of love. Then the smile faded as he contemplated Philip’s classic profile. The pose was probably unconscious, but the words…You couldn’t believe a thing the man said.
“No,” he snapped, as Philip reached for the bottle. “Leave that alone, you’ve had enough. Frank’s a pleasant-enough lad. Why don’t you lay off him?”
“Oh, he won’t last,” Philip said. “Not with Sir Richard the Third in the running. Liz would never have accepted Honest Frank if Mum hadn’t been so dead set against him.”
“Why should Mrs. Ponsonby-Jones be against it? I should think Frank would be considered a good match.”
“Ho,” Philip said derisively. “He’s as poor as the proverbial church mouse, old boy. And not well thought of by his firm. There was some talk of a forged check while he was at Oxford….”
“Where did you pick up garbage like that?”
Philip smiled. “I can tell you equally jolly tidbits about the others. Isobel is a lush, of course. She’ll end up in a Haven for Alcoholics one day. And she’ll continue writing her ghastly books; her readers will never know the difference. You know about Sir General ‘Bloody’ Kent, I suppose; they let him retire, to save the good name of the service, but if he hadn’t done so he’d have ended up in the dock. One of his junior officers is still rather badly scarred….”
Thomas exclaimed in horror. Philip went on, with growing relish. “Dear old Mum is a gambler. She’s heavily in debt. Her son is peculiar, to say the least. Rawdon has killed half a dozen patients since he got on this natural-food-kick, by prescribing wheat germ instead of penicillin—”
“And you?” Thomas inquired drily. Philip was baiting him, of course, and doing a good job of it. Face and voice were trained to carry conviction.
“Why should I incriminate myself? Ask Fearless Frank; I expect he has my dossier at his fingertips.”
The bell rang before Thomas could think of an appropriate reply. He rose, wary of his skirts, and followed Philip out. The actor’s face was as bland as butter. Thomas wondered how many of the scurrilous stories were true. He also regretted his virtuous interruption. It would have been interesting to hear what Philip had on the saintly looking rector.
At the head of the stairs Philip stopped, catching his breath. There were no electric lights below. The hallway was dark except for the pale flare of candles. Across the polished floor a figure moved with the smooth silence of a ghost. It wore robes of apple green, trimmed with silver. The long gauzy veil lifted like a cloud from the tip of the tall cap.
Liz looked up and laughed at their startled faces. She sank to the floor in a lower curtsy as the two men descended the staircase. Thomas