Murder by Misrule: A Francis Bacon Mystery (The Francis Bacon Mystery Series Book 1) (6 page)

The crone burst into a peal of laughter. "Them's the taffeta. Crispy, they are. I've a specialty in foliage, I do, since I was a wee slip. I sewed leaves for Queen Catherine's wedding masque, I did."

Tom racked his brains to remember who Queen Catherine was. Trumpet got it first. "You don't mean Great Harry's last wife?"

"That's her." She clapped her hands, pleased with her surprise.

Tom blinked at her, both repelled and bemused. This tiny sorceress had survived three monarchs.

Ben said, "Goodwife, we want to ask you a question or two about the events in the lane below on Queen's Day."

"First another song, good sirs. You promised." She folded her hands across her apron and tilted her head, ready to listen.

The boys consulted together in whispers. They decided to give her a round of "The Holly and the Ivy." Everyone liked it and they might as well practice since it was bound to be called for during the coming Christmas season.

The old woman listened raptly. When they finished, she loosed a long, gargling sigh. "Beeyoootiful!"

Ben returned to the matter at hand. "Did you see anyone in the lane that day?"

She cackled. "I saw you. And you and you and you." She pointed at each of the boys in turn. "I saw Captain Ralegh and the one with the suns. Which one is he?"

"The Earl of Cumberland," Tom said. "The Celestial Knight."

"That's him. He don't get his garb from us."

"We mean before, Goodwife," Trumpet said. "Before the barrister was murdered."

"Hmm." The crone's gaze shot to the window with a sharp gleam of malice. Tom felt a stab of fear for his angel. Had they drawn a witch's envy toward her?

She trotted to the window and clambered up on a high stool. She settled herself in what was obviously her accustomed position to show them how well she could see the lane below. The boys moved to stand around her so they could follow her gaze. She reached out a wizened hand and squeezed Tom's buttock. She clucked her tongue wickedly as he shifted back a step.

"I saw a barrister," she told them. "Them's the ones with the velvet stripes on their sleeves. Two welts: that's a barrister. I know my robes. Whether 't was the one as was killed, I couldn't say. He was up at the top of the lane, see there? Coming through the arch."

Tom twisted to look without placing his body within reach of her hands.

"Was he alone?" Trumpet asked.

She nodded. "Alone, alone-oh. Running as fast as he could with his arms a-pumping and his gown a-flapping."

"Why was he running?"

"Why? To escape the Wild Men, of course."

"Who?"

"The Wild Men." She cackled at their confusion. "Two of 'em. From the pageant, good sirs. Wearing my leaves. I'd know 'em a mile away."

"Essex's pageant," Stephen said. "They'll be his men, then."

"Why were they chasing the barrister?" Tom asked.

"I don't know, good sirs." She sniffed. "You might ask that girl you was a-singing to."

"How—"

"What did I say? I saw you leering up at her. I can put one and one together and come up with two, old as I am. She was a-standing in the winder where she worked when you found her. Watching the street like she shouldn't 'a been." Never mind that she'd been doing the same.

"Where she worked? What sort of work?" Tom feared the worst. Had he fallen in love with a strumpet?
Again?

"She's a limner, good sir. Didn't you know?"

A limner was a painter of the miniature portraits that were so fashionable these days. She was a craftswoman, then; not noble at all. She was beneath him now that he was a member of the Inns of Court. He would have the advantage in wooing her. Something about her elfin smile told him he would need every advantage he could muster.

"Do you know her name, Goodwife?" Tom asked.

"Nor I don't," the old witch said. "How could I? We never spoke. I only ever saw her working by the window, for the light, the same as me."

"Does she live there, too?"

Another long peal of cackles. "Live there, her? That house is for the rich. Fine lords and ladies that come to see the queen."

"Whose portrait was she painting?" Ben asked. "Did you ever see the sitter?"

"Oh, yes. I've an interest, y'know, in the court. 'Twas young Lady Rich. Born a Devereux, she was." She saw their skeptical faces and nodded. "Oh, yes. She's the spit of her mother. I used to get out, y'know, when I was young. Used to be me, going to court to do the fittings. I know who's who, or at least who was."

CHAPTER 8

The bell at St. Margaret's tolled the third quarter. Nearly ten o'clock! Tom and his friends had to hurry. The dancing master was French and a fiend for punctuality. As they stripped down to their shirtsleeves for an hour of vigorous exercise, Trumpet said, "We're going to have to speak with Lady Rich."

Ben grimaced. Stephen drew a hissing breath between clenched teeth.

Tom asked, "What? Do you think she'll refuse to see us?"

"Don't you know who she is?" Stephen goggled at Tom as if he were an idiot. "She's Stella, you buffoon.
The
Stella. From the sonnets of
Astrophel and Stella
?"

Tom's breath caught in his throat. He had forgotten.
Lady Rich
sounded like a matronly personage, wide of girth and wobbly of jowl. Instead, she was none other than the beauteous Penelope Devereux, renowned throughout Europe as the object of the late Sir Philip Sidney's unrequited love, made immortal by his poetry. Catching a glimpse of the glorious Stella had been high on his list of desires when he first came to London.

But to meet her, face to face, speak words to her, and hear her voice in answer? It was beyond imagining.

"God's teeth," Tom said. "She'll never receive us. We're nithings. We're worms."

"Speak for yourself," Stephen huffed.

"She might," Ben said. "It's little enough to ask. One brief question: What is the name of your limner?"

"Any favor from a courtier is significant," Trumpet said. "We'll have to bring a gift." He spoke grimly, as if facing a quest worthy of a Ralegh or a Drake.

Tom frowned. "Something symbolical, don't you think? Like a perfect rose?" He knew he'd be paying for it from his dwindling allowance.

"A perfect rose in late November would be more miraculous than symbolical," Ben said.

Tom racked his brains for a gift that was in season, not too horribly expensive, and suitable for one of the kingdom's premier ladies. He came up empty.

"What about Mr. Bacon?" Stephen said. "His connections at court are the main reason we chose him as our tutor."

Ben frowned. "One of the reasons. But yes, certainly we should ask him. We should make a full report."

Dance practice went well, considering how preoccupied they were by the Lady Rich problem. Soon they'd be ready to start rehearsing in their performance costumes.
La volta
was challenging enough in everyday clothes. Stiffly padded formal doublets and upper stocks added another whole level of difficulty.

After their lesson, at Tom's insistence, they went back to the house near the murder scene to look for the limner. The woman who opened the door claimed to have no knowledge of any such person. She'd seen no portrait painting or signs of such. She and her husband had recently arrived from Warwickshire to seek permission to travel to the Low Countries to visit her husband's relations. She pointed out that the house wasn't terribly comfortable and suggested that a lady of Penelope Rich's standing might have moved to better chambers inside the palace proper. Tom felt thoroughly deflated. His angel could be anywhere by this time.

They barely made it back to Gray's in time for dinner at noon. The meal was followed by the usual two hours of case-putting, in which the students learned to think on their feet. Nathaniel Welbeck put Ben on the spot in front of the whole assembly, skewering him with precedents concerning a hypothetical case that pitted the claims of a bastard son against a legitimate minor daughter.

Ben, stammering and blushing, blurted out a completely irrelevant maxim. Welbeck turned to sneer at Francis Bacon, who had lately begun dining in commons. "It appears that Mr. Whitt's knowledge of the law is waning rather than waxing under his new tutelage."

CHAPTER 9

Francis Bacon watched Benjamin Whitt stalk stiff-backed and red-faced out of the hall. He sympathized with the man. It wasn't fair for the ancients to play out their conflicts through the students. Whitt had borne himself well in the face of Welbeck's unjust attack. He may not have proved his case, but he'd shown himself to be a man of character.

Later, when Francis went up to his chambers, he found Thomas Clarady and Allen Trumpington struggling up the stairs, their arms heaped with pillows, blankets, a sack of sweet buns, and a basket of quills and commonplace books. Clarady had a lute slung over one shoulder and a large jug hanging from the other.

Francis greeted them with a raised eyebrow.

Clarady said, "Ben refuses to leave the library until he constructs an argument to answer Mr. Welbeck. We're going to help him."

Francis surveyed their supplies. "Why the lute?"

"He'll have to sleep sometime. I thought music would help."

Francis applauded their devotion to their friend and admired Whitt's dedication to study. He felt a surge of pride in his pupils and hoped they would succeed. He would enjoy watching Whitt put Welbeck's nose out of joint.

It wasn't until after he had settled at his desk to peruse his list of investigatory tasks that he realized his whole team of under-investigators was now firmly encamped in the library.

***

The first puzzle Francis had to solve was how to request an interview with Lady Rich for his pupils without writing her a letter. She wouldn't speak directly to his servant and he had little faith in the fidelity of a message passed through a chain of underlings.

He drummed his fingers on the desk. It was just his luck that the only two threads he had to follow ran through prominent courtiers! Why couldn't the witnesses be oyster-sellers or wherrymen? Asking lords for favors was ticklish enough in the best of circumstances. Asking them without being seen to ask was nigh impossible.

Was it an accident that his threads led to this particular brother and sister? Francis fervently hoped so. If he turned up evidence that either the Earl of Essex or Lady Rich were involved in Smythson's murder, he resolved to drop his partial results in his uncle's lap without further ado and retire to his mother's house in Gorhambury. He was in no position to prosecute the nobility.

That thought raised his temperature in spite of the cool of his fireless chamber. He fanned himself with a sheet of paper. Their involvement was unlikely after all. The Devereux were society's darlings. Odds were high that they would make an appearance in any matter of importance, sooner or later.

Francis closed his eyes and calmed himself by willing his mind to think about nothing. He heard birds twittering nearby and the crunch of gravel as men strode across the yard below. He smelled the bitter tang of his ink and a soft undersmell of ashes from the hearth. He inhaled deeply then exhaled and opened his eyes.

He had his solution. The muddling of messages as they passed through many mouths would serve him well in this instance. It was best that Lady Rich know as little as possible about the true errand of his emissaries, lest she refuse to see them. She would know, of course, about his exile from court. He hoped that she would find an oblique request arriving by way of her stable boy intriguing enough to grant.

***

When Francis next emerged from his chambers, he learned that Whitt's heroic study session had become the main topic of the Society. Bets were being placed on the outcome. Every day, one of the senior barristers dropped by the library to see how the lads were coming along. Some, like Treasurer Fogg, leaned in the doorway recounting rambling anecdotes about past victories in court. Others, like James Shiveley, brought apples and cheese and explanations so elementary even the privateer's son rolled his eyes.

It occurred to Francis that he might be able to use these visits to pursue one of his leads. Someone at Gray's had presumably arranged for the delivery of seditious pamphlets at the next half moon. Perhaps he could elicit some telling reaction — shock, guilt, dismay — by posing an unexpected question.

One day he heard Nathaniel Welbeck's voice across the hall. The man had the audacity to stand within his hearing and give his pupils a false definition of the assize of mort d'ancestor. Intolerable! However, his meddling did give Francis the right to drop in his own pennyworth of advice. He had scrupulously stayed out of it hitherto.

He strolled casually across the landing. Humphries, to his lack of surprise, was there as well. He greeted the lads and corrected Welbeck's misleading information. Then, to demonstrate his recognition that the rules had changed, he delivered a brief but cogent explanation of the principles underlying the restoration of dispossessed property. Whitt nodded rapidly, his eyes burning as if a prior argument were being vindicated. Trumpington scribbled down every word. Even Clarady's face shone as if the light of understanding had finally dawned. Their reactions were gratifying, but he enjoyed Welbeck's disgruntlement and Humphries's dumbstruck expression even more.

Pretending to depart, Francis turned toward the door. He asked over his shoulder, as if he'd just remembered it, "Does anyone by any chance know when the moon will next be at the half? I don't seem to have an almanac handy."

Welbeck blinked at him for a long moment, silent for once. Then he said, "I thought you collected the things. You must have dozens."

"In a dozen languages," Humphries sneered. He seemed to think he had delivered a crushing insult.

Neither of them seemed much interested in the date or alarmed by his question. Undaunted, he tried the same trick two or three more times until he realized that his pupils were studying him with concern for his sanity furrowing their brows.

***

On Friday, Francis sought out the laundress in her domain. The question of the blood on the murderer's doublet nagged at him. There must have been a lot of it, especially on the sleeves and cuffs. The killer might have given the clothes away, but a costume suitable for Queen's Day would have cost a pretty penny. Worth salvaging. If the murderer was resident at Gray's, he might have sent the clothes to the Inn's laundress.

The laundry was a stone outbuilding beyond the kitchens. An enormous kettle bubbled over a huge bed of coals. Two roughly-dressed but very clean boys stood on blocks of wood, taking turns stirring a mass of linens in the kettle. The laundress was a woman of middle years who had the hatchet face of an angry Turk and arms as brawny as a blacksmith.

She regarded him with a deep frown as he approached. He knew she was remembering his foray into alchemical studies last summer, which had resulted in an unspeakable mess.

He asked her if she had seen any clothing with unexpected quantities of blood on it shortly after Queen's Day.

"How much blood d'ye expect?" she asked. He couldn't fault her astuteness.

His efforts to describe the probable extent of splattering transformed her frown into a suspicious scowl. "What have you been up to now, Mr. Bacon?"

"Nothing, nothing, I assure you. The clothes in question are not mine." He cast frantically about for an excuse. "Em, er, it was a colleague. An experiment, you might call it, involving poultry—"

She held up a beefy hand to stop him. "T'ain't my job to know, sir." She scratched her chin, which was adorned with three coarse hairs. "Blood, now. I don't recall it, and ye'd think I would. Nasty business, blood. The devil to get out. It'll never come white again, howsoever long ye boil it. But I don't do all the washing, mind. There's many who think they'll get better in Holborn."

"As I feared." How many women took in laundry between here and Westminster? A dozen at least as regular work. And what hard-pressed goodwife would turn down a shilling in exchange for her silence?

Francis smiled and prepared to take his leave, but she wasn't finished. "Queen's Day, though. T'weren't blood, sir, but there was a mess of sopping clothes left for me that night. Seems a boatload of yon gentlemen went into the Thames after the pageant. Drunk as porpoises, sir, is what I heard."

"Porpoises," Francis echoed, wondering where she had learned the word. Some ballad, probably. He hadn't heard about a wherry accident, but then he'd avoided all mention of the Queen's Day festivities, having been barred from enjoying them. Could the murderer have engineered that tumble as an excuse to wash away the signs of his crime in the murky waters of the Thames? He'd have to be a crafty opportunist. And worse, a gentleman of Gray's.

He pressed a halfpenny into her palm and started to walk away. Then he turned back and gave her another one. She really had done a Herculean job of getting all the mustard out of his velvet curtains.

***

By Sunday he had explored every path that he could follow without his assistants. Except for one.

He skipped chapel for the first time in seven years, praying that his mother would never come to hear of it. He spent a hair-raising half hour sneaking into every staircase and running up and down on tiptoe, straining his ears to catch the murmur of chanting and sniffing at gaps under doors for the scent of incense.

He was in constant dread lest someone see him. For several horrible minutes, he'd been forced to crouch in a dark corner on a second-floor landing, trembling, heart in mouth, while Sir Christopher Yelverton lumbered up to his rooms on the first floor.

What in the name of a merciful God would he say if he were caught? The last thing he needed was for irrational prying and spying to be added to the list of charges against him. And for all the risk to his reputation, he'd learned nothing. It had been a foolish idea. The conspirator, if such existed, was more likely to consort with his co-religionists after supper, when men strolled freely about the Inn visiting one another.

He needed to discover who could have known about Smythson's intelligence work. He could try some delicate probing among his colleagues during meals, braving the harm to his digestion. At this point, alas, his best hope was that his under-investigators, once Whitt's honor had been restored, would be able to turn something up.