Murder by Misrule: A Francis Bacon Mystery (The Francis Bacon Mystery Series Book 1) (26 page)

"They made a tale of it," Ben said. "Laughing about it later with their friends.
I've got a bone to pick with you, Counselor.
Remember?"

"Precisely," Bacon said. "That was a central bit of evidence that I foolishly regarded as peripheral. Assuming that the crimes centered on Catholic conspirators at Gray's, I was inclined to brush aside these little irregularities. I failed to examine the initial premise. A classic fallacy."

"It's understandable," Ben began.

Bacon wagged his finger again to cut him off. "Not for me. I won't make that mistake again should I ever be presented with another problem of this nature."

"But the Wild Men weren't the ones that were killed," Trumpet said.

"They were not," Bacon said. "This is what I think happened: Smythson was possessed of more than knowledge concerning Catholics at Gray's. He was also the chief counsel for a very wealthy and litigious man."

"Sir Amias Rolleston." Ben grinned. "Everyone wants a piece of that pie."

"It is a large and succulent pie. I might be interested myself, if most of his suits weren't juridically routine and patently baseless. Really," Bacon said, his words gaining speed, "it is far too easy these days to drag one's neighbors into court on frivolous grounds. Half the populace is waging law against the other half. It enriches the courts but impoverishes the nation."

He broke off and smiled sheepishly at the lads. "But I digress. We know that Smythson was expected at my lord uncle's house that afternoon. It is not an implausible assumption that our killer followed him, hoping for a private conversation. Perhaps he thought he could persuade Smythson to give him some small portion of the Rolleston cases. A brief or two; a foot in the door of a wider practice. But on his way, he attracted the attention of the Wild Men, who proceeded to amuse themselves by teasing him.

"For men such as those, an old grudge against lawyers would be enough. They chased our man through the lanes, taunting and menacing him, until he feared for his life. He may have simply stumbled into Tobias Smythson hobbling along. In his terror, he must have believed himself to be under attack and responded in kind. Perhaps he was blinded in some way, by panic or sweat dripping from his brow."

"His hat might have slipped over his eyes." Tom demonstrated with his own hat.

"Quite plausible." Bacon gestured to Ben, who passed him a silver goblet. He took a few sips and handed it back. "Where was I? Ah, yes. I suspect that if our man had been taken up by the authorities at that moment, with his terror writ plain upon his face, that he would not have killed again. And he himself might have been allowed to live. His violent deed had been done in self-defense, or so he thought. He would have been expelled from Gray's and disbarred from all English courts, but he might have kept his life.

"Instead, as the days turned into weeks and no punishment ensued, he grew more comfortable with his deed. Bolder. He'd stolen two fat purses from Tobias Smythson along with the letter to Lord Burghley. He knew about the conspiracy from the letter. I suspected at the time that a page was missing: he must have kept the one that laid out Smythson's suspicions about the counterfeiting. He had money, both false and true, and the means to gain more through blackmailing the counterfeiter, if he could watch and wait and discover his name. He must have felt quite successful until he heard rumors that I was prying into Smythson's death."

"Stephen." Tom clenched his fist.

"Not necessarily," Bacon said. "
Rumor volat.
Gossip is endemic in closed societies. At any rate, Smythson's letter and its contents provided our killer with a method of deflecting my attention. To my discredit, it succeeded. And there the matter would have rested. Smythson's murder would have gone unpunished, as well as Shiveley's, but for the antics of Nathaniel Welbeck, who did not have the sense to suspend his operations."

"I doubt that he could have," Trumpet said. "Looking back, I think he'd been expecting those pamphlets for months. There wasn't time to send a letter to France."

"Another stroke of ill luck for Smythson's murderer," Bacon said. "Had the Fleming been left alive to return to his own country, I would not have been inspired to reconsider the evidence presented in Shiveley's death."

"Yes, you would," Ben said. "We had the pamphlet I took from his sack."

"That's right. I'd forgotten. And that development was made inevitable by our unwilling witness, the beauteous limner." Bacon gave Tom a wry look. "Although, if she had been pox-marked or elderly, we would not have had the pamphlet either."

They fell silent. Tom was grateful for the chance to work through the sequence of causes and effects in his own mind. He felt as if he were back in Cambridge, slogging through a formal argument. Only this subject matter struck closer to home than Cicero's
De Oratore
.

"God works in wondrous ways." Bacon broke the silence. "Each seemingly disparate element was a vital link in the chain. Our job was to connect them properly."

Tom scratched his beard. He was due for a shave. "The murders were done from fear, then. First, fear of the Wild Men. Then, fear of discovery."

"Fear was the efficient cause." Bacon held up a finger like a lecturing tutor. His didactic pose was undermined by the fringed shawl and the neat little cap. Ben gazed at him with affection. "The final cause is greed. Or envy, perhaps, would be more apt. Our murderer lusted for money and status, the pursuit of which prompted him to follow Smythson. That murder, so far from having evil consequences, gratified his greed by advancing him to a larger purse. Smythson held a high position in this Society of ambitious men. His death opened a gap. Filling that gap opened others, so that his death indirectly benefited many men. Myself included: I gained a Reading, a desirable plum that ripens only twice a year. The murderer pushed me down the stairs to take my place as Reader as much as to prevent me discovering his identity."

Tom was flabbergasted. He could imagine no punishment more dire than being forced to expostulate in public on a statute of the law. To kill for the privilege was an act unfathomable.

"We still don't know who Smythson's killer was," Trumpet said. "My uncle wanted those things too: the Readership, the Rolleston cases. We only moved into chambers with a hearth hot enough for a crucible after Smythson's chambers were vacated and the previous tenant moved out."

"Mr. Bacon's hypothesis narrows the range of possible suspects, though," Ben said. "Only ancients need be considered."

"And benchers," Bacon corrected. "A well-performed second Reading can provide the boost a bencher needs to raise himself to a judgeship."

"Fogg!" Tom slapped his hand against the bedpost, setting the fringe around the tester swinging and making Bacon jump. Ben glowered at him. "Fogg wrote the writ that put Clara in Newgate."

"He did not," Bacon said. "We settled that yesterday. But we can't rule him out. His secretary might have written it. However, Mr. Whitt is correct: we have narrowed the field."

Tom tried to list the ancients in his head, working his way around their table in hall. "It's still better than twenty men."

"We can reduce that number. Most barristers have no interest in Reading. The expense and the burden of study are considerable." Bacon sighed. "If the Readership was his goal, pushing me down the stairs might well succeed. I can't Read now. I've sent a note to the bench asking for a postponement until August."

Trumpet said, "Whoever is chosen next had best be on his guard."

"Unless it's the killer," Ben said.

"Who will it be?" Tom asked.

"Treasurer Fogg is the most likely candidate, in my view," Bacon said. "He's due for a second Reading, and he has been campaigning vigorously for a seat on the Queen's Bench."

Tom tried to remember everything he knew about Sir Avery, mainly from seeing him at the Antelope. "He has a foul temper. It easy to imagine him flying into a rage."

Bacon nodded. "A hot temper coupled with high ambition."

"Then he's our man." Trumpet shifted his stance, ready to go out and start doing something. "We should warn the rest of the benchers. We should have him taken into custody."

"Not yet," Bacon said. "So far, we have only supposition. I can think of two other men who are equally well qualified."

"My uncle," Trumpet said. "But if he's the one, we'll never know. He can live hidden for years among our Catholic cousinage in Derbyshire."

"His ambitions will draw him out of hiding eventually," Bacon said. "He'll yearn for a larger stage. Little effort would be expended in the apprehension of a man who killed a foreign smuggler in self-defense. When the current fever of conspiracies around the Scottish queen cools, his crimes may be entirely forgotten."

"I don't want it to be Mr. Welbeck," Tom blurted.

Ben and Trumpet laughed, but Bacon smiled. "Because then we'll never know for certain. I feel the same." He cocked his head, eyes twinkling. "There remains one fully qualified candidate."

Ben's long face rumpled in thought. He began shaking his head before he spoke, as if arguing with himself. "You can't mean Mr. Humphries."

"I do mean George Humphries. In fact, I find little to choose between him and Sir Avery."

"But he's — he's —" Trumpet began.

"He's an oaf," Tom supplied. "A nithing. I can't see him shooing a goose from his path, much less murdering a grown man in the middle of the street."

"Can't you?" Bacon said. "Geese are far more intimidating than mild Tobias Smythson. And don't forget: we surmise that Smythson's murder was in main degree unintended. I can easily imagine Humphries being driven into a panic by the Wild Men."

"Me too," Trumpet said. "My uncle often used to make fun of Humphries in the privacy of our rooms. He said the benchers would never elect him to Read. He doubted the man was capable of speaking sensibly in public for three minutes, much less for three days."

"True," Bacon said. "He has never been a serious candidate. The men of the bench represent the Society, as well as govern it. They must be men of standing, education, and family. They must be possessed of at least a modicum of social grace. Humphries has none of these qualities and his knowledge of the law is superficial to boot.

"He is also a man singularly incapable of insight into his own nature. I don't believe Smythson would ever consider employing him in any capacity, however persistently he might have asked. Sir Avery might have gained himself a piece of the Rolleston pie by persuasive asking. But Humphries can be deaf to other men's opinions. He has seniority, he has complied with all the overt requirements: to his mind, that is enough. He is also possessed of a deep-seated resentment that sours his perceptions. Are you acquainted with his personal history?"

"That his father squandered the family estates on frivolous lawsuits?" Tom asked.

"And that he alienated the whole county in so doing?" Trumpet added.

Ben said, "Everyone knows Humphries's story. It's a cautionary tale about the perils of litigiousness. We get an earful of it in our first year."

"As did I." Bacon smiled in a way that reminded Tom he had been a student once, not so very long ago. "Humphries believes the world of law owes him recompense for luring his father into penury. One other clue, perhaps: he was oddly eager to escort me to my chambers on Saturday night. He loitered near the door and attached himself to me as I left. Had the Essex party not arrived at that moment, I might well have met my Maker on that night."

Ben's face paled. "Thanks be to God there was gaming in the hall!"

Bacon laughed, tilting his head back into his plump pillows. "That's an amusing syllogism: gaming attracts numbers; there's safety in numbers; therefore, gaming increases safety." He drew in a long breath and let it out in a long sigh. "His intentions may have been innocent. He may even have feared for my safety and intended, in his awkward way, to protect me. If only I could remember who I spoke with on the landing. At times I can almost hear the man's voice, but it eludes me."

"You must rest." Ben glared at Tom and Trumpet as if they were putting Bacon's health in jeopardy on purpose.

"Soon." Bacon patted his hand. "I am satisfied in my own mind that we have reached the truth of the matter, aside from the essential datum of the murderer's identity. We have at least narrowed the field. But even if I could remember and the limner would speak, a sketch made by a Fleming whose current address is Newgate Prison and the memory of a man who has recently suffered a severe blow to the head might not be considered sufficient evidence to dislodge a senior member of an Inn of Court. I would be happier with a confession before witnesses: the more exalted the witnesses, the better."

"But how?" Trumpet said. "And where? And when?"

"You have a plan." Tom noted the smirk on Bacon's face.

"I have, indeed. Where? In the Banqueting Hall at Whitehall palace, before the queen and all her court. When? On Christmas Eve. How? In the spirit of Misrule, we'll use the masque for our unmasking."

CHAPTER 42

The following week sped past in a blur of activity. Not, strictly speaking, for Francis since he spent the whole week in bed, but for those whom he directed in writing and staging his new masque. It needed to be both witty and fresh so as not to bore Her Majesty, but it also needed to recreate the atmosphere of Essex's pageant so as to stimulate a fearful memory in the man who murdered Smythson, and thus provoke a confession.

The method was not unlike the old belief that a murderer would be exposed by fresh blood flowing from the wounds of his victim. However, Francis's version was based not on foolish superstition, but on the clear-eyed observation of human behavior under duress.

He fervently hoped it would work.

His first task was to write a letter of exquisite politeness to the Earl of Essex, begging him to forgive the impertinence of performing a pastoral masque so closely related in theme and setting to His Lordship's inimitable presentation on Queen's Day. He wrapped the letter in another of even more sensitive construction to his uncle, begging him to forward it if he considered it acceptable. Francis stood on the brink of restoration to the queen's good graces. He had no intention of undermining his path at this point.

The earl graciously responded by sending his secretary to call upon Francis in his chambers, where he was told the whole story, in confidence and for His Lordship's ears only. The secretary promised to ask the earl to send at once for the two retainers. Assuming they could still identify the man they had chased after so many weeks, their testimony would be a vital support for the case against him.

Protocol having thus been satisfied, Francis summoned his creative team. Thomas Hughes, whose play,
The Misfortunes of Arthur,
would comprise the centerpiece of the evening's entertainments, and Thomas Campion, a first-year student with a gift for composition, were assigned to the design and execution of sets and costumes. Francis felt secure enough confiding a part of his intentions to these two men since both were far too junior to be dreaming of Readerships yet.

Benjamin Whitt served throughout the week as an able lieutenant, a trusted confidante, and an unfailing pillar of support. He quickly learned to emulate Francis's epistolary style and took some of the simpler correspondence upon himself. He spent the better part of the week closeted in Francis's chambers, to their mutual refreshment.

Francis kept the lash applied to Mr. Clarady's back, urging him daily to obtain a statement from the limner. Francis found himself enchanted by the richness of nautical vocabulary, which he elicited from a stableman who had served at sea, and amused himself by speaking to the privateer's son in his native idiom. He fancied it kept the wind full in his sails.

***

If Tom was told to 'clap on more sail and put his back into it' one more time, he would overpower Ben and wring Mr. Bacon's scrawny genius neck. He swore to himself that he would not return to that Chamber of Taunts until he had Clara's evidence in hand.

And possibly not then.

He had Stephen to contend with as well, who kept hounding him for help with his costume. He was playing the Forlorn Prince in the masque. Tom had his own role to prepare for as a Wild Man. His dialog consisted solely of grunts and roars, but the fittings were time consuming. And the costume was itchy.

Tom wanted their performances to be memorable as much as Stephen did. He welcomed the dance rehearsals as a release for his rising anxieties. He even found Stephen's self-centered stupidity refreshing after being badgered at regular intervals by men with razor-sharp wits. But he had no time for foolery, and he couldn't explain why he had no time, so he took to rising at first cockcrow, dressing by the glow of the embers in the hearth, and taking his meals at the Antelope.

The only person of his acquaintance who did not make tormenting him a daily ritual was Trumpet, who was burdened almost to breaking with his own troubles. His uncle was missed; questions were asked. Welbeck had sent a letter that could be shown about, claiming an urgent call from an aged relative in Derbyshire. Even so, Trumpet was dancing as fast as he could to avoid being pressed for details or trying on costumes in front of anyone.

He and Tom had taken to spending their scant free time in Trumpet's chambers, feet resting on the warm bricks before the hearth, in companionable and much-needed silence.

Between dashing about town like a dowager's footman, fetching materials and delivering messages, Tom tried everything he could think of to persuade Clara to unburden her secret to him. Nothing availed. He had never in his life met a female so resistant to his wiles. Had his dimple disappeared? Had his curls wilted? Had his legs grown thin?

But no, she seemed fond enough of him still. She was willing to snuggle and listen to his poetry, which she claimed to admire. She was stubborn, that was all. He would get nothing from her as long as she remained in Newgate. At least his daily visits — and daily bribes — protected her from the worst of the prison's abuses.

His first plan for freeing her had been to somehow oblige Treasurer Fogg to unwrite his writ. Tom was prepared to threaten the man with cold steel if necessary, but he was nowhere to be found. His clerk finally admitted that Fogg had gone to Kent to visit his elderly mother. Tom considered this highly suspicious. Why should a mother need visiting at this precise moment, however elderly? Surely a man might visit his mother after Christmas as easily as before.

On Friday, men began returning to Gray's, filling the yard with restive horses and the hall with hungry travelers. Gray's had the honor of entertaining the royal court on Christmas Eve only every fourth year, alternating with the other Inns of Court. Even those men who preferred to pass the holiday in the peace of their country homes were not so careless of their careers as to miss an opportunity to spend an afternoon in the presence of the queen.

Tom's frustration mounted. Not knowing where else to turn, he confided the whole story to Mrs. Sprye over a pot of spiced cider. She gave him her full attention, anger drawing sharp lines from nose to chin.

"This can't be allowed to continue," she said. "Not that I'm convinced Sir Avery is your man, mind you. The sorry truth is I'm not convinced he isn't. He'll be back tonight, but this can't wait. That poor woman must be released at once."

She gave Tom a letter addressed to Justice Roger Jarman of the Old Bailey. Tom found the man dining at an ordinary near the prison and sent for a jug of claret for him to drink while he read.

"Hm," Justice Jarman said. He folded the letter and tucked it into his sleeve. "Mrs. Sprye makes a pretty case, doesn't she?" He smiled as at a fond remembrance.

Her letter did the trick. As soon as the judge had finished his meal, he walked with Tom to his chambers in Newgate and stirred up a bustle among his clerks that swiftly produced a stack of documents, signed and sealed.

Clara was released within the hour.