The Murders of Richard III - Elizabeth Peters [59]
“She’s all right.” Jacqueline tugged at him as he bent over for a closer look. “She wouldn’t be snoring like that if she were…Where are the others?”
In the great chair of state that Weldon had occupied they found Liz, curled up like a sleepy child. Her head was pillowed on her arms and her brown hair tumbled over the curved armrest.
Percy was still behind the rubber plant. He snored even louder than his mother.
The Hall had no other occupants. They searched all the alcoves before heading for the door. Jacqueline paused for a moment to switch on the lights. In the bright glare the place looked ghastly. Thomas squinted at the heap of crimson velvet in the middle of the floor, the trampled rushes, the smoldering torches.
“The last act of Hamlet,” he muttered. “ ‘Give me the cup—there’s yet some poison left….’ ”
“Good old Shakespeare,” said Jacqueline. “A bon mot for every occasion.”
She led the way to the dining room, where they found the doctor taking his forty winks. He stirred and mumbled when Jacqueline poked him.
“Brandy,” she said. “I suppose that was drugged too. Come on, let’s see how many of them made it upstairs.”
Kent was the only one of the crowd who had gone to bed in the conventional fashion. His clothes were piled neatly on a chair, and Thomas was pained to observe that he wore bright-striped pajamas. He did not stir, even when Jacqueline callously switched on the overhead lights. After sniffing the air, she nodded.
“Brandy again.”
Lady Isobel was lying in the corridor in front of Sir Richard’s bedroom door. She reeked of wine, and her fingers were crooked, as if she had clawed at the door as she fell.
“Good God,” Thomas said devoutly.
Weldon’s room was unoccupied. The lights shone softly on pure white sheets, unwrinkled, and on Weldon’s navy-blue pajamas laid out on the pillow.
Frank and the rector were sprawled on their respective beds, fully clothed. The rector’s crown remained defiantly in place, although his head drooped over the edge of the bed.
Philip’s bed was turned down. Neither he nor his pajamas were in evidence. Thomas considered the alternatives and decided that Philip probably didn’t wear pajamas. Jacqueline leaped to the same conclusion.
“Where can he be?” she muttered.
“Weldon is missing too,” Thomas pointed out. “And what about O’Hagan—I mean Strangways? You haven’t looked in his—”
“Weldon,” Jacqueline said in a strange voice. “He’s already skipped one. Or has he?”
She trotted off down the corridor, her purse swinging.
Strangways’s room was empty too.
Thomas turned to face Jacqueline.
“Now what?”
“Downstairs.”
In the drawing room they found two of the missing persons.
“Not Hamlet,” said Thomas. “The Sleeping Beauty. Is everybody asleep, for God’s sake?”
“Considering the hour and the activities of the evening, that’s not surprising. We’re the ones who are abnormal.”
Reasonable as this was, it did not dispel Thomas’s superstitious uneasiness. The house was like the legendary castle in which all the inhabitants had been cast into a spell, dropping where they stood. Weldon and Strangways faced one another. Both were more or less upright in their chairs; Weldon’s crowned head had fallen against the back of the chair. Strangways was sitting up. His eyes were closed.
Jacqueline pressed the switch that turned on the overhead lights. Strangways flung up a hand to shield his eyes; his reflexes were as quick as a cat’s.
“Who is it?” he asked. “What…oh. Fell asleep. What’s the time?”
“Three A.M.,” Jacqueline answered. “Have you and Sir Richard been together all this time?”
“Together in body but not in spirit.” Strangways lowered his hand.
“When did you fall asleep?”
“How should I know? He dropped off first; poor fellow has had a busy day. I was drowsy myself, so I just continued to sit.” The searching dark eyes narrowed. “What’s wrong?”
Jacqueline didn’t answer him.
“Thomas, see if you can wake Sir