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'
.'There isn't a murderer type. People murder for too many different reasons. But I can't remember any murderer, either in my own experience, or in case-histories, who resembled him.'
'Of course he was hors concours in his class, wasn't he. He couldn't have known the meaning of scruple.'
'No.'
'I once saw Olivier play him. The most dazzling exhibition of sheer evil, it was. Always on the verge of toppling over into the grotesque, and never doing it'
'When I showed you the portrait,' Grant said, 'before you knew who it was, did you think of villainy?"
'No,' said the surgeon, 'no, I thought of illness.'
'It's odd, isn't it. I didn't think of villainy either. And now that I know who it was, now that I've read the name on the back, I can't think of it as anything but villainous'
'I suppose villainy, like beauty, is in the eye of beholder. Well, I'll look in again towards the end of the week. No pain to speak of now?'
And he went away, kindly and casual as he had come.
It was only after he had given the portrait further puzzled consideration (it piqued him to have mistaken one of the most notorious murderers of all time for a judge; to have transferred a subject from the dock to the' bench was a shocking piece of ineptitude) that it occurred to Grant that the portrait Had been provided as the illustration to a piece of detection.
What mystery was there about Richard III?
And then lie remembered. Richard had murdered his two boy nephews, but no one knew how. They had merely disappeared. They had disappeared, if he remembered rightly, while Richard was away from London. Richard had sent someone to do the deed. But the mystery of the children's actual fate never been solved. Two skeletons had turned up - under some stairs? - in Charles II's day, and had been buried. It was taken for granted that the skeletons were the remains of the young princes, but nothing had ever been proved.
It was shocking how little history remained with one after a good education. All he knew about Richard III was that he was the younger brother of Edward IV. That Edward was a blond six-footer with remarkable good looks and a still more remarkable way with women; and that Richard was a hunchback who usurped the throne on his brother's death in please of the boy heir, and arranged the death of that heir and his small brother to save himself any further trouble. He also knew that Richard had died at the battle of Bosworth yelling for a horse, and that he was the last of his line. The last Plantagenet.
Every schoolboy turned over the final page of Richard III with relief, because now at last the Wars of the Roses were over and they could get on to the Tudors, who were dull but easy to follow.
When The Midget came to tidy him up for the night Grant said: 'You don't happen o have a history book, by any chance, do you?'
'A history book? No. What would I be doing with a history book.' It was not a question, so Grant did not try to provide an answer. His silence seemed to fret her.
'If you really want a history book,' she said presently, 'you could ask Nurse Darroll when she brings your supper. She has all her school-books on a shelf in her room and it's quite possible she has a history among them.'
How like The Amazon to keep her school books! He that. She was still homesick for school as she was homesick for Gloucestershire every time the daffodils bloomed. When she lumbered into the room, bearing his cheese pudding and stewed rhubarb, he looked at her with a tolerance that bordered on the benevolent. She ceased to be a large female who breathed like a suction-pump and became a potential dispenser of delight.
Oh yes, she had a history book, she said. Indeed, she rather thought that she had two. She had kept all her school books because she had loved school.
It was on the tip of Grant's tongue to ask her if she had kept her dolls, but he stopped himself in time.
'And of course I loved history,' she said. 'It was my favourite subject. Richard the Lionheart was my hero.'
'An intolerable bounder,' Grant said.
'Oh, no!
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