Murder by Misrule: A Francis Bacon Mystery (The Francis Bacon Mystery Series Book 1) Read online

  Captain Ralegh drew his rapier and used it to lift aside the edges of the robes to reveal the gray doublet underneath. "He's been stabbed, more than once judging by the quantity of blood. See these slashes? And here's bombast, pulled loose by the knife." He pointed with the tip of his sword at a straggle of horsehair, sodden with blood.

  Somehow that tiny detail was more horrible than the whole. Tom grimaced, turned aside, and blew a sour breath from his mouth. Then he remembered the company he was in and schooled himself to turn back. He didn't want these powerful men to think him a coward.

  "More must wait until the body is washed," Ralegh said. "But look at this." He raised cut strands of leather on the edge of his blade. "Purse strings. Four of them. Two purses taken."

  "A thief, then," Cumberland said.

  "Perhaps."

  Ralegh contemplated the body, lips pursed, hand on hip. He was resplendent, a tall, straight figure in silver and white, gleaming in the dusky shadows. Tom glanced at Stephen, who was studying Ralegh's costume as if composing instructions for his tailor. The satin melon hose still held their graceful bell-like shape. The radiant white plumes rose unwilted from his hat as if pulled aloft by a call from heaven. The monochromatic effect of the silver and white was striking. Dramatic but not gaudy.

  Tom suddenly felt like a juggler at a fair. Or a beacon: he should be stood upon a cliff for ships to steer by. The green was well enough, but the yellow was far too bright. And the carnation garters were too much; he'd known it in his heart when he'd put them on.

  Ralegh pointed with his sword at Smythson's hands, which bore two gold rings, one set with a carved black stone. "Was our thief too fastidious to steal the rings from his victim's fingers?"

  Cumberland shrugged. "Perhaps he was disturbed. Or feared to be."

  Ralegh scowled at the crowd gathering beyond Cumberland's copper stallion. "I told that boy to block the way." Then he scanned the area around the body. "Had the man no hat?"

  Tom spotted a crumpled object at the foot of a house and went pick it up. It was a gray capotain hat with a pewter brooch stuck in the crown. He dusted it off and handed it to Ralegh with a small bow.

  Ralegh acknowledged the offering with a short smile. Then his eyes caught on Tom's earring. "That's an exceptional pearl."

  "Thank you, sir." Tom touched the item: a large golden pearl dangling from a gold wire in his left ear. He always wore it. For luck, and to remind him where he came from. "My father brought it back from the South Seas."

  "He sailed with Drake?" Ralegh looked impressed.

  "Yes, sir," Tom said with pride. It wasn't often that his father's vocation brought him credit rather than the reverse.

  Cumberland snapped his fingers. "You're Valentine Clarady's son, I'd wager my horse on it. You're the very spit of him. And I've seen him wear the twin of that pearl myself."

  "So have I," Ralegh said. "I remember him now." Then he frowned as he took another look at Tom's robes. The expression on his face, though fleeting, spoke loud as a hiss to Tom: How does a sailor's son get himself admitted to an Inn of Court?

  Ralegh shook his head and cast a world-weary smile at Cumberland. "Oh, to be free to sail where you will instead of languishing in the stuffy chambers of the court!"

  Cumberland chuckled sardonically and started to respond when a spindle-shanked man in pink chamlet edged past his restive mount.

  "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. Franci
s 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.