by Anna Castle
"Forceful," Delabere echoed, as if trying on the attribute. Francis had never met a peer for whom the word was less apt.
He waited in silence. The privateer's son cleared his throat and Delabere continued. "Her maidservant told us to tell you that she could also be indirect. The lady, that is. We didn't understand that part."
"Nor do you need to, my lord."
"Oh. Well, that's all right then. She also said — the maidservant, that is — that the limner is a Fleming by the name of Clara Goossens." Stephen expelled a breath, as if he had just completed a daring maneuver.
"Very good, my lord." Francis smiled approvingly. "And have you spoken with Limner Goossens?"
"Well, no." Delabere looked startled. "We don't know where she lives. Lady Rich didn't give us a direction. And yesterday was Sunday."
Francis sighed. "She can wait for the present. Your next task is to interview the two Wild Men that the sempstress saw in the lane. They must be retainers of the Earl of Essex."
"Today?" Delabere's countenance took on a mulish cast.
"I realize you have other demands upon your time, Your Grace." The honorific earned him a smile that transformed the young lord's sulky features. "However, we owe a debt to Mr. Smythson, do we not? To identify the villain who so untimely claimed his life?"
Delabere said, "I suppose we do."
"Your compassion inspires us," Francis said, ignoring the flash of disbelief in Clarady's eyes. "The next move may win the match. We can't know until it's played."
"Shall we call upon the earl?" Delabere asked.
Francis pretended to consider the question. Under no circumstances would he involve Essex until he knew what his servants had to say. "I rather think not, my lord. We don't know at this point if his men saw anything at all. I am informed that most of the earl's retainers are lodged at the White Lion on Fleet Street."
He expected them to leave at once, but Trumpington blurted out, "Mr. Bacon, if it please you."
Francis raised an eyebrow.
"Is it possible that the Wild Men murdered Mr. Smythson?"
Francis frowned. He hadn't considered that question, though he should have. He'd been so preoccupied with the tricky question of communicating with Lady Rich that he'd forgotten to fully examine the matter. If he left any avenue unexplored, however, he could be certain it would be the only one leading to a solution. He sighed. He longed to achieve that solution in time for Christmas Eve.
"Yes," he replied, sounding as vexed as he felt, "it is possible. Why were they chasing Smythson instead of attending on their lord?"
"Perhaps one of them had a grudge against lawyers," Whitt suggested. "Men have been known to lose everything in a badly fought suit."
"Or a badly brought suit," Francis said. "Too many forget that waging law is always a gamble. Yes, that's quite possible. Such a grudge, nurtured into hatred, ripened with strong drink, might well produce a frenzied attack. Either or both of them might have done the deed. Then, on recovering their right minds and seeing what they had done, they might have stolen the purses to cast the blame on a thief. And to keep the money, of course."
"That's even more horrible than a cutpurse," Clarady said. "Poor Mr. Smythson! First chivvied by drunkards in frightening costumes then killed for someone else's fault!"
His ready sympathy did him credit. The lad had qualities; if only he were better fathered. And did away with that absurd earring. Sir Walter Ralegh could get away with dangling gemstones from his head, but lesser men should content themselves with lesser displays.
Trumpington said, "What if Lady Rich paid the Wild Men to murder Mr. Smythson, to prevent him from, uh—"
"Writing a brief? Engrossing a bill?" Francis regarded the boy frostily. Doubtless this idea clara derived from Welbeck's single-themed imagination. Trumpington's uncle was little better than a privateer, in some regards. "I hardly think a personage such as Lady Rich would stoop to such base instruments. Nor could she settle her disputes with Sir Amias Rolleston by dispatching his counselor. Sir Amias would simply do as he has done and engage another one."
"Won't it be dangerous to question these Wild Men?" Delabere asked. "They'll know at once that we suspect them."
Again, Francis pretended to consider the question. He doubted there would be any real danger. They were four active young men, not gouty old barristers, and they would be in a popular inn on a busy thoroughfare.
"It could be so, my lord, as you sagaciously suggest, and yet I see no alternative. As far as we know, those two were the last to see Smythson alive. The possibility that they are themselves the murderers is remote. Even if they did harbor some grudge, they would more likely content themselves with simply frightening the man."
"We should be wary, nevertheless." Delabere's chin jutted forward.
"Indeed you should, my lord," Francis agreed. "Always. Wary and respectful. Be discreet; be polite. Don't ruffle any feathers."
CHAPTER 18
The rain had stopped when the lads emerged from the hall after dinner. They repaired to their chambers briefly so Stephen and Tom could buckle on their rapiers. If they had to question murderous rogues, they'd best be prepared to defend themselves.
The White Lion Inn was a four-storied building near the Fleet Bridge. Tom told a footman that they were looking for Essex men. He pointed them toward the taproom. This was a low room paneled in smoke-darkened oak, with the choking, burnt smell of a chimney in need of cleaning. The tapster stood behind a counter, serving three men on tall stools. Four others sat around a table near the wide hearth playing Tarocchi with painted cards. They looked like they'd been whiling away the whole day in that fusty place.
The men's expressions were unwelcoming. The lads were at a disadvantage, in age and experience as well as in numbers. These men looked seasoned, battle hardened. They were dressed in red and white, the earl's colors. No doubt they'd fought beside their lord at Zutphen. They were at ease with one another, like men who had served together for many years.
They also looked bored. Tom smelled trouble, sharper than the smoke. Gathering his courage, he spoke first. "Good afternoon to you, Gentlemen."
"Good enough for some," growled one of the men at the counter. His face was heavily creased, as if a giant had stepped on him in his youth. Tom could imagine that foul-featured knave murdering someone in an alley out of pure meanness.
"Peace, Archer." One of the card players spoke with quiet authority. "I am Robert Thrush. We serve the Earl of Essex. What can we do for you boys today?"
Tom didn't much like that boys, but he let it pass. "We're looking for men who participated in His Lordship's pageant on Queen's Day."
"And what might you want with such men?"
"We merely wish to ask a few questions, good sirs," Ben said, holding his hands wide, palms up, to show his peaceful intentions. "About the events that occurred that afternoon in the streets below Whitehall. Perhaps you heard?"
"About the murder of that lawyer, you mean. We heard." Thrush shot a glance at his men that Tom thought held some private meaning. They knew something about that day, he'd wager good money on it.
"That's right," Ben said. "The lawyer who was killed was Tobias Smythson, our—" He abruptly changed course. "A member of our Society." Tom exhaled a breath of relief. No good would come of underscoring the fact that they were merely students. That's why they'd left their robes at home, in blatant violation of the rules.
"A member of your Society!" The rumple-faced man, Archer, jeered at them. "Don't tell me you stripling waste-goods are lawyers?"
All the men laughed, even Thrush. Tom saw Stephen's eyes narrow at the insult and his hand move toward the hilt of his rapier. Two of the card players followed the gesture with their eyes. One of them pushed his chair out from the table, feigning a need to stretch his legs. He was short and ginger-haired and younger than the others. He'd been regarding Trumpet with a mocking smirk.
Tom balanced his weight on both feet, keeping half an eye on Sir Ginger.
The short ones, he knew from his association with Trumpet, were often the most volatile. He only hoped that they could get the information they needed before the brawl began.
"We are members of the legal profession, yes," Trumpet said, placing his fists on his hips.
"Even you?" Archer tilted his head, placing a finger against his chin. "Don't tell me: you work in the lower courts, where you argue petty cases and misdemeanors before a puisne judge." He shot a wink over his shoulder and his friends laughed on cue.
Trumpet bristled and stepped forward. Tom placed a hand on his shoulder and drew him back. They had a mission to complete before they gave these tickle-brained dewberries the thrashing they so plainly needed.
"We only want to ask a question or two, good sirs." Ben spoke in a mollifying tone. "A member of our Society was foully murdered. We have reason to believe that two members of your party were in the vicinity shortly before it happened. Perhaps they saw something relevant? Surely your Lord Essex, who is renowned for both his wisdom and his honor, would wish to see a killer brought to justice."
That set the man in his place. He grunted his assent.
Thrush smiled, displaying a crooked front tooth. "Naturally, we would be pleased to assist you."
Ben asked, "Were any of you among the Wild Men in the earl's pageant?"
"No," Thrush answered, too quickly. "We here were all shepherds."
"Are any of the Wild Men still in London?"
"No. Most of the pageant men have gone home."
Ben's shoulders sank. "And did they say nothing about that day before they left?"
Thrush turned on one elbow for a whispered consultation with his friends. Heads were shaken and then nodded; lips were pursed and then relaxed. Finally, a decision was reached.
One of the other men spoke up, still holding his cards flat against his chest. He was seated with his back to the fire and his plump cheeks were red as apples, even though his doublet was unhooked and gaping open over a wrinkled shirt. "The two you're thinking of are Gasper and Noke, from Crockleford near Colchester. They're not regulars; they came in to make up the numbers for the pageant." He made a sour face. "Nobody likes those Wild Man costumes, you see. They're itchy."
Ben nodded somberly, his eyes laden with sympathy for the rigors of pageantry. Tom couldn't muster sympathy for these louts at any price. Was this what all retainers did while their lord was at court? Idle the day away in stuffy taverns, hoping for some kind of trouble to rouse them out of their stupor? He would rather memorize Bracton's Notebook in Latin. Backwards.
"They saw something, though, didn't they?" Ben asked.
Apple-cheeks nodded. "They did; that's why they left. They feared to be involved and kept in London and then never get home for Christmas. One of them has a new baby coming, you see." He chuckled suddenly. "Didn't stop them making a tale of it before they left."
The fourth man grinned. He lowered his chin and shook his jowls, pretending to hold something up in his right hand. That was plainly a feature of the tale, because the retainers then chanted in unison, "I've got a bone to pick with you, Counselor."
They laughed, relishing the memory. "We all know it by heart," Thrush said. "From His Lordship on down."
Ben chuckled as though he too had enjoyed the story. "We understand there was some sort of chasing . . ."
Apple-cheeks answered, "That was Gaspar. Well, it was the both of them, but chiefly Gaspar." He shook his head and rolled his eyes. "''Twas his first pageant, you see. He hadn't thought to be kept standing for so long a time. And those Wild Man costumes are cursed uncomfortable. Horsehair sprouting all over your head and glued right onto your face; scratchy leaves and mossy bark and God knows what else tied to your chest. And all manner of whatnot draped about your neck: bones and twigs. Ugh. That's why us seasoned men would rather be shepherds; nice soft sheepskin, perhaps a garland or two . . ."
"Get on with it," Thrush said. "I'm sure these men of the law have other errands today."
Tom had to clamp his lips together to keep his mouth shut. He tightened his hand on Trumpet's shoulder as a precaution.
"All right," Apple-cheeks said. "Well, Gaspar and Nokes, being new and all, and nervous about the show, drank too much ale beforehand, and by the time the pageant was over, they were in a bit of a hurry. They went off in search of an office of easement but were taken short in the Privy Garden."
"In the queen's garden!" Trumpet objected.
"A shrub's a shrub, when you come down to it. The queen wasn't there, was she? So here's young Gaspar, taking a much-needed piss, and up pops this barrister from out of nowhere and starts scolding him. That's enough to nettle any man, especially one that's been standing about in an itchy costume all day. And young Gaspar has what you might call a misfortunate history with the legal profession."
Archer guffawed loudly. "Lost a third of his lands! You call that misfortunate? I call it criminal." The others murmured their agreement. Their expressions grew stonier.
Tom and Stephen exchanged a glance. A twitch of the eyebrow, the shadow of a nod: they were ready. They might have their differences, but they also had years of fencing practice together. They knew each other's moves better than these jolt-heads, Zutphen notwithstanding.
"So he chased the lawyer," Ben prompted.
"That he did," Apple-cheeks said. "He only meant to give the pompous fool a fright, you see, in return for the scolding. He capered about, shaking one of the bones from his costume and growling, 'I've got a bone to pick with you, Counselor.' Getting a bit of his own back. It was meant as a joke, that's all. But the man squealed and jumped and gave such good sport that he couldn't help himself. He whistled up Nokes and they gave him a bit of a run. Harmless, they thought." He shrugged. "They were more than a little drunk."
"They must have chased him beyond the garden," Ben said. "Mr. Smythson's body was found in the alleyways to the south."
Thrush held up a hand. "That's not to their account. They didn't go back to see which one it was that died."
"Which one of who?" Ben asked.
"Which one of the lawyers." He grinned at their blank faces. "You didn't know? There were two barristers in those lanes that day."
Ben turned his head to frown at the others, who shrugged back at him. Tom was floored. He'd been expecting to hear about some hugger-mugger skulking through the precinct. Another barrister?
Things had suddenly turned much blacker.
Archer gave a coarse laugh. "Caught you with your breeches hanging, didn't we? You pettifoggers don't do much of a job keeping your own house, do you?"
"We're not petti—" Trumpet started forward, but Tom held him back. Excitement flashed across the face of Sir Ginger. He shifted in his seat to reveal a poniard.
"When did they see the second lawyer?" Ben asked.
The man shrugged again. "They weren't marking the minutes. Gaspar said he nearly ran into the other man, he was limping along so slowly. Something wrong with his foot, seemingly. Well, he knew at once it was a different fellow, but he cried 'Boo!' anyway. This one wasn't up for a game. He only smiled and said, 'Go along, then, my good fellow. Find someone with two sound legs to play with you.' So Gaspar left him alone. He says he saw the squealie one again and gave him a growl and a shake for good measure. Then he and Nokes went back to the tiltyard. It was only later that they heard what happened."
Tom said, "The limping one must have been Smythson. Then who was the other?"
Ben asked, "Did they mention anything, any detail, about the other lawyer?"
"Nothing special."
"Tall? Thin? Short? Fat?" Ben prompted, not hopefully.
Apple-cheeks shook his head. "Gaspar knew the two men were barristers by their gowns, that's all."
Ben nodded. "Well, it's more than we knew before. We thank you good gentlemen for your trouble." He bowed shortly. Tom followed suit, but Stephen and Trumpet stood fast with their hands on their weapons.
Apple-cheeks acknowledged the thanks with a tilt of hi
s head. Thrush flicked a glance at Sir Ginger and the fourth man, who was quietly edging himself clear of the table. He smiled broadly at Ben. "Is there anything else we can do for you boys?"
"No, sir. I thank you. You have been most courteous." Ben said. He turned to the others. "Shall we be off, then, Gentlemen?" He slightly emphasized the honorific.
Sir Ginger drew in his legs so that his feet were squarely planted on the floor. He held up a beringed finger. "There is one small favor you lads might do for me."
Here it comes.
Ben, the ever courteous, felt obliged to respond. "We are at your service."
"You might give yon infant a good washing." He jerked his chin at Trumpet. "Something nasty seems to be sprouting above its wee lip."
His companions' laughter was interrupted by a scream of fury as Trumpet launched himself, full out, at Sir Ginger. Tom, who had been expecting some such move, caught the boy by the waist and hauled him bodily back.
Stephen took a step toward Sir Ginger. He made a sweeping gesture with his index finger over his upper lip. "We never mention the moustache, Signor Buffone."
"Do you mock us, Minnow?" The fourth man slapped his cards on the table.
"Perhaps you'd like us to do the washing?" Sir Ginger man rose and faced Stephen, drawing his poniard from its sheath.
Steel sang as Stephen whipped his rapier from its hanger. Oaken chairs thudded to the floor as the Essex men leapt up, snatching their daggers into their hands. Tom thrust Trumpet toward the door, drew his sword, and took his position at Stephen's side. Stephen assumed the guarde of prime. Tom took the guarde of tierce. They grinned at one another. At last, an opportunity to prove their skills in the real world.
Ben tried to obstruct Trumpet, but the boy twisted away from him. He screamed, "I'll shave you bald-headed, you spur-galled gudgeon," and lunged again at the ginger man.
Men shouted. Steel clashed on steel. A shot exploded. Tom leapt aside as a ball of lead cracked through the floor at his feet.
The tapster held a smoking pistol in one hand and a cocked one ready in the other. "Not in my house! You'll take yourselves outside or the next bullet goes into a man's leg!"