Free The Murders of Richard III by Elizabeth Peters Page B

are being searched.”
    Frank had not gone to the Hall. The two older women were still alone there. Lady Isobel had fallen into a tipsy doze, her head at an uncomfortable angle and her mouth wide open. Mrs. Ponsonby-Jones was watching her with a malicious smile. She did not see the pair in the doorway, who beat a hasty retreat.
    The cellars had, of course, been electrified. They were almost as large as Thomas claimed, stretching the full length and width of the house. Thomas saw Jacqueline shiver as they descended into clammy, dust-shrouded silence.
    The house was well staffed, but not even Weldon’sfortune could pay enough servants to keep the lower regions dust-free. There was a light coating on the floor, and almost at once they saw signs that someone had been there. There were no footprints, but rather a scuffed, faintly visible path.
    â€œIt needn’t have been Frank,” Jacqueline said, as Thomas squatted to peer at the marks. “The servants must come down here, at least to the wine cellar.”
    â€œThere are no other marks,” Thomas said. “If he was down here, he went this way.”
    It took some time to carry out the search. The lighting was poor and the switches were located in obscure corners. The scuffed trail branched off from time to time, toward storerooms and the furnace room. The heating plant was a vast monstrosity, antique but still capable of functioning. Weldon had enough food stored to withstand a siege. Thomas got lost twice.
    â€œYes, I’ve been here,” he said irritably, as Jacqueline made a sarcastic comment. “Weldon showed us over the house the first time we came. But that was a couple of years ago, you can’t expect me to…That must be the wine cellar, over there. It’s about the only place we haven’t looked.”
    â€œThen we’ll look there.”
    â€œThis is silly,” Thomas grumbled, trailing Jacqueline. She had lifted her skirts, and her silver sandals twinkled in the dim light. “I’ll bet they found him snoring in the garden.”
    Jacqueline opened the door of the wine cellar. She stood quite still; only her fingers moved, a bare fraction of an inch. The shadowy green skirts came whispering down to the floor.
    Thomas ran forward.
    Frank lay face down in the center of a gleaming dark puddle. Red stained the back of his white shirt and shone wetly in his hair. The only light was the feeble glow from the bulb outside the small room; monstrous shapes loomed in the shadows beyond the fallen body, and sparks of light winked like a thousand squinting eyes.

3
    I T WAS SEVERAL SECONDS BEFORE T HOMAS IDENTIFIED the shapes as barrels and realized that the light was reflected from the rows of bottles neatly racked along the back wall. There were winking sparks on the floor as well. Broken glass.
    He groped for a light switch and found a hanging cord instead. He pulled it. The overhead light came on, giving the scene a distinctness that made it even more unbelievable.
    Jacqueline lifted her skirts. Thomas held her back.
    â€œStay there,” he said, relieved to find his voice even. “No point in ruining your dress.”
    â€œHe’s alive,” Jacqueline said.
    â€œOf course he is,” Thomas said soothingly. “That’s wine, not blood. Must have broken a bottle.”
    He picked a careful path through the shattered glass and spilled Burgundy, and ran his hand over Frank’s hair. When he took it away,his fingers were red and sticky, but not with blood.
    â€œJust a bump,” he announced with relief.
    Frank groaned and stirred. Thomas put his hand on the young man’s shoulder.
    â€œTake it easy, Frank. You have quite a lump on the head. You must have fallen, knocking down a bottle as you collapsed.”
    Frank muttered something unintelligible.
    â€œHow did he get wine on the back of his shirt?” Jacqueline inquired softly.
    Thomas looked at her in surprise. Then Frank