The Murders of Richard III - Elizabeth Peters [71]
Thomas could have hugged himself. He watched Jacqueline’s face solidify into something that could have been enlarged and carved on Mount Rushmore. Only her eyes were alive. They shot out green sparks.
“Oh, what a shame,” she said in a voice of saccharine sweetness. “I’ve hurt your feelings. I’ve dared to imply you might be wrong about something. Forgive me. I will accept your admonition. I will not offend you by presenting my weak, female attempts at reason.”
“Wait a minute,” Thomas said, no longer amused.
Jacqueline turned on him.
“You’re one too,” she cried, accurately but unjustly. “You’re all alike! This whole weekend, all you were after…You didn’t think I knew that, did you? You can go to hell, Thomas, and take him with you.”
She stalked off down the path, emitting sparks that were almost visible.
The two men stared at one another across the vacant space her departure had left. Strangways was still red in the face. Thomas smiled at him.
“Thanks,” he said, and followed Jacqueline out.
He found her, finally, in Philip’s room. The actor, fully dressed, was stretched out on the bed. He and Jacqueline were talking in low tones. They both looked up when Thomas stopped in the doorway. Jacqueline looked straight through him at the opposite wall. Thomas went away.
Bed was out of the question now. He was too keyed up to sleep. He wandered downstairs in search of coffee and found Wilkes replenishing the serving dishes. The butler greeted Thomas with his usual smooth imperturbability, but his shadowed eyes held a horrible memory.
Thomas accepted coffee and refused food. He had just seated himself when Frank came in. He greeted Thomas curtly, poured himself a cup of tea, and sat down at the far end of the table.
“No breakfast?” Thomas inquired.
“Gawd, no,” Frank said feelingly. “What was in that last posset of punch?”
“More than you know.” Thomas realized the other man didn’t know what had happened. He rather fancied himself as a raconteur, and the tale lost nothing in his telling of it. By the time he finished, Frank was wide awake and staring.
“I can’t believe it. This fellow must be insane. You mean we were all drugged?”
“Most of us, anyhow.”
“Jacqueline wasn’t drinking,” Frank muttered. He looked up, caught Thomas’s eye, and said quickly, “No, old chap, I’m not accusing her, I simply meant…You say Sir Richard still refuses to call in the authorities?”
“That’s right. I disagree, but I understand his feelings. Ridicule would mar the grand effect he hopes to make today.”
“That isn’t the only reason.” Frank hesitated. “I may be betraying a confidence, but in my opinion matters have gone too far for normal reticence. Sir Richard has family reasons for wanting to keep this affair quiet.”
“Percy?”
“The Ponsonby-Joneses are Sir Richard’s only relatives,” Frank said. “If the boy did plan these tricks, he should be in an institution. He’s not legally responsible for his actions.”
“Then you’re against calling the police too?”
“I’m about to marry the boy’s sister, after all. And there are humanitarian considerations. He will end up in a nursing home in any case. Why not do it quietly, without scandal?”
“But in the meantime he’s potentially dangerous.”
“I’ll see to it that he’s not dangerous,” Frank said grimly. “I plan to watch him from now on.”
“It might be more useful to watch his mother. She’s next on the list—”
He broke off with a start. Mrs. Ponsonby-Jones had entered the breakfast room.
Her night of dissipation had left her looking as haggard as a person one of her fleshy girth could look, but it was not her ghastly face that made Thomas’s eyes bulge. Arm in arm with Mrs. Ponsonby-Jones was Jacqueline. She guided the older woman to a chair at the table—a tug boat steering a liner—and helped her into it.
Mrs. Ponsonby-Jones obviously knew of her new status as the next victim. The woman was not only queasy