Murder by Misrule: A Francis Bacon Mystery (The Francis Bacon Mystery Series Book 1) (25 page)

CHAPTER 41

Ben ushered Tom and Trumpet into Bacon's chambers. Not being burdened by an unconscious man this time, Tom was able to appreciate the furnishings.
Appreciate
was too small a word: he goggled at the luxury. Francis Bacon lived like a young prince in the privacy of his rooms. His father had denied himself nothing when he built and furnished this house. Let others live in plain chambers; the sons of the late Lord Keeper merited more.

The study chamber was well supplied with natural light, having windows on both the east and the south. Silver candlesticks held expensive beeswax candles. Tall shelves bore stack after stack of books in oiled leather or velvet bindings, more books than Tom had ever seen in one place. Between the shelves hung silken tapestries illustrating Biblical themes. Well-waxed cupboards, carved with exquisite artistry, displayed silver plate and goblets of Italian glass. Tasseled scarlet draped the high frame of a narrow bed set against the inner wall. Woven mats, like the ones at Whitehall, lay upon the polished floor. Even the high-backed chair at the desk was enhanced with a plump satin pillow.

The inner chamber was dominated by an enormous bed, large enough for four grown men and hung with velvet in sumptuous red, embroidered with threads of gold. The posts and tester were densely carved with fruits and flowers. Curtains of scarlet were drawn across the windows to keep the room from being too bright for a convalescent man. Tom smelled rose oil and vinegar and pungent medicines.

Bacon lay in the center of the bed, propped to a seated position on a bank of feather pillows. He seemed much better after a night's sleep. Color bloomed in his cheeks and his eyes had regained their penetrating quality. He was dressed in a high-collared shirt of snowy linen with a shawl of fringed scarlet draped about his shoulders. A broidered linen cap was firmly tied under his chin, framed by strands of hair that gleamed with cleanliness. Ben must have washed it for him.

Faithful Ben sat beside the bed on the stool where they'd left him the day before. He had the writing desk at his feet. Next to him stood a small table holding a jumble of vials, cups, bottles, and napkins. He looked as snug and content in his everyday garb and soft slippers as he did by the hearth in their own chambers. He raised his eyebrows at Tom by way of a greeting.

Tom grinned at him. He liked to see his friends happy. Intramasculine
amores
were no astonishment to the son of a sea captain. As long as they kept themselves to themselves and didn't play favorites, there was no need for any fuss.

"What news from Newgate?" Bacon asked.

Tom offered a short bow. "Limner Goossens is bearing up as well as can be expected."

Trumpet pressed his lips together, as if biting back some retort. Good. Whatever it was, Tom didn't want to hear it.

Bacon's quick gaze caught the byplay. "Has she evidence that can help us?"

"I am certain that she does, sir," Tom said. "But —"

"I'm not," Trumpet interrupted. "I think she's playing you like a big, fat fish."

"She is not! She could never be so underhanded." Trumpet rolled his eyes and opened his mouth to reply, but Tom glared him down. He appealed to Bacon. "She's afraid; how could she not be? She was assaulted by her cellmates and only narrowly escaped poisoning."

Bacon was gratifyingly shocked, as was Ben. Tom told them about the basket of poisoned foodstuffs, delivered soon after Clara's imprisonment. Had she been alone or with cellmates who weren't bullying thieves, she would be dead.

"She's frightened and she isn't sure she can trust me," Tom said. "I don't blame her. She believes that all she has to bargain for her freedom is whatever she saw that day. She won't tell me until I get her out."

Bacon said, "Three murders and two more attempted in almost the same hour. We must have her evidence, Clarady."

"I'll get it. I promise. I promised her too, and I keep my promises." Tom was tired of being pecked and pulled at by temperish creatures, like a lump of suet hung in a birdcage. He caught Bacon's eyes and held them until the other man blinked.

Ben said, a trifle sharply, "It's a simple enough question, Tom."

Tom swallowed a growl of frustration. They didn't understand: nothing was simple with Clara. Even as he stood in Bacon's elegant bedchamber, he could taste her mouth, smell her hair, and feel the shape of her breasts under his palms. His senses were possessed by her weight and scent and silken touch, and yet there was more to her than beauty. She was complicated. He couldn't just ask.

Bacon said, "You might remind her that she's safer out of Newgate than in."

Tom shrugged. Even he had managed to think of that obvious argument.

Bacon smiled, oblivious to Tom's ill-balanced humors. "I have been busy as well. I've been thinking. I still cannot remember who pushed me, or even if I was, in fact, pushed. Though I believe at this point that we can stipulate a push. I am fairly certain it was someone I know. A Gray's man. Therefore, most decidedly not a Spaniard or a Frenchman or an invisible Jesuit."

His eyes twinkled. Was Tom supposed to laugh? He was being treated like a simpleton. He held his face calm, as if he was merely awaiting a reading assignment.

Bacon went on, "I've been pondering the question of what I have in common with Tobias Smythson, James Shiveley, and the Fleming." He frowned. "Do we know the man's name?"

"Caspar Von Ruppa," Tom said.

"You managed to learn that much from the limner, at least."

Tom bit back a retort. Why bother? He'd only earn another scolding from Ben.

Bacon said, "Smythson, Shiveley, and I are, or were, ancients of Gray's Inn. Von Ruppa was a stranger. Smythson and Von Ruppa were stabbed; Shiveley and I were pushed down stairs. Smythson and Von Ruppa were killed out of doors. Their deaths may have been incited by some feature of the moment, such as an argument. But the killer lurked, waiting, on my staircase and on that of James Shiveley. Those two acts were planned."

"Francis." Ben reached for his hand.

Bacon shook his head. "I'm all right. Thanks to you all. I owe you gentlemen my life."

He included Tom and Trumpet in a smile of gratitude that mollified Tom's ruffled feelings somewhat. It wasn't Bacon's fault that his life was lately overstocked with emotional turmoils. His angel was in gaol. His best friend had turned into a girl. His mentor was in love with his tutor, who was one of the most infuriating and brilliant personages he had ever met.

Bacon continued his summation. "Although this requires some speculation, we may assert the proposition that Shiveley was murdered. We are led to this assertion because the Fleming was killed, presumably by the Catholic conspirator who received and removed his pamphlets. The Fleming could not have been killed by Shiveley; therefore, Shiveley was not the conspirator. So why was he killed?"

"Mr. Bacon?" Trumpet sounded very young, and to Tom's ears, very girlish. No one else noticed. "I think my uncle killed the Fleming."

"Welbeck? Did he?" Bacon's gaze turned inward for a moment. "Is he our conspirator?"

"Yes, sir."

"You knew this before?"

Trumpet shrugged. "He's my uncle."

"So he is." Bacon accepted that excuse without further question, to Tom's relief. He was on tenterhooks every time Bacon's attention turned toward Trumpet. How could anyone believe that winsome moppet was a boy?

Bacon asked, "How certain are you?"

Trumpet shrugged. "Certain enough. I found a pair of bloody cuffs. He didn't come home Saturday night. When I woke up Sunday morning, his things were gone, his saddlebags with most of his clothes and money. His horse is gone too. I checked the stables."

"And there's this." Tom took the clay mold from his purse and handed it to Ben, who passed it to Bacon. "I found a set of these inside a hollowed-out almanac."

Bacon clucked his tongue. "Waste of a good book." He turned the disk in his long fingers, examining it carefully. "Fascinating. Do you have a shilling piece handy, perchance?"

Tom found one and gave it to him. Trumpet drew a false coin from his purse and passed it over as well.

"Fascinating." Bacon laid the three items on the coverlet to compare them. He tried each shilling in the mold, testing the fit. "Well crafted." He passed the three pieces to Ben, who tucked them into his writing desk, apparently assuming they were to be kept as evidence. Tom frowned at the loss of his shilling.

"The Fleming's death is accounted for, then," Ben said.

"My uncle is a murderer." Trumpet sounded forlorn.

Bacon's brow furrowed. "There are degrees, recognized even in the law. The Fleming may have objected to his payment. He might have seen that the coins were false. He was a large man, strong and threatening. Welbeck may have been defending himself."

Trumpet looked somewhat comforted. "I don't think he killed Mr. Smythson, though."

"Why not?" Bacon asked.

Trumpet explained about his uncle's demonstrations of grief and anger over the failure to bring Smythson's killer to justice. "Why bother?" he concluded. "If it was just me."

"Hm," Bacon said. "Slender evidence. Yet I'm inclined to agree with you. It doesn't fit. The crypto-Catholicism and its corollaries do fit. Nathaniel Welbeck was a man who enjoyed learning other men's secrets and playing roles, like an actor on a stage. Receiving contraband from abroad, counterfeiting: these would have seemed clever games to him. He would relish conducting such business under the noses of his fellow Graysians. The thrill of danger was sufficient motivation. He had, I believe, no real desire to unthrone our queen." He held Trumpet's gaze. "I do not believe your uncle poses any genuine threat to the state. However, Lord Burghley will have to be informed of his involvement here. It will not be safe for him to return to London for some time."

Trumpet nodded.

"In his defense," Bacon said, "consider this: the moment his exposure became imminent, he fled. A man of masks, he chose to hide himself. He did not kill again to prevent discovery. He might have murdered you, for example." He smiled cheerfully at Trumpet, who looked thunderstruck by the idea.

Bacon continued to explore his new theory aloud. "If he were planning to abscond, why linger to have the limner arrested? And why send her that basket? Why loiter at Gray's, waiting for me to rise so he could push me down the stairs? If Welbeck had learned that Smythson was aware of his seditious activities, I believe he would simply have vanished earlier. He would not have followed him to the tiltyard to murder him so near the crowds at the tournament. Nor can I imagine Smythson confronting him in such a location and provoking him into a rage. That part makes no sense to me."

He fell silent. He turned his gaze to the coverlet, his eyes roaming sightlessly across its surface while he thought. Tom could almost hear the joiner's felted mallets tapping as pieces of marquetry snicked into place in his mind.

The lads made faces at one another.
What now?
None had any ideas to put forward even if any had the nerve to interrupt Bacon while he was thinking.

They didn't have to wait long. Bacon began nodding his head. Soon a slight smile appeared on his lips. Another moment passed and then he raised his eyes. "I've been looking at the problem of Smythson's murder from the wrong perspective. I was distracted by my lord uncle's suggestion that a Catholic conspiracy was the cause. Although —" He broke off with a chuckle, his light eyes dancing. "Without the Catholic business, I would never have been charged with this investigation. That was a bit of bad luck for our killer."

Ben said, "You were bound to discover him."

Bacon shot him a fond glance. "I was. Eventually. Two threads have been tangled together here from the start: Welbeck's dramatic machinations and Smythson's murder. We have teased out the first thread. Now we can examine the second.

"Then you think someone killed Smythson on purpose," Tom said. "But why?"

Bacon held up a finger. "
A contrario
. I am now convinced that Smythson's death was an accident."

"He was stabbed more than a dozen times!" Trumpet cried. "How could that possibly be an accident?"

"It was an accident in the sense that it was unplanned," Bacon said. "The excessive violence suggested frenzied rage or panic, arguing against a case of simple theft. I failed to ask myself why a murder committed to prevent the discovery of a Catholic conspiracy would require such violence. Surely it would have been planned and a less histrionic method employed? And a more private locale. I ignored that odd detail when I should have given it my full attention on the grounds that it was so odd."

"We couldn't imagine how Mr. Smythson could inspire anyone to a frenzy," Tom said.

"You couldn't," Bacon said with a touch of his old hauteur, "but I should have. Especially after we discovered that a frightening menace, one that might inspire panic, was prowling those lanes south of Whitehall at the critical juncture: the Wild Men from the Earl of Essex's pageant."

"Those costumes were fairly hideous," Ben said.

"And we know they were chasing someone," Trumpet added.

"And they were cup-shot, according to their friends." Tom wouldn't care to meet one of those burly retainers, lion-drunk and looking for trouble, in those shadowy alleys, even without the fearsome costumes.