So Much For Buckingham: The Camilla Randall Mysteries #5 by Anne R. Allen Page B

a right mess of the old place."
    "Do you work here at the Old Hall?" Plant decided to play tourist. "I'd love to know more about this event. Is it to commemorate something?"
    The woman looked pained.
    "Oh my. Don't tell me you've just arrived? It's nearly done now."
    "It's over? But what about all these people?"
    The musicians and dancers didn't seem in a hurry to leave.
    "There will be Morris dancing and such until sunset, but you only have about fifteen minutes before they close up the Hall. You must see it." The woman handed him a brochure that showed a photo of the famous painting of Richard III—the same painting referenced in Josephine Tey's book.
    "I'm a docent here," she said. "I volunteer of a Sunday. We don't often have such exciting goings-on. Do make sure you see the bedrooms upstairs, where King Richard slept. And don't miss the view from the tower."
    "It is 1483," the glossy brochure said. "Richard III has announced a grand tour of his kingdom to mark his recent coronation. The Hall at Swynsby-upon-Trent is on the king's royal itinerary, and now the lord of the manor has engaged musicians, cooks, and fighters to entertain the king. See, hear, smell and experience the Wars of the Roses in a very special event!"
    "Hurry." The woman pointed to the doors at the back of the building and a sign for The Old Hall Gift Shop. "There may still be some reenactors inside, although I think most are at the mead wagon by now."
    Things did seem to be getting noisy in the food vending area, which smelled of beer and honey and roast pork.
    Plant walked quickly past the drinkers and headed for the Hall—which was possibly the oldest building he'd ever visited. Parts of it were built before Columbus landed in the Americas, the brochure said. He was overwhelmed at the thought. He was walking into history. It was like time traveling.
    But his way was blocked by a large man wearing tights and puffy little trousers.
    "We close in fifteen minutes. Nobody allowed in," the man said.
    "Can't I just have a peek inside the Hall?" Plant said. "I've come all the way from San Francisco."
    "You've come from California to Swynsby? By choice? Are ye daft?"
    "I only came from London today." Plant gave what he hoped was a self-deprecating smile. "I saw a wonderful production of Shakespeare's Richard III last night. And I heard I about this place. They say King Richard slept here? Everyone says I must see the inside. Unfortunately, I have to go back to London tomorrow."
    Plant hoped he came across as a bumbling tourist. The airplane carry-on bag should give the man a clue.
    He studied Plant for a moment. "Don't I know you from someplace?"
    "Not unless you've been to California recently. Or you watch American awards shows. I won an Oscar once."
    The man smiled. "Oh we watch the Academy Awards here. Because Brits usually win them, don't we? Are you an actor?"
    "No. Just a writer."
    The man studied Plant as if "writer" might be tattooed somewhere on his person.
    Finally he stepped aside.
    "I reckon I can let you in, but it'll still cost you six quid."

Chapter 29—Camilla
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    I felt like strangling Peter Sherwood—or whatever his name was now. He had left me at the computer and gone off to the kitchen to refill his glass as if he hadn't just dropped a bomb on my head.
    I ran into the kitchen after him and yanked the bottle out of his hand.
    "What do you mean Plant's in danger? What the hell is going on? No more cognac until you tell me. Everything!"
    "Oh, my, what happened to the Manners Doctor?" He gave me one of his puckish grins.
    It didn't work.
    "The Manners Doctor is officially angry. Sit down and tell me everything." I filled a tall glass with tap water so I couldn't be accused of withholding hospitality. I pointed to the dining table that sat between the kitchen and living room areas.
    Unfortunately Buckingham had taken up residence on one of the two chairs.
    "Over there, then." I pointed to the couch. "Sit."
    Peter