Murder by Misrule: A Francis Bacon Mystery (The Francis Bacon Mystery Series Book 1) (3 page)

A rustle of motion rose through the hall as men shifted on their benches, repositioning themselves for the after-dinner speeches. The noise subsided as Treasurer Avery Fogg stood up from the bencher's table and raised his hands. Servers scurried through the rows of tables, placing an earthenware cup of wine before each member.

"Gentlemen." Fogg's deep voice filled the hall. "The bench would like to raise a toast in remembrance of Mr. Tobias Smythson. Then I have a few words about pending matters." He waited until everyone had a cup. "To our dear departed colleague, adversary, tutor, and friend. May God rest your soul in heaven."

Two hundred voices echoed, "God rest you."

Sir Avery nodded. "We will miss Mr. Smythson, each and every one of us, individually and collectively as a society of professional men. He served our Society ably through the years in any office that was asked of him. His tireless and competent practice of the law reflected well upon us all."

Francis suppressed a chuckle.
Tireless and competent
was faint praise. Had Smythson and Fogg crossed quills as opposing counsels for some important lawsuit, resulting in Fogg's comeuppance?

"It will take many men to fill the shoes of a Tobias Smythson."

This time Francis wasn't the only one struggling to contain his response. Sputters of laughter escaped from the lower tables. Fogg frowned repressively, his thick black brows drawing together.

"Many men," Fogg repeated in booming tones that set the iron candelabra ringing. "Tobias Smythson was closely involved with all of us, in one way or another, over the years. Some of us had our differences with him. There may have been some encroachments."

Francis raised an eyebrow toward James Shiveley, who shrugged. Fogg had built his career on property law. Perhaps it was natural for him to think of all relationships in terms of trespass and assignments.

He wondered if any attempt had been made to apprehend the murderer. Gossip at Gray's, according to his servant, had it that Smythson was struck down by a cutpurse. A clumsy, aggressive thief, then. Usually, you only realized you'd been robbed when you reached for your purse to pay the vendor and found dangling strings instead.

Fogg rambled on. Finally, his voice rose to a crescendo. "Let the past be buried. When we think now of Tobias Smythson, let us remember the best of the lawyer and of the man." He raised his cup to signal another toast. "One last consideration." He had to raise his voice to compete with the increasing restlessness of his audience. "Mr. Smythson was slated to Read this Lent vacation. As a man, he can never be replaced; as a Reader, he must be. The bench will meet to choose a new Reader during the coming week." He glanced down at Francis. "These meetings will be for voting members only."

As a provisionary bencher, Francis was allowed to attend meetings and contribute to discussions, but he was not eligible to vote. It was a reasonable compromise between his obvious ability and his much-objected-to youth. Benchers were expected to be "the chiefest and best learned" of the senior barristers. Francis was only twenty-five. His learning could not be faulted. Time would remedy the latter failing.

He nodded at Fogg to signal his understanding. His eyes flicked toward his uncle, whose gaze remained fixed on his goblet. Would it hurt him so much to offer Francis one small gesture of familial accord? On a more positive note, he didn't seem to be monitoring Francis's behavior. He blinked the idea away, smiling to himself. He mustn't allow this spot of trouble to make him overly suspicious. It was absurd to imagine his busy uncle taking the time to eavesdrop on Francis's dinner conversations.

Fogg resumed his seat. Several benchers turned toward him, elbows on the table, and began speaking in low, urgent voices. Doubtless they had views on the thorny question of when and where to meet. That debate could take an hour in itself.

Francis felt a tingle of excitement. He was an obvious choice for the Lent Reader, having already been admitted to the bench with provisional status. One must Read to earn a voting seat. And only full benchers were chosen for judgeships, the lucrative pinnacle of the legal profession.

He had dreamed of devoting himself to the reformation of the tangled and obfuscated English legal code, but his efforts to pursue that dream had ended in humiliating failure. Being chosen for the Lent Reading would give him a chance to prove himself in a fresh venue. A different ladder to success than the one he had envisioned, but he'd be starting on a higher rung.

Reading constituted a week-long public display of scholarship and oratorical skill, giving a man an opportunity to display his abilities before an audience that included members of the nobility, especially the more scholarly peers like the Earl of Essex. Readers were expected to deliver lucid expositions of historically important statutes in a series of set speeches and formal debates. Readings were challenging on all levels: intellectually, physically, emotionally, and financially.

Reading wasn't cheap. Most Readers bought new clothes for themselves and livery for their assistants. They were obliged to host a dinner during the week and a supper on the last day for the whole Society and their distinguished guests. The costs were substantial, which was part of their function. They formed a barrier to admission, ensuring that only men of status and sufficiency would participate in the governance of the Society.

Francis sipped his claret and turned his attention to his messmates, who were his most likely competitors.

If one counted only years in commons, George Humphries was first in line. He had been called to the bar twelve years ago and had made clear his desire to advance, but he was unpopular. Apart from Welbeck, who tolerated him as a sycophantic sidekick, he had no friends. His father had squandered the family estate in unfounded suits, leaving his son nearly penniless. If he were a lawyer of exceptional acuity, these faults might be overlooked, but he was below the mean in all regards.

Nathaniel Welbeck was a far better candidate. He was a decade senior to Francis: a ripe and ready thirty-six years old. His connections were excellent, his late sister having married the Earl of Orford. He was well dressed, well-spoken, and popular among both barristers and students. He tended to be short of funds, although that condition seemed to be mitigated of late.

James Shiveley was on a par with Welbeck in terms of seniority. Devoted to Gray's, he took genuine pleasure in the moots and bolts and other training exercises. His family was respectable and he had recently inherited a tidy estate.  Shiveley was one of those indispensable middling sorts of people who do most of the work in any organization.

Francis wasn't worried — much — about any of them. His abilities surpassed his competitors' as the sun's light surpassed the moon's. He was young; that would count against him. His chief concern was the expense. He'd have to borrow the money against his brother Anthony's estate unless Captain Clarady could be persuaded to fund the event. Perhaps if he promised the son some visible, yet unimportant, role . . .

The benchers' talk droned on. Under normal circumstances, Francis would excuse himself and leave. With his uncle here, it would be impolitic. Perhaps he wanted to sound him out about being chosen as Reader on such short notice. He might want him to decline in order to advance a man owed a favor. Or perhaps he wanted him to accept to forestall someone owed a setback. Lord Burghley was a long-range thinker; his motives were not always identifiable in the immediate context.

The prospect of presenting a week-long lecture on a significant statute with barely two months of preparation was not one of unmitigated joy. On the one hand, accepting would show that Francis was willing to leap gallantly into the breach for the betterment of Gray's. On the other hand, declining would allow him to do a more considered job on a later occasion. He wanted his first Reading to be remembered.

He began mentally reviewing the Henrician statutes relating to advowsons and annuities. Suddenly, he realized that everyone else was rising. He got to his feet and bowed to his uncle, who had apparently been trying to catch his eye.

"Walk with me, Nephew."

"My lord."

They strolled the length of the hall, Francis a pace behind of necessity as much as courtesy, owing to the narrowness of the aisles between the tables. They reached the screen and filed through the door into the yard. They walked slowly toward the gatehouse, beyond which Lord Burghley's coach awaited him.

"How may I serve you, my lord?" Francis shivered. He would have brought a cloak to dinner if he'd known he would be lingering out of doors on such a bitter day.

"It's about Tobias Smythson." Burghley seemed not to notice Francis's discomfort. He glanced about, saw they were alone, and stopped near the chapel wall.

"We are all deeply grieved." Francis tucked his hands under his armpits and painted a portrait of attention on his face. He was determined to appear humble and amenable to anything his uncle should propose.

Burghley blinked away the platitude. "Smythson was assisting me with enquiries into the conduct of some of Gray's members."

"What manner of conduct, my lord?"

"I have received intelligences concerning covert Catholic activities at Gray's Inn. Someone here is facilitating the importation of missionaries and subversive literature into England."

"One hears these rumors, yet I myself have observed no evidence of such activities." Francis deemed it irrelevant to add that he rarely left his chambers except to go book shopping.

"The Jesuits are subtle and trained in secrecy," Burghley said. "Many of their supporters are from old Catholic families here in England. Men who are well placed and even well liked. Their machinations are not easy to discover until after the damage is done."

Francis considered the proposition. "I suppose it is possible, especially for some of the members who have a large clientele. One might not notice the particulars of any given visitor or parcel delivery. One has one's own work, of course. I dine so seldom in hall, you see, what with my studies and my health—"

"Yes, yes. I know. Your mother keeps me well informed about the state of your digestion."

Francis winced. His mother did rather tend to overstate her cases.

"The issue at hand," Burghley said, "is that Smythson was looking into these matters on my behalf. He sent me a message intimating that he had news of a significant nature. He was coming to see me on the day he died to deliver proofs. I do not believe his death was coincident upon a simple act of thievery. I suspect he was deliberately murdered to prevent him from meeting with me."

Francis was shocked. "Too bold, surely, to murder a man of the law on the queen's doorstep?"

Burghley shook his head. His square beard glistened with fine droplets of rain. "These are perilous times, Nephew. Perilous in the extreme. Now that Mary Stuart has been brought to trial, the Catholic element in England is in a desperate moil."

"I warned you about overly harsh measures against the religious factions." Francis tried not to sound peevish, but really, every point in the letter he'd written to the queen on this topic two years ago had been amply borne out by subsequent events and yet he had not received so much as a simple thanks for his efforts.

"You did. As did others."

Not a word of acknowledgement. Francis repressed a sigh and wriggled his toes in his boots to make sure they were still unfrozen. "The Queen of Scots was condemned to death by the nearly unanimous vote of both the lords who tried her case and the House of Commons. Once she's gone, the conspiracies around her will die too."

"I doubt me they will ever die, not fully. The Catholic faction can always find another distant relative of royalty to bear their futile hopes." Lord Burghley's weary expression showed every line of his thirty-and-more years in the queen's service. "We do not yet even have a date for the execution. And while the Stuart woman lives, her admirers will continue to conspire."

"I suppose the queen is reluctant to order the death of an anointed monarch."

"It is a practice of which she strongly disapproves, in general." Burghley allowed himself the shadow of a smile. "The central point here, Nephew, is that Tobias Smythson was murdered for political reasons. The murderer must be apprehended and whatever plot he is forwarding must be foiled."

"If it can be." Francis smiled noncommittally. "Was there evidence of any kind? On the body or nearby?" He hadn't thought to look. He'd scurried away from the scene before any courtiers could arrive.

"Nothing conclusive. I'll have the coroner's report sent to you. The body should also be delivered here shortly."

"Here? To me?"

"Yes, Nephew. I'm giving this job to you."

Francis detected an odd glint in the back of his uncle's eyes and understood that the position was uncontested. Perceived, in other words, as a difficult and probably hopeless task. Yet still better than utter banishment. He'd take it. Besides, Tobias Smythson deserved justice.

"I accept. Willingly. Smythson was a friend; I don't have many of those."

Burghley's expression was unreadable. "I believe Smythson was carrying a letter for me. It was not on his body, but an ordinary thief would have no reason to take it."

"But a conspirator would. I understand." Francis's mind whirred. How could a man investigate the cause of an event days after the event occurred? "
Evidentia, testimonium.
What there is must be found. Although I doubt there will be anything material. Witnesses, there may be. The people who live along that street could be questioned. Have they been?"