The Murders of Richard III - Elizabeth Peters [55]
The lights went on in a blinding flash. Whether by design or accident—Thomas suspected the former—the romantic pair had met in the area where the main switches were located.
Her hand still on the switch, Jacqueline studied Thomas with twitching lips.
“Have some hay,” she quoted, rather freely. “It’s especially good when you feel faint.”
Thomas began to pluck dried rushes from his wig. His eyes were glued to O’Hagan; he was finding the truth hard to believe. From other parts of the hall people converged on the trio.
“Strangways,” said Thomas. “I’ll be eternally damned if it isn’t James Strangways.”
There could be no doubt; the face now bared to the world by the removal of the moustache was unquestionably that of the man whose photograph Thomas had seen on the back of his biography of Edward IV. The dark hair was now pure white, and there were a few more wrinkles around the eyes and the wide, mobile mouth, but the features were the same. The moustache had not been the only disguise; there was no trace of the blinking rodent in Strangways’s look now. He even looked taller. Jacqueline’s hand rested on his arm, and Thomas sensed that if it had not been for this mild restraint, Strangways would have vaulted his fallen form and fled.
If he had meditated flight, it was now too late. They were surrounded by a circle of staring faces, on some of which comprehension and outrage had begun to replace bewilderment.
Frank was the first to speak.
“My God,” he said.
Lady Isobel plucked at his arm.
“What is it? What is happening?”
“Mr. O’Hagan has lost his moustache,” said Mrs. Ponsonby-Jones. “That is very strange.” She glared at Jacqueline, as if blaming her for the shaving of O’Hagan.
Percy burst into a high-pitched giggle. “Mum, you are stupid. This isn’t Mr. O’Hagan. Don’t you recognize him? I do! I suspected all along—”
“Be quiet,” Weldon said. The tone quieted Percy; he glanced at Weldon in shocked surprise. Sir Richard’s self-control was more impressive than ever. Even the tipsy crown didn’t mar his dignity, and Strangways, who had been smiling, lowered his eyes under Weldon’s gaze.
“I also recognize you, Mr. Strangways,” Weldon said. “Your behavior surprises me, I confess. I had considered you mistaken, but not unprincipled.”
“I owe you an apology,” Strangways admitted. “Very bad form—isn’t that the correct phrase? But I assure, you, deceiving you about my identity was the only way in which I have abused your hospitality.”
His voice was several shades deeper than O’Hagan’s had been.
“But how did you manage it?” Thomas demanded. “What have you done with the real O’Hagan? Is there a real O’Hagan?”
“Oh, yes, he’s real. He’s the jackass who took over the American society after they threw me out for heresy.” Strangways smiled. His front teeth were a trifle prominent, but the effect was now rather canine than rodent. “I still have a few friends in the society; they keep me informed, so I knew when O’Hagan was due to arrive. It was easy to cut him out of the crowd at the airport; I knew what he looked like, and young Frank didn’t. I pointed him out to a friend of mine—he wouldn’t have gone quietly with me—and my pal smuggled him away to London, where he is now hiding. The man’s a bundle of neuroses; he thinks the meeting has been postponed, and that every reporter in England is in pursuit of him. Meanwhile, I stuck on my moustache and my name tag—I thought that was a particularly good touch—and caught Frank’s wandering eye. Simple.”
Although Strangways demonstrated some embarrassment at being caught, Thomas thought this emotion was subordinate. He was having a hard time keeping his mouth straight, and he was standing very close to Jacqueline.
Thomas transferred his accusing stare to that lady.
“How long have you known about this?”
“I suspected it some time ago,” Jacqueline said. “There is an aura, is there not?—a subtle outflow of masculine energies—no true woman could ignore its emanations. I felt it…here….” She clasped her hands over her heaving bosom and grinned at