The Murders of Richard III - Elizabeth Peters [80]
The heavy draperies were drawn, but the room was well lit by the chandelier overhead and by the lamp on Weldon’s desk. Flames flickered on the hearth—not the blaze of a well-laid fire, but the isolated, smaller flame of something burning—something like a piece of paper. In the center of the room Sir Richard lay on his back, his arms outstretched. His shirt had been ripped open; his chest streamed with blood from at least two wounds. Standing over him, a naked blade in his hands, was Frank.
Thomas closed his eyes. When he opened them again, the tableau had not changed. He had hoped he was having a hallucination.
Jacqueline ran forward, emitting cries of distress. Thomas thought she was wringing her hands, although he didn’t see how she could, with her purse in the way; she was certainly doing everything else a frightened woman is supposed to do. She flung herself down beside Weldon’s bleeding body, under the lifted blade.
Frank fell back a step before her impetuous rush. The weapon wavered. It was the huge two-handed sword that had hung on the wall, and he needed both hands to hold it. The blade was no longer clean and shining. As Thomas watched, petrified, a drop fell from its tip and made a small red stain on the back of Jacqueline’s white blouse.
“Thank God you got here in time,” she exclaimed, glancing up at Frank. “Did you see him?”
“Who?” Frank looked as if he were in a state of shock—which, Thomas thought, was not surprising.
“Percy,” Jacqueline answered. She was still on her knees; her hands, horribly stained, were moving over the unconscious man’s breast. “It was Percy, wasn’t it?”
“I don’t know,” Frank said slowly. “I didn’t see anyone. The—the damned sword was lying on the floor. I picked it up. I never really believed people did idiotic things like that.”
“Shock,” Thomas said. “Put it down, Frank.”
He spoke gently; he didn’t like the young man’s looks. Frank was abnormally flushed; his body shook with his quick breathing. Instead of lowering the blade, he turned it, studying it with bemused interest. Another drop fell. Jacqueline had straightened; the crimson drop struck her forearm and trickled slowly down toward her wrist.
“He burned the letter,” Frank said, indicating the fireplace.
“That doesn’t matter now,” Thomas said. “Sir Richard—is he still alive?”
Jacqueline didn’t answer. She didn’t look at him; her eyes were glued to Frank’s face. Thomas realized that the young man was perfectly dry. He had not been out in the rain. He had come directly to the library…. And the library door had been locked when Jacqueline tried it.
Thomas knew then. In spite of his habit of self-control, a gasp escaped him. It was as if an invisible tendril of thought crossed the room, from his mind to Frank’s. The younger man turned his head and looked directly at Thomas. Sir Richard stirred, moaning.
“Yes,” Frank said gently. “He’s alive. You had better fetch Rawdon, Thomas.”
Thomas didn’t know what to do. It was too late for pretense; Frank had read his cursed open face. He couldn’t leave anyway, not with Jacqueline and the helpless man under the sword. He couldn’t jump Frank; he was too far away, and the dripping blade hovered over Weldon’s lifted face. The huge sword was as heavy as a sledgehammer, Frank didn’t have to thrust, all he had to do was let go. Shock and nervous strain might excuse the failure of his grip. A sudden move from Thomas certainly would.
As his overtaxed brain struggled with split-second alternatives—all of them impractical—Jacqueline broke out again, wringing her hands and keening like an old lady at a wake. Trivialities assault the mind at such moments; Thomas was disproportionately vexed by the purse, whose strap kept slipping and getting entwined with Jacqueline’s hands.
Then he caught a gleam of emerald as Jacqueline turned her head slightly; and he found that the expression “his heart sank” was not a poetic flight of fancy. Something inside him seemed to drop with a thud and press agonizingly into the pit of his stomach. She was going to move. A