The Murders of Richard III - Elizabeth Peters [76]
In spite of the fact that he recognized the speech as a quotation from one of Weldon’s more pompous articles, Thomas couldn’t help cheering.
“Hurray!” he shouted, and began to clap.
The applause was echoed from behind him. Weldon brushed past, his shining eyes intent on the girl. Kent also joined the group. Thomas heard him urging the claims of the Duke of Buckingham as murderer. He went to Jacqueline, who had left the other women and was standing by the window.
“Why don’t you put Weldon up as Pretender to the throne?” she suggested, before Thomas could speak. “After all, if Henry the Seventh succeeded, as the descendant of an illegitimate son, then Sir Richard—”
Thomas was not amused. “I’ve just had a horrible thought,” he said. He went on to explain his suspicions of Weldon. Jacqueline listened without a visible change of expression.
“Hmmm,” she said, when he had finished.
“What do you think?”
“I think you’re very ingenious.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
Jacqueline sat down on a hassock and reached into her purse.
“Not the tatting,” Thomas begged. “My dear old grandmother used to do it. She did it beautifully. I can’t stand watching your fingers turn blue. Why don’t you take up whittling?”
Jacqueline produced her cigarettes.
“I hate myself,” she said sadly. “If people would just leave me alone and not strain my nerves, maybe I could—”
“What about Weldon?” Thomas insisted.
“Watch him. Like a hawk.”
“Then you agree—”
“I will say no more, mon ami,” said Jacqueline. Her French accent was execrable. “The walls have ears.”
Her eyes rolled meaningfully, and Thomas saw Kent bearing down on them. He held a half-filled glass; the amber liquid sloshed with every step.
“Where are you going?” Jacqueline asked.
“Out,” Kent said.
“You mustn’t go alone. I’ll go with you, to protect you.” Jacqueline batted her lashes and pouted. Thomas thought it a disgusting display, but Kent was not so fastidious.
“I can hardly reject an offer like that,” he said, leering.
Jacqueline took the arm he extended and they went toward the door. Over her shoulder Jacqueline looked at Thomas and winked strenuously.
Thomas wondered what the hell she was trying to tell him. To watch Weldon? That was the only positive suggestion she had made, but it was not as easy as it sounded. The room was large, and the Ricardians paced like restless lions. Sir Richard was the worst of the lot. Thomas kept losing sight of him—first behind the draperies, where he stood for a while peering out into the rain-drenched garden; then momentarily hidden behind Mrs. Ponsonby-Jones’s considerable form. Then he darted for the door, ostensibly to check on the preparations going on in the Great Hall, which were reaching a peak of activity audible even in the drawing room. Thomas headed him off and guided him toward the table where sandwiches and coffee had been laid out.
He was sweating with nervousness by the time Jacqueline and Kent returned; the smug look on the general’s face did not quiet his irritation.
“Have a sandwich,” he snarled, shoving a ham-and-cheese concoction into Kent’s hand.
The general looked startled. “I don’t want a sandwich.”
“Have one anyway. You too, Dick.”
“I don’t want—”
“Have a sandwich!” Thomas shouted.
“Now don’t get excited, Thomas,” Jacqueline said soothingly. “We’ll all have a sandwich. We’ll eat sandwiches all day if that will make you happy. And Sir Richard will tell me about the entries in the royal household account books that indicate the princes were still alive in 1485.”
Weldon’s puzzled frown smoothed out.
“The payment to the footman of the Lord Bastard—is that the one? Yes, I’m certain it must