I, Richard Part 13

King Richard would have concluded this once he heard the news that Tudor had pledged to marry the girl. He would also have known that to legitimatise Elizabeth of York was also to legitima-tise all her sisters... and her brothers. One could not declare the eldest child of a dead King legitimate while simultaneously claiming her siblings were not.

Malcolm paused meaningfully in his narrative. He waited to see if the eager Romantics gathered round him would twig the implication. They smiled and nodded and looked at him fondly, but no one said anything. So Malcolm did their twigging for them.

"Her brothers," he said patiently, and slowly to make sure they absorbed each Romantic detail. "If Henry Tudor legitima-tised Elizabeth of York prior to marrying her, he would have been legitimatising her brothers as well. And if he did that, the elder of the boys-"

"Gracious me," one of the group sang out. "He would've been the true King once Richard died." would've been the true King once Richard died."

Bless you, my child, Malcolm thought. "That," he cried, "is exactly spot on."

"See here, mate," Sludgecur interrupted, some sort of light dawning in the cobwebbed reaches of her brain. "I've heard this story, and Richard killed those little blighters himself while they were in the Tower."

Another fish biting the Tudor bait, Malcolm realised. Five hundred years later and that scheming Welsh upstart was still successfully reeling them in. He could hardly wait until the day when his book came out, when his history of Richard was heralded as the triumph of truth over Tudor casuistry.

He was Patience itself as he explained. The Princes in the Tower-Edward IV's two sons-had indeed been long reputed by tradition to have been murdered by their uncle Richard III to sh.o.r.e up his position as King. But there were no witnesses to any murder and as Richard was King through an Act of Parliament, he had no motive to kill them. And since he had no direct heir to the throne-his own son having died, as you heard moments ago-what better way to ensure the Yorks' continued possession of the throne of England than to designate the two Princes legitimate ... after his own death? Such designation could only be made by Papal decree at this point, but Richard had sent two emissaries to Rome and why send them such a distance unless it was to arrange for the legitimatising of the very boys whose rights had been wrested from them by their father's lascivious conduct?

"The boys were indeed rumored to be dead." Malcolm aimed for kindness in his tone. "But that rumor, interestingly enough, never saw the light of day until just before Henry Tudor's invasion of England. He wanted to be King, but he had no rights to kingship. So he had to discredit the reigning monarch. Could there possibly be a more efficacious way to do it than by spreading the word that the Princes-who were gone from the Tower-were actually dead? But this is the question I pose to you, ladies: What if they weren't?"

An appreciative murmur went through the group. Malcolm heard one of the ancients commenting, "Lovely eyes, he has," and he turned them towards the sound of her voice. She looked like his grandmother. She also looked rich. He increased the wattage of his charm.

"What if the two boys had been removed from the Tower by Richard's own hand, sent into safekeeping against a possible uprising? Should Henry Tudor prevail at Bosworth Field, those two boys would be in grave danger and King Richard knew it. Tudor was pledged to their sister. To marry her, he had to declare her legitimate. Declaring her legitimate made them legitimate. Making them legitimate made one of them-young Edward-the true and rightful King of England. The only way for Tudor to prevent this was to get rid of them. Permanently."

Malcolm waited a moment to let this sink in. He noted the collection of grey heads turning towards Sutton Cheney. Then towards the north valley where a flagpole flew the seditious Stanleys' standard. Then over towards the peak of Ambion Hill where the unforgiving wind whipped Richard's White Boar briskly. Then down the slope in the direction of the railway tracks where the Tudor mercenaries had once formed their meagre front line. Vastly outnumbered, outgunned, and outarmed, they would have been waiting for the Stanleys to make their move: for King Richard or against him. Without the Stanleys' throwing their lot in with Tudor's, the day would be lost.

The Grey Ones were clearly with him, Malcolm noted. But Sludgecur was not so easily drawn in. "How was Tudor supposed to kill them if they were gone from the Tower?" She'd taken to beating her hands against her arms, doubtless wishing she were pummeling his face.

"He didn't kill them," Malcolm said pleasantly, "although his Machiavellian fingerprints are all over the crime. No. Tudor wasn't directly involved. I'm afraid the situation's a little nastier than that. Shall we walk on and discuss it, ladies?"

"Lovely little b.u.m as well," one of the group murmured. "Quite a crumpet, that bloke."

Ah, they were in his palm. Malcolm felt himself warm to his own seductive talents.

He knew that Betsy was watching from the farmhouse, from the first-floor bedroom from which she could see the battlefield. How could she possibly keep herself from doing so after their morning together? She'd see Malcolm shepherding his little band from site to site, she'd note that they were hanging onto his every word, and she'd think about how she herself had hung upon him less than two hours earlier. And the contrast between her drunken sot of a husband and her virile lover would be painfully and mightily on her mind.

This would make her realise how wasted she was on Bernie Perryman. She was, she would think, forty years old and at the prime of her life. She deserved better than Bernie. She deserved, in fact, a man who understood G.o.d's plan when He'd created the first man and woman. He'd used the man's rib, hadn't He? In doing that, He'd ill.u.s.trated for all time that women and men were bound together, women taking their form and substance from their men, living their lives in the service of their men, for which their reward was to be sheltered and protected by their men's superior strength. But Bernie Perryman only ever saw one half of the man-woman equation. She-Betsy-was to work in his service, care for him, feed him, see to his well-being. He-Bernie- was to do nothing. Oh, he'd make a feeble attempt to give her a length now and again if the mood was upon him and he could keep it up long enough. But whiskey had long since robbed him of whatever ability he'd once had to be pleasing to a woman. And as for understanding her subtler needs and his responsibility in meeting them... forget that area of life altogether.

Malcolm liked to think of Betsy in these terms: up in her barren bedroom in the farmhouse, nursing a righteous grievance against her husband. She would proceed from that grievance to the realisation that he, Malcolm Cousins, was the man she'd been intended for, and she would see how every other relationship in her life had been but a prologue to the connection she now had with him. She and Malcolm, she would conclude, were suited for each other in every way.

Watching him on the battlefield, she would recall their initial meeting and the fire that had existed between them from the first day when Betsy had begun to work at Gloucester Grammar as the headmaster's secretary. She'd recall the spark she'd felt when Malcolm had said, "Bernie Perryman's wife?" and admired her openly. "Old Bernie's been holding back on me, and I thought we shared every secret of our souls." She would remember how she'd asked, "You know Bernie?" still in the blush of her newly-wed bliss and not yet aware of how Bernie's drinking was going to impair his ability to care for her. And she'd well remember Malcolm's response: "Have done for years. We grew up together, went to school together, spent holidays roaming the countryside. We even shared our first woman"-and she'd remember his smile-"so we're practically blood brothers if it comes to that. But I can see there might be a decided impediment to our future relationship. Betsy." And his eyes had held hers just long enough for her to realise that her newlywed bliss wasn't nearly as hot as the look he was giving her.

From that upstairs bedroom, she'd see that the group Malcolm was squiring round the field comprised women, and she'd begin to worry. The distance from the farmhouse to the field would prevent her from seeing that Malcolm's antiquated audience had one collective foot in the collective grave, so her thoughts would turn ineluctably to the possibilities implied by his current circ.u.mstances. What was to prevent one of those women from becoming captivated by the enchantment he offered?

These thoughts would lead to her desperation, which was what Malcolm had been a.s.siduously ma.s.saging for months, whispering at the most tender of moments, "Oh G.o.d, if I'd only known what it was going to be like to have you, finally. And now to want you completely..." And then the tears, wept into her hair, and the revelation of the agonies of guilt and despair he experienced each time he rolled deliciously within the arms of his old friend's wife. "I can't bear to hurt him, darling Bets. If you and he were to divorce... How could I ever live with myself if he ever knew how I've betrayed our friendship?"

She'd remember this, in the farmhouse bedroom with her hot forehead pressed to the cold windowpane. They'd been together for three hours that morning, but she'd realise that it was not enough. It would never be enough to sneak round as they were doing, to pretend indifference to each other when they met at Gloucester Grammar. Until they were a couple-legally, as much as they were already a couple spiritually, mentally, emotionally, and physically-she could never have peace.

But Bernie stood between her and happiness, she would think. Bernie Perryman, driven to alcohol by the demon of fear that the congenital abnormality that had taken his grandfather, his father, and both of his brothers before their forty-fifth birthdays would claim him as well. "Weak heart," Bernie had doubtless told her, since he'd used it as an excuse for everything he'd done-and not done-for the last thirty years. "It don't ever pump like it ought. Just a little flutter when it oughter be a thud. Got to be careful. Got to take m' pills."

But if Betsy didn't remind her husband to take his pills daily, he was likely to forget there were pills altogether, let alone a reason for taking them. It was almost as if he had a death wish, Bernie Perryman. It was almost as if he was only waiting for the appropriate moment to set her free.

And once she was free, Betsy would think, The Legacy would be hers. And The Legacy was the key to her future with Malcolm. Because with The Legacy in hand at last, she and Malcolm could marry and Malcolm could leave his ill-paying job at Gloucester Grammar. Content with his research, his writing, and his lecturing, he would be filled with grat.i.tude for her having made his new lifestyle possible. Grateful, he would be eager to meet her needs.

Which was, she would think, certainly how it was meant to be.

In the Plantagenet pub in Sutton Cheney, Malcolm counted the tip money from his morning's labour. He'd given his all, but the Aussie Oldies had proved to be a n.i.g.g.ardly lot. He'd ended up with forty pounds for the tour and lecture-which was an awesomely cheap price considering the depth of information he imparted-and twenty-five pounds in tips. Thank G.o.d for the pound coin, he concluded morosely. Without it, the tightfisted old s.l.u.ts would probably have parted with nothing more than fifty pence apiece.

He pocketed the money as the pub door opened and a gust of icy air whooshed into the room. The flames of the fire next to him bob-bled. Ash from the fireplace blew onto the hearth. Malcolm looked up. Bernie Perryman-clad only in cowboy boots, blue jeans, and a T-shirt with the words Team Ferrari Team Ferrari printed on it-staggered drunkenly into the pub. Malcolm tried to shrink out of view, but it was impossible. After the prolonged exposure to the wind on Bosworth Field, his need for warmth had taken him to the blazing beechwood fire. This put him directly in Bernie's sight line. printed on it-staggered drunkenly into the pub. Malcolm tried to shrink out of view, but it was impossible. After the prolonged exposure to the wind on Bosworth Field, his need for warmth had taken him to the blazing beechwood fire. This put him directly in Bernie's sight line.

"Malkie!" Bernie cried out joyfully, and went on as he always did whenever they met. "Malkie ol' mate! How 'bout a chess game? I miss our matches, I surely do." He shivered and beat his hands against his arms. His lips were practically blue. "s.h.i.t on toast. It's blowing a cold one out there. Pour me a Blackie," he called out to the publican. "Make it a double and make it double-quick." He grinned and dropped onto the stool at Malcolm's table. "So. How's the book comin', Malkie? Gotcher name in lights? Found a publisher yet?" He giggled.

Malcolm put aside whatever guilt he may have felt at the fact that he was industriously stuffing this inebriate's wife whenever his middle-aged body was up to the challenge. Bernie Perryman deserved to be a cuckold, his punishment for the torment he'd been dishing out to Malcolm for the last ten years.

"Never got over that last game, did you?" Bernie grinned again. He was served his Black Bush which he tossed back in a single gulp. He blubbered air out between his lips. He said, "Did me right, that," and called for another. "Now what was the full-on tale again, Malkie? You get to the good part of the story yet? 'Course, it'll be a tough one to prove, won't it, mate?"

Malcolm counted to ten. Bernie was presented with his second double whiskey. It went the way of the first.

"But I'm givin' you a bad time for nothing," Bernie said, suddenly repentant in the way of all drunks. "You never did me a bad turn-'cept that time with the A-levels, 'course-and I shouldn't do you one. I wish you the best. Truly, I do. It's just that things never work out the way they're s'posed to, do they?"

Which, Malcolm thought, was the whole b.l.o.o.d.y point. Things-as Bernie liked to call them-hadn't worked out for Richard either, that fatal morning on Bosworth Field. The Earl of Northumberland had let him down, the Stanleys had out-and-out betrayed him, and an untried upstart who had neither the skill nor the courage to face the King personally in decisive combat had won the day.

"So tell Bern your theory another time. I love the story, I do, I do. I just wished there was a way for you to prove it. It'd be the making of you, that book would. How long you been working on the ma.n.u.script?" Bernie swiped the interior of his whiskey gla.s.s with a dirty finger and licked off the residue. He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. He hadn't shaved that morning. He hadn't bathed in days. For a moment, Malcolm almost felt sorry for Betsy, having to live in the same house with the odious man.

"I've come to Elizabeth of York," Malcolm said as pleasantly as he could manage considering the antipathy he was feeling for Bernie. "Edward IV's daughter. Future wife to the King of England."

Bernie smiled, showing teeth in serious need of cleaning. "Cor, I always forget that bird, Malkie. Why's that, d'you think?"

Because everyone always forgot Elizabeth, Malcolm said silently. The eldest daughter of Edward IV, she was generally consigned to a footnote in history as the oldest sister of the Princes in the Tower, the dutiful daughter of Elizabeth Woodville, a p.a.w.n in the political power game, the later wife of that Tudor usurper Henry VII. Her job was to carry the seed of the dynasty, to deliver the heirs, and to fade into obscurity.

But here was a woman who was one-half Woodville, with the thick blood of that scheming and ambitious clan coursing through her veins. That she wanted to be Queen of England like her mother before her had been established in the seventeenth century when Sir George Buck had written-in his History of the Life and Reigne of Richard III History of the Life and Reigne of Richard III-of young Elizabeth's letter asking the Duke of Norfolk to be the mediator between herself and King Richard on the subject of their marriage, telling him that she was the King's in heart and in thought. That she was as ruthless as her two parents was made evident in the fact that her letter to Norfolk was written prior to the death of Richard's wife, Queen Anne.

Young Elizabeth had been bundled out of London and up to Yorkshire, ostensibly for safety's sake, prior to Henry Tudor's invasion. There she resided at Sheriff Hutton, a stronghold deep in the countryside where loyalty to King Richard was a constant of life. Elizabeth would be well protected-not to mention well guarded-in Yorkshire. As would be her siblings.

"You still hot for Lizzie?" Bernie asked with a chuckle. "Cor, how you used to go on about that girl."

Malcolm suppressed his rage but did not forbid himself from silently cursing the other man into eternal torment. Bernie had a deep aversion for anyone who tried to make something of his life. That sort of person served to remind him of what a waste he'd made of his own.

Bernie must have read something on Malcolm's face because as he called for his third double whiskey, he said, "No, no, get on with you. I 'as only kidding. What's you doing out here today anyway? Was that you in the battlefield when I drove by?"

Bernie knew it was he, Malcolm realised. But mentioning the fact served to remind them both of Malcolm's pa.s.sion and the hold that Bernie Perryman had upon it. G.o.d, how he wanted to stand on the table and shout, "I'm bonking this idiot's wife twice a week, three or four times if I can manage it. They'd been married two months when I bonked her the first time, six days after we were introduced."

But losing control like that was exactly what Bernie Perryman wanted of his old friend Malcolm Cousins: payback time for having once refused to help Bernie cheat his way through his A-levels. The man had an elephantine memory and a grudge-bearing spirit. But so did Malcolm.

"I don't know, Malkie," Bernie said, shaking his head as he was presented with his whiskey. He reached unsteadily for it, his bloodless tongue wetting his lower lip. "Don't seem natural that Lizzie'd hand those lads over to be given the chop. Not her own brothers. Not even to be Queen of England. Sides, they weren't even anywheres near her, were they? All speculation, 'f you ask me. All speculation and not a speck of proof."

Never, Malcolm thought for the thousandth time, never tell a drunkard your secrets or your dreams.

"It was Elizabeth of York," he said again. "She was ultimately responsible."

Sheriff Hutton was not an insurmountable distance from Rievaulx, Jervaulx, and Fountain Abbeys. And tucking individuals away in abbeys, convents, monasteries, and priories was a great tradition at that time. Women were the usual recipients of a one-way ticket to the ascetic life. But two young boys-disguised as youthful entrants into a novitiate-would have been safe there from the arm of Henry Tudor should he take the throne of England by means of conquest.

"Tudor would have known the boys were alive," Malcolm said. "When he pledged himself to marry Elizabeth, he would have known the boys were alive."

Bernie nodded. "Poor little tykes," he said with fact.i.tious sorrow. "And poor old Richard who took the blame. How'd she get her mitts on them, Malkie? What d'you think? Think she cooked up a deal with Tudor?"

"She wanted to be a Queen more than she wanted to be merely the sister to a King. There was only one way to make that happen. And Henry had been looking elsewhere for a wife at the same time that he was bargaining with Elizabeth Woodville. The girl would have known that. And what it meant."

Bernie nodded solemnly, as if he cared a half fig for what had happened more than five hundred years ago on an August night not two hundred yards from the pub in which they sat. He shot back his third double whiskey and slapped his stomach like a man at the end of a hearty meal.

"Got the church all prettied up for tomorrow," he informed Malcolm. " 'Mazing when you think of it, Malkie. Perrymans been tinkering round St. James Church for two hundred years. Like a family pedigree, that. Don't you think? Remarkable, I'd say."

Malcolm regarded him evenly. "Utterly remarkable, Bernie," he said.

"Ever think how different life might've been if your dad and granddad and his granddad before him were the ones who tinkered round St. James Church? P'rhaps I'd be you and you'd be me. What d'you think of that?"

What Malcolm thought of that couldn't be spoken to the man sitting opposite him at the table. Die, he thought. Die before I kill you myself.

"Do you want to be together, darling?" Betsy breathed the question wetly into his ear. Another Sat.u.r.day. Another three hours of bonking Betsy. Malcolm wondered how much longer he'd have to continue with the charade.

He wanted to ask her to move over-the woman was capable of inducing claustrophobia with more efficacy than a plastic bag-but at this point in their relationship he knew that a demonstration of postcoital togetherness was as important to his ultimate objective as was a top-notch performance between the sheets. And since his age, his inclinations, and his energy were all combining to take his performances down a degree each time he sank between Betsy's well-padded thighs, he realised the wisdom of allowing her to cling, coo, and cuddle for as long as he could endure it without screaming once the primal act was completed between them.

"We are are together," he said, stroking her hair. It was wire-like to the touch, the result of too much bleaching and even more hair spray. "Unless you mean that you want another go. And I'll need some recovery time for that." He turned his head and pressed his lips to her forehead. "You take it out of me and that's the truth of it, darling Bets. You're woman enough for a dozen men." together," he said, stroking her hair. It was wire-like to the touch, the result of too much bleaching and even more hair spray. "Unless you mean that you want another go. And I'll need some recovery time for that." He turned his head and pressed his lips to her forehead. "You take it out of me and that's the truth of it, darling Bets. You're woman enough for a dozen men."

She giggled. "You love it."

"Not it. You. Love, want, and can't be without." He sometimes pondered where he came up with the nonsense he told her. It was as if a primitive part of his brain reserved for female seduction went onto autopilot whenever Betsy climbed into his bed.

She buried her fingers in his ample chest hair. He wondered not for the first time why it was that when a man went bald, the rest of his body started sprouting hair in quadruple time. "I mean really be together, darling. Do you want it? The two of us? Like this? Forever? Do you want it more than anything on earth?"

The thought alone was like being imprisoned in concrete. But he said, "Darling Bets," by way of answer and he trembled his voice appropriately. "Don't. Please. We can't go through this again." And he pulled her roughly to him because he knew that was the move she desired. He buried his face in the curve of her shoulder and neck. He breathed through his mouth to avoid inhaling the day's litre of Shalimar that she'd doused herself with. He made the whimpering noises of a man in extremis. in extremis. G.o.d, what he wouldn't do for King Richard. G.o.d, what he wouldn't do for King Richard.

"I was on the Internet," she whispered, fingers caressing the back of his neck. "In the school library. All Thursday and Friday lunch, darling."

He stopped his whimpering, sifting through this declaration for deeper meaning. "Were you?" He temporised by nibbling at her earlobe, waiting for more information. It came obliquely.

"You do do love me, don't you, Malcolm dearest?" love me, don't you, Malcolm dearest?"

"What do you think?"

"And you do want me, don't you?"

"That's obvious, isn't it?"

"Forever and ever?"

Whatever it takes, he thought. And he did his best to prove it to her, although his body wasn't up to a full performance.

Afterwards, while she was dressing, she said, "I was so surprised to see all the topics. You c'n look up anything on the Internet. Fancy that, Malcolm. Anything at all. Bernie's playing in chess night at the Plantagenet, dearest. Tonight, that is."

Malcolm furrowed his brow, automatically seeking the connection between these apparently unrelated topics. She went on.

"He misses your games, Bernie does. He always wishes you'd come by on chess night and give it another go with him, darling." She padded to the chest of drawers where she began repairing her makeup. "'Course, he doesn't play well. Just uses chess as an extra excuse to go to the pub."

Malcolm watched her, eyes narrowed, waiting for a sign.

She gave it to him. "I worry about him, Malcolm dear. His poor heart's going to give out someday. I'm going with him tonight. Perhaps we'll see you there? Malcolm, dearest, do you love me? Do you want to be together more than anything on earth?"

He saw that she was watching him closely in the mirror even as she repaired the damage he'd done to her makeup. She was painting her lips into bee-sting bows. She was brushing her cheeks with blusher. But all the time she was observing him.

"More than life itself," he said.

And when she smiled, he knew he'd given her the correct answer.

That night at the Plantagenet Pub, Malcolm joined the Sutton Cheney Chessmen, of whose society he'd once been a regular member. Bernie Perryman was delighted to see him. He deserted his regular opponent-seventy-year-old Angus Ferguson who used the excuse of playing chess at the Plantagenet to get as sloshed as Bernie-and pressed Malcolm into a game at a table in the smoky corner of the pub. Betsy was right, naturally: Bernie drank far more than he played, and the Black Bush served to oil the mechanism of his conversation. So he also talked incessantly.

He talked to Betsy, who was playing the role of serving wench for her husband that evening. From half past seven until half past ten, she trotted back and forth from the bar, bringing Bernie one double Black Bush after another, saying, "You're drinking too much," and "This is the last one, Bernie," in a monitory fashion. But he always managed to talk her into "just one more wet one, Mama girl," and he patted her b.u.m, winked at Malcolm and whispered loudly what he intended to do to her once he got her home. Malcolm was at the point of thinking he'd utterly misunderstood Betsy's implied message to him in bed that morning when she finally made her move.

It came at half past ten, one hour before George the Publican called for last orders. The pub was packed, and Malcolm might have missed her manoeuvre altogether had he not antic.i.p.ated that something was going to happen that night. As Bernie nodded over the chessboard, contemplating his next move eternally, Betsy went to the bar for yet another "double Blackie." To do this, she had to shoulder her way through the Sutton Cheney Dartsmen, the Wardens of the Church, a women's support group from Dadlington, and a group of teenagers intent upon success with a fruit machine. She paused in conversation with a balding woman who seemed to be admiring Betsy's hair with that sort of artificial enthusiasm women reserve for other women whom they particularly hate, and it was while she and the other chatted that Malcolm saw her empty the vial into Bernie's tumbler.

He was awestruck at the ease with which she did it. She must have been practising the move for days, he realised. She was so adept that she did it with one hand as she chatted: slipping the vial out of her sweater sleeve, uncapping it, dumping it, returning it to her sweater. She finished her conversation, and she continued on her way. And no one save Malcolm was wise to the fact that she'd done something more than merely fetch another whiskey for her husband. Malcolm eyed her with new respect when she set the gla.s.s in front of Bernie. He was glad he had no intention of hooking himself up with the murderous b.i.t.c.h.

He knew what was in the gla.s.s: the results of Betsy's few hours surfing the Internet. She'd crushed at least ten tablets of Digitoxin into a lethal powder. An hour after Bernie ingested the mixture, he'd be a dead man.

Ingest it Bernie did. He drank it down the way he drank down every double Black Bush he encountered: He poured it directly down his throat and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. Malcolm had lost count of the number of whiskeys Bernie had imbibed that evening, but it seemed to him that if the drug didn't kill him, the alcohol certainly would.

"Bernie," Betsy said mournfully, "let's go home."

"Can't just yet," Bernie said. "Got to finish my bit with Malkie boy here. We haven't had us a chess-up in years. Not since..."He smiled at Malcolm blearily. "Why, I 'member that night up the farm, doanchew, Malkie? Ten years back? Longer was it? When we played that last game, you and me?"

Malcolm didn't want to get onto that subject. He said, "Your move, Bernie. Or do you want to call it a draw?"

"No way, Joe-zay." Bernie swayed on his stool and studied the board.

"Bernie..." Betsy said coaxingly.

He patted her hand, which she'd laid on his shoulder. "You g'wan, Bets. I c'n find my way home. Malkie'll drive me, woanchew, Malkie?" He dug his car keys out of his pocket and pressed them into his wife's palm. "But doanchew fall asleep, sweet Mama. We got business together when I get home."

Betsy made a show of reluctance and a secondary show of her concern that Malcolm might have had too much to drink himself and thereby be an unsafe driver for her precious Bernie to ride along with. Bernie said, " 'F he can't do a straight line in the car park, I'll walk. Promise, Mama. Cross m' heart."

Betsy leveled a meaningful look at Malcolm. She said, "See that you keep him safe, then."

Malcolm nodded. Betsy departed. And all that was left was the waiting.

For someone who was supposed to be suffering from congenital heart failure, Bernie Perryman seemed to have the const.i.tution of a mule. An hour later, Malcolm had him in the car and was driving him home, and Bernie was still talking like a man with a new lease on life. He was just itching to get up those farmhouse stairs and rip off his wife's knickers, to hear him tell it. Nothing but the Day of Judgement was going to stop Bernie from showing his Sweet Mama the time of her life.

By the time Malcolm had taken the longest route possible to get to the farm without raising Bernie's suspicions, he'd begun to believe that his paramour hadn't slipped her husband an overdose of his medication at all. It was only when Bernie got out of the car at the edge of the drive that Malcolm had his hopes renewed. Bernie said, "Feel a bit peaked, Malkie. Whew. Nice lie down. Tha's just the ticket," and staggered in the direction of the distant house. Malcolm watched him until he toppled into the hedgerow at the side of the drive. When he didn't move after the fall, Malcolm knew that the deed had finally been done.

He drove off happily. If Bernie hadn't been dead when he hit the ground, Malcolm knew that he'd be dead by the morning.

Wonderful, he thought. It may have been ages in the execution, but his well-laid plan was going to pay off.