The Murders of Richard III - Elizabeth Peters [79]
As the time for the broadcast approached, a rising hubbub proclaimed the arrival and raucous discontent of members of the press. According to Weldon, they were to be shepherded straight into the Hall, but on at least two occasions Thomas thought he saw a vague form pass swiftly through the mist and drizzle without.
The nursery-school image occurred to him again; he felt like a helpless teacher taking a group on an outing. As he rushed to head one stray back into the flock, another slipped away. He thought he had kept track of them fairly well. Weldon and Frank, at least, were present and hearty when the fun began.
Although Thomas had been watching the windows off and on, he was not looking in that direction at the crucial moment. It was Frank who saw the face. His shout alerted the others. Lady Isobel screamed. The countenance pressed against the streaming glass was dreadful enough to justify her cry. Wet, dank hair was plastered against the rounded skull, nose and lips were flattened and whitened. The eyes shone with a steady glare.
“Damn that wretched brat! I knew he’d get out!”
Frank ran toward the window. He was thrust aside by Kent, who wrestled with the fastenings. Pandemonium ensued. Lady Isobel hid under the table. After a moment of indecision Mrs. Ponsonby-Jones decided to faint. She did so, falling heavily against Philip as she collapsed. They fell to the floor, Philip swearing in a loud voice as he tried to untangle himself. Kent finally got the window up and vaulted over the low sill. He was followed, more slowly, by the doctor. The rector vibrated uncertainly on the hearthrug, like a modern dancer expressing Doubt and Insecurity; then he bolted for the door, possibly with the idea of heading the fugitive off from the front of the house. The lights went out.
Thomas knew that the moment was upon them. Something was about to happen. He had no intention of pursuing Percy; there were enough people engaged in that futile exercise already. But he didn’t know what to do. The room was a gloomy cavern through which shadowy forms moved and shouted. He could not identify any of them.
Someone grabbed his arm. Thomas recognized the perfume, the grip, and the faint gleam of coppery hair.
“Quick,” said Jacqueline. “Quick, for God’s sake.”
She crossed the room like a cannonball, towing him with her and ruthlessly brushing aside interference. Someone reeled back from her outthrust arm. A voice rose in a banshee wail as they ran past the long table. Thomas deduced that Jacqueline had trodden on Lady Isobel’s hand.
There were lights in the hall. Jacqueline began to run faster, the purse swinging wildly. Thomas ran after her. She passed the doors to dining room and breakfast room and flung herself at the oak panels of the library door. It was locked.
Thomas didn’t offer to break it down. “Upstairs,” he said. “Through Weldon’s sitting room and down the library stairs.”
Jacqueline shot him a glance of approval and took off. As they reached the central vestibule and the stairs, they saw Wilkes struggling with a determined mob. Actually, there were only a dozen people present, but they conveyed the impression of a mob. The press had broken in.
Jacqueline put her head down and went through like a fullback. Thomas was on her heels. Several of the more alert reporters followed them, but Jacqueline lost them in the maze of corridors above. Thomas could hear them bellowing for a guide as he and Jacqueline entered Sir Richard’s room. He was puffing like a grampus. Speed and apprehension had winded him. Jacqueline beat him to the library stairs. He had to follow her down; the stairs were too narrow for more than one person.
He had had no time to think ahead, to imagine what he might see; but his wildest imaginings could not have prepared