The Murders of Richard III - Elizabeth Peters [58]
“Look at that,” Thomas said, nudging Jacqueline. “It’s Percy, eavesdropping on the debate.”
“What does he expect to overhear?” Frank asked, perplexed.
“It isn’t what you hear, it’s how,” Philip said. “When you’re young you think adult conversation is loaded with forbidden secrets. Didn’t you ever eavesdrop, Frank, my lad?”
“No,” Frank said.
“The little paragon,” Philip murmured. He reached for the dipper, jostling Frank.
“Let’s dance,” Liz said quickly.
Frank gave the other man a black look, but went with her. Philip drained his second cup with the air of a man who drinks for a set purpose, and filled it again.
“Thomas,” said Jacqueline. “You haven’t danced with me yet.”
Thomas was delighted to oblige. Neither of them tried to follow the rhythm of the jigging, bouncing medieval dance. They moved languidly about the floor; after a while Thomas began to hum “Stardust.” It was a delicious, relaxing interval, except for one small irritation….
A hard, lumpy object banged rhythmically against his hip.
“Do you have to carry that purse even when you….” A thought struck him and he stopped in his tracks. “What did you do with it when you were hugging Strangways?” he asked, with genuine curiosity.
“Hugging?” Jacqueline repeated. She laughed softly.
“Never mind,” Thomas mumbled against her hair.
“Now, Thomas, don’t do…We’re right out in the middle of the floor; everybody can see us.”
“I don’t care,” Thomas repeated. “Unless you want to go someplace more private?”
“Not now,” Jacqueline said, with another soft laugh. “I adore you, Thomas, but you are not completely sober, and I want a man’s complete attention when I—‘hug’ was the word, wasn’t it?”
“Like this,” Thomas said, demonstrating. “Perfectly good word—so far as it goes.” He began to hum “Stardust” again.
IV
When he next became aware of his surroundings, it was dark. It was cold. It was wet. Something kept falling on his head. Raindrops? Someone’s lawn sprinkler? Niagara Falls?
Where the hell was he?
“Stand still,” said a voice, as he struggled blindly. “Please, Thomas, for God’s sake, don’t fall down! I’ll never get you up….”
She slapped him. The outrage of the act woke Thomas more effectively than the pain. He reached out, snarling. Jacqueline got in several more hard smacks before he located her wrists. He was awake by then, and fighting mad. He shook her.
“What the hell are you doing?”
Jacqueline, always an excellent tactician, collapsed like a folding umbrella, and Thomas caught her in his arms.
He was standing on the terrace outside the Hall, with rain streaming down his face and—no doubt—ruining his rented wig. The light from the nearest window stretched out across the flagstones like a fiery pathway to Hell. Biblical and Miltonian images swam through Thomas’s brain, assisted by the demoralizing warmth of the body he clasped.
The body turned rigid and shoved at his chest with both hands. “Are you awake now, or shall I slug you again?” Jacqueline inquired.
“I’m awake…I think.” Thomas shook his head. “What happened? How did we get out here?”
“We came out for some fresh air—the phrase was yours. There are some garden chairs, if you recall, under a roofed section of the terrace. We sat there for a while. I remember thinking,” said Jacqueline remotely, “that you were not at your best. I admit to becoming mildly vexed when you started snoring. But then, when I tried to wake you, and couldn’t…”
“So you dragged me out into the deluge. ‘Greater love than this…’ I hope your dress isn’t ruined.”
“It’s drip-dry. Thomas, you aren’t concentrating. I don’t think you were drunk.”
“Oh, oh,” said Thomas.
“Yes. Are you okay now?”
“Let’s go.”
When they reentered the Hall, Thomas understood why the beam of light had been ruddily red. Someone had turned out the electric lights. The torches were burning low. In the soft, hellish glow they searched the darkening Hall.
Thomas stumbled over the first body. It lay on its back in the