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

by Anna Castle

"That actually sounds almost logical."

  "Thank you, sir." Trumpet executed a tidy half bow. When she straightened, her face was sober. "There's worse, though, Tom. I'm afraid my uncle killed the Fleming. I found a shirt with bloody cuffs wadded up behind the cupboard."

  "How did you —"

  "I looked because he's gone. His saddlebags and most of his clothes are missing."

  "Since when?"

  "Last night sometime. We were up so late, remember? With all the gaming and dancing in the hall. He wasn't here when I dragged myself in. When I woke up, I realized that he hadn't slept in the bed."

  Tom bristled. "You share a bed with your uncle?"

  "No, I have a trundle bed. He goes out before I get up. My clothes are tailored so I can dress myself and my laundry goes to the Antelope."

  "Mrs. Sprye knows about this?"

  Trumpet tilted her pretty head and laughed. "It was her idea in the first place. Well, we thought of it together, all three of us. That's irrelevant. The point is that Uncle Nat killed the Fleming. And now he's flown."

  "Why didn't you tell me about this before? It's slightly important, don't you think?"

  Now Trumpet folded her arms, tapped her foot, and glowered. "When precisely was there time? It's been Clara, Clara, Clara since we met you outside the gaol this morning."

  Tom chose to ignore the unmistakable whine of jealousy in her voice. He swiftly vowed to ignore that particular bramble patch for as long as possible. "Do you think your uncle killed Mr. Smythson? And Shiveley?"

  "No, I don't believe he did. He seemed genuinely grieved by their deaths. One evening, he went on and on about how nothing was being done to bring Smythson's killer to justice. I was the only one here, his only audience. Why would he bother to put on a show?"

  "We have to tell Mr. Bacon."

  "I know." Trumpet sighed. "It's all ruined. I'll have to leave Gray's and go home or to court. No more wandering the streets of London with you and Ben, going where we please and doing what we like. Eating pies outside a stall. No more going to the theater without a guardian. No more taverns, no more moots. Nothing fun."

  He felt a surge of sympathy. Trumpet was a born lawyer, every bit as good as Ben. If she'd wanted to be a soldier or a sailor or something requiring manly strength, that would be a different matter. But the law was a sedentary profession. The Westminster courts were full of women, pressing suits and answering warrants. By the winds that filled his father's sails, the queen herself was a woman. Why shouldn't Trumpet argue cases if she wanted to so badly?

  Tom didn't like to see his friends cast down. He'd have to think of a way to help her, after he freed Clara from Newgate, got Mr. Bacon well again, and sent the Gray's Inn murderer to the gallows.

  ***

  By the time Tom had finished changing into dry clothes in his own chambers, the horn was sounding for supper. As they sat in their usual places, Trumpet's eyes drilled into him, willing a message into his mind. No need. He nodded to show he understood: Stephen must not know about her deception.

  They ate in silence. Stephen seemed to assume their glum mood was the result of Bacon's accident and left them to it, chatting gaily with the men on his other side.

  Which suited Tom perfectly. He couldn't cope with conversation tonight. Trumpet kept his eyes riveted on his bowl as he picked through his pottage with his spoon. Tom found his brain unable to form thoughts of any kind. He ate four bowls of pottage and three loaves of bread, chewing his food with as little heed as a weary mule turned onto a grassy sward.

  The meal ended and everyone rose to begin the evening's entertainments. Tom wanted nothing more than the peace of his own chambers. He murmured to Trumpet under cover of the general hubbub, "Will you be all right alone tonight?"

  "Of course."

  Tom went to bed at the unheard-of hour of seven o'clock and slept the dreamless sleep of an exhausted man.

  CHAPTER 40

  Clara sat in a huddle in the straw, shivering in her thin smock, her bare arms wrapped around her bare knees. She'd slept for a while curled up on her side but had been woken by a clanging somewhere deep within the gaol. One whole day and one whole night in hell: whatever sins she had committed in her life, she had surely paid for some portion of them here.

  She shut her eyes. They were useless anyway; the cell was so gloomy and so vile to look upon. Would she ever see beauty again or raise a brush to paint it? She remembered the first time she had taken her father's easel outside to paint the bridge over the Groenerei canal. It had been a glorious day, fine and clear with a lovely light. That was when she knew with perfect clarity that this would be her work. Then the sky had darkened. A clap of thunder stood her hair on end. Rain poured from the sky, drenching her clothes and ruining her painting. She ran all the way home, where her father had rubbed her wet hair with a towel, chuckling at her dismay.

  "Oh, mijn lieveling, sometimes it rains. We get wet and run home. We dry ourselves by the fire and go out again the next day when the sun is shining again."

  Her father remembered the sunshine. She remembered the rain. Tom was like her father in that way. Would he remember her? Would he help her? He was her only hope of rescue. She bade her mind's eye to visit his open face, his golden curls, and his sun-kissed skin. She sighed at the memory of his warm caresses and shivered again. So cold; too cold.

  The heavy door groaned as it swung open, a band of golden lamplight widening in its wake. In the beam of light stood Tom, her golden lover, his arms heaped with parcels. Clara pinched at her cheeks with both hands, whimpering anxiously. Was she dreaming with her eyes open now? Had her mind broken?

  But then she noticed one of the objects the vision of Tom held around one arm: a wreath of green holly sprinkled with bright red berries. She could never have imagined that; no one could. Only Tom would bring a Christmas wreath into Newgate Prison. The vision was real. He had come for her.

  He stood blinking at the gloom for a moment then dropped his burdens on the floor and whipped off his cloak, reaching her in two short strides. He wrapped the thick wool around her, tucking one end firmly under her arm as if she were a child. Then he wrapped his strong arms around the bundle he'd made of her, sheltering her head under his chin. He rocked her gently where they stood, murmuring shushes and sweet words.

  Tears rolled down her cheeks. Not since she had grown too large for her father's lap had she felt so warm and safe. It wouldn't last — nothing good ever did — but she would store the feeling up against future troubles.

  As her tears subsided, she told him about the poisoned wine and cheese and the deaths of her tormentors. Tom hugged her tighter and spoke to someone over her shoulder. "Our villain is cleverer than we thought." For the first time, Clara realized he hadn't come alone.

  She buried her face in his chest again for one last breath of pure comfort then raised her head. Looking over his shoulder, she saw the short, dark boy who had been with him on the day he'd found her in the surgeon's house. The boy stood on the threshold. He had a handkerchief tied under his nose as a defense against the stink.

  The boy nodded and turned toward the jailer, who stood just outside the door. He snapped his fingers and spoke sharply, in tones that reminded Clara of the way Lady Rich spoke to her servants. Soon a bustle enveloped her and Tom as servants scuttled in and out, sweeping away the foul messes, scrubbing the floor and walls with buckets of sudsy water, and building a new bed of clean straw. Tom released her to rescue his gifts and soon her arms were filled with soft linens, blankets, and pillows. His arms were strung with baskets of hard rolls, sausages and cheese, a cask of beer and a wooden cup, candles and a tinder box. She even saw a sheaf of rolled papers — more poems, no doubt, to beguile the lonely hours.

  The smell of tansy and lavender rose through the little room. Clara felt a fresh alarm rising with it. She met Tom's eyes. "How long do you intend for me to stay in here? I could live for a month on all this bounty."

  "I'll free you as soon as I can, my darling. A
day or two, I promise. No more than a week. They'll deliver the gaol before Christmas. I'll pay anything to get you out. It's my fault you're here at all."

  "No, it isn't," his friend said. He'd had a disagreeable expression on his pretty face since they'd arrived. It looked more like jealousy than distaste for the gaol. Now he pulled the handkerchief from his face, ruffling his moustache. "It's Stephen's fault."

  "I should have known he would spill the beans," Tom answered him. "I should have shut his mouth up faster."

  Clara frowned. "What beans are these?"

  Tom explained what had happened at the scene of Caspar's death. He had told her none of this on Saturday night. Why not? When he finished, she said, "Now many people know that you think me a witness to that terrible murder on Queen's Day."

  "Were you one?" The boy faced her with his hands on his hips. "Did you see anything at all?"

  Clara studied the little figure, noting the fineness of the facial bones and the balanced proportions of the lithe body. The wispy moustache was no longer quite straight. This person was not a boy, waiting for time to thicken his jaw and broaden his shoulders. This was a woman: young but fully grown. Did Tom know? Men could be very stupid.

  But his eyes were fixed on her. "I am abased with sorrow that you must endure this nightmare, my dearest darling. I beg you, by my love for you, tell us what you saw that day. The slightest detail could help."

  "And then what happens?"

  "Then we catch the murderer and bring him to justice so he can't murder anyone else."

  "I mean, what happens to me?"

  "Why, nothing. Or anything." Tom looked confused. Hadn't he thought about this part? "You can go on about your life." He favored her with a dimpled smile. "Only now with me in it."

  The smile was not so persuasive here in this cell, which was still dark, if not as wretched. Tom would leave soon, taking his smile, and then all these nice gifts would be taken away from her. "I cannot go on about my life while I am in this horrible dungeon."

  "Well, no, of course not. Of course you'll be released."

  "But only if I tell you what I saw. If I saw anything, that is."

  "No, no," Tom said. "You'll be released no matter what. They're holding you for questioning in the matter of the death of the Fleming — your husband. But we think we know who killed him."

  She blinked at him. "You know who killed Caspar and still you leave me in this dark hole?"

  "No! I mean, yes, we think we know, but we can't be sure. We have no proof." He shot a desperate glance at his friend for support and got nothing but half a shrug. The friend did not care if she were released or not. Clara couldn't imagine why this woman would go about dressed as a young lord, but she was obviously very self-willed and equally obviously possessive about Tom. She was no ally for Clara.

  Tom gave it one last try. "It's not that simple, sweetling. Nobody will believe us, anymore than they believe you. The man we suspect has disappeared. We'll have to put the whole story together, all the murders, with evidence and testimony from witnesses, like you. Then we can make a case to set before the judges. That's why you must tell us what you know."

  Clara shook her head. "I cannot think in this horrible place. First you must get me out. When I am home in my room, safe and clean, then I will try to remember for you."

  CHAPTER 41

  Ben ushered Tom and Trumpet into Bacon's chambers. Not being burdened by an unconscious man this time, Tom was able to appreciate the furnishings. Appreciate was too small a word: he goggled at the luxury. Francis Bacon lived like a young prince in the privacy of his rooms. His father had denied himself nothing when he built and furnished this house. Let others live in plain chambers; the sons of the late Lord Keeper merited more.

  The study chamber was well supplied with natural light, having windows on both the east and the south. Silver candlesticks held expensive beeswax candles. Tall shelves bore stack after stack of books in oiled leather or velvet bindings, more books than Tom had ever seen in one place. Between the shelves hung silken tapestries illustrating Biblical themes. Well-waxed cupboards, carved with exquisite artistry, displayed silver plate and goblets of Italian glass. Tasseled scarlet draped the high frame of a narrow bed set against the inner wall. Woven mats, like the ones at Whitehall, lay upon the polished floor. Even the high-backed chair at the desk was enhanced with a plump satin pillow.

  The inner chamber was dominated by an enormous bed, large enough for four grown men and hung with velvet in sumptuous red, embroidered with threads of gold. The posts and tester were densely carved with fruits and flowers. Curtains of scarlet were drawn across the windows to keep the room from being too bright for a convalescent man. Tom smelled rose oil and vinegar and pungent medicines.

  Bacon lay in the center of the bed, propped to a seated position on a bank of feather pillows. He seemed much better after a night's sleep. Color bloomed in his cheeks and his eyes had regained their penetrating quality. He was dressed in a high-collared shirt of snowy linen with a shawl of fringed scarlet draped about his shoulders. A broidered linen cap was firmly tied under his chin, framed by strands of hair that gleamed with cleanliness. Ben must have washed it for him.

  Faithful Ben sat beside the bed on the stool where they'd left him the day before. He had the writing desk at his feet. Next to him stood a small table holding a jumble of vials, cups, bottles, and napkins. He looked as snug and content in his everyday garb and soft slippers as he did by the hearth in their own chambers. He raised his eyebrows at Tom by way of a greeting.

  Tom grinned at him. He liked to see his friends happy. Intramasculine amores were no astonishment to the son of a sea captain. As long as they kept themselves to themselves and didn't play favorites, there was no need for any fuss.

  "What news from Newgate?" Bacon asked.

  Tom offered a short bow. "Limner Goossens is bearing up as well as can be expected."

  Trumpet pressed his lips together, as if biting back some retort. Good. Whatever it was, Tom didn't want to hear it.

  Bacon's quick gaze caught the byplay. "Has she evidence that can help us?"

  "I am certain that she does, sir," Tom said. "But —"

  "I'm not," Trumpet interrupted. "I think she's playing you like a big, fat fish."

  "She is not! She could never be so underhanded." Trumpet rolled his eyes and opened his mouth to reply, but Tom glared him down. He appealed to Bacon. "She's afraid; how could she not be? She was assaulted by her cellmates and only narrowly escaped poisoning."

  Bacon was gratifyingly shocked, as was Ben. Tom told them about the basket of poisoned foodstuffs, delivered soon after Clara's imprisonment. Had she been alone or with cellmates who weren't bullying thieves, she would be dead.

  "She's frightened and she isn't sure she can trust me," Tom said. "I don't blame her. She believes that all she has to bargain for her freedom is whatever she saw that day. She won't tell me until I get her out."

  Bacon said, "Three murders and two more attempted in almost the same hour. We must have her evidence, Clarady."

  "I'll get it. I promise. I promised her too, and I keep my promises." Tom was tired of being pecked and pulled at by temperish creatures, like a lump of suet hung in a birdcage. He caught Bacon's eyes and held them until the other man blinked.

  Ben said, a trifle sharply, "It's a simple enough question, Tom."

  Tom swallowed a growl of frustration. They didn't understand: nothing was simple with Clara. Even as he stood in Bacon's elegant bedchamber, he could taste her mouth, smell her hair, and feel the shape of her breasts under his palms. His senses were possessed by her weight and scent and silken touch, and yet there was more to her than beauty. She was complicated. He couldn't just ask.

  Bacon said, "You might remind her that she's safer out of Newgate than in."

  Tom shrugged. Even he had managed to think of that obvious argument.

  Bacon smiled, oblivious to Tom's ill-balanced humors. "I have been busy as well. I've been thinking.
I still cannot remember who pushed me, or even if I was, in fact, pushed. Though I believe at this point that we can stipulate a push. I am fairly certain it was someone I know. A Gray's man. Therefore, most decidedly not a Spaniard or a Frenchman or an invisible Jesuit."

  His eyes twinkled. Was Tom supposed to laugh? He was being treated like a simpleton. He held his face calm, as if he was merely awaiting a reading assignment.

  Bacon went on, "I've been pondering the question of what I have in common with Tobias Smythson, James Shiveley, and the Fleming." He frowned. "Do we know the man's name?"

  "Caspar Von Ruppa," Tom said.

  "You managed to learn that much from the limner, at least."

  Tom bit back a retort. Why bother? He'd only earn another scolding from Ben.

  Bacon said, "Smythson, Shiveley, and I are, or were, ancients of Gray's Inn. Von Ruppa was a stranger. Smythson and Von Ruppa were stabbed; Shiveley and I were pushed down stairs. Smythson and Von Ruppa were killed out of doors. Their deaths may have been incited by some feature of the moment, such as an argument. But the killer lurked, waiting, on my staircase and on that of James Shiveley. Those two acts were planned."

  "Francis." Ben reached for his hand.

  Bacon shook his head. "I'm all right. Thanks to you all. I owe you gentlemen my life."

  He included Tom and Trumpet in a smile of gratitude that mollified Tom's ruffled feelings somewhat. It wasn't Bacon's fault that his life was lately overstocked with emotional turmoils. His angel was in gaol. His best friend had turned into a girl. His mentor was in love with his tutor, who was one of the most infuriating and brilliant personages he had ever met.

  Bacon continued his summation. "Although this requires some speculation, we may assert the proposition that Shiveley was murdered. We are led to this assertion because the Fleming was killed, presumably by the Catholic conspirator who received and removed his pamphlets. The Fleming could not have been killed by Shiveley; therefore, Shiveley was not the conspirator. So why was he killed?"