Murder by Misrule: A Francis Bacon Mystery (The Francis Bacon Mystery Series Book 1) (21 page)

"It was the day I first saw her," Tom said. "Smythson's murder is
why
I saw her. Of course she would assume we were there for that. It doesn't signify anything."

Trumpington said, "She knows something, though."

Would they never deliver the main thrust? "What, exactly, does she know?"

Whitt said, "We don't know, exactly. Tom reassured her that Smythson's killer had been identified and that it was all over. No one wanted to upset her." He grinned apologetically. "She really is extraordinarily beautiful. But I was curious if she had seen anything after all. You know, just curious."

"It remained an open question," Francis suggested.

"Yes. I wanted to close it. I asked her if she had seen a barrister and she said, 'Are they the ones that wear the velvet welts?' That made me think that yes, she had seen a barrister in that lane. She's an artist. She notices details. Then, as we were leaving, I asked if she had seen a tall, redheaded man. And she replied, 'But he was neither.'"

Francis smiled. "She saw him."

"She never said that," Clarady said.

"She did," Trumpington said. "I was looking right at her, past your shoulder. And she looked perplexed — uncertain — when she said it."

"I would like to speak with her myself," Francis said. "Bring her to the Antelope Inn tomorrow, if you please. Before dinner. Shall we say ten o'clock?"

"I'll go now," Clarady said. "She needs protection."

"You can't go now," Francis said. "It's dark. The city gates will be closed and you have no plausible excuse to offer the guards. I'm sure she's safe enough in her own home." Francis stood and shook his cloak to clear the folds from around his feet. "And she'll be safer still once she's told us what she knows."

CHAPTER 31

Francis undid his cloak and tossed it onto a chest. With scarcely a pause, he picked it up and put it on again. He'd forgotten to ask Whitt to order his supper. If he wanted food, he would have to sup in commons.

The hall was alive with speculation about the body in the south field. Several men turned toward him as he made his way to the ancients' table, hoping he would have the full story. He offered only bland comments, striving to seem as if he knew no more than they. His messmates glared at him in an unwelcoming manner as he took his place. "No more
investigating
today?" Welbeck sneered. "Stairs quite free of unwanted corpses?" Francis saw no value in responding to his feeble sallies.

"I should have thought you'd be busy writing letters to your uncle," Humphries said. "Maybe he'll make you Treasurer."

"I fail to follow your logic," Francis said.

"A man dies, and you move up," Humphries said. "Another man dies, and up you go again."

"You can't deny it," Welbeck said.

"Of course I can," Francis said. "I passed the bar years before Tobias Smythson was killed. And my election as the Lent Reader has nothing to do with my uncle. In point of fact, he's not well pleased with me at present, owing precisely to unresolved questions surrounding the deaths you propose as my stairway to success."

"You see," Humphries said, his goatish beard bobbing as he nodded, "he instantly thinks of stairs when he thinks of the Readership. That's a guilty conscience speaking." He and Welbeck exchanged dark looks.

Francis sighed. Did they genuinely believe any of their own nonsense? He was spared the need to respond by the arrival of a savory pottage rich with mutton and redolent of winter herbs. A simple dish but as good as a feast when well prepared.

He ignored his messmates while he ate, although they continued their jibes and snickers for a while, entertaining each other with their paltry attempts at wit. Fortunately, he had excellent control over his attention, which enabled him to ignore background noises almost completely.

He set his mind to review the problem at hand. His pupils would bring the limner in the morning to be interviewed. That might prove conclusive; however, it was equally likely to be of little practical use. She might have seen a barrister's gown, but not a barrister's face. Not tall and not redheaded. That didn't narrow the field much. Francis let his gaze wander through the hall. He saw fewer than a dozen men with hair as red as Shiveley's. 'Tall' was a relative term. Tall compared to Tobias Smythson, a man of average height? She would have been looking downward. Surely that would have an effect on her perception.

He tore a piece from his loaf of manchet and chewed it thoughtfully. The flour had been less well sifted than could be desired; the crumb had tiny bits of grit.

He wished there were more that he could do. He needed a way to flush the killer into the open where he could be caught and get this filthy business over with. Not only because he longed to spend Christmas Eve Day in the queen's presence, but because these terrible murders had to be stopped.

He decided to write to his lord uncle in the morning. That was a ticklish task and he was too tired tonight. Tonight, he wanted nothing more than a few pages from the volume of
Essaies
by Michel de Montaigne that his brother had sent him from France. Something light yet pithy; then early to bed.

Those Wild Men, the Earl of Essex's retainers, should be recalled to London as soon as possible for questioning. Perhaps they could be brought to Gray's for dinner under some pretext, to look about the hall and try to spot the man they'd chased. But how to summon them? Courtesy demanded that he ask permission of Essex before writing to his retainers. He'd have to ask his uncle to do it. More delay and frustration. Sending messages through his uncle made him feel like a schoolboy on probation, which was more or less his position.

He glanced toward the benchers' table. Treasurer Fogg sat with a fixed smile pasted on his face, pretending to listen to the talkative man beside him. Francis was not the only one preoccupied with cares this evening. He remembered his suspicions concerning Fogg, Smythson, and the widow Sprye. What if the Catholic business were a separate matter? He'd neglected the other possibilities. Courtship and court appointments. Ambition and desire. Adding conspiracies to Fogg's slate of activities seemed excessive, but then, he was a man of parts.

***

Bacon finished his meal and prepared to leave. The hall was being transformed into a pleasure palace for the evening revels. Minstrels tuned their instruments in the gallery above the screen. Servants dismantled each trestle table as soon as its occupants rose, rearranging them around the walls for dicing and cards. The hanging candelabras were filled with rosemary-scented oil that gave the room a holiday flavor. A few men had already started dancing around the central hearth. The butler hovered near the door, ready to greet arriving guests. Women would grace the hall this night as well, adding the color and sheen of their wide skirts to the festive spectacle.

Christmastide at Gray's Inn. Francis normally enjoyed the convivial season, supping in commons two or three times a week and often staying for the music. This year, however, with little prospect of being allowed to spend Christmas with the court and these foul murders still laid upon his shoulders, he was simply exhausted.

Bed for him, and a good book.

George Humphries appeared beside him. "Leaving so early? You'll miss the fun."

"I've had enough excitement for one day."

"I'll walk with you," Humphries said. "I left some papers in the library that Welbeck has been asking me for."

They wormed through the press of gaily dressed revelers at the door. The night air felt cold and fresh on Francis's face. Lanterns were lit beside each door. Large torches marked the gate to Gray's Inn Road, where a pair of horses nosed through the arch. Yellow candlelight glowed behind a few panes around the yard, but only a few. Most men would be in the hall tonight.

They crunched across the gravel in silence. They had almost reached Francis's stair when the matched black horses clattered into the center of the yard, drawing a black coach as lustrous as a jewel box. The liveried footman jumped down and opened the door, from which debouched a riot of brilliant silks and velvets.

The Earl of Essex and his sister Lady Penelope Rich had come to Gray's to gamble. Francis couldn't be faulted if courtiers came to him. This was an opportunity not to be missed.

He took two steps toward the coach then turned back to his nearly forgotten colleague. "You'll excuse me, I trust." He walked on. Behind him he heard Humphries mutter, "No less than I would expect."

Francis skipped a little to catch up with the young nobles. He hastily smoothed his hair with the palm of his hand and checked the front of his doublet for smears. He circled around to approach them from the direction of the hall. They might assume he had come out to welcome them. He bowed from the waist. "My Lord Essex. How kind of you to grace our humble Society." He turned two degrees and bowed again. "Lady Rich." He quoted from one of the sonnets dedicated to her:

"Stella sovereign of my joy,

Fair triumpher of annoy,

Stella star of heavenly fire,

Stella loadstone of desire."

The charmed couple favored him with a friendly laugh. Lady Rich said, "I'd rather a poem from your own fertile mind, Mr. Bacon. They say that angels lend you feathers from their wings to make your quills."

"I am profoundly flattered, my lady." He bowed again.

"I understand congratulations are in order," Lord Essex said. "I'm greatly looking forward to your Reading. Might one inquire as to the topic?"

Francis was elated. He'd had no idea the earl took an interest in the law. They chatted about advowsons as they entered the hall and found their way to a dicing table. The earl fully appreciated the intriguing ramifications latent in the whole notion of incorporeal hereditaments. Even in so brief an exchange, Francis felt that a genuine bond had been established. Did he dare suggest — or rather enjoin, or plead — that the earl might utter a syllable or two in his favor to the queen? He shuddered. Better not; his uncle would hear of it. He heard everything.

Francis made a show of establishing Lord Essex in the best spot at the table. He turned to assist Lady Rich and found her staring across the room, eyes narrowed with hostility. He followed her gaze to Treasurer Fogg, who was playing primero with some judges from the Queen's Bench. Sir Avery shot anxious glances at her whilst pretending to be absorbed in the game.

The Rolleston case, Francis understood at once. He'd heard that Sir Amias had asked Fogg to step in after Smythson's death. Or was it after Shiveley's? The litigious merchant was no respecter of station. Rumor had it that he was threatening to bring Lady Rich herself before the bench. Impossible, of course. Why even suggest it? And yet, apparently, he had. The unwanted message would perforce have been conveyed by his counselor at law.

He felt a tug at his sleeve and turned toward the lady with a smile on his lips. "How may I serve you, Madam?"

"Mr. Bacon," she said, eyes glinting, "I've got a bone to pick with you."

***

Later — much later — Francis stumbled across the yard to his chambers. His head buzzed as if colonized by a swarm of angry bees. Too much wine, too much talk, too much noise. Too many people.

He knew that buzzing. He would be sick in the morning. In fact, he would probably be in bed for the better part of the week. Whitt would have to attend him in Pinnock's absence. How would he manage to summon him?

As he reached a weary hand for the door, a flash of movement caught his eye. He turned his head and saw Thomas Clarady bounding out of a door to the Gallery, a lute strung across his back. He sprang across the yard and into a waiting coach.

Ah, the energy of youth! Francis was too exhausted to envy him. He trudged up the stairs to the blessed silence of his solitary room.

CHAPTER 32

A plaintive melody carried by a clear voice woke Clara from a dreamless sleep. At first, she did not know if the sweet music rose from the street or fell down from Heaven. Had she died during the night and woken in her Maker's golden hall?

Then her mind roused enough to attend to the lyrics. She grinned into the darkness and smothered a laugh in her pillow. None but her Tom could write a song so dreadful and then stand singing it in the public street!

He'd wake everyone. The mad boy, she must stop him. She flung off her covers and fumbled for her shift. Her cloak hung from a hook by the door. She wrapped it tightly around her body and padded down the dark stairs, bare toes cold on the smooth oak boards. She gave no thought to her intentions. She made no plan. Tonight, her heart knew what it wanted.

She lifted the heavy latch and swung the front door wide, letting in a rush of cold air. Tom stood clear of the overhanging upper story bathed in the white light of the half moon shining directly overhead.

"
Amore mia!
" He riffled the strings of his lute in a dramatic flourish.

"What do you mean, good sir, by standing in my street and disturbing my neighbors?" Her scolding words were contradicted by the giggle in her voice.

He swung the lute behind his back and stepped toward her. He took her hand and caressed it, his face serious. "My beloved, I've come to tell you. Your husband is dead."

She gasped. "Oh, Tom, you shouldn't have!"

"I didn't."

"Then who? How?"

He drew her closer, stroking her hair, gazing down at her with ardor such as she had never felt before. "Does it matter?"

Did it? How could it not? A man was dead, a man who had once shared her bed. A man from whom she'd fled in terror. Her mind whirled. Caspar was gone. She was free.

"You mad fool!" Clara flung her arms around him, laughing. "Come up with me."

"Are you sure?"

She laughed again, suddenly drunk with joy, with freedom. Of course she wasn't sure. She was certain that inviting this beautiful youth up to her room was utter, shameful, unspeakable lunacy. He was a gentleman of the Inns of Court. He could do as he pleased. She was a tradeswoman whose livelihood depended on her reputation. She'd be ruined if anyone saw her. She didn't care. She would blame the moonlight.

This night, this one night in all her sad life, she, Clara Goossens, would know love.

She took his hands, drawing him silently up the long stair to her narrow room. She lifted the lute from his shoulders and laid it on her worktable. She undressed him, untying every lace with care. He stood and let her take her time, a glittering fire in his eyes.

At last he was naked, as tall and well formed as a Roman statue. She pulled off her shift in one smooth motion and took him to her bed. There she reveled in him, loving him in every way she knew, with her clever hands, her wise heart, and her eager body.

***

Clara woke to see daylight streaming through her window. She sighed and stretched, deliberately rubbing the length of her body against Tom's. That woke him, barely. He murmured something in her ear, tickling her with his warm breath and short beard, sending shivers of pleasure racing across her skin. She giggled and he wrapped his arms around her, loving her with strength and tenderness. And then again.

He's too young for me.
He feathered kisses lightly across her face, her neck, her breasts, and her belly.
He's too high above me.
He captured her lips and warmed her to the core with a deep kiss. She stopped worrying about the future for a few delicious minutes more.

***

Tom awoke with a start. Church bells were tolling eight of the clock, and someone was pounding on a door somewhere far away, loud, echoing. Three blows and a pause. Three blows and a pause, like a sledge hammering a nail.

Where was he?

Then he felt her in his arms, warm and soft and smelling of woman and roses and faintly of paint. Clara, his
angela luminosa
, truly his at last. He smiled to himself as he nuzzled Clara's shoulder, inhaling her rich fragrance, storing it up in his memory like hay stacked in a deep barn.

He'd had sex before, naturally; he was no stripling boy. He and Stephen had sampled most of the brothels in Smithfield. He'd had his share of tavern wenches in empty chambers and dairy maids in haystacks and even once a restless wife in the musty storeroom behind her shop.

Women wanted him, and he was generous by nature.

This was different. He loved Clara and she loved him. Love made the act transcendental. "
Angela mia
," he whispered into her downy neck. "
Ti adoro."

Ah, he'd woken her. No, she had been awake and savoring this moment too. She stirred and started to sit up. He snuggled her closer to his chest. "It's someone with a tooth that needs pulling. Naught to do with us."

"I do not believe so." Clara wriggled against him for a blissful moment then slapped him on the arm. He released her. She sat up, clutching a corner of the blanket to cover her breasts, for the warmth.

Which Tom knew because they had left modesty far behind last night.

He propped himself up on one elbow. "What else could it be on a Sunday morning?"

She hissed at him to be silent and listened intently to the sounds of the house. A murmur of voices below, some of them men's by their pitch, but what of it? A surgeon's hours were not fixed like a goldsmith's.

A patter of slippers on the wooden stairs stopped outside Clara's door, followed by a series of sharp raps.

Clara didn't call out to ask who it was. She slid from the bed and wrapped her cloak around her naked body and opened the door the barest sliver. "
Wat is het?
"

Tom hoped it was something easily managed. He wanted to explore her all over again, from her nose to her toes, in full daylight, using his eyes this time as well as his hands and his lips. He had also been hoping for a chance to leave her room unnoticed. He'd meant to slip out at dawn, but it was too late for that. Perhaps everyone would go to church. He grinned. Perhaps he'd be forced to spend the whole day in Clara's bed.

Alas, no. Clara and the woman on the other side of the door spoke in Flemish, but their mounting alarm needed no translation. Tom knew the sound of trouble when he heard it.

The whispers ended. Clara shut the door and leaned against it, staring at Tom with terror in her eyes. Her palpable fear sent a jolt right through him.

He leapt from the bed and wrapped his arms around her, gathering her into the shelter of his body. "What is it, my darling?"

"They are here for me." She tilted her face to him.

"Who? What? Why? I won't let them."

She shook her head. "Nay, you cannot help me."

"It's about him, isn't it? That pusillanimous varlet. Your late and unlamented husband." Tom had told her, in the whispers of the night, about the Fleming's murder.

"They want to question me, she says. They will take me to Newgate."

"Newgate!" The prison was notorious. He took her face in both his hands and held her gaze, willing his strength into her heart. "I will protect you, my angel."

She smiled wanly, but shook her head. "You cannot. The undersheriff is here himself with a letter."

"A pox on the undersheriff and his letters!"

They helped each other into their clothes. They combed their hair and splashed water on their faces from the bowl on Clara's nightstand. They stood face-to-face in the center of the small room and gave each other a final inspection. However tidy their appearance, Tom's mere presence on the scene at such an hour guaranteed what conclusions would be drawn by those below.

The bottom of the stair was blocked by a group of women who stood with linked arms, glaring at a pair of burly constables. They parted to allow Clara and Tom to descend, gaping at Tom and whispering in Flemish after they had passed. The constables leered and snickered, making Clara blush.

Tom's own cheeks burned. He glanced at her, but she kept her eyes riveted on the rush-strewn floor. He'd made her a whore by emerging from her bedchamber so early on a Sunday morning. He hoped he could make up for it by sending this undersheriff packing. He was a gentleman of the Inns of Court after all. At least, he was dressed like one.

Elizabeth Moulthorne stood in her surgery, clutching a blue woolen cloak about her neck. She glowered furiously at a man wearing a large pewter badge.

"Are you one Clara Goossens?" The undersheriff read the name from the letter he held in his flabby hand, mangling the pronunciation and making Clara sound like a backward goose girl.

The man had a sunken chest, a vast, round arse, and pinstick legs. Worse, he had dressed himself in a putrid mustard color that emphasized his florid complexion. Tom wished Stephen was here to share his contempt for this sartorial disaster. And to play the lord, summoning centuries of inherited hauteur to send this minion packing.

Tom was suddenly keenly aware of his own powerlessness. Absurd as this paunchy man might look, he had authority in the badge on his chest and the document in his hand. Not to mention the burly constables, either one of whom was a match for Tom. A sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach told him the cause was lost.

He wrapped a protective arm around Clara. "What is the meaning of this intrusion? Don't you know today is the Sabbath?"

The undersheriff attempted to look down his nose at Tom but failed since he was the shorter by several inches. "I have a warrant for the arrest of one Clara Goossens, Fleming, resident of this house."

"On what charge?"

"She's wanted for questioning in the death of her husband." The pewling official consulted his letter. "One Caspar Von Ruppa, also a Fleming. Murdered by stabbing to death with a knife."

Gasps arose from the women on the stairs. "Oh, Clara!" one said. "You shouldn't have!"

"I never did!" Clara cried.

"Of course she didn't kill him," Tom said. "She couldn't have. I am he who discovered the corpus. We came upon it only moments after the deed was done. The Widow Goossens was nowhere in the vicinity during the critical interval." He struggled for legal terms, formal terms, anything that would make him sound more important than the youthful lover he was.

"No one claims that she herself held the knife that killed him." The undersheriff clearly meant to imply that she had arranged for that knife, however. "She is merely wanted for questioning."

"She can be questioned here, then, in the company of her landlady and of myself."

"No. She is to be taken to Newgate Prison and held there at the pleasure of the queen until this matter has been resolved."

"By whose order?" Tom reached his hand toward the official. "Let me see that letter."

"The warrant is signed by one Sir Avery Fogg, Treasurer of Gray's Inn."

"What!" Tom released Clara and stepped forward to snatch the letter from the man's hand. He read it through rapidly. Sure enough, there was Fogg's signature at the bottom.

Why hadn't he paid more attention when they'd gone to observe the courts in Westminster? He'd spent most of the term whispering jokes, mocking costumes and mannerisms, instead of learning the law. Now he needed it. If only Ben were here, or even Trumpet. He wanted to howl his rage to the rafters and lift this tottering undershit by the ears and shake him into pieces.

But he couldn't. He could do nothing but stand with clenched fists and flaming cheeks, impotent, while the undersheriff tilted his chin at the constables. They laid their sweaty hands upon Clara's slender frame and bore her, weeping, out the door and into a waiting cart.

"Tom!" she wailed, the hopelessness in her voice shredding his heartstrings.

He followed the cart down the lane, stumbling on lumps of garbage, heedless of his velvet slippers. "I'll get you out. I promise you, sweetling."