The Daughter of Time

‘Richard the Third.’

‘Really? That’s interesting.’

‘Did you know that he had a withered arm?’

‘Had he? I didn’t remember that. I thought he was a hunchback.’

‘So he was.’

‘What I do remember is that he was born with a full set of teeth and ate live frogs. Well, my diagnosis seems to be abnormally accurate.’

‘Uncanny. What made you choose polio?’

‘I don’t quite know, now that you ask me to be definitive, just the look of the face, I suppose. It’s the look one sees on the face of a crippled child. If he was born hunchbacked that probably accounts for it and not polio. I notice the artist has left out the hump.’

‘Yes. Court painters have to have a modicum of tact. It wasn’t until Cromwell that sitters asked for “warts and all”.’

‘If you ask me,’ the surgeon said, absentmindedly considering the splint on Grant’s leg, ‘Cromwell started that inverted snobbery from which we are all suffering today. “I’m a plain man, I am; no nonsense about me.” And no manners, grace, or generosity, either.’ He pinched Grant’s toe with detached interest. ‘It’s a raging disease. A horrible perversion. In some parts of the States, I understand, it’s as much as a man’s political life is worth to go to some constituencies with his tie tied and his coat on. That’s being stuffed-shirt. The beau ideal is to be one of the boys. That’s looking very healthy,’ he added, referring to Grant’s big toe, and came back of his own accord to the portrait lying on the counterpane.

‘Interesting,’ he said, ‘that about the polio. Perhaps it really was polio, and that accounts for the shrunken arm.’ He went on considering it, making no movement to go. ‘Interesting, anyhow. Portrait of a murderer. Does he run to type, would you say?’

‘There isn’t a murder 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 is, 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 the 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 he 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 had 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 Richard 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 place 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 to 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 schoolbooks on a shelf in her room and it’s quite possible she has a history among them.’