Murder by Misrule: A Francis Bacon Mystery (The Francis Bacon Mystery Series Book 1) (28 page)

Treasurer Fogg sat arm in arm with Lady Penelope Rich, gossiping comfortably. They had obviously reached an accord concerning her debts to Sir Amias Rolleston. Francis suspected the old gentleman would have to wait a long time to be repaid, but he wasn't surprised that Fogg had sacrificed his client's interests to curry favor with the lady.

Their current accord changed nothing. At the time the murders were committed, Fogg's ambitions confronted seemingly insurmountable obstacles. That he had now scaled those ramparts in nowise altered the past.

George Humphries sat with the other ancients, cheeks flushed with wine and excitement. He looked like a pettifogger, dressed in old-fashioned slops. Francis almost felt sympathy for the man's obstructed life. Almost. If Humphries was the man who had performed these heinous deeds, he deserved to hang, however pathetic his history and his wardrobe.

***

More thundering applause startled Francis from his thoughts. Thomas Campion stood, bowed, and walked off the stage. He was engulfed by a bevy of young women.

The time had come.

Gray's men shifted the props and scenery for the masque onto the stage. A sneeze could bring the whole thing down, but it looked well enough from a distance. It wouldn't do for it to be too professional; they were gentlemen after all, not players.

Cornets rang out, commanding everyone's attention.

"Your moment has arrived, Mr. Bacon," the queen said. "Now we'll see how well you plot."

A tree made of painted pasteboard revolved on rollers hidden under its leafy stand. As it rotated around, Lord Stephen was revealed, standing with one ankle crossed over the other. He was still clad in shades of green but now had a short parti-colored cloak hung from one shoulder and a pair of pistols stuck in his belt. Francis was startled by that last touch. Where had he gotten pistols? From the privateer's son, no doubt. Trust Clarady to produce such a dangerous and unnecessary embellishment.

"I am the law-lorn Prince of Purpoole, a kingdom without law." Delabere recited his lines in a clear, carrying voice.

Ralegh leaned toward the queen, speaking familiarly across her lap. "Why does our law-lorn prince need to be so well armed, Mr. Bacon?"

"To symbolize lawlessness, of course," Essex responded.

Francis shrugged and shot a sly glance at the queen. "It can be difficult to prevent one's lieutenants from improvising in the field."

Queen Elizabeth laughed aloud and then covered her mouth with her hand as poor Lord Stephen was startled from his speech. She waved at him to continue.

He delivered a few stanzas explaining to the assembly how he had come to disdain the law and its practitioners. The law is cruel and unfeeling. No man may trust in it. Francis heard no snickering and saw no open yawns. The conceit appeared to be mildly amusing even to this jaded audience.

Mr. Trumpington, dressed as a woodland courtier in russet and spruce, strode onto the stage, accompanied by two others similarly arrayed.

The prince addressed him. "Tell me, Baron Scoffington, do you know how many lawyers are wanted to light a lanthorn?"

"Why, none, Your Grace, since the aim of a lawyer is to obscure rather than to bring light."

The audience laughed.

"I mean, how many must be engaged?"

Baron Scoffington shrugged. "How many coins have you?"

More laughter. Francis knew that signaled that the general mood was happy rather than that his jokes were clever, but he was satisfied nevertheless.

"But how many are needed to execute the action?"

Before the baron could answer, several Wild Men dashed in from a side entrance. "Lawyers are trespassing in our woods!" the one in front cried. Francis recognized Benjamin Whitt under the shaggy croppings of moss and twigs, and grinned. His friend's physique was more robust than one would imagine from his ordinary mode of dress. The Wild Man stalking beside him, growling fiercely, was probably Thomas Clarady, though his face was barely discernible under the layers of forest materials.

Soon the cry was general: "Lawyers! Alack! Alarm! Lawyers in the Kingdom of Purpoole!"

A bass drum rolled thunder through the hall as sheets of silver-white lightning — made of sheerest silk — streaked over the stage. The clumps of yew placed around the edge of the stage were shaken vigorously by their yew-colored bearers.

Many in the audience gasped. The mood darkened. Francis stole a glance at the queen. She was smiling. Good.

The Wild Men prowled about the audience, peering into faces. Wild Man Whitt loomed over Treasurer Fogg, growling and shaking his twiggy head.

Fogg shrank back, raising his hands in mock fear. "Oh, spare me, Dread Savage! I mean you no harm! I merely wandered into your kingdom by chance, pursuing this fair lady."

Whitt bowed to the lady. "See you advance no further into our realm, Counselor."

Lady Rich swatted him with her fan and he flinched and slunk away.

Francis could find no fault with Whitt's performance, but he wasn't happy with the result. Fogg had showed no signs of fear or animosity toward the Wild Man; but then, he wasn't the querulous type. Perhaps if the man had been seated alone and if two of the Wild Men had confronted him simultaneously? Now the moment had passed. What a stupid idea this was!

The third Wild Man lunged, roaring, toward Thomas Hughes, who had volunteered for the role. Hughes shrieked in terror, provoking echoing screams from some of the ladies in the audience. Francis felt a shiver run up his spine and was pleased at the effectiveness of this bit of stagecraft.

Now Whitt and Clarady were prancing along the edges of the audience, chanting, "Here, lawyer, lawyer." Francis had acquired that bit of dialogue from the earl's secretary, who remembered it as a feature of the retainers' story. Their tone was menacing. One could have no doubt of their violent intentions should they succeed in capturing their prey.

A shivery silence fell upon the audience. Francis saw faces drawn with tension as the tall youths stalked the hall, stooping and rumbling and baring their teeth. Clarady thrust his hands toward one of the ancients, making snatching motions. The man shrank back until he pressed against the knees of the man behind him.

Clarady twisted suddenly and bent nearly double to snarl into Humphries's ashen face. "
I've got a bone to pick with you, Counselor.
"

The drum pounded out an ominous roll. Humphries shrieked and sprang to his feet, pushing feebly at Clarady, who laughingly let him escape. Humphries quickly found himself surrounded by leering Wild Men, passing him from one to the other, chanting, "Here, lawyer, lawyer."

The audience laughed in relief from the tension. Someone called out, "Lawyer-baiting: a new sport for the Southwark stews." "Cheaper to feed than bears!" another voice cried, and the laughter rose to the painted stars high overhead.

But Humphries didn't hear them. His face was slack with panic as he tottered from one side of the stage to the other, vainly seeking a gap between his tormentors.

Clarady leapt out from behind Lord Stephen's tree and placed himself directly in front of Humphries. He reached behind him— for a knife? Francis felt a stab of sharp anxiety. He wanted no actual violence here in the Banqueting Hall. But no, what Clarady drew forth was a roll of paper, such as artists use for sketching. He unrolled it in a swift motion and held it before the eyes of the trembling barrister.

The effect was breathtaking. Humphries gasped and stopped so abruptly he rocked back on his heels. He stood panting and shaking his head. Clarady stepped to the edge of the stage to display the sketch to the audience. Everyone gasped as though on a single indrawn breath. Francis was as shocked as the rest. Why hadn't Clarady shown him the sketch earlier?

"Bring that to me," the queen commanded in a carrying voice.

Francis trotted down the aisle and accepted the sketch from Clarady with a severe frown, getting only a self-satisfied flick of the eyebrows in response. Perhaps he had been a trifle demanding, perhaps even a little brusque toward the lad in the past week. If so, he had now been paid in full.

He studied the drawing as he quick-stepped back to the throne. The limner had a superlative talent. She had caught Humphries in a moment of exaltation, kneeling over Smythson's blood-smeared body with his knife still wet in his hand.

As he handed the sketch to the queen with a bow, shouts from the stage drew his attention. "I didn't mean to!" Humphries cried. The Wild Men hemmed him in. "I'm not responsible! He should have helped me instead of blocking my way. It was an accident, I tell you!"

"Was Mr. Shiveley an accident?" Whitt's baritone voice rumbled like the voice of doom itself.

"They chose him instead of me. It wasn't fair! He had everything; I had nothing. Why should he be so favored?"

Humphries skittered toward the edge of the stage and then skipped back from the hissing audience. Clarady and Lord Stephen moved together to flank him. Lord Stephen reached toward him. Humphries jerked away, eyes wild. He dodged under Lord Stephen's arm and snatched a pistol from his belt.

"Look out!"

"He has a gun!"

Screams and shouts erupted from near the stage, traveling back in a wave, as those seated in front jumped to their feet and collided with those behind them. The panicking courtiers were hampered by their oversized ruffs and farthingales. Francis saw a roiling sea of silks and velvets falling from the risers, scrambling into the aisles, crowding against the wall. A pair of courtiers swung their fists at two of the Wild Men, who turned to defend themselves.

Humphries stumbled about on the stage alone, waving the pistol wildly over his head.

"Grab him!"

"Get that weapon!"

A shot boomed, echoing through the hall. Francis felt hotness streak past his cheek. He clutched his chest to support his faltering heart.

"'Ware the queen!"

Ralegh and Essex ran into each other in their haste to protect the queen, knocking Francis right into her lap. Essex dragged him to his feet and shoved him aside while Ralegh scooped the queen into his arms to carry her out of the hall.

"Mr. Bacon," she said over Ralegh's shoulder, "do not expect an invitation to dinner on New Year's Day."

Francis closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose.

CHAPTER 45

Monday morning, Tom, Ben, and Trumpet went out to the fields to practice shooting at the straw butts in the hollow out of sight of the Inn. The day was cold and overcast, and most of Gray's men stayed snugged up in their rooms, but the lads had had few chances for private talk since Christmas Eve, what with their various Misrule duties and the omnipresence of Prattling Prince Stephen at meals.

Trumpet spread a blanket on the ground, and Tom laid out his pistols, a bag of powder, a sack of balls, the cleaning rag and rod, and a bottle of oil. He and Trumpet each took a pistol and began to prepare them for firing.

"What's to become of Mr. Humphries?" Tom asked Ben.

Ben had gone with Mr. Bacon to the Tower, where Humphries had been taken direct from Whitehall. They'd assisted the sheriff in eliciting a full confession of his crimes, including his attempt to poison Clara.

"Once he started talking," Ben said, "I could scarcely write fast enough to keep up. Frank says it's the release of the pressure of secrecy. He's seen it before. He says it's like a dam bursting. Villains often long to confess, to alleviate the torment that preys upon their minds."

"They know they're about to face their final judgment," Tom said. "They want to spare themselves an eternity in hell."

Ben nodded. "He'll face his trial at the start of Hilary Term. There's no doubt about the verdict: guilty on all counts. They found Shiveley's keys hidden at the bottom of his chest along with a stock of counterfeit coins."

"Now he can dance the hempen jig alongside the Queen of Scots," Tom said.

"Don't be silly," Trumpet said. "Queens don't hang. She'll have her head cut off in the Tower yard, once Her Majesty makes her mind up to do the deed." She took careful aim, holding the pistol in her right hand, arm fully extended. She didn't seem to notice that the tip of the muzzle was wobbling.

Tom was getting used to switching pronouns when thinking about Trumpet. In public, she was he. In private, he was she. They'd let Ben in on the secret as they'd walked home from Whitehall after the excitement on Christmas Eve. So much had happened that evening, this fresh revelation barely earned a grunt of surprise.

Trumpet's shot missed the butt entirely. "It's this blighted pistol." She frowned into the barrel.

"No, it's you." Tom took the pistol from her and reloaded it. "It's too heavy for you. The barrel wobbles and you twitch your wrist before you pull the trigger. Try using both hands."

He gave it back to her then cupped her left hand under her right to support the wrist. His hands were half again as large as hers. The difference pleased him for no reason. "Try that."

She stood with her left foot forward this time and fired again. She was still wide of the mark, but the bullet raised a tuft of straw from the outer corner of the butt. She growled like a kitten and then asked, "How's
Clah-rah
?" She'd taken to overpronouncing the name in a pseudo-imitation of Stephen. Tom smelled jealousy, which pleased and alarmed him in a discomfiting mix. Things had been simpler when Trumpet had been only a boy.

Ben picked up the other pistol. He made sure the pan cover was shut and the dog pulled back, then took aim and fired. "This one definitely pulls to the right."

"Ha," Trumpet said.

Tom took the pistol from Ben, grateful for the distraction, and began to clean it. He was still sorting out his feelings in this area. "Clara is well. Or she was when I handed her into Lady Nottingham's carriage yesterday."

Clara's fears about losing her livelihood had proved groundless. Far from ruining her reputation, the talent displayed in her sketch and her intimate role in so thrilling a tale made her the most sought-after ornament of the season. After a hissing scuffle in the Banqueting Hall, the queen's friend Catherine Carey, Countess of Nottingham, had borne away the prize. Clara would spend the next month on her estate in Surrey painting miniature portraits of everyone within half a day's ride. She'd earn enough in that month to keep her for a year.

Trumpet sniffed. "By now she's found six new things to worry about. Will they despise her? Will they make fun of her accent? Will they drum her into the forest to be devoured by wolves?"

Ben chuckled. "She did seem rather inclined toward melancholic distress."

"She's a pick-fault," Trumpet said. "A blister. A harpy. Admit it."

"She's beautiful," Tom answered. "I love her madly." He winced as he heard the hollowness in his words.

Trumpet and Ben grinned at each other. "Such conviction," Trumpet said.

"Such devotion," Ben added.

"All right." Tom surrendered. "But she really is beautiful."

"That point was never in dispute." Ben took Trumpet's pistol and started cleaning it. He cast a sidelong glance at Tom. "How did your meeting go? With Frank and his lord uncle?" His brow was creased with worry. Time to let him off the hook.

Francis Bacon had netted Tom right and proper. He suspected Ben had helped him weave that net. Tom had been surprised by the proposal and a bit disgruntled by the conspiring behind his back, but all in all, he wasn't unhappy about the new arrangement.

Lord Burghley had received disturbing news from Cambridge that zealous Presbyterians were planning to hold a secret synod under the cover of commencement in July. His informant warned of plans for overt and possibly violent rebellion against the established Church. His Lordship needed a spy to worm his way into their confidence and identify the chief conspirators. Bacon had recommended Tom for the job. His payment would be continuance at Gray's Inn, guaranteed by a letter from Lord Burghley himself. Not even Stephen's father could undermine that support. He would finish the requirements for his bachelor's degree while he was at it, further bolstering his position.

"Frank was persuasive." Tom shot Trumpet a wry grin. "As per usual."

Ben blew out a sigh of relief. Tom clapped him on the shoulder and looked him square in the eye. "I'm happy. Honestly. It'll be fun, spying on the godly."

Ben scoffed. "I hardly —"

"Relax,
camerade
. I like investigating. It's lively and you meet all sorts of people. I've decided to become a barrister intelligencer, in special service to the queen. Someday. And this deal solves my main worry: that Stephen would get me expelled from Gray's out of spite."

"How was Frank?" Trumpet asked. "Whenever he mentions his uncle, he looks like a man with his breeches caught in a crack."

"I think he's on probation for something. He doesn't seem to be getting nearly as much out of this arrangement as I am. But you can't say no to the Lord Treasurer." Tom winked at Trumpet. "Think of the fun I'm going to have: weekly letters from dear old Frank, telling me what to think and where to shit and how to put my stockings on." They both laughed.

Ben shuddered. "Stop, stop!" He beetled his dark brows at them. "Call him Mr. Bacon, I beg you, even in your own minds. He wouldn't be happy knowing that you know that we — that he — that I've spoken to you about him in such familiar terms."

"We promise," Tom and Trumpet chorused with fingers crossed behind their backs. Ben groaned in frustration. It was his own fault. His every utterance had begun with
Frank says
for the past week. Even Tom had never been so besotted.

He was going to miss his friends badly, but he'd be twice damned if he would say it out loud. He took the second pistol from Trumpet, reloaded it, and extended his right arm. He sighted down the barrel and fired. The ball struck an inch to the right of the bull's eye.

Trumpet smirked at him. "See?"

"Huh." Tom squatted by the blanket and started a more thorough cleaning. There must be a bit of gunk stuck in the barrel. He glanced up at Trumpet. "What are
you
going to do, Lady Alice? With your uncle in hiding, you can't very well stay here."

"Can't I?" Trumpet grinned at Ben, who grinned broadly back. "With you running off to Cambridge, Mr. Whitt finds himself in need of a new chambermate."

"What! When was this little plot hatched?"

"This morning, while you were meeting with Mr. Bacon and Lord Burghley. I went up to your rooms to show you what Uncle Nat sent me and found Ben pacing back and forth like a caged bear. He told me about your meeting. He thought you'd accept the bargain, which would leave him without a chum to help him pay his rent. We decided to team up and solve both our problems at once.

"I don't approve of this arrangement," Tom said. "In fact, I forbid it."

"Excuse me?" Trumpet held a hand to her ear. "Did I hear a pig fart?"

Tom bristled, shaking his pistol at the obstreperous trollop. The said trollop stuck her tongue out at him.

"Children, please," Ben said. "You know she has nothing to fear from me."

"She's not the one I'm worried about. I warn you, Ben: she looks completely different wearing only a shirt with her hair hanging down to her waist."

"She's still the wrong shape," he said equably.

"You won't like our chambers," Tom said to Trumpet. "They're drafty and the floors squeak. And there's this smell —"

"We're not moving into your wretched old rooms," she said. "Uncle Nat feels sorry for leaving me in the lurch. I kept my end of the bargain after all. He sent me the lease to his chambers listing me as sub-tenant. Under the name of Allen Trumpington, of course. Ben's going to move in with me."

"Nice, big hearth," Ben said. "And the kitchen fire is always lit. I'll save a fortune on fuel."

"Hm." Tom frowned, pretending not to like it. "I suppose I'll have to allow it." Their solution was brilliant. It would keep Trumpet in London until he came back.

He reloaded the pistol and passed it to Trumpet. "Speaking of fortunes, are you going to be all right? Money-wise, I mean? You can't very well write to your father for an allowance."

"I'll be fine." She flicked him a grateful smile. "Uncle Nat sent me a purse too — of real coins, not false. And I have a necklace of my mother's I can sell if I'm pressed." She tried a new stance, right foot forward, and took aim at the butt. "I'm very resourceful."

Tom heard a world of loneliness under that simple remark. He caught Ben's eye; he'd heard it too. They nodded at each other. She was theirs now, and they would look out for her.

"Without me around, you'll do nothing but study," he scolded. "You'll grow fat and pale and weak from lack of exercise."

"We'll be formidable lawyers, though," Ben said.

"You won't last through Hilary Term," Tom said. "She's the most vexing, nerve-shredding, wit-rattling minx in all of Christendom."

"Why, thank you, kind sir." Trumpet's voice thrummed with that musical quality that got right up into Tom's midsection and played
glissandos
on his spine.

He growled deep in his throat.

She pursed her pink lips and blew him a kiss. She was playing him like a big, fat fish and loving every minute of it.

Tom was going to be vastly better off in Cambridge. A world of men dedicated to the life of the mind. A bracing challenge for his wits and a restorative vacation for his tangled feelings. No women; therefore, no trouble. He could hardly wait to leave. "Will you still be here when I come back?" He hated the plaintive note that crept in underneath.

"Don't worry." Trumpet adjusted her stance, facing the butt and balancing her weight on both feet. She supported her right hand with her left and sighted down the barrel. She tucked her tongue into the corner of her mouth and shifted the barrel slightly to the left, then held her breath and fired. The bullet flew straight into the bull's eye. She flashed a grin at Tom that made him feel happy from head to toe. "I will always know where to find you."