第12章 (第3/3页)
, went to die photograph propped against die books He leant his head sideways at it. 'Who's the bloke?'
Grant was just about to tell him when it occurred to him that here was a fellow policeman. A man as used professionally, to faces as he was himself. Someone to whom faces were of daily importance.
'Portrait of a man by an unknown fifteenth-century painter,' he said. 'What do you make of it?'
'I don't know die first thing about painting.'
'I didn't mean that. I meant what do you make of the subject?'
'Oh. Oh, I sec.' Williams bent forward and drew his bland brows into a travesty of concentration. 'How do you mean: make 0f it?'
'Well, where would you place him? In die dock or on die bench?'
Williams considered for a moment, and then said with Confidence: 'Oh, on die bench.'
You would?'
'Certainly. Why? Wouldn't you?'
'Yes. But die odd thing is that we're both wrong. He belongs in die dock.'
'You surprise me,' Williams said, peering again. 'Do you know who he was, then?'
'Yes. Richard the Third.'
Williams whistled.
'So that's who it is, is it! Well, well. The Princes in the Tower, and ail that. The original Wicked Uncle. ?