Murder by Misrule: A Francis Bacon Mystery (The Francis Bacon Mystery Series Book 1) (2 page)

"Captain Ralegh," he said, bowing deeply. "I am William Danby, the Queen's Coroner. I've brought a cart." He gestured behind him. Tom spotted the long ears of a donkey poking up above the crowd that had gathered a few yards behind Lord Cumberland's stallion.

"Good," Ralegh said. "We'll want that presently."

"Who is the—"

"A lawyer of Gray's Inn," Ralegh answered. "He's been murdered. By a thief, most likely, although there are elements inconsistent with that theory."

Tom heard a murmur run through the crowd.
Murder. A lawyer. A lawyer's been killed.

The coroner muttered some pietistic phrase and stooped to draw down Mr. Smythson's eyelids. Tom exhaled a breath of relief, although until that moment he'd not been aware of how much those staring eyes unsettled him. The coroner's assistant spread a discolored blanket over the body and the whole crowd sighed as one.

Ralegh turned to inspect the other end of the lane. There was nothing to see but his own horse and Trumpet, still faithfully holding the reins. Ralegh granted him a smile, which the boy returned with an expression equally fraught with terror and delight.

Ralegh tilted his head back and scanned the houses on either side. Most of the windows were shuttered and the few that were open were empty. He turned full circle, plumes dancing as his gaze traveled up to the rooflines and down to the dirt. As he turned back to the coroner, Tom caught a flutter of motion inside a window on the first floor of the house just beyond the protected section.

Ralegh returned his attention to the coroner. "There doesn't seem to be anything useful to see here." He nodded toward Tom. "These lads say they were pupils of the dead man. They may know something."

Stephen stepped up. "By your leave, Captain Ralegh, we know very little, but that little I am most willing to impart. I pray you'll allow me to present myself. I am Lord Stephen Delabere, eldest son of the Earl of Dorchester. I first met Mr. Smythson in September, upon entering Gray's Inn, the which Society I joined to learn something of the law. Not that I intend to become a barrister. Naturally not! But to be a man of parts . . . I'm sure
you
understand."

Tom winced inwardly, recognizing the onset of a spate of Stephen-prattle. This could go on forever. He was seldom interrupted, thanks to his title, but no one actually listened.

He saw Ralegh's eyes glaze over and decided to investigate the glimpse of motion he'd caught in that upper-story window. Winking at Trumpet as he slipped past Ralegh's horse, he walked a few yards with his eyes on the ground, hands behind his back, pretending to look for tracks in the neatly raked dirt. Then he quickly spun about and looked up, straight into the face of an angel.

His heart turned over in his chest. He felt light-headed, weightless, as if his feet had come adrift from the earth. She wasn't really an angel, of course. He knew that with the scrap of his mind still capable of reason. An angel would float on a wisp of cloud or descend in a beam of light, not stand in an oak-framed window with a kerchief on her head.

She was without question the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Her face was smooth and pale as new ivory. Her hair shone like spun gold, so fair he knew that her deep-set eyes must be as blue as Indian sapphires. Her lips were as red as garnets, plump and full of sensual promise.

"
O, angela luminosa!
" Tom clasped his hands to his breast in a fervent gesture.

She frowned at him — an enchanting frown, the frown of an elfin queen. She waved a slender hand in an unambiguous gesture:
Go away!

Tom shot a glance toward the others to confirm that their view was blocked by Ralegh's horse. He smiled up at the angel and swept his flat black cap from his head, bending forward in a full court bow, right leg extended, toe pointed. He was glad now for the yellow silk stockings and the green velvet slippers, and even gladder that his legs were well shaped.

The angel frowned again but less severely. Her frown held a touch of melancholy. Perhaps she was lonely. He knew he could win her if he could find a way up to her room.

"Tom!" Trumpet called. "Where are you?"

The angel smiled down at him and Tom's breath caught in his throat. She shook her head, pressed a finger to her lips, and disappeared into the depths of her chamber.

Tom called to her again in a hoarse whisper. "
Revertere ad mi, Angela!
" Somehow Latin seemed appropriate for an angel.

Stephen, Ben, and Trumpet filed around Ralegh's horse. "Captain Ralegh wants us to hurry back to Gray's to inform the benchers of what has happened." The benchers were the committee of senior men who governed Gray's Inn. Stephen spoke with urgent determination, as though preparing to lay down his life for the mission. Tom doubted the sacrifice would be necessary since they had walked from Westminster to Gray's nearly every day for the past two and a half months without incident.

"What were you looking at?" Trumpet asked.

"I've seen an angel," Tom announced. "I'm in love."

"Oh, not again." Stephen groaned.

"How can you fall in love at the scene of a bloody murder?" Trumpet demanded.

Tom shrugged, grinning, helpless. "Love goes by haps. Cupid takes you where he will."

Ben rolled his eyes. "We'd best hurry,
Signor Amore
, if we're going to be the first ones home with the news."

Tom followed the others down the lane, his feet moving at their own direction, his mind filled with the image of his angel's pouty lips and deep-set eyes.

"Who would murder poor Mr. Smythson?" Trumpet asked.

"A thief," Stephen said. "Or a madman."

"I always liked him," Tom said, wrenching his thoughts back to earthly matters. "He was fair. He never tried to catch you out with tricky cases when he knew you were hungover." Smythson had been a decent tutor, firm yet patient, even with Stephen. Tom offered that thought as a silent prayer, hoping it would count in the man's favor when he faced his Maker.

CHAPTER 3

Francis Bacon entered the hall for dinner on Friday, his stomach roiling with a turbulent mix of anticipation, curiosity, and dread. Lord Burghley was joining the men of Gray's Inn to honor the late Tobias Smythson. Francis had not seen his powerful uncle since his banishment from court. He fully intended to take this opportunity to induce a favorable impression. Yet he wondered why his uncle was here. He hadn't come last month after Serjeant Oldthwaite had died peacefully in his bed. He should think his uncle would prefer to let Smythson's death by violence fade quietly into the past rather than draw attention to its rebuke of the government's ability to keep the streets safe.

Perhaps he meant to leverage men's fears of bodily harm to gain compliance with some new regulation. Or take the opportunity to issue some pronouncement from the queen about watchfulness and duty in these troublous times. That was the most likely explanation.

He hoped his uncle hadn't come to see for himself whether Francis was keeping his word and comporting himself correctly, repairing the rifts he'd inadvertently torn in the fabric of the Society. He was trying, genuinely trying. He didn't need to be monitored.

He braced himself for the crowded room ahead. He normally dined in his chambers, having received special permission from the bench on account of his delicate health. But he always felt a thrill of pride, a sense of ownership, on entering the building. His father had been instrumental in its remodeling. One entered at the bottom of the long hall. Passing through the screen, one's eyes and spirits rose to the soaring hammerbeam roof. Stained-glass windows graced the upper walls on all four sides, admitting enough light, even on a dismal day like today, to obviate the need for candles at the midday meal. Many panes displayed the coat of arms of distinguished members of the Society.

Francis always glanced toward the Bacon arms. The family motto was
mediocria firma
: moderate things are surest. The message helped to ground him when his ebullient imagination went spiraling up into the clouds.

The motto and seal had been chosen by his pragmatic father, Nicholas Bacon, who had died unexpectedly after falling asleep by an open window after a heavy meal. Francis had been recalled from his educational sojourn in the French ambassador's household to find himself fatherless and penniless, his mother battling like fury against his elder stepbrothers over the will. The future he had been anticipating crumbled to ashes like a burnt letter. He had always believed he would join his father in due course as a sort of privy clerk, learning to handle the reins of government at firsthand. His cousin Robert Cecil was being groomed in just that way by Lord Burghley.

After his father's death, he'd hoped at least to be granted some modest post, as clerk in one of the lesser courts, for example. That would be suitable at this stage. He didn't expect to rise all on a sudden, by sheer force of personality. He was no Ralegh. He would have to work his way up. But a young man needed a father to place his feet on the rungs before he could start to climb. In his clumsy efforts to raise himself, he had offended the queen and his lord uncle, so they had taken the ladder away altogether. He might as well have been exiled to the Baltic lands.

Men's voices filled the hall like the roar of the surf on a rocky coast. Francis found it both soporific and mildly alarming, as if his mind were being dulled when he most needed to have his wits about him. He walked between the long tables where the students and junior barristers sat, skirting the round hearth in the center of the room. The tables were full already. He was late.

Two tables stood at the far end of the hall, perpendicular to the rest. The lower one was reserved for the Grand Company of Ancients — the senior barristers. This was where Francis sat. The upper table, raised on a dais, was for the benchers, the dozen or so gentlemen who governed the Society.

Francis's feet slowed as he scanned the benchers' table. His uncle was seated already; that was unfortunate. Francis had meant to arrive first and be found sitting at his ease among the other ancients, flourishing in his professional setting. Spiteful gossip, provoked by his rapid rise through the ranks at Gray's, had reached the court and contributed to the controversy that had gotten him banned. Lord Burghley had summoned Francis to his office and advised him to amend his manners and learn how better to ingratiate himself with his fellow Graysians.

Francis shuddered, remembering that humiliating interview. He'd felt like a schoolboy. He could only be grateful that he hadn't been obliged to lower his hose for a caning. If only His Lordship could have entered the hall to find him laughing, engaged in some lively discussion with his messmates, visibly a welcome dinner companion . . .

He'd spoiled that chance by arriving late.

Ah, well.
Non nocet.
He could explain that he had been studying and lost track of the time, which was the simple truth. Nothing need be said about having fallen asleep in the middle of the morning.

Francis hesitated as he approached his table. Should he walk up to the dais to greet his uncle privately, or simply bow — a half bow? — and take his seat? Navigating the subtle shoals of etiquette was agonizing. Too much, and one risked scorn for obsequiousness; too little, and one caused offense.

He caught his uncle's eye and ventured a smile. Burghley crooked his fingers, gesturing him forward. Francis's heart leapt. Perhaps the queen had relented and decided that a sufficient term of punishment had elapsed. Certainly, he'd learned his lesson. He was quite ready to reform.

He flashed a grin at his messmates as he passed them, lightly leaping up the step to the dais. He nodded greetings to the seated benchers as he walked around to stand behind his uncle in the center seat.

"My Lord Burghley." Francis bowed from the waist. "How fares my gracious uncle on this day?"

"Good afternoon, Nephew." William Cecil acknowledged the bow with a tilt of his head.

He'd said "nephew" instead of calling him by name. Did he mean to emphasize the family relationship, here, in the presence of the benchers? That would be an aid to him, a friendly gesture, reminding them of his close connection to the highest levels. After his father died, Francis had hoped that his uncle would step in and take a father's role in helping him forward.

His hopes had foundered. True, his uncle had helped him to pass the bar early and win a provisional, non-voting seat on the bench. He'd been advanced well ahead of his peers. But his uncle seemed determined to keep him boxed up at Gray's Inn. Francis knew where the problem lay: Burghley feared competition for his son. If Francis were allowed full scope for his abilities, he might surpass his younger cousin. That could never be allowed.

Francis suppressed his nervous excitement. Over-eagerness was one of the charges against him. They exchanged a few words of trivial family news. The horn blew to announce the first remove. Before he could slip back to his seat, Burghley caught his sleeve. Francis bent to hear the murmured instructions: "I'd like a private word before I leave."

"As you wish, my lord."

Francis took his customary seat, girding himself for some chaffing. His messmates were George Humphries, who sat on his right; James Shiveley, directly across; and Nathaniel Welbeck, seated on James's left. Welbeck and Humphries had been among those who'd grumbled loudest about his early advancement. Arrogance, abuse of privileges, unsociability: these charges had added fuel to the conflagration of his schemes at court. Their hostility was one of the reasons he preferred to exercise his new privileges and dine in his chambers.             

Welbeck's dark eyes glittered with derision as he said, "Bacon, what a pleasant surprise! You ought to have given us some warning. Poor Humphries will have to tighten his belt without your portion to fill out his plate."

Humphries frowned in embarrassment. An unfortunate expression: it drew down his wiry eyebrows, which, given the tufts of hair in his pointed ears, gave his face a goatish expression. The homely fellow was no match for Welbeck's teasing. Perhaps that was why he could usually be found one step behind, snickering and adding a jab or two of his own.

Welbeck wasn't finished. "Perhaps not altogether a surprise, though, eh?" He cast a meaningful glance toward Lord Burghley then leaned forward to whisper conspiratorially. "Mustn't let the old man think we're slacking. Hiding in our chambers, snacking from a tray." He wagged an admonitory finger. "Won't do, won't do."

Francis refused to be goaded. He was determined to show his uncle that he could live harmoniously with his fellows in spite of all that had passed. He merely said, "Naturally, I wished to join the Society in honoring Tobias Smythson. This is a solemn occasion."

James Shiveley said, "Solemn, indeed. Poor Smythson. May God preserve him. I suppose that's why your uncle's here. I had no idea Smythson was so well connected." Shiveley had a tonsure of red hair and a freckled complexion that gave him a trustworthy mien.

"Nor had I," Francis admitted. "Although some of his clients had affairs that reached into high places."

"Sir Amias Rolleston." Welbeck nodded sagely. Sir Amias was as litigious as he was wealthy. He'd employed Smythson as chief counsel for his endless series of property suits.

Humphries leaned forward and hissed across the table. "I hear he's suing Lady Rich for unrecovered debts."

"Is he?" Francis was impressed.
Née
Penelope Devereux, Lady Rich was the sister of the Earl of Essex and the wife of one of England's wealthiest men. "I had no idea Rolleston's affairs extended into such lofty circles."

"You see, Bacon," Welbeck said, "one learns many things when one troubles oneself to dine in commons." He tore a piece from his loaf of bread and chewed it as if displaying his masticatory prowess. Welbeck was handsome in spite of a long, spondulate nose. He had a convivial manner that drew men — especially shallow, striving men — into his circle. Francis found him irritating beyond tolerance but was determined to repress that reaction in public.

"I had a most interesting conversation with Sir Amias at Westminster this morning." Shiveley treated his messmates to a satisfied smirk.

"You did what?" Welbeck glared at him. "You poacher!"

Humphries shook his head, jowls wobbling. "It's too soon! It's unseemly! It's not fair! Smythson hasn't even been buried."

Shiveley shrugged, unchastened. "I could hardly refuse to speak with the man. Sir Amias has so many suits in play he can scarce afford a period of mourning for his counselor. He needs constant, ready,
expert
advice." That last was delivered with a pointed glare at Humphries, who frowned at the slight to his abilities.

Francis thought Shiveley was stooping to bait a man whose gifts were so limited. But neither had he any sympathy for Humphries. A man should know his own worth: his weaknesses as well as his strengths. Humphries was one of the more marginal members of Gray's Inn. He dined in commons every day, thereby maintaining his place in the Society, but his cases were limited to minor disputes among tradesmen. He had barely squeaked past the bar and more nearly resembled a pettifogging attorney than an ancient of Gray's.

"Did he choose you to replace Smythson?" Humphries asked, a tremble in his voice.

Shiveley deflected the question with a flick of his fingers. "We found ourselves much in agreement."

Welbeck's retort was mercifully forestalled by the appearance of the servers. The discussion of Rolleston's affairs ceased as dishes of green pottage, eggs in mustard, conger eels in souse, and turbot pie were set upon the table. The men served themselves with the economy of interaction engendered by long familiarity.

They ate in silence for a while. Francis picked at his pie, eschewing the eel altogether. His stomach was jumpy with the tension of his uncle's request for a private conversation. What could he want from him? Would it be good news or bad?

He was startled from his thoughts by Shiveley's voice. "What are you reading, Bacon?" His messmate nodded at the book beside his plate.

Francis briefly laid a hand on the leather cover. Why had he brought it? He wouldn't dream of reading through the meal in his uncle's presence. "It's a new work by Giambattista Della Porta, the Italian polymath. A treatise on natural magic." He shrugged as if reading obscure scientific works were as commonplace as playing at bowls.

Francis savored the look of incomprehension on Welbeck's face for a moment then realized that he'd left Shiveley blinking like a cornered hare. He should have lied and mentioned another author — Seneca, Rabelais — anything that would stimulate conversation instead of killing it dead. Another social misstep. He'd cut Shiveley's friendly gesture short.

Welbeck gamely picked up the thread. "Isn't that a little
catholic
for your tastes, Bacon? Or are you planning to use magic to rationalize the whole of the English common law?"

Humphries tittered.

Francis forced his lips into a bland smile. "
Scientia est potentia
: knowledge is power."

"Doesn't seem to work that way for you, though, does it?" Welbeck smiled nastily. He'd won that round. Francis only hoped his uncle hadn't been watching.

The dishes from the final course were removed and the cloth withdrawn. Francis felt somewhat overstuffed. The savor of the too-sharp mustard sauce lingered unwholesomely in his gastric passages. He always ate too much in hall. He'd pay for this indulgence with a restless night.