Murder by Misrule: A Francis Bacon Mystery (The Francis Bacon Mystery Series Book 1) (14 page)

CHAPTER 20

Francis Bacon paced the footpaths west of Gray's Inn, his thoughts whirling in a noxious cloud of irritation commingled with fumes of aggrievement. All he wanted in this world was peace enough and time, to read and think and write. These were his first, best labors, the means through which he was destined to make his contribution to the world. It seemed little enough to ask and yet proved to be as unattainable as the fabled Northwest Passage.

First, he had yesterday received another querulous missive from his Lady mother, seeking his advice on her vote at the next meeting of the Andromache Society. They were slated to decide whether to advance the career of Sir Avery Fogg. Lady Bacon insisted on peppering her letters with passages in Greek to conceal their meaning. From whom, Francis could not begin to guess. His assistant read Greek, Lord Burghley read Greek, the queen read Greek. Half the membership of Gray's had some Greek from their time at university. Perhaps she feared the messenger's mule might catch a glimpse and bray her secrets καθ'οδον — down the road — to London.

He might advise her to abstain, or better, to avoid the next Andromache dinner altogether. She had recently discovered a new Nonconformist preacher, more fiery than the last one. That should keep her well occupied in Gorhambury. Francis lived in constant terror lest she learn of his banishment from court. He shuddered to think of the hailstorm of importunate letters she would rain upon his uncle on his behalf. Her shrewish nagging did him more harm than good. She resented the way Lord Burghley exploited her sons for services, such as Anthony's intelligence-gathering in France and Francis's management of that encrypted correspondence. Francis also served as an interpreter for French emissaries and prisoners in the Tower. Necessary work, important work; he did it willingly. But it was work with neither thanks nor pay.

And now he had another letter from Anthony in Montaubon, where he was struggling to defend himself against a charge of sodomy without anyone in England finding out about it. Francis was sick with worry for him. What if the news leaked out before he was restored to good odor with the queen? He would be utterly unable to defend his brother. Helpless. Voiceless.

Anthony had good friends in France, but he needed money. This was scarcely news. He was chronically short of funds, owing to his extravagant tastes in clothing and generous gift-giving impulses. These were the faults of a courtier; Francis hoped he shared them. One could hardly stand before the queen in last year's shoes. All favors required tokens of gratitude. Keeping up a brave display was challenging since he'd been left with no estate by his father's untimely demise. His three hundred pounds per annum were barely enough to sustain a humble life at Gray's. Sir Walter Ralegh owned hats that cost more.

This was an old grievance, guaranteed to stir up choler and yellow bile, throwing his humors out of balance. Francis quickened his pace and stepped squarely into a puddle of mud.
Splendidus absolute
. Mud, he was welcome to, in abundance. Never mind that he could scarce afford to keep his feet decently shod.

Last, but hardly least, was the note delivered early this morning from Lord Burghley questioning his lack of progress in the Smythson matter. Did he think Francis had forgotten? He had known from the outset that the likelihood of success was slender under the most optimistic of prognostications, yet he demanded results as though he had merely commissioned a new pair of gloves.

Francis fumed, striding hard, oblivious to the golden leaves glowing in the morning light that slanted through the elms under which he walked. He was tired of striving to find his place in the world. Tired of expending his energies on mundane questions when he wanted to devise a method for revealing the innermost secrets of Nature herself. Tired of the endless cacophony of letters filled with conflicting demands.

Chatter, chatter, chatter, and nothing said of matter.

He laughed bitterly and decided that he would solve all these problems in a few bold strokes. Let them advance Avery Fogg to the Queen's Bench; let them make him Lord Chancellor. Why not? Let Shiveley, the new Reader, take his place as Treasurer of Gray's. Seat the whole benighted bench in Westminster; except for Francis, of course, who was too young and too arrogant for those lofty halls.

He would provide himself with a lesson in humility, going forthwith to Gorhambury to take the reins of his brother's estate into his own hands. Francis would marl the fields and clear the ditches and mend the hedges too.

As for the Smythson matter, why, he would confess to the crime himself. He'd be thrown into Newgate, where he could interrogate a representative selection of London cutpurses at his leisure. He'd winkle out the Catholics while he was about it. He had nothing better to do since he had not been called upon to prepare a Reading.

Francis made another full circuit of the fields, his thoughts writhing like eels caught in a weir. As his legs drove his feet along the path, his mind settled, returning to its accustomed order and tranquility — at least, in part.

He sighed. He would advise his mother to vote in Fogg's favor. The man had some distempers, but only minor ones, and might make a more compassionate judge because of them. He would try to urge some sense of economy on Anthony. Strategic gifts, not wholesale bribery.

The Smythson matter was more difficult. So far his only clues led dangerously close to prominent courtiers. He'd risked his uncle's censure — or worse — in sending that message to Lady Rich. He didn't know whether to hope his pupils would learn something useful from Lord Essex's men or return empty-handed. A negative report would spare him the need to find a way to communicate with the earl.

His anxiety mounted again at the thought. He shook his head. He needed a strong corrective for an excess of yellow bile. Something cold and moist: mushrooms, perhaps.

He turned back toward the Inn. He spied his four pupils coming through the postern passage. Good, they'd received the message he'd left with the under butler. He took a deep breath, willing himself to calm.

The four friends walked in order of height: Whitt, Delabere, Clarady, Trumpington. Did they do it on purpose? Perhaps the Lord Stephen liked to be flanked by tall men and little Trumpington was left to tag along as he might. He felt a stab of sympathy. He too had sometimes felt himself, as a boy, to have an insufficiency of brawn and a superfluity of brain. Time and maturity had obviated the need for the former and made the latter a distinct advantage.

Sometimes.

He stood where he was and waited for them to reach him. "Good morrow, Gentlemen."

"Good morrow, Mr. Bacon," they chorused.

"Did you learn anything useful from Essex's men?" He eyed them doubtfully. Judging by the colorful bruise around Trumpington's eye, they'd gotten themselves into an altercation.

"We did, Mr. Bacon," Whitt said. "The Wild Men in question have gone home, but their fellows told us they made quite a tale of chasing a barrister through the lanes that day."

Francis made a dismissive gesture. "We knew as much already."

"Yes, sir," Whitt said. "But we didn't know there were
two
men in barrister's gowns. One was limping and wouldn't play. The other ran, so they chased him. We surmise that the limping man was Smythson, since he suffered frequently from gout."

Francis nodded. He'd expected as much, from the evidence of the laundress. "Did they describe the second barrister?"

Whitt shook his head.

"Hm," Francis said. "Those men will have to be recalled to London for questioning." He sighed. Requesting favors from an earl demanded excruciating delicacy even when he wasn't under a ban. He'd have to get permission from his uncle first, which would mean betraying how little progress he had made.

They were watching him with disappointed faces. They probably thought they'd brought him information that would help him crack the case like a walnut. They couldn't know that they'd made his job harder. He dredged up a smile. "Well done. The next step is to speak with that limner."

Clarady said, "We don't know where to find her."

Francis raised his eyes briefly to heaven, his sole source of support in these trying times. "She's Flemish, I believe you said?"

"Yes, sir."

"Have you tried asking at the Dutch Church?"

They looked at him blankly.

"In Austin Friars? Broad Street Ward?" More blank looks. "Do you know
anything
about the City of London?"

Now they looked offended. No doubt they'd taken themselves on the standard tour of theaters, bear pits, and gaming dens and felt themselves sophisticated urbanites in full possession of their capital. He'd thought exploring the great City of London to be a customary diversion for Inns of Court men.

"Go to the Draper's Guild near Moorgate and ask for directions. Or simply listen for a man speaking Dutch and follow him." He'd meant that last as a joke, but they nodded gravely. Whitt drew out his commonplace book and pencil and made a note. Francis frowned. No one ever appreciated his little sallies.

"Mr. Bacon," Clarady said. "Is it possible that the second barrister could have been a man from Gray's? We've been worrying about it all morning."

Only for the morning? Why not yesterday afternoon?

Francis hesitated. He'd grown practiced in secrecy through managing Anthony's correspondence and was loath to impart information to those unprepared to wield it properly. On the other hand, the more they knew, the better they could assist him and the sooner this investigation might be concluded.

"Yes," he said. "I believe it must have been."

They gaped at him, dismayed.

"But how?" Whitt asked.

"And who?" Trumpington asked.

"And why?" Clarady asked, more pertinently.

Francis saw that he would have to explain the Catholic element to the puzzle. Trawling for witnesses was slow work and had thus far netted slender results. And if it came down to searching chambers, he would rather these energetic lads do the actual deed. But there were risks in telling them.

Young Trumpington might well be a crypto-Catholic. He was always skipping chapel and he lived with the somehow not entirely aboveboard Nathaniel Welbeck. His mother's family was in Derbyshire, home to many recusants. The other three lodged together. They would be hard-pressed to conceal a rosary, much less a priest or a barrel of pamphlets. It would have to be all or none. Whitt was clever enough and Clarady forward enough, but Lord Stephen was highly unlikely to be living any kind of double life. A single life was almost more than he could manage.

A greater concern was that the lads would babble about their mission in the tavern and the hall, sending their quarry deeper under cover, making him impossible to snare. All Francis could do was bind them to secrecy and hope for the best. A word to the wise was sufficient, but what of the less than wise?

The most serious risk was that the murderer must be in constant fear of discovery. He would be
vigilate
: always alert. If he became aware that the lads were tracking him, he might be moved to further violence. By drawing them deeper into this plot, Francis might be placing them in danger.

But a covert Catholic at Gray's was a risk to the whole society; indeed, such insidious conspirators were a risk for the kingdom and the very name of liberty. Catholics often allied themselves with Spain; the priests who wrote the inflammatory pamphlets were often paid by Spain. King Philip would like nothing better than to place his own pliant puppet on the throne of England. Lord Burghley and Sir Francis Walsingham had exposed plot after plot aimed at the assassination of Queen Elizabeth and the termination of her support for the Protestant Low Countries. The Inns of Court were prime targets for infiltration because here was where future administrators and men of affairs were trained.

The threat was real, of that there could be no doubt. The conspirator had proven his capacity for violence. He must be found and brought to justice. To do that, Francis needed help.

He regarded his pupils with a cool eye. They stood silently, if somewhat restively, awaiting his next question. He tilted his head slightly. "Do you know how to identify a Catholic?"

CHAPTER 21

James Shiveley mounted the stairs to his chambers slowly, his shoulders hunched against the cold. He'd neglected to wear his cloak to supper. The light of his shielded candle preceded him. Its yellow glow drew the eye, making the shadows darker.

A man stepped out from the depths of the dark landing.

"Mercy!" Shiveley jumped. "You gave me a start. Were you waiting for me?"

"I wanted a word. I had a thought about the statute you've chosen for your Reading."

"Can't this wait until morning?"

"I might forget."

Shiveley frowned. What an odd remark!

His colleague moved closer and reached toward his candle as if to assist him while he unhooked his keys from his belt.

Shiveley took a step back. He suddenly felt boxed in. "I hardly think now is—"

"Allow me." The man grasped him firmly by the arm and swung him full about to face the steep descent into the black stairwell.

"What are you doing?" Shiveley's voice spiraled up. Fear had found him, too late to be of use.

Hard hands set flat upon his back and shoved. The candle flew from his hand. His keys tumbled, clanking. He struck the stairs on his shoulders. Pain lanced through his back. He rolled, helpless, down to the landing. There he lay, sprawled facedown, legs stravaging up the stairs behind him.

He groaned. "Help me."

Feet pattered down the stairs and stopped beside him. Hands cradled his face, their warmth reassuring. They lifted his head, testing the flex in the neck. And then twisted, hard.

Crack!