The Murders of Richard III - Elizabeth Peters [54]
“A precontract was as legally binding as marriage,” he said, shaking his finger at the doctor. Rawdon looked bored, as well he might; this topic was almost as familiar as the murder of the princes.
“I know,” he said testily. “That is not the question. The question is, did such a precontract really exist? It was officially recognized by Parliament, and Henry Tudor’s determined efforts to suppress that decree indicates…”
Thomas moved on. In the next niche, Philip and Liz were sitting side by side. For a moment Thomas thought he was getting confused. The topic of conversation was the same, although the people were different.
“Why would Henry want to suppress Titulus Regius unless it was true?” Philip demanded.
Liz nodded. Her eyes were shining. Thomas wondered how Philip could go on talking with a face like that six niches from his. Like the others, Philip was crackers on the subject of Richard the Third.
“Then there is the question of the Bishop of Bath and Wells,” Philip continued. “Edward the Fourth imprisoned him and so did Henry the Seventh, after he took the throne. That suggests the old boy had knowledge dangerous to both men, and what could it have been but the truth—that Edward was never legally married to his queen.”
“Clarence probably knew about it too,” Thomas said. “He had his eye on the throne, and…”
Nobody seemed to be listening to him, so he moved on. In a corner behind a rubber plant he found Frank, alone. Thomas put his head around the rubber plant.
“Clarence probably knew about it too,” he said. “He had his eye on the throne….”
“Oh, it’s you,” Frank said unenthusiastically. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“The precontract,” said Thomas, surprised. “Isn’t that what we’ve been talking about?”
“We haven’t been talking. And if you are planning to discuss Richard the Third or any of his kin, don’t.”
“If that’s the way you feel, I’m leaving,” said Thomas.
“Do.”
Thomas moved on. He wasn’t angry with Frank; the poor guy was probably brooding about his fiancêe’s tète à tète with Phil. Not that there was anything to brood about; the conversation could hardly have been less romantic.
By an oblique train of reasoning this reminded Thomas that he hadn’t seen anything of Jacqueline for some time. He began to look for her. The torches were burning low, and he was feeling drowsy; it was only by chance that he saw the shimmer of a golden skirt in a shadowy corner. He wandered over.
Jacqueline was not alone. She was not aware of his approach, not even when Thomas leaned forward, squinting, to make sure of his quarry. The red-gold hair flowed down over Jacqueline’s shoulder and over the arm of the man who…
“Hey!” said Thomas indignantly. It was bad enough to find Jacqueline in a dark corner with a man. That the man was identifiable by his snowy hair as O’Hagan made matters worse. The white rabbit had been snared by the fox, and Thomas wondered why the fox had bothered. There was something very funny going on….
“Hey!” he repeated. The first exclamation had apparently gone unheard. This one had the desired effect. Jacqueline pulled away. Thomas stared in consternation. The alcove was dark, but there was no mistake; the rabbit’s face stared back at him, pale and moustacheless. The moustache…the moustache was…
Jacqueline raised a hand and peeled the luxuriant appendage from her cheek.
“Oh, Thomas,” she said casually. “Would you mind…”
Drunk or sober, Thomas told himself, he had a mind that worked like a steel trap. The pieces of the puzzle fell together with a resounding click; growling joyfully, Thomas leaped at O’Hagan and got a punch on the nose that sent him sprawling on his back. He wallowed among the rushes.
“That’s enough of that,” Jacqueline