The Murders of Richard III - Elizabeth Peters [68]
He kissed her. She came into his arms willingly enough, but after a brief interval he realized that she was not responding. If an embrace could be called preoccupied, this one was.
He raised his head. Jacqueline’s lips were parted, receptive; her face had the same expression of severe cogitation it had worn before the embrace.
Thomas sat down on the edge of one of the raised, brick-lined flower beds. “Sorry to have interrupted your train of thought,” he said.
“You didn’t interrupt it.” Jacqueline sat down beside him.
“No, you wouldn’t let a little thing like that interfere with your thinking. Who do you think is going to be murdered?”
“Why do you think I think—”
“Oh, come now. I don’t mind being Watson, but I refuse to emulate Watson’s superb stupidity. Murder was the operative word. You said it and then you went into a—if I may say so—theatrical double-take. If this were a comic strip, you’d have a light bulb over your head. I think you’re bananas, but if I am to have your complete undivided attention in matters of more importance, I see I must let you exorcise this weird idea first. Who do you think is going to be—”
“Whom,” said Jacqueline. “Wouldn’t it be ‘whom’?”
“No. Subjective pronoun. ‘Do you think he is going to be murdered?’ Not ‘do you think him is…?’ ” Thomas hit himself on the forehead with the palm of his hand. “Grammar lessons,” he exclaimed wildly. “No, no, no, not grammar lessons. Who, where, when, and why? Especially why?”
Jacqueline followed this incoherent statement without difficulty.
“Why depends on who,” she explained. “If I knew for sure who was going to be murdered, then I would know—”
“Whether,” Thomas interrupted. “Now there’s a relevant adverb. What makes you suppose somebody’s going to be murdered? Go ahead, I’m listening. Ratiocinate.”
“What?”
“Ratiocinate. Reason. Think.”
“Someone has said that only Americans could put up signs ordering the reader to think,” Jacqueline said coldly. “All right, I will.”
“Be the great detective,” Thomas went on. His head felt better. Perhaps the damp air had cleared his sinuses. “I’m no male chauvinist; I don’t mind your showing off. Throw out mysterious hints. Ask meaningless questions. I’ll say I don’t know the answers. I’ll make admiring noises from time to time, and look as stupid as I can.”
“Just be yourself,” said Jacqueline, breathing through her nose.
They glared at one another. After a moment the corners of Thomas’s mouth lifted, and Jacqueline’s snarl relaxed. Thomas put his arm around her and she leaned comfortably against him.
“There are some advantages to being my age, even if it does make walking in the rain hazardous,” Thomas said after a peaceful moment. “If we were stronger we’d have had a loud screaming fight. Then I wouldn’t have learned the solution until the last chapter, after three or four murders. Why murders, for God’s sake?”
“The murders of Richard the Third,” said Jacqueline.
“What?”
“That’s what we’ve seen, in the not-so-funny jokes. Richard’s reputed murders.”
“Well, obviously,” Thomas said impatiently. “You pointed that out yourself after I….” He thought for a moment. “Oh. I see what you mean.”
“I don’t see what I mean myself. I’m on the verge of an idea and I can’t quite grasp it. But…murders. Why reproduce ancient deaths? Carefully, painstakingly, and harmlessly? When is a murder not a murder? Why is a murder not—”
“There you go again.”
“I’m letting my stream of consciousness trickle on. When, why, who? Mrs. Ponsonby-Jones has to be the next victim….”
“There is a more crucial who,” Thomas said. “Who is the comedian? If we knew that—”
“I do know.”
Thomas stood up so he could see her face more clearly. He had been getting a trifle farsighted the last few years.
“You know?”
“Oh, let’s not have another one of those conversations. It’s so obvious, Thomas. So obvious I can’t believe it,” she added in a rare burst of candor.
“So you aren’t going to tell me.”
Jacqueline smiled at him. Her