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

by Anna Castle

  A Francis Bacon Mystery — Book 1

  Murder by Misrule

  Anna Castle

  Copyright 2014 by Anna Castle

  Cover image by Jennifer Quinlan at Historical Editorial

  Murder by Misrule is the first book in the Francis Bacon mystery series.

  Francis Bacon is charged with investigating the murder of a fellow barrister at Gray's Inn. He recruits his unwanted protégé Thomas Clarady to do the tiresome legwork. The son of a privateer, Clarady will do anything to climb the Elizabethan social ladder. Bacon's powerful uncle Lord Burghley suspects Catholic conspirators of the crime, but other motives quickly emerge. Rival barristers contend for the murdered man's legal honors and wealthy clients. Highly-placed courtiers are implicated as the investigation reaches from Whitehall to the London streets. Bacon does the thinking; Clarady does the fencing. Everyone has something up his pinked and padded sleeve. Even the brilliant Francis Bacon is at a loss — and in danger — until he sees through the disguises of the season of Misrule.

  For my parents Carmen and Dale, who just keep on making things possible for me.

  CHAPTER 1

  Westminster, 19 November 1586

  A sudden roar startled Francis Bacon out of his thoughts, making him jump, his shoes actually leaving the ground. He glanced to either side, hoping no one had seen him. Of course, the street was empty. The roar came from the cheers rising from the tiltyard where all of London celebrated Queen's Day with jousting and pageants. The world and its wife were there today, including everyone who mattered at court. Everyone, therefore, except him.

  He didn't know why he'd come down to Westminster. He should have stayed in his chambers at Gray's, reading in the blissful peace of the deserted inn. He needed exercise, he'd said to himself. Stretch his legs, catch a breath of air. Once he was out, he'd thought he might drop by Burghley House in hopes of gaining a moment with his uncle, the Lord Treasurer and Her Majesty's most indispensable counselor. He knew His Lordship would not be at the tiltyard. He rarely took time off from work and disliked noisy spectacles. Francis didn't much care for them either. Sweaty people, filthy grounds, ear-splitting roars like the one that had just startled him. Dreadful. He shuddered to think of it.

  His uncle had refused to see him. The secretary offered a transparent excuse about heaps of letters and an aching head. One did not need the deductive gifts of a Bacon to recognize that he was persona non grata at Burghley House as well. All he'd done was have an idea — a perfectly reasonable idea for reforming the English common law — and mention it here and there. He was born to have ideas, he'd been told as much from infancy. But his proposal had created a bit of a stir. The queen didn't like controversy among her courtiers, so she'd banished him until further notice. The punishment far exceeded the crime, but to whom might one complain?

  On a sort of self-flagellatory whim, he walked down the Strand to Whitehall, thinking of popping up to his friend Henry Percy's to borrow a book. He changed his mind on the very threshold, wavering two steps forward, two back, taking another slow step forward. Then he turned and walked quickly away with downcast eyes. He knew, and everyone would know he knew, that banishment from court meant no visiting of friends who were visiting at court. What had he been thinking? He'd taken a risk just passing through the King Street Gate.

  He should go back to his chambers at once and stay there. He walked swiftly past the palace and turned into the Privy Garden to get off the main street. If German tourists were allowed to stroll here at their pleasure, then surely so should he be. He inhaled deeply as he hurried through the maze of tall yews, appreciating their wholesome fragrance to bolster his courage until he reached the narrow street on the other side. Now he was officially outside the palace grounds. Safe. Francis exhaled a sigh of relief and directed his steps toward the Westminster wharf. He'd catch a wherry back to the Temple Stair and avoid the whole palace area until he had been restored to the queen's good graces.

  The lanes south of the palace formed another maze, with narrow alleys winding between tightly-packed houses, darkened by the overhanging upper stories. The short November day was drawing down. Rows of puffball clouds streamed across the sky, casting confusing shadows across the timbered walls. But Francis knew Westminster like he knew his Bible. He could walk it blindfolded.

  He turned a sharp corner and stumbled onto a soft mass. Backing up, looking down, a gasp of horror choked his throat. The mass was a man, dead, sprawled across the middle of the lane in a pool of wet dirt. Wet with blood, which Francis had walked right into. If he'd been paying attention, he would have smelled it first: the tang of fresh blood was unmistakable. He backed off a few paces and checked his boots, a thoughtless act he immediately repented. The poor man, whoever he was, deserved his first consideration.

  Francis took a few breaths, patting himself on the chest to calm his heart, his gaze averted toward the pink plaster wall beside him. He'd been to funerals, but he'd never seen a corpse, much less nearly trampled one in the open street. He steeled himself to take another look. He avoided the face at first, easing himself into the odious duty. He noted a doublet of excellent cloth and a figured Spanish belt. The clothes were rich: this man had been a gentleman.

  Ah, worse! The garment he'd thought was a cloak was in fact a robe: black, with two velvet welts on each wide sleeve. Those stripes told him the man had been a barrister.

  There was no help for it now; odds were high he knew him. Francis took two gingerly steps closer and shifted his gaze to the face. Ah, mercy! What have we come to? The body in the lane was Tobias Smythson, an ancient of Gray's Inn, Francis's own Inn of Court. He not only knew him, he knew him well.

  Smythson had been Francis's tutor when he'd first arrived at Gray's back in 1579, an eighteen-year-old boy newly bereft of his father. He'd been disoriented and miserable, facing an uncertain future. Kindly, wise Tobias Smythson had taken him under his wing. He'd guided his studies without those annoying little jokes about the speed with which his pupil mastered each subject. He'd introduced him to judges at all the courts. Francis wouldn't say it had been a convivial relationship — they weren't close in the way of real fathers and sons — but it had been comfortable, productive, and most welcome in those difficult early days. In a few years, it became obvious to them both that Francis had no further need for a tutor. Although they saw one another less frequently, they remained on amicable terms.

  Now, here his old tutor lay, dead in the street. How could such a thing have happened? What was he doing here on such a day? A barrister would have a hundred reasons to visit Westminster on an ordinary day. But why today, a holiday? Smythson was no fonder of the Queen's Day crowds than his uncle and himself.

  Fortunately, it wasn't Francis Bacon's job to solve that mystery. He should call the coroner now, or, considering the proximity of the palace, the Captain of the Queen's Guard, Sir Walter Ralegh. He took three strides back toward King Street before he caught himself. He had been forbidden to speak to any courtier at any time on any subject. The queen's temper was unpredictable. She might well be incensed to see him approaching the tiltyard gallery even under these extraordinary circumstances.

  A flash of anger creased his brow. Really, the situation was preposterous! By rights, as the son of the late Lord Keeper of the Great Seal, he ought to have a personal attendant at all times who could be sent hither and yon with messages. Then he remembered that he did have one, after a manner of speaking: the upstart son of a privateer who had been foisted upon him in exchange for the
payment of an unfortunate accumulation of debt. Thomas Clarady was sure to be at the tournament, getting drunk with his friends. Francis jogged up to King Street and whistled for a boy to summon him. Thanks to the superfluity of population in the capital, there were always boys eager to earn a farthing or two. Since Clarady was undoubtedly dressed like a carnival clown, he ought to be easy enough to find.

  CHAPTER 2

  Queen's Day was the most glorious day so far in all of Tom's nineteen years. He and his fellow law students had skipped chapel and dined early in a Holborn ordinary to make sure they arrived at the Whitehall tiltyard in time to claim choice positions at the rail. They'd just watched the Earl of Cumberland fling the Queen's Champion clear off his horse in a masterful display of jousting prowess. Now the Earl of Essex was performing a pastoral pageant, complete with Hermits, Shepherds, and Wild Men.

  Tom tried to listen to the earl's poetry, but his eyes kept shifting toward the magnificent personages seated near the queen in the gallery overlooking the yard. He felt a bit of a bumpkin not knowing which was who, but in fairness, he'd only been in London since Michaelmas. Today alone, he'd seen two earls and Captain Sir Walter Ralegh, who sat astride a silver stallion below the gallery, guarding the queen.

  Not a bad start for a newcomer. By this time next year, he'd know them all. And some of them might know him.

  Someone important could notice him today. Such things happened. He knew he looked gallant in his emerald velvet and canary silk, his short beard trimmed to perfection. Tom stood tall and squared his shoulders. He drew in a deep breath to swell his chest, inhaling aromas of dust, spilt wine, and horseshit. He set his fist on his hip to draw attention to the coiled hilt of his new rapier. The pose pushed back the drape of the sleeveless black gown that declared him a law student at one of the prestigious Inns of Court.

  He had truly arrived at the center of the world, in his rightful role as a gentleman, new-feathered though he might be. These robes proved his status. They also got him in nearly everywhere. Nobody minded law students poking in to see what was happening. The robes were as good as a letter of marque.

  Thirty minutes later, Tom's pose had wilted. His tummy was rumbling, his head was wobbly, and they were nearly out of wine. The young Earl of Essex, dressed as an Old Knight, stood alone on the platform beside a taffeta shrub, intoning a polymetrical paean to solitariness. The other players were long gone. Tom knew that a love of poetry was one of the marks of a gentleman, but he had to struggle to pay attention.

  "This meter has too many feet," he muttered. "Makes my brains itch."

  That earned a chuckle from his diminutive friend Trumpet. "It's that bumpity French style: bum, tee rum, tee rumpty rumpity REEDLE dum."

  Trumpet, properly known as Allen Trumpington, claimed to be seventeen, but Tom thought fifteen nearer the mark. The boy had black hair and green eyes that tilted up at the corners, pixie-like. He had a tragic wisp of a moustache of which he was perversely proud, often patting it as if to make it grow. The other students at Gray's Inn teased him about his stature and his love of study but scrupulously avoided mention of that pitiful moustache.

  Every man was entitled to his illusions.

  The earl ended his last alexandrine verse with a flourish and a bow. Applause rose from the crowd. The queen sent a silken scarf by way of a footman to reward her courtier.

  Tom passed the wineskin to Trumpet, who shook it, frowned, and passed it on to Stephen.

  "Why are you giving this to me?" Stephen reached over Trumpet's shoulder to hand it back to Tom. "Get some more, Tom. Before the next tourney starts."

  Tom rolled his eyes at the tone of command. He wasn't Stephen's retainer anymore. He was Francis Bacon's much-avoided, semi-pseudo-apprentice. But he wouldn't mind another skinful of wine himself. He looked about for a vendor.

  Stephen Delabere was the eldest son of the seventh Earl of Dorchester. He had sandy hair and amber eyes. His chin was too narrow and his nose was too sharp, but he was handsome enough for a lord. Years ago, Tom's father had lent Lord Dorchester a large sum on absurd terms to buy Tom's way into a noble household. Captain Valentine Clarady was a privateer and proud to serve queen and country by raiding Spanish ships, but he wanted more for his only son. So Tom had left the rambling manor on the Dorset coast where he had grown up surrounded by adoring sisters and aunts and guests from all the Seven Seas: merchants and sailors with parrots and adventurous lords. Even blackamoors with rings in their noses. The earl's household had paled by comparison, but Tom made the best of it. He quickly learned to manage the malleable Stephen so as to let his noble master-cum-playmate shine while he quietly got what he wanted.

  "Didn't you like the earl's poetry?" Stephen asked, a trifle worried. "I thought it was rather fine."

  "The poetry was magnificent," Tom assured him. "I loved the poetry. Except for the meter. That meter made me dizzy."

  "The meter was a bit strained," Stephen said. "But some of the lines were good. 'Envy's snaky eye'? That was brilliant." He narrowed his eyes and lips and thrust his head forward, trying to look snaky. It made him look drunker. "Nor envy's sssssnaky—"

  Trumpet talked right over him. "I kept hoping the Wild Men would come back and trounce those pribbling Hermits."

  "I hated the Hermits," Tom said. "For one thing, if they're so devoted to hermitation, why do they go about in a group?"

  That got a laugh from Ben, who had watched the whole performance with the abstracted gaze he wore when puzzling out some legal jim-jammery. Benjamin Whitt was taller than Tom and Stephen by a good three inches and older by two years. He had dark eyes and a long face, like a melancholy hound. He always wore brown on brown with dabs of beige. You would look at him and think, "What a sad, dull fellow!"

  And you would be wrong.

  "It was an allegory," Ben said. "The Wild Men show our savage side: Man as Beast. The Hermits illustrate the virtues of solitary contemplation. The Shepherds exemplify the pacifying nature of, er, Nature. The deeper message—"

  "Hang the deeper message!" Tom crowed. "I wanted a sword fight." He glanced up at the courtiers in the gallery and struck an oratorical pose. "I submit to you that shepherds and savages, while all very well in their way, do not belong in a tourney. They are not justly joustly. Not—"

  He was interrupted by a small, scruffy boy, who had somehow materialized in front of the rail to tug at Tom's yellow silk sleeve.

  "Stop that." Tom twitched his sleeve away from the urchin's dirty hand. "Be off with you!"

  The boy stood his ground. "I've a message for Thomas Clarady. That's you, ain't it?"

  "Who wants to know?"

  "Your master sent me. Francis Bacon, he said he was. He wants you, quicker than quick, no matter how drunk you be. I'm to show you where and get another ha'penny. He said, 'Tell him not to quibble.'" The boy did a fair impression of Bacon's precise enunciation. "What's quibbling, master? Some lawyer trick?"

  Tom growled under his breath. He had half a mind to say no, but Bacon could have him tossed out on his ear whenever he pleased. His father was at sea again and wouldn't learn about it for months, by which time the damage might be unfixable.

  He was spared the indignity of obedience by Ben, who admired Francis Bacon beyond all comprehension. "We'd best go at once," he said. "He could be in trouble."

  "If he's fallen into the Fleet, you're fishing him out." The Fleet River was the sewer of west London. "He's probably just short of coin for a wherry."

  They grabbed the other lads and began working their way through the crowd toward the gate. They followed the boy down King Street to a side street, down an alley, and into a lane lined on both sides with tall houses. At the juncture, Francis Bacon paced back and forth, clasping his hands tensely at his breast.

  ***

  The boy was sent back for Captain Ralegh. Bacon relayed his instructions through Ben and then slipped away with one last sorrowful glance at Mr. Smythson's body. The lads were left to stand guard.

  The l
ads moved toward the body as if drawn by a string, bending forward to peer down at it. His eyes stared at nothing, open to the gray sky. His lips still snarled, teeth bared, as if he had died shouting curses at his attacker.

  Not a quiet death.

  Pity and disgust knotted together in Tom's belly. Sudden death was always ugly yet somehow fascinating. He couldn't look away.

  They didn't have long to wait. A ringing voice cried, "Hold them here! Block the way!" Then Sir Walter Ralegh rounded the corner on his silver stallion. The Earl of Cumberland was close behind him. He positioned his mount to block the lane. Sir Walter glanced at the lads and down at the corpus as he rode carefully past. He turned his steed to block the farther end.

  Ralegh dismounted and handed his reins to Stephen, who happened to be closest. Stephen recoiled, offended. Tom nipped in and neatly twitched the reins into his own hand to forestall an outburst. Stephen's prickly temper could not abide such minor slights. One of Tom's jobs had been averting these little conflicts, which tended to make Stephen look petulant rather than lordly.

  Trumpet edged him aside to snatch the reins, holding them as if they were relics of immense holiness. Ralegh was his hero.

  "Do you know this man?" Ralegh asked them, eyeing their student robes.

  "Yes, sir, Captain Ralegh." Tom bowed. "He's our tutor, or he was. Mr. Tobias Smythson, an Ancient of Gray's Inn."

  "A lawyer," Ralegh said. "May God rest his soul." He waved the lads back and paced around the body, careful to avoid the swathe of bloodied mud surrounding the torso. He shook his head and spoke to Lord Cumberland. "Well, he's plainly dead. It's equally plain that he was murdered. I judge there was a struggle: witness his face and the state of his garments."

  The barrister's robes were wrenched about, twisted on his body, and smeared with mud along the sides as though he had writhed and fought beneath his attacker. One outstretched arm displayed the velvet welts on his sleeve that proclaimed his profession. He'd argue no more cases in Westminster now.