The Murders of Richard III - Elizabeth Peters [46]
“Wonderful party,” Thomas said. “But aren’t you asking for it, Dick?”
“What d’you mean?”
“Darkness,” Thomas said. “Intoxicating liquors. Perfect for the comedian.”
“Nonsense,” Weldon said shortly. “There will be no more jokes.”
“How do you know?”
“It was Percy, of course. Who else could it be? I gave the boy a lecture. He won’t dare go on.”
“But Percy couldn’t—”
“Use your head, Thomas. None of the tricks required any particular physical strength—except perhaps the one played on you. But with a pulley arrangement of some sort, using the hooks in the ceiling of the wine cellar, a child could have managed that as well. No, it was Percy. The boy isn’t…We’ve had trouble with him before this.”
“I’m sorry,” Thomas said.
“Don’t be sorry. Don’t let regret spoil this.” Weldon faced him squarely. He said softly, “This is important to me, Thomas. More important than you realize.”
The red glow in his eyes might have been reflected firelight. To Thomas it looked like the glow of fanaticism.
“What’s important?” he asked. “A reconstruction of a medieval banquet, or—”
“Richard.” The glow became a steady light. “Richard’s good name. Tomorrow is important, Thomas. I won’t let anything interfere with what is going to happen. Anything! If I told you—”
He broke off. Lady Isobel had arrived.
Her costume was even more elaborate than the one she had worn the previous day, a black gown that blended with the shadows and left the wearer’s powdered bust and face hanging in midair. The woman looked horrible, like a waxen effigy. The long flaxen hair steaming over her shoulders was as dry as an untended wig. The thin lips were set in a smirk.
“My lords and lieges,” exclaimed Lady Isobel. She curtsied. There was a sharp cracking sound. Thomas was reminded of dry bones snapping.
Thomas reached for a glass—any glass, he didn’t care whose. Damn it, the charades were becoming unnerving. He began to understand the old obsession about possession, the danger of opening one’s mind to invasion by the dead. He had a hideous vision of the group yielding to their various alter egos and wallowing in the treachery and blood that had marked the end of the fifteenth century. Personally he didn’t feel the slightest empathy with the unpleasant Duke of Clarence, but…He put his beaker back, scarcely tasted. Possession was as a superstition, but there was danger in identifying too strongly with another personality.
Lady Isobel made the circuit of the room, exchanging archaic greetings and allowing the men to kiss her hand. Thomas told himself he wouldn’t kiss it, but when the woman greeted him he found he had to. It was right under his nose.
He got a whiff of mixed spirits that momentarily stupefied him as Lady Isobel laughed gaily up into his face.
“Dear brother Clarence,” she chirped.
“Ah, yes,” Thomas mumbled. “Elizabeth.”
“Your Grace, if you please. Elizabeth was always on her dignity, remember? Oh, isn’t this fun? Have some more malmsey, Clarence!”
“Fun,” Thomas said hollowly.
The bony fingers, still clinging to his, suddenly contracted. The long nails dug in like claws. Thomas turned.
Jacqueline stood in the doorway.
Thomas’s second reaction was one of amusement. Jacqueline had upstaged the other women and made the best entrance of all. His initial reaction could not have been expressed in words. It was a long, shaken breath of pure lechery.
Of course he had warned Jacqueline, in London, that they would be wearing costume. This gown had never been wrenched from a costumer’s musty racks; it was a sweeping, full-sleeved garment of ivory and gold threads. In fact, it was no more medieval than any of the other “at home” outfits popular for parties, but Jacqueline wore it royally. It was cut very low in front, and the evocative light that had picked out Lady Isobel’s sharp bones made warm and pleasing contrasts with Jacqueline’s curves. The real glory, however, was her hair. Thomas had never seen it unbound. It rippled in a coppery