The Murders of Richard III - Elizabeth Peters [72]
In what could only be called a misguided attempt at distraction, Frank greeted his future mother-in-law.
“Good morrow, madam. How does your Grace?”
“Aoow!” The sound might have come from Shaw’s Eliza Doolittle. Thomas contemplated Mrs. Ponsonby-Jones with new interest. Had Sir Richard’s cousin married beneath him? If so, the guttersnipe had learned her lesson well. Mrs. Ponsonby-Jones recovered herself; with one hand on her palpitating bosom, she glowered at Frank. “How can you continue this jest?” she boomed. “Must you remind me—”
“I’m frightfully sorry. But there’s nothing to worry about, honestly. Forewarned is forearmed. We’ll not let anything happen to you.”
Thomas noticed that Frank did not address Mrs. Ponsonby-Jones directly, avoiding the use of any terms of affection or even familiarity.
“Frank is right,” he said. “We’ll all look after you.”
The offer did not soften Jacqueline, who was still looking at him as she might have looked at a squashy beetle.
“Where is Sir Richard?” she asked coolly.
“He’ll be down before long,” Frank said. “I passed him in the hall.”
However, the next to come was not Sir Richard, but Kent. Alcohol couldn’t hurt him much, Thomas thought; he was probably pickled in the stuff. Bright-eyed and beaming, he headed for the sideboard and loaded his plate with a heap of food that induced a unanimous shudder among the others.
“How are you all this morning?” he asked genially.
“Apparently you don’t know,” Thomas began, hoping to tell the tale again.
“Apparently you don’t know,” Kent said coolly, “that when I awoke a short time ago, the first thing I saw was a severed head.”
He took a huge bite of coddled egg and was silenced, briefly. Then he went on, “Rather inadequate job, that one. More annoying than frightening. I understand the other joke of the evening was more effective. Met Weldon upstairs and he told me about it. Sorry I missed the excitement.”
Mrs. Ponsonby-Jones muttered something in which only the words “cold-blooded monster” could be distinguished. Kent raised his head.
“Yes, I am cold-blooded,” he said, sounding pleased. “Rather that than soggy emotionalism. None of this would have happened if you hadn’t been such bloody sentimentalists.”
“What do you mean by that?” Frank demanded.
“Good morning, good morning.” The appearance of the rector saved Kent from answering, if he had intended to; he smiled enigmatically and returned to his breakfast.
Rawdon and the rector had come down together. They had met Sir Richard and heard the latest news. Beneath their formal expressions of shock and regret, Thomas observed a certain morbid enjoyment of the new sensation. He had to remind himself that neither of them—nor Kent, for that matter—had actually seen the appalling tableau in the library. Second-hand sensations were hard to take seriously.
The newcomers were immensely interested, however, and Rawdon was about to plunge into an animated discussion of the latest atrocities when Ellis, glancing at the quivering bulk of Mrs. Ponsonby-Jones, tactfully intervened. Conversation became casual. Jacqueline succeeded in distracting Mrs. Ponsonby-Jones by discussing dressmaking. It was the last subject Thomas would have supposed either lady to be interested in; if he had thought about the subject at all, he would have expected that Mrs. Ponsonby-Jones patronized professional dressmakers. But she discussed patterns and pinking shears and other technical matters with growing enthusiasm, as Jacqueline’s skillful questions drew her out.
“Do you mean,” Jacqueline asked respectfully, “that you made those lovely costumes Liz has been wearing?”
“Yes, indeed. After all, dressmaking was once my—” Mrs. Ponsonby-Jones stopped in the nick of time. “My hobby,” she went on, with an artificial cough. “As a young girl. Costume design, I mean to say.”
“Where is Liz?” Thomas asked.
“Still asleep.” It was Frank who answered. Mrs. Ponsonby-Jones glared