by Anna Castle
"A letter we were meant to find without delay," Francis added. "Like the rosary. I now believe both of them were planted to lead us to the desired conclusions without looking too closely at anything else." He shook his head at the stubborn boy. "I'm afraid there's no question that these deaths are related. The letter links them explicitly."
"It's probably a Spaniard." Clarady practically spat the word. "Or the French papist who wrote that villainous tripe."
Francis was startled by the abrupt tangent. "I assure you, there are neither Spaniards nor Frenchmen at Gray's Inn. Since we are societies wholly devoted to the study and practice of the English common law, the Inns of Court hold little attraction for the citizens of other nations."
"It could still be an outsider," Trumpington said. "A Jesuit priest, hiding in someone's chambers."
Francis clucked his tongue. "Unlikely. Think, Gentlemen! This man knows us. He knew that Smythson was attending the Queen's Day pageant. He saw him leave early. He followed him and killed him in the alley. He knew where Shiveley lived and at what time he went up to bed. He walked with him or waited on the dark stair. He also knew the moment at which the Fleming would arrive in the fields west of the Inn to deliver his sack."
Whitt nodded. "The killer must have been someone that Shiveley knew. If a stranger had accosted him on the stair, he would have struggled, drawn his knife. Things would have looked very different."
"Was he out there, do you think?" Clarady asked. "Just now, in the field?"
That was a cautionary thought. That meant that the murderer-cum-conspirator was now privy to both the fact of Francis's interest in the matter and to the best remaining avenue for investigation.
"If he was, then he knows we're looking for him." Whitt echoed his thoughts. "He'll get rid of any evidence that could betray him."
"Then we'll never catch him," Trumpington said.
"I think we will," Francis said, although he had no grounds for such confidence.
No, that was wrong; he did have grounds. Excellent grounds. He'd pit his wits against any man in this Society and be certain of the outcome.
"What can we do now?" Clarady asked.
"I have to tell the benchers something," Francis said. "Too much was said out there." He considered his strategy while his pupils stood silently, waiting. They'd learned not to interrupt him when he was thinking, which touched him more than he would ever reveal. "Even if one of them is the killer, it is best to address them as a body. There is one benefit: they can order a comprehensive search of chambers."
"They can't search every room at once," Trumpington said.
"But they can order everyone into the hall while the search is conducted. It's been done." Francis rolled his eyes at the memory of that chaotic day. "All manner of distracting nonsense will be turned up, but something of use may emerge. More urgently, we must speak with that limner of yours. We must know what, if anything, she saw."
The lads exchanged a round of glances. They already knew something on this score. Francis felt a prickle of irritation. Why hadn't Whitt kept him apprised?
Whitt lowered his head and spoke to Clarady, "We have to tell him."
Clarady pulled Whitt by the sleeve, drawing him deeper into the shadows. "I don't want her involved," he whispered. "Look what happened to the Fleming."
Whitt whispered back, "She's already involved. Stephen blabbed her name to everyone out there."
Clarady hissed, "That's why! She's in danger."
Trumpington moved in behind them. His whisper buzzed with high-pitched sibilants. "She must speak. Her testimony is crucial."
Their hissing was an affront to the ears. "I can hear you, you know," Francis said. "Darkness is no impediment to sound."
Clarady drew in a deep breath, exhaled noisily, and nodded at his friends. They grouped themselves again at the foot of the stairs. Francis folded his hands upon his knees, preparatory to the receipt of the disputed information.
"We went to see her," Whitt said. "Saturday last. Not to ask about Smythson, but because Tom —"
"I understand that part," Francis said.
Whitt nodded. "We asked after her at the Dutch Church, as you suggested. That's where we saw the Fleming. Her husband, we were told. We followed him, but he ran and we lost him. So then we went on to the limner's house and spoke with her. She assumed right away that we had come about Smythson. That alone is evidence that she saw something pertinent."
"It was the day I first saw her," Tom said. "Smythson's murder is why I saw her. Of course she would assume we were there for that. It doesn't signify anything."
Trumpington said, "She knows something, though."
Would they never deliver the main thrust? "What, exactly, does she know?"
Whitt said, "We don't know, exactly. Tom reassured her that Smythson's killer had been identified and that it was all over. No one wanted to upset her." He grinned apologetically. "She really is extraordinarily beautiful. But I was curious if she had seen anything after all. You know, just curious."
"It remained an open question," Francis suggested.
"Yes. I wanted to close it. I asked her if she had seen a barrister and she said, 'Are they the ones that wear the velvet welts?' That made me think that yes, she had seen a barrister in that lane. She's an artist. She notices details. Then, as we were leaving, I asked if she had seen a tall, redheaded man. And she replied, 'But he was neither.'"
Francis smiled. "She saw him."
"She never said that," Clarady said.
"She did," Trumpington said. "I was looking right at her, past your shoulder. And she looked perplexed — uncertain — when she said it."
"I would like to speak with her myself," Francis said. "Bring her to the Antelope Inn tomorrow, if you please. Before dinner. Shall we say ten o'clock?"
"I'll go now," Clarady said. "She needs protection."
"You can't go now," Francis said. "It's dark. The city gates will be closed and you have no plausible excuse to offer the guards. I'm sure she's safe enough in her own home." Francis stood and shook his cloak to clear the folds from around his feet. "And she'll be safer still once she's told us what she knows."
CHAPTER 31
Francis undid his cloak and tossed it onto a chest. With scarcely a pause, he picked it up and put it on again. He'd forgotten to ask Whitt to order his supper. If he wanted food, he would have to sup in commons.
The hall was alive with speculation about the body in the south field. Several men turned toward him as he made his way to the ancients' table, hoping he would have the full story. He offered only bland comments, striving to seem as if he knew no more than they. His messmates glared at him in an unwelcoming manner as he took his place. "No more investigating today?" Welbeck sneered. "Stairs quite free of unwanted corpses?" Francis saw no value in responding to his feeble sallies.
"I should have thought you'd be busy writing letters to your uncle," Humphries said. "Maybe he'll make you Treasurer."
"I fail to follow your logic," Francis said.
"A man dies, and you move up," Humphries said. "Another man dies, and up you go again."
"You can't deny it," Welbeck said.
"Of course I can," Francis said. "I passed the bar years before Tobias Smythson was killed. And my election as the Lent Reader has nothing to do with my uncle. In point of fact, he's not well pleased with me at present, owing precisely to unresolved questions surrounding the deaths you propose as my stairway to success."
"You see," Humphries said, his goatish beard bobbing as he nodded, "he instantly thinks of stairs when he thinks of the Readership. That's a guilty conscience speaking." He and Welbeck exchanged dark looks.
Francis sighed. Did they genuinely believe any of their own nonsense? He was spared the need to respond by the arrival of a savory pottage rich with mutton and redolent of winter herbs. A simple dish but as good as a feast when well prepared.
He ignored his messmates while he ate, although they continued their jibes and snickers for
a while, entertaining each other with their paltry attempts at wit. Fortunately, he had excellent control over his attention, which enabled him to ignore background noises almost completely.
He set his mind to review the problem at hand. His pupils would bring the limner in the morning to be interviewed. That might prove conclusive; however, it was equally likely to be of little practical use. She might have seen a barrister's gown, but not a barrister's face. Not tall and not redheaded. That didn't narrow the field much. Francis let his gaze wander through the hall. He saw fewer than a dozen men with hair as red as Shiveley's. 'Tall' was a relative term. Tall compared to Tobias Smythson, a man of average height? She would have been looking downward. Surely that would have an effect on her perception.
He tore a piece from his loaf of manchet and chewed it thoughtfully. The flour had been less well sifted than could be desired; the crumb had tiny bits of grit.
He wished there were more that he could do. He needed a way to flush the killer into the open where he could be caught and get this filthy business over with. Not only because he longed to spend Christmas Eve Day in the queen's presence, but because these terrible murders had to be stopped.
He decided to write to his lord uncle in the morning. That was a ticklish task and he was too tired tonight. Tonight, he wanted nothing more than a few pages from the volume of Essaies by Michel de Montaigne that his brother had sent him from France. Something light yet pithy; then early to bed.
Those Wild Men, the Earl of Essex's retainers, should be recalled to London as soon as possible for questioning. Perhaps they could be brought to Gray's for dinner under some pretext, to look about the hall and try to spot the man they'd chased. But how to summon them? Courtesy demanded that he ask permission of Essex before writing to his retainers. He'd have to ask his uncle to do it. More delay and frustration. Sending messages through his uncle made him feel like a schoolboy on probation, which was more or less his position.
He glanced toward the benchers' table. Treasurer Fogg sat with a fixed smile pasted on his face, pretending to listen to the talkative man beside him. Francis was not the only one preoccupied with cares this evening. He remembered his suspicions concerning Fogg, Smythson, and the widow Sprye. What if the Catholic business were a separate matter? He'd neglected the other possibilities. Courtship and court appointments. Ambition and desire. Adding conspiracies to Fogg's slate of activities seemed excessive, but then, he was a man of parts.
***
Bacon finished his meal and prepared to leave. The hall was being transformed into a pleasure palace for the evening revels. Minstrels tuned their instruments in the gallery above the screen. Servants dismantled each trestle table as soon as its occupants rose, rearranging them around the walls for dicing and cards. The hanging candelabras were filled with rosemary-scented oil that gave the room a holiday flavor. A few men had already started dancing around the central hearth. The butler hovered near the door, ready to greet arriving guests. Women would grace the hall this night as well, adding the color and sheen of their wide skirts to the festive spectacle.
Christmastide at Gray's Inn. Francis normally enjoyed the convivial season, supping in commons two or three times a week and often staying for the music. This year, however, with little prospect of being allowed to spend Christmas with the court and these foul murders still laid upon his shoulders, he was simply exhausted.
Bed for him, and a good book.
George Humphries appeared beside him. "Leaving so early? You'll miss the fun."
"I've had enough excitement for one day."
"I'll walk with you," Humphries said. "I left some papers in the library that Welbeck has been asking me for."
They wormed through the press of gaily dressed revelers at the door. The night air felt cold and fresh on Francis's face. Lanterns were lit beside each door. Large torches marked the gate to Gray's Inn Road, where a pair of horses nosed through the arch. Yellow candlelight glowed behind a few panes around the yard, but only a few. Most men would be in the hall tonight.
They crunched across the gravel in silence. They had almost reached Francis's stair when the matched black horses clattered into the center of the yard, drawing a black coach as lustrous as a jewel box. The liveried footman jumped down and opened the door, from which debouched a riot of brilliant silks and velvets.
The Earl of Essex and his sister Lady Penelope Rich had come to Gray's to gamble. Francis couldn't be faulted if courtiers came to him. This was an opportunity not to be missed.
He took two steps toward the coach then turned back to his nearly forgotten colleague. "You'll excuse me, I trust." He walked on. Behind him he heard Humphries mutter, "No less than I would expect."
Francis skipped a little to catch up with the young nobles. He hastily smoothed his hair with the palm of his hand and checked the front of his doublet for smears. He circled around to approach them from the direction of the hall. They might assume he had come out to welcome them. He bowed from the waist. "My Lord Essex. How kind of you to grace our humble Society." He turned two degrees and bowed again. "Lady Rich." He quoted from one of the sonnets dedicated to her:
"Stella sovereign of my joy,
Fair triumpher of annoy,
Stella star of heavenly fire,
Stella loadstone of desire."
The charmed couple favored him with a friendly laugh. Lady Rich said, "I'd rather a poem from your own fertile mind, Mr. Bacon. They say that angels lend you feathers from their wings to make your quills."
"I am profoundly flattered, my lady." He bowed again.
"I understand congratulations are in order," Lord Essex said. "I'm greatly looking forward to your Reading. Might one inquire as to the topic?"
Francis was elated. He'd had no idea the earl took an interest in the law. They chatted about advowsons as they entered the hall and found their way to a dicing table. The earl fully appreciated the intriguing ramifications latent in the whole notion of incorporeal hereditaments. Even in so brief an exchange, Francis felt that a genuine bond had been established. Did he dare suggest — or rather enjoin, or plead — that the earl might utter a syllable or two in his favor to the queen? He shuddered. Better not; his uncle would hear of it. He heard everything.
Francis made a show of establishing Lord Essex in the best spot at the table. He turned to assist Lady Rich and found her staring across the room, eyes narrowed with hostility. He followed her gaze to Treasurer Fogg, who was playing primero with some judges from the Queen's Bench. Sir Avery shot anxious glances at her whilst pretending to be absorbed in the game.
The Rolleston case, Francis understood at once. He'd heard that Sir Amias had asked Fogg to step in after Smythson's death. Or was it after Shiveley's? The litigious merchant was no respecter of station. Rumor had it that he was threatening to bring Lady Rich herself before the bench. Impossible, of course. Why even suggest it? And yet, apparently, he had. The unwanted message would perforce have been conveyed by his counselor at law.
He felt a tug at his sleeve and turned toward the lady with a smile on his lips. "How may I serve you, Madam?"
"Mr. Bacon," she said, eyes glinting, "I've got a bone to pick with you."
***
Later — much later — Francis stumbled across the yard to his chambers. His head buzzed as if colonized by a swarm of angry bees. Too much wine, too much talk, too much noise. Too many people.
He knew that buzzing. He would be sick in the morning. In fact, he would probably be in bed for the better part of the week. Whitt would have to attend him in Pinnock's absence. How would he manage to summon him?
As he reached a weary hand for the door, a flash of movement caught his eye. He turned his head and saw Thomas Clarady bounding out of a door to the Gallery, a lute strung across his back. He sprang across the yard and into a waiting coach.
Ah, the energy of youth! Francis was too exhausted to envy him. He trudged up the stairs to the blessed silence of his solitary room.
CHAPTER 32
A plaintive melody carried by a clear voice woke Clara from a dreamless sleep. At first, she did not know if the sweet music rose from the street or fell down from Heaven. Had she died during the night and woken in her Maker's golden hall?
Then her mind roused enough to attend to the lyrics. She grinned into the darkness and smothered a laugh in her pillow. None but her Tom could write a song so dreadful and then stand singing it in the public street!
He'd wake everyone. The mad boy, she must stop him. She flung off her covers and fumbled for her shift. Her cloak hung from a hook by the door. She wrapped it tightly around her body and padded down the dark stairs, bare toes cold on the smooth oak boards. She gave no thought to her intentions. She made no plan. Tonight, her heart knew what it wanted.
She lifted the heavy latch and swung the front door wide, letting in a rush of cold air. Tom stood clear of the overhanging upper story bathed in the white light of the half moon shining directly overhead.
"Amore mia!" He riffled the strings of his lute in a dramatic flourish.
"What do you mean, good sir, by standing in my street and disturbing my neighbors?" Her scolding words were contradicted by the giggle in her voice.
He swung the lute behind his back and stepped toward her. He took her hand and caressed it, his face serious. "My beloved, I've come to tell you. Your husband is dead."
She gasped. "Oh, Tom, you shouldn't have!"
"I didn't."
"Then who? How?"
He drew her closer, stroking her hair, gazing down at her with ardor such as she had never felt before. "Does it matter?"
Did it? How could it not? A man was dead, a man who had once shared her bed. A man from whom she'd fled in terror. Her mind whirled. Caspar was gone. She was free.
"You mad fool!" Clara flung her arms around him, laughing. "Come up with me."
"Are you sure?"
She laughed again, suddenly drunk with joy, with freedom. Of course she wasn't sure. She was certain that inviting this beautiful youth up to her room was utter, shameful, unspeakable lunacy. He was a gentleman of the Inns of Court. He could do as he pleased. She was a tradeswoman whose livelihood depended on her reputation. She'd be ruined if anyone saw her. She didn't care. She would blame the moonlight.