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

by Anna Castle

  "I should think I would remember the place where I first saw my one true love," Tom said. "It was an important moment for me after all."

  Stephen and Trumpet snickered. Tom felt affronted, as a gentleman should when the sincerity of his ardor is doubted. Although in fairness, he had similarly sworn his undying love only a month ago, after chancing to sit beside Lady Elizabeth Throckmorton at the theater. He'd written three sonnets to her beauty and dreamt about her for a fortnight.

  This was different; he couldn't explain how. He hadn't been able to think of anything but his angel for the whole past week. It had nearly affected his appetite. He'd spent every idle moment planning what he'd say to her when he found her. Today was the day: he could feel it in his bones. He was so sure that he'd stuck an ostrich plume in his best hat in spite of his friends' jeers and Gray's rules about finery. Otherwise, he and the lads wore leather jerkins and everyday slops since they were going on from here direct to their dancing lesson.

  Ben walked ahead, studying the ground. He paused every few steps to shift a bit of mud with the toe of his boot. He stopped a dozen yards down the lane and raised his hands, gesturing as if establishing the position of invisible figures. He called back, "This is it!" They trotted down the lane to where he stood.

  Tom looked up. "This window looks the same as the other one."

  Ben nodded. "These houses were probably built at the same time by the same builder. But that house —" he turned to point across the lane "— is pink. And there's this." He pointed his toe at a clump of mud. "I'm fairly certain that's blood. The worst of it must have been removed."

  "Ugh," Tom said. "Poor Mr. Smythson."

  "God rest him," the others intoned.

  Stephen said, "What are we supposed to be looking at?" He'd been carping and whining throughout their search. Tom wished he would go on ahead, if he didn't want to help. Who was stopping him?

  "Whatever is unusual, I suppose," Ben said.

  They turned in slow circles. Tom tried to observe with his full perceptive capacity, as Bacon had instructed them, but saw nothing more than walls and windows and sanded earth. The whole area around Whitehall had been swept clean for Queen's Day and there hadn't been time for fresh rubbish to pile up.

  "I hope we can find the knife," Trumpet said.

  "Surely the thief would have kept it," Stephen said.

  "We don't know that it was a thief," Ben said. "My impression is that Mr. Bacon thinks it wasn't."

  "He's holding something back," Tom said. "I'm sure of it." He shot a meaningful glance at Ben, who only shrugged.

  "Why doesn't he tell us what he wants us to find?" Stephen said. "Why be so cursed mysterious?"

  "To prevent our results from being contaminated by a priori assumptions." Ben had been thoroughly seduced by Bacon's novel approach to natural philosophy. At least, he claimed it was the philosophy.

  "We should look for witnesses," Tom said. "My angel might have seen something."

  "She may well have," Ben said, "but she doesn't seem to be at home today."

  The window where she had stood was shuttered.

  "She could be inside," Tom said. "It's nippy; she wouldn't want the window open. She could be standing there, combing her golden tresses, right on the other side of that wall." He gazed up at the window, raising his arms before him as if in supplication.

  "Here it comes," Stephen warned.

  Tom lifted his voice in song. He would call his angel to him with poetry and music. He chose the song they'd learned last week from their Italian master, which happened to be apt.

  "From heaven an angel upon radiant wings,

  New lighted on that shore so fresh and fair . . ."

  The other lads joined in. They had an Italian lesson that afternoon; they might as well practice. They made a balanced quartet. Tom and Stephen had the best voices and were both tenors, although Stephen's range was slightly greater. Trumpet's normal voice was mediocre but he could produce a surprisingly sweet falsetto. Ben had a round and fruity basso.

  They sang clearly, lightening the dreary morning, enjoying the effect of their voices echoing against the plaster walls.

  "To which, so doom'd, my faithful footstep clings:

  Alone and friendless, when she found me there,

  Of gold and silk a finely-woven net,

  Where lay my path, 'mid seeming flowers she set:

  Thus was I caught, and, for such sweet light shone

  From out her eyes, I soon forgot to moan."

  They came to the end of the song. The window before them remained shut. But someone behind them clapped loudly. They turned to see a wrinkled crone leaning out of a window on the first floor of the pink house.

  "Beeyootiful!" She grinned toothlessly down at them. "But why're ye singing to an empty window, good sirs, when ye've got me?"

  Tom bowed, which brought on a raucous cackle.

  Ben muttered indistinctly, trying not to move his lips, "We may have another witness."

  Trumpet called up to her, "We're looking for a woman who was here last week, Goodwife. In the window across from yours. A young woman with blond hair?"

  "Oh, her!" The crone's mouth turned down in a frightful grimace, making her look so like a gargoyle that Tom flinched. "She's not there now. They're at court, this hour."

  Tom's heart leapt: his angel was noble if she was at court. Then it sank again: she was beyond his reach. He sighed. He would have to love her from afar. More romantic, if less satisfying.

  Ben spoke up. "Were you here last week, Goodwife, when the lawyer was killed?"

  "Nor was I, curse the luck! The most exciting thing to happen 'neath this window in all my years and it happens right when I'm having my mug o' ale!"

  "Do you normally sit at this window, then?" Ben asked.

  "Normally? I allus sits here, sir, if that's what you mean. I was only out for a quarter of an hour. Half, might be. Never longer."

  Ben smiled up at her, nodding, speaking to the others out of the corner of his mouth. "We need to interview her. She may have seen the killer earlier." The words came out in a sort of squashed creak.

  "Why're ye talking so queer?" She craned her withered neck to see them better.

  The boys closed ranks, smiling up at her.

  "What did you say?" Trumpet spoke out of the corner of his mouth.

  Stephen, a gifted mimic, repeated Ben's words in the same suppressed squeak. "We need to interview her."

  "Just ask her," Tom urged, poking Ben in the side.

  The crone watched their byplay with sharp attention. "You gentlemen is as good as a mummery show. Sing me another o' them songs."

  "If you'll let us come up, we will," Ben said.

  "Come ahead, fine sirs." She flapped her hand. "I always welcome tasty young gentlemen into my chamber." She burst into a torrent of cackling, rocking back and forth, clutching the oak frame of the window. Tom hesitated briefly; they might be safer questioning her from the street.

  The lads found an alley that led them onto King Street. They realized that they were retracing the route they'd taken on the fatal day and kept their eyes skinned for bits of material evidence. Nothing presented itself. Bacon had suggested footprints, but both lane and alley had been thoroughly trampled by three horses and a curious mob.

  They counted houses back to the one the old woman occupied and entered a doorway under a sign that read The Janus Face. Inside, they were dazzled by an array of silks and taffetas and sarcenets in a rainbow of hues. Gowns and doublets of all kinds hung about the room.

  The lads were so amazed by the finery that it was several moments before they noticed a short man of middle years standing before them with a crabbed look on his round face. "If you're from the Middle Temple," he said, eyes raking their student robes, "your costumes aren't ready. I told you December fifteenth and not one day earlier."

  "We're from Gray's," Trumpet said.

  "Gray's won't be done till day before Christmas Eve. Every year, you expect a mirac
le, putting in your orders at the last minute. Well, you'll not get one this year neither. You can't get quality workmanship at a moment's notice."

  "We're not here for costumes," Ben said.

  "What costumes?" Stephen asked. Tom grabbed his arm and pointed at a turban in gleaming purple silk topped with a spray of white plumes. Stephen drew in a delighted breath. They exchanged excited grins. This would be their first Christmas in London, and they meant to enjoy every minute of it. Feasts, plays, gaming, masques, music; dancing, dancing, and more dancing. They had been practicing their leaps for la volta for weeks.

  Tom winced as Ben trod heavily upon his foot. "We'd like to speak with someone upstairs," Ben said. "A woman at the window?"

  The costumer groaned. "My grandmother, you mean. She's been flirting with you, hasn't she? I pray you, good sirs, kindly ignore her."

  "We'd like to visit her, Tailor," Ben said. "Only for a moment. We're investigating a murder that was committed here last week."

  "Oh, the murder! I heard all about it, that evening when I got home. I was at the pageant, you see, in the tents doing the last minute fittings, so I missed all the excitement."

  "Your grandmother may have been a witness," Ben started, but the costumer was shaking his head vigorously.

  "Forgive me, sir, but that she wasn't. She was having her mug of ale. She takes it at the same time every day. She didn't see a thing. She's been moaning about it ever since."

  "She might have seen someone in the lane a few minutes before or after," Trumpet said.

  "Or she might know who was at the window across the way," Tom put in.

  The costumer rubbed the back of his neck. "I suppose she might. She'd only have been away a few minutes. She knows better than to linger gossiping over her mug at this season." He regarded his worktable, heaped high with fancy stuffs, and sighed the heartfelt sigh of a man who would earn a year's wages in two months of heroic labor. "It's only going to get worse between now and Twelfth Night."

  He directed the lads to the stairs at the back of the house. "I can tell you this, young masters. If she says she saw something, that something was there. There's nothing wrong with her eyes."

  They mounted the narrow stairs in a single file.

  "I don't like the way he said that last bit," Tom said. "The way he emphasized her eyes."

  "Like there might be something wrong with the rest of her," Ben said.

  Trumpet half turned on the first landing. "Like her wits, do you think?"

  "A witless witness," Stephen said.

  "Oh, that's good," Tom said. "That's really good."

  "Witless witness?" Stephen hummed a rhythm under his breath. "How about this:

  The morning sun shall bear me witness,

  Thy something beauty strikes me witless."

  "Sparkling," Trumpet suggested. "Thy sparkling beauty. To go with morning sun."

  "Too shallow," Ben said. "A sparkling beauty would be superficial only. The loved one should have depth of character as well."

  They reached a square landing that allowed access to two chambers. Ben knocked on the door to the rear one.

  It opened immediately. Tom had to look straight down to greet the tiny woman before him. She grinned up at them, displaying her nearly toothless gums. "Here are my pretty gentlemen," she crooned. "Welcome to my forest."

  Tom crossed the threshold into a dream. The crone's chamber seemed indeed to be more forest than house. Row upon row of leaves sewn of gossamer and silk hung on wire-strung racks that covered all four walls, saving only the window and the door. The leaves, in every hue of green and yellow and brown, rustled as they shifted in the breeze from the open window.

  "How do they rustle?" Tom asked in wonder. "They sound so real."

  The crone burst into a peal of laughter. "Them's the taffeta. Crispy, they are. I've a specialty in foliage, I do, since I was a wee slip. I sewed leaves for Queen Catherine's wedding masque, I did."

  Tom racked his brains to remember who Queen Catherine was. Trumpet got it first. "You don't mean Great Harry's last wife?"

  "That's her." She clapped her hands, pleased with her surprise.

  Tom blinked at her, both repelled and bemused. This tiny sorceress had survived three monarchs.

  Ben said, "Goodwife, we want to ask you a question or two about the events in the lane below on Queen's Day."

  "First another song, good sirs. You promised." She folded her hands across her apron and tilted her head, ready to listen.

  The boys consulted together in whispers. They decided to give her a round of "The Holly and the Ivy." Everyone liked it and they might as well practice since it was bound to be called for during the coming Christmas season.

  The old woman listened raptly. When they finished, she loosed a long, gargling sigh. "Beeyoootiful!"

  Ben returned to the matter at hand. "Did you see anyone in the lane that day?"

  She cackled. "I saw you. And you and you and you." She pointed at each of the boys in turn. "I saw Captain Ralegh and the one with the suns. Which one is he?"

  "The Earl of Cumberland," Tom said. "The Celestial Knight."

  "That's him. He don't get his garb from us."

  "We mean before, Goodwife," Trumpet said. "Before the barrister was murdered."

  "Hmm." The crone's gaze shot to the window with a sharp gleam of malice. Tom felt a stab of fear for his angel. Had they drawn a witch's envy toward her?

  She trotted to the window and clambered up on a high stool. She settled herself in what was obviously her accustomed position to show them how well she could see the lane below. The boys moved to stand around her so they could follow her gaze. She reached out a wizened hand and squeezed Tom's buttock. She clucked her tongue wickedly as he shifted back a step.

  "I saw a barrister," she told them. "Them's the ones with the velvet stripes on their sleeves. Two welts: that's a barrister. I know my robes. Whether 't was the one as was killed, I couldn't say. He was up at the top of the lane, see there? Coming through the arch."

  Tom twisted to look without placing his body within reach of her hands.

  "Was he alone?" Trumpet asked.

  She nodded. "Alone, alone-oh. Running as fast as he could with his arms a-pumping and his gown a-flapping."

  "Why was he running?"

  "Why? To escape the Wild Men, of course."

  "Who?"

  "The Wild Men." She cackled at their confusion. "Two of 'em. From the pageant, good sirs. Wearing my leaves. I'd know 'em a mile away."

  "Essex's pageant," Stephen said. "They'll be his men, then."

  "Why were they chasing the barrister?" Tom asked.

  "I don't know, good sirs." She sniffed. "You might ask that girl you was a-singing to."

  "How—"

  "What did I say? I saw you leering up at her. I can put one and one together and come up with two, old as I am. She was a-standing in the winder where she worked when you found her. Watching the street like she shouldn't 'a been." Never mind that she'd been doing the same.

  "Where she worked? What sort of work?" Tom feared the worst. Had he fallen in love with a strumpet? Again?

  "She's a limner, good sir. Didn't you know?"

  A limner was a painter of the miniature portraits that were so fashionable these days. She was a craftswoman, then; not noble at all. She was beneath him now that he was a member of the Inns of Court. He would have the advantage in wooing her. Something about her elfin smile told him he would need every advantage he could muster.

  "Do you know her name, Goodwife?" Tom asked.

  "Nor I don't," the old witch said. "How could I? We never spoke. I only ever saw her working by the window, for the light, the same as me."

  "Does she live there, too?"

  Another long peal of cackles. "Live there, her? That house is for the rich. Fine lords and ladies that come to see the queen."

  "Whose portrait was she painting?" Ben asked. "Did you ever see the sitter?"

  "Oh, yes. I've an interest, y'kno
w, in the court. 'Twas young Lady Rich. Born a Devereux, she was." She saw their skeptical faces and nodded. "Oh, yes. She's the spit of her mother. I used to get out, y'know, when I was young. Used to be me, going to court to do the fittings. I know who's who, or at least who was."

  CHAPTER 8

  The bell at St. Margaret's tolled the third quarter. Nearly ten o'clock! Tom and his friends had to hurry. The dancing master was French and a fiend for punctuality. As they stripped down to their shirtsleeves for an hour of vigorous exercise, Trumpet said, "We're going to have to speak with Lady Rich."

  Ben grimaced. Stephen drew a hissing breath between clenched teeth.

  Tom asked, "What? Do you think she'll refuse to see us?"

  "Don't you know who she is?" Stephen goggled at Tom as if he were an idiot. "She's Stella, you buffoon. The Stella. From the sonnets of Astrophel and Stella?"

  Tom's breath caught in his throat. He had forgotten. Lady Rich sounded like a matronly personage, wide of girth and wobbly of jowl. Instead, she was none other than the beauteous Penelope Devereux, renowned throughout Europe as the object of the late Sir Philip Sidney's unrequited love, made immortal by his poetry. Catching a glimpse of the glorious Stella had been high on his list of desires when he first came to London.

  But to meet her, face to face, speak words to her, and hear her voice in answer? It was beyond imagining.

  "God's teeth," Tom said. "She'll never receive us. We're nithings. We're worms."

  "Speak for yourself," Stephen huffed.

  "She might," Ben said. "It's little enough to ask. One brief question: What is the name of your limner?"

  "Any favor from a courtier is significant," Trumpet said. "We'll have to bring a gift." He spoke grimly, as if facing a quest worthy of a Ralegh or a Drake.

  Tom frowned. "Something symbolical, don't you think? Like a perfect rose?" He knew he'd be paying for it from his dwindling allowance.

  "A perfect rose in late November would be more miraculous than symbolical," Ben said.