The Murders of Richard III by Elizabeth Peters

rolled over and sat up. Jacqueline gasped, and Thomas saw his comfortable theory go glimmering away down a dark corridor of improbability.
    There was only one way of accounting for the marks that disfigured the young man’s face. He had been in a fight—and if Frank hadn’t lost it, Thomas thought, he would hate to see the other guy. Dark bruises marked jaw, cheekbone, and temple. Cuts ran like jigsaw pieces over the whole of his face, and the crusted stains above his mouth were certainly not wine.
    â€œGood Lord,” Thomas said. “Jacqueline, go for help. We’ll have to carry—”
    â€œNo, no, I’m all right,” Frank said unconvincingly. “Oh, Lord—what happened?”
    â€œWe hoped you could tell us.”
    â€œI don’t remember a thing after I followed that fellow in a trench coat down the stairs.”
    Thomas glanced at Jacqueline.
    â€œGet him upstairs,” she said. “This is not the time nor the place for a debate.”
II
    It was ten o’clock before the meeting finally began, and the topic of conversation was not the murder of the princes. Frank was present. After vigorous ablutions he had convinced them that the damage wasn’t as bad as it looked, and Rawdon had confirmed the diagnosis. Most of the blood on Frank’s face came from his nose. Sheepishly he had explained that he was very susceptible to nosebleed. The cuts were mere scratches. The chief damage was to his self-esteem, and on this subject he discoursed with vigor and fluency.
    â€œHe must have hit me with a bottle,” he finished bitterly. “I don’t remember a thing—not even a fight—but I couldn’t have dislodged one of those bottles accidentally. If I could only remember!”
    â€œTemporary amnesia is not uncommon after a blow on the head,” the doctor said reassuringly. “It will probably come back to you.”
    â€œWhat he does remember is bad enough,” saidKent. “Some intruder made his way into the house. How?”
    â€œIt doesn’t seem possible,” Weldon said. “I’ve men patrolling the grounds….”
    â€œNevertheless, someone did get in. Frank, you haven’t given us a very good description. A trench coat and a wide-brimmed hat, you say?”
    â€œI never saw his face,” Frank said. “Just caught a glimpse of the fellow ducking under the stairs as I came down them. I was early—wanted to get my thoughts organized before the meeting began. I followed him—saw the door of the cellar wide open—and that’s all I remember.”
    â€œObviously one of those horrid reporters,” said Lady Isobel, whose nap had revived her. She shuddered fastidiously. “Isn’t that the costume they habitually wear?”
    â€œYou ought to know, dear,” said Lady Ponsonby-Jones. “You claim the creatures are always pursuing you.”
    â€œWe’d never be able to identify him,” Kent said. “Not from that description.”
    Mrs. Ponsonby-Jones gave a little scream. They all jumped.
    â€œPerhaps he is still here!” she cried. “Still in the house!”
    â€œNo, no,” Weldon said. “That would be foolishof him, to remain after committing an assault.”
    â€œI’m not sure,” Philip said thoughtfully. “He might assume we would reason along those lines and feel it safe to remain. We’d better all look under our beds tonight.”
    His handsome rakish face was sober, but he glanced at Mrs. Ponsonby-Jones, who cried out again.
    â€œRichard, I’ll not be able to sleep a wink!”
    â€œI’ll have the servants search the house,” Weldon said reassuringly. “Just to be on the safe side.”
    He rang and gave orders to the butler. Percy followed Wilkes out.
    â€œPhilip might think it safe to stay,” Liz said. “He’s that sort of fool. But I’m sure most reporters have better