by Anna Castle
"Indeed."
"I trust that you will not disappoint me." Burghley held his eyes to ensure that his meaning was fully communicated. "This is an opportunity to do the queen a service and regain her favor."
Francis felt a trickle of hope. "May I trust that I'll be reinstated when I succeed?"
"If you succeed. The conspirator has been thus far untraceable." His uncle allowed himself a smile. "Find me Smythson's murderer and I believe I can at least assure you of an invitation to dinner on Christmas Eve."
Everyone who mattered attended on the queen on Christmas Eve. Such an invitation would announce to the whole court that he had been restored to favor. Francis bowed low to hide the tears that sprang unexpectedly into his eyes. "Her Majesty is most gracious. As is my lord uncle. I will do all that can be done."
Burghley gave an almost inaudible chuckle. "Be careful, Nephew. These are desperate times. I should greatly mislike being obliged to inform your mother of your demise."
CHAPTER 4
Francis spent the remainder of the day in bed, covered with extra blankets. His servant administered an hourly dose of a tonic efficacious against chill. He constructed a list of tasks that might be undertaken in pursuit of Smythson's killer but otherwise did next to nothing. He felt it too risky to descend to the hall for supper.
On Saturday morning, having successfully warded off an ague or worse, he begged a master key from the butler and let himself into Smythson's rooms in Colby's Building on the west side of Coney Court. Smythson's set, like Francis's, were on the most desirable first floor: above the dust and bustle of the yard but with only one flight of stairs to climb.
The chambers were typical. One entered directly from the landing into the outer room, which was furnished as a study-cum-consultation chamber with a desk, a pair of high-backed chairs, and a few chests of various sizes. A wide window overlooking the courtyard let in adequate light for daytime work, and a pair of candelabras on the desk supported nighttime labors. A set of shelves leaning against the paneled wall held a collection of books. Francis wondered if Smythson's heirs could be persuaded to donate them to Gray's library as a commemorative gift.
As he ran his fingers lightly across the spines of the books, noting their titles on the surface of his thoughts, his deeper mind reviewed the status of Smythson's heirs. The butler had told him there were two: a son and a daughter, both grown, married, and living in Hertfordshire. They had not yet had time to respond to the messages sent yesterday. The butler also said that Treasurer Fogg had visited Smythson's chambers yesterday to look for a will. Smythson had expressed a wish to be buried at St. Clement Danes Church on the Strand. The burial was scheduled for Sunday, hoping that his children would be able to arrive by then. It was cold; he would keep.
The coroner's report described the number and nature of the wounds inflicted on Smythson's body in explicit detail. Francis was shocked anew by the degree of violence. The coroner surmised that the killer had been under the influence of rage or panic or other such passion. He was surely correct; no man in full possession of himself could perform such a deed.
Francis considered the idea that Smythson had been murdered by his children for their inheritance and dismissed it at once. As his tutor, Smythson had drilled him in learning exercises, both privately and in the hall. Aiming for verisimilitude, he had not been gentle. Francis had watched him argue many cases in the Westminster courts. He could not pretend to have plumbed the depths of the man's nature, but he had an adequate sense of his qualities. Smythson had been melancholic: cold and dry, inclined to a mild irritability, sometimes overly punctilious. Not the type to inspire a furious hatred in his offspring.
Besides, there were simpler ways to kill one's relations in the privacy of one's country estate. Why risk an attack in a public street mere yards from Whitehall?
Francis sifted through the papers on Smythson's desk and then explored the desk itself to be sure there were no hidden compartments. He found nothing of use. Another set of shelves held stacks of commonplace books, dozens of them. He moved toward them with delight. They must go all the way back to Smythson's student days. Francis would have these removed to his chambers at once. He would peruse them to ensure that they contained nothing that might embarrass their author and then transfer them to the library.
He slipped the last volume from the shelf and opened it. Near the end, he found notes that might relate to Smythson's investigations for Burghley. They were written in a cryptic Latin. That language was no obstacle to Francis; nor would it have been for any other member of Gray's. The last page held the words subvectio, libellus, and moneta; the symbolXII-, and a final note: BH QD 4. This last Francis readily interpreted as "Burghley House, Queen's Day, four o'clock," although had he not already been apprised of Smythson's intentions, he might have found the meaning impenetrable.
Subvectio meant delivery or conveyance. Libellus meant something written: a notebook, an essay, a petition, a pamphlet. Smythson could hardly have chosen a term more vague. Moneta meant money. For the conveyance of documents?
The numeral was probably a month. Twelve meant December. The symbol next to it could be read as a half moon. That put the delivery, if such it was, at about mid-December. Was this what Smythson had discovered? If so, it was slender help since it failed to say where the putative delivery would take place. It could be in someone's chambers or out in the broad fields behind the Inn. Or it could be in a dockside tavern or the aisle of St. Paul's Cathedral, for all anyone could say.
If he knew who, he might be able to deduce where. But not the reverse, interestingly. Places were more general than persons. For a moment, the insight into methods of reasoning captured his whole attention. Then he realized that he already knew who with the same degree of specificity as the wheres he had posited. "A member of Gray's Inn" was at least as large a class as "a dockside tavern." A form of inconsistent comparison; he chided himself for the obvious error.
He sighed and returned to his inspection of the room. He opened the largest chest and discovered that its contents had already been disturbed. Writing instruments were tumbled about: an ink bottle turned on its side, a sheaf of new quills bent by a heavy box. Fogg must have made this mess when searching for the will. Francis emptied the chest, careful not to get ink on his cuffs, setting the objects on the floor. No locked boxes, no false bottom. No cash. He quickly searched the smaller chests: nothing. Doubtless, Fogg had removed what money there was to the safekeeping of the Pipe Office.
He replaced everything neatly and stood with his hands on his hips, surveying the room. He could see nothing that would aid in his investigation. He blew out an exasperated breath and crossed to the inner chamber.
This room was more sparsely furnished than the study, although its furnishings were of the highest quality. A bed with green woolen tester and curtains stood against the north wall. Opposite were a single chair, a close-stool, and a tall oaken cupboard carved with the likeness of Smythson and a woman Francis assumed to be his late wife. The room contained no paper of any kind, not even by the close-stool. Smythson had preferred moss to wipe his bottom, as Francis did himself.
He looked under the pillows and beneath the bed. He thought about raising the top mattress to be sure nothing was hidden beneath, but a tentative tug proved it to be quite heavy. No good would be served by wrenching a shoulder.
Smythson wouldn't have engaged in such strenuous exercise either. Francis decided to stipulate the absence of documents between the mattresses; in which case, his work was done.
He sat on the bed, kicking his heels into the fringe of the coverlet. He'd wasted the better part of an hour in energetic labor with nothing to show for it but a few cryptic notes in a commonplace book. He could imagine the disdain with which his uncle would greet such a paltry result.
A member of Gray's might possibly be planning to receive a delivery of letters or pamphlets or memoranda on the day of the December half moon. Pamphlets were the most likely, produced by the J
esuits in Rheims and Rome. A nasty business. Those things were a pernicious nuisance, aimed less at converting Protestants than at inflaming the ardor of covert Catholics in England. They riled people and encouraged them to oppose the queen's sensible middle way through the nation's religious troubles. These foolish controversies disrupted whole communities, separating neighbor from neighbor, friend from friend, sometimes even husband from wife.
Francis hated to think of his fellows at Gray's being involved in such wickedness. Men of the law should be rational above all things. That delivery, if he had correctly interpreted Smythson's note, must be intercepted.
The note was frustratingly vague. Gray's had nearly three hundred and fifty members, although some of those were honorific, like his uncle and his cousin. Others, like his step-brothers, seldom came to London. A fair percentage were visus in villa, living in private homes or inns. Even assuming that the conspirator was currently resident at Gray's, he still had two hundred suspects.
He frowned. His uncle might be committing a logical fallacy in assuming that because Smythson was investigating Catholic conspiracies, a Catholic conspirator killed him. The murder could have been motivated by personal reasons rather than political. Cum hoc ergo propter hoc: with this, therefore because of this. It was a sophomoric error.
He doubted, however, that his uncle would be pleased to receive instruction in dialectic in lieu of a solution. Even Francis could recognize the arrogance in that. He heaved a heartfelt sigh. What had he come to? Snooping through a colleague's chambers, hoping for obvious evidence of criminal activity. He had sunk to the level of a parish constable.
All because he had dared to dream an outsized dream. He had asked to be named Special Assistant to the Attorney General with a five-year commission to review and revise the English legal code. He presented his first book, Twenty-Five Maxims of the Law, written in both English and Law French, as proof of his abilities. He'd asked for a modest salary of four hundred pounds per annum, with two clerks. An ambitious proposal, certainly, but arrogant? He still could not comprehend that charge. He was young, yes, but his gifts were evident. His parents had taught him not to disguise his God-given talents with false modesty, but to exercise them for the benefit of society. If his manner tended to be reserved, it was through fault of bashfulness, not pride.
Apparently the distinction between a lack of false modesty and arrogance was one he had yet to master.
Lord Burghley had promised to present the proposal to the queen in spite of his skepticism. The queen had predictably balked at the expense. Francis had been prepared to negotiate the terms, but she rejected the whole enterprise out of hand. This was not the time, he was far too young, he had never argued a case in court, he failed to understand the politics of such sweeping reforms.
He should have taken no for an answer. Instead, he'd allowed himself to be driven on by the power of his vision. He had written letters — too many letters — to every courtier with whom he had the slightest connection. Some, like Sir Francis Walsingham, had answered him kindly, honoring the memory of his father. Others had rebuked him sharply for his presumption.
Francis moaned and buried his face in his hands, remembering the day he'd cornered Sir Christopher Hatton after the French ambassador's dinner. He'd vexed the poor man for nearly half an hour, stammering forth the details of his plan point by agonizing point.
He'd thought himself so sophisticated, so wise in the ways of the court. He'd had no idea. His proposal stirred up a hornet's nest, zestfully pursued by one faction, fiercely opposed by another, creating an angry buzz that eventually stung the queen herself. She stamped out the conflict in a fine display of Tudor temper, banishing Francis from court and barring him from writing any letters to any courtier on any subject whatsoever until further notice. He was lucky that she allowed him to remain at Gray's instead of sending him home to his mother.
All roads to greatness led through the royal court. Until he could earn his restoration, he was nobody: a man with no prospects, no future. His ambitions were left unsatisfied while his destiny languished unfulfilled.
His uncle had thrown him one slender rope. He must grab hold of it and follow it as best he could. He gazed out the window, seeking solace from the autumnal landscape. He feared the mystery would prove unsolvable. How could he uncover the truth? What could he do, one man alone?
CHAPTER 5
Saturday morning after breakfast, Tom, Ben, and Stephen loitered in the yard, waiting for Trumpet. The three older lads lodged together in the Gallery, a tall, sagging building across from the hall. The old place was practically crumbling into the ground — roofs leaked, windows stuck or wouldn't close, a moldy smell seeped from the walls — but Tom felt lucky to be there. When he'd first arrived in September, Bacon had housed him above the stables, like one of the servants. He'd seated him at the clerks' table in hall too. Tom had written to his father at once. Captain Valentine Clarady, too canny to settle all of Bacon's debts before getting his money's worth, stopped payments and sent a crisp word through their chain of connections. Suddenly, room was found for Tom in Ben's chambers. With the subtle sense of irony characteristic of Bacon's sense of humor, he found them a third chum: Stephen Delabere.
No matter. Tom had gained admittance to the biggest and best of the four prestigious Inns of Court at the ideal age of nineteen and he would by God stay in until he rose to the top. Or found something better.
Trumpet had missed chapel, which was nothing strange, and breakfast, which was. He lodged with his uncle, Nathaniel Welbeck, who evidently didn't care if the boy flouted the compulsory chapel rule. Being the nephew of an earl, Trumpet had obviously been indulged all his life. He could be counted on to go along with Tom's schemes, though, no matter how risky or irregular they might be.
"Let's go roust him," Tom said. "It's not fair for him to sleep all morning."
They walked around the Gallery to Coney Court and spied Trumpet hurrying across the yard, wrapping his cloak around his shoulders.
"You missed chapel again," Ben scolded.
"Nobody woke me, so I slept." Trumpet yawned hugely.
"We'll wake you in future," Tom promised. "Mr. Whitt here doesn't approve of slug-a-beds."
Ben frowned, although Tom had meant it as a compliment. He admired Ben more than anyone he knew, after his father.
Benjamin Whitt, age twenty-one, was the second son of a middling Suffolk gentleman. His family had high hopes for their investment in Ben's education, for which they were mortgaging a dangerous proportion of their lands. Tom believed it was a safer bet than most speculations. Ben lived to study and had wits to spare. He remembered everything he read and most of what he heard. He could analyze and synthesize simultaneously and at speed. Tom and Trumpet had bet that Ben would be Chief Justice of the Queen's Bench by the age of forty.
"Are we off to Westminster, then?" Trumpet asked. "Let's watch the Queen's Bench today."
"Westminster, yes; courts, no," Tom said. "Let's go find the house where I saw my angela. We can think of some excuse to get inside."
Trumpet rolled his eyes. "It's too cold for a wild goose chase. How about the Court of Requests? We haven't been there for a while."
"No courts," Tom said. "We're free. Let's have some fun. Let's go out to the fields and practice shooting my new pistols."
His father had sent him a pair of German-made wheel lock pistols taken from a Spanish grandee. Pistols weren't especially useful for a student of the law, but then, Tom's father was a privateer. Had he sent him a book, Tom would have hoist the messenger on the point of his knife and demanded to know what had become of Captain Clarady.
"Too drizzly," Trumpet said, snugging his chin into his cloak. "The gunpowder will be damp. Let's go get some pies. My treat."
Tom pretended to be shocked. "What's the occasion?"
Trumpet shrugged. "My uncle's been feeling generous lately."
"Ho for hot pie!" They paused beside the gatehouse, out of the traffic in the yard. Ma
ny men were hurrying toward Westminster to argue cases or observe court proceedings; others were returning to their chambers from the hall to spend the morning studying or writing briefs. Most of them wore the long black robes that marked their status. They looked like busy, important gentlemen. Men of the world. And now Tom was one of them.
Stephen glared at his fellows, his narrow lips pressed together in a stubborn line. "No. No pistols. No pies. No courts. We have to find a new tutor. A good one. Else my father will send his steward up to arrange matters and we'll get someone dreadful."
Tom shuddered at the thought. Stephen's father was a Nonconformist and very strict. And a strict tutor would put a damper on their London lives. Fencing, dancing, music, Italian: acquiring these arts of courtesy was the main purpose of enrolling at an Inn of Court. Clever lads picked up a smattering of history and philosophy — the intellectual trappings of a gentleman — with enough law to keep the neighbors from robbing you blind. Stephen's father expected his heir to gain the social polish of London without having any of the actual fun.
On the other hand, Tom was no longer under any obligation to Lord Dorchester or his heir. He could cut loose, hire any tutor he pleased. Or no tutor, for that matter. On the third hand, however, he was not likely to learn much law without help. It wasn't like university: there were no introductory texts, designed to guide the student in baby steps towards mastery. You got thrown straight into the deep, dark sea of the Year Books, which were case reports written in Law French, which was a deranged, unreadable mishmash of Old French and Latin with the odd lump of English bobbing up like uncooked fat in a sour stew. Sort of like the pidgin he'd learned on his father's ship last year, which seemed a mix of every language with a coast. They used it everywhere that sailors put in to shore. But you picked that up phrase by useful phrase: things like "Bring us more wine" and "How much for the whole night?"
