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

by Anna Castle

Tom swallowed his disappointment and went to help the maids. Stephen and Ben set the fainted girl's farthingale aside like a fallen log. Then they lifted an unfainted one to her feet by grasping her firmly under the armpits and hoisting her straight into the air, letting her skirts swing free so they could land her at a level. Ben tugged her doublet straight while Trumpet gave the rear of her skirt a quick dusting. They repeated the process for the other girl.

  Tom got an excellent view of the interior of a fashionable lady's nether garments as he knelt to help the fainted girl, who raised up on her elbows, blinking herself back to the world.

  "Forgive me." He reached for her hand. "I know it's not the time. But are you using metal bands in your farthingale instead of canes?"

  She growled at him, outraged.

  Stephen and Ben bent to apply their maiden-raising method once again. "Possibly not the best time to exercise our perceptive capacities," Ben remarked.

  Tom shrugged. "I have three sisters in Dorset." He grinned apologetically at the maid, displaying his dimple. "They count on me to keep them abreast of changes in fashion."

  The girl glowered at him as she found her feet. She huffed and she grumbled, but she gave him the name of her mercer.

  The chamberer returned. He shot a repressive glare at the maidens as he beckoned Stephen forward. The others fell in behind as he walked erectly up the gallery, glancing neither right nor left. They turned a corner into an older part of the building where the ceiling was lower and the floor changed levels every few yards for no apparent purpose. Here courtiers stood in nooks and recesses, conversing in tight whispers. Eyes darted suspiciously at them as they passed.

  They arrived, finally, at a wide recess backed by a narrow slit of a window. A young woman with burnished hair and flashing dark eyes perched upon an invisible seat, her skirts spread wide around her.

  Stella!

  The chamberer bowed to her and vanished. Lady Rich's overgown was black taffeta embroidered with gold thread. A string of gold beads outlined a deep slash in her voluminous sleeves, which revealed a lining of gold and white floral-figured silk. Her ruff was as wide as the chamberer's, trimmed with inches of delicate lace. She was exquisite. Her features were fine; her brow clear and high. Her mouth was round and slightly tensed, as though she were preparing to tell you something that she knew you would not like to hear.

  Stephen performed a full court bow, sweeping off his hat, extending his pointed toe, and touching his forehead to his knee. The others followed suit.

  "Lord Stephen." The lady's voice was mellifluous, like honeyed wine from the sun-drenched Canaries. "Have we met?"

  "No, my lady." Stephen stood to face her, peer to peer. His father outranked her husband after all. Never mind that his father was a religious zealot who never left Dorsetshire and her brother was the rising favorite of the queen. "May I say that I have long desired to meet the renowned and magnificent Stella of the sonnets? And now that I have, I understand the vain imposturance of mere words. The futility—" He stopped abruptly, clamping his lips together in a pained grimace.

  Lady Rich made a small humming sound, like a soft coo. Tom kept his face pressed to his knee, although he could feel the blood draining into his head and was finding it difficult to breathe. He waited until he saw Trumpet right himself before straightening. As he stepped discreetly to one side of the recess, Lady Rich scanned him up and down with a look so hot it lit a fuse of alarm that raced up his spine and exploded in his brain.

  He had come expecting a dove and had encountered a tigress.

  He could feel his ears pressing back into his skull and struggled to maintain his calm. He flicked a glance at Trumpet, whose down-turned face was almost covered by the feather in his hat. Stephen seemed bedazzled, swaying slightly from side to side. Ben stood as stiff as a statue, his cheeks as red as oxblood.

  The lady seemed pleased by their responses. "I was intrigued by the message my steward received from your tutor. What question could inspire him to such reckless subterfuge?"

  Reckless subterfuge? Hadn't Bacon just written her a note in the usual fashion? There were definitely things he wasn't telling his assistants about this Smythson business.

  The lady was waiting for an answer. Tom poked Stephen in the ribs then snapped back into his impassive pose.

  Stephen inhaled sharply. "Reckless, yes, thank you, my lady. I wonder too, my lady. But first, I pray you'll accept a small token—" He snapped his fingers several times. Tom handed him the fan.

  Lady Rich unwrapped it, passing the gauze to the gentlewoman who stood beside her. This woman was dressed in dark gray with a plain collar and cuffs. She stood with her hands folded at her waist and had the abstracted air of a person who does not speak a single word of English.

  "A fan." Lady Rich twitched her lips. "It's a routine gift, but perhaps Marguerite will like it." She passed it to her waiting woman without a glance at either woman or fan. Tom felt a pang: half a sovereign gone, with so little result.

  "And now your question." It was a command.

  "Yes, my lady," Stephen said. "We are assisting Mr. Bacon in his investigation of the death of Barrister Smythson. Perhaps you —"

  "The lawyer? The one that died on Queen's Day?" She sounded affronted, as if Smythson had deliberately spoiled her holiday. "No one could talk of anything else for the whole evening. It was boring."

  "Yes, my lady," Stephen said. "Excruciatingly boring. I myself can scarcely bear to speak of it."

  "What have lawyers to do with me?" She said the word lawyers as one might speak of vermin that had died in one's servants' quarters.

  "Yes, my lady. I mean nothing, of course. I mean, of course, nothing. To do with you. The idea is unthinkable. I have no interest in lawyers either. Who would? One spends the obligatory year at an Inn of Court, for the polish, you know. A smattering of this and that. My father thinks it wise. Your own brother — well. Naturally, I far prefer hunting and dancing, the theater and, er—"

  He broke off and flashed a glance at his friends for support. Trumpet's feather bobbed as the boy stared straight down at his feet. Ben made a gurgling noise deep in his throat.

  Tom took a step forward and bowed again from the waist. He tilted his face toward Lady Rich in a pose more complex than anything his dancing master had ever inflicted on him and said, "My lady, we are informed that you were having a portrait painted that day, in a chamber near the fateful spot."

  "In the morning. I attended the tournament in the afternoon."

  "Yes, my lady. We were so fortunate as to glimpse you sitting in the gallery with the queen." She closed her eyes in a slow blink, accepting the tribute.

  Tom righted himself and strove to breathe normally. "Yes, my lady. Your limner remained in the chamber. I later saw her at the window. We would like to speak with her, if we can find her."

  "My limner? This was worth risking the queen's wrath?" Her interest in their visit was extinguished like a candle flame in a gust of wind.

  "Yes, my lady. Or, well, no, I don't know about the wrath. But I beg you, my gracious lady, would you be so kind as to tell us her name?"

  Her eyes went flat. "Why would I want to know that?"

  ***

  They had almost regained the top of the stairs and a clear shot to fresh air and freedom when Lady Rich's waiting woman caught up with them. She spoke in rapid French, which Trumpet, astonishingly, seemed to understand. The boy listened with an ear cocked, face averted, as if concentrating on catching every syllable. The others could do nothing but stand and wait. Tom and Stephen had had French lessons in Lord Dorchester's household, but their skills were no match for a fluent speaker. Law French sounded like English tied in knots and hung upside down in a high wind. Real French was altogether different.

  When the woman left, Trumpet translated. "She said, let's see: 'My mistress says to tell your master she also can be indirect. Of course she knows the name of the limner she sat with for so many weeks. She is a Fleming, a widow, called Clara Gooss
ens.'"

  She pronounced it the way the Frenchwoman had: Clahrah Gohzenz. It sounded foreign, smooth, like clean pebbles in the mouth. Trumpet chuckled. "She didn't seem to know we were here about the murder. She added, 'Her fees are very reasonable, but he should make haste because the limner will certainly raise them when my mistress's portrait becomes admired.'"

  CHAPTER 13

  They found their way out of the gallery and back to the courtyard without any further mishaps with important personages. Ben breathed a sigh of relief. "So that was the famous Stella."

  Trumpet said, "What do you think of your goddess now that you've seen her up close?"

  "She's magnificent," Stephen said, but he didn't sound convinced.

  "She's terrifying," Tom said. "She raised the hair on the back of my neck just by looking at me. And Captain Ralegh didn't even remember us." Trumpet offered him a sympathetic pout.

  Ben clapped Stephen on the shoulder. "If they're all like that, my lord, your father may have the right idea about court."

  They walked through the gateway and stepped into an impromptu parade. Term had ended. The law courts at Westminster were closed for the Christmas vacation. It was time for the men of the law to play.

  Church bells clanged, filling the air with joyous noise. The street before them thronged with lawyers: students throwing their flat caps in the air; barristers in black robes, kicking up their heels to display parti-colored stockings; serjeants in gowns tufted with silk and velvet. They formed a veritable river of lawyers, like a school of trout heading for the sea. The lads laughed at a trio of portly judges dressed in ankle-length gowns of murrey with snug white coifs tied under their chins. They'd linked arms and were pacing a stately cinque pas down the center of the street.

  "Hey ho!" Tom shouted, throwing his cap in the air. "We're free!"

  Five full weeks until the start of Hilary Term. Five glorious weeks of Christmastide in London, during which all students were obliged by the rules of Gray's Inn to remain in commons with nothing to do but amuse themselves. The lads joined the stream heading north, past Charing Cross and onto the Strand. The crowd thinned as members of the legal community filtered into taverns along the way. Tom and his friends took the shortcut across the fields.

  The queue into the hall for dinner was longer and rowdier than usual since men who usually dined in their London homes had come to celebrate the end of term. The lads worked their way to their usual seats at the top of the second table.

  Tom flapped his napkin open and eyed the expanse of pristine linen. He sniffed the air. Even a whiff of food would be welcome. He wondered what the cooks would give them for the end-of-term feast. Saturday was a fish day, but even so, there might be venison or beaver. Although in truth, he could eat his own weight in stockfish today. Talking to famous ladies was hungry work. "I'm ravenous."

  "Me too," Stephen said. He pinched a morsel from the loaf of bread set in the center of his plate.

  "Best pace yourselves," Ben said. "There's bound to be lots of announcements today."

  "What's to announce?" Tom asked. "Term is over."

  Ben started to answer, but Treasurer Fogg stood up from the center of the bencher's table and raised his hands for silence. The murmuring ceased at once. Everyone was eager to get past the prologue and on to the meat.

  The treasurer smiled down at them. "Welcome, Gentlemen, members of the Society of Gray's Inn, the largest and most illustrious of our Inns of Court!"

  Cheering and applause.

  "I promise to be brief."

  He broke his promise. He began at the beginning, reminding them of the origins of the Inn. He rehashed famous cases and sketched the biographies of prominent members. Tom could feel the strength drain from his body, sapping his attention. Soon all he could hear was the growling of his own belly.

  The hall grew noisy as men shifted on benches and shuffled their feet in the rushes on the floor. Fingernails tapped on wooden plates, coughs rose up in one corner and traveled across the hall. Tom could see servers peeking impatiently around the screen. A group of students under the south windows were tossing wisps of rushes at one another in open warfare. Trumpet slumped on his bench with his eyes glazed as if under a spell. Stephen finished his loaf and started stealing pinches from Tom's. Tom slapped his hand and moved his loaf to the far side of his plate.

  "Gentlemen, please!" Treasurer Fogg bellowed. "Two last announcements and then the feast may begin."

  "Thank God," Ben muttered. Tom grinned. Ben normally had a boundless appetite for words.

  "First," Fogg said, "as you know, we benchers have the sorrowful duty of naming a Reader to take the place of the lately departed Tobias Smythson. May God rest his soul in peace."

  An echoing murmur arose from the tables.

  "After due consideration, we have determined that the next Lent Reader will be Mr. James Shiveley." A tall, long-limbed, red-headed man stood and made a bow.

  Tom lifted his hands, ready to applaud, when cries arose from the ancients' table.

  "What?"

  "Not so!"

  "Unfair, unfair!"

  Two senior barristers sprang to their feet, waving their hands, remonstrating. Others remained seated but raised their voices toward the benchers' table on the dais. Francis Bacon looked as though he'd been slapped.

  Tom leaned across the table toward Ben. "What's wrong? Don't they like Mr. Shiveley?"

  Ben shrugged. "I was expecting them to name Mr. Bacon. I think he was too."

  One of the ancients slapped his palm on the table and shouted, "No, sir! I must protest!"

  Trumpet flinched. "My uncle thinks he should have been next. He's talked of nothing else all week."

  Mr. Humphries lumbered to his feet. "If I may speak, Mr. Treasurer, I would like to point out that I myself am senior to all of these men and that, unlike some I might name, I have never failed of continuance in commons."

  "Only because you can't afford to eat elsewhere," someone sneered.

  Humphries flushed and sputtered, struggling for a retort.

  "You should be content that we chose any of you ancients," Treasurer Fogg said. "Were we not shorthanded, we would more properly nominate a bencher for the Lent Reading."

  "One named Avery Fogg, I suppose." Nathaniel Welbeck rose from his seat.

  More cries of protest broke out. Even Bacon leaned forward, gesturing with a long, pale hand to emphasize a point that couldn't be heard over the cacophony of voices. Fogg stepped down from the dais to shake his finger in Welbeck's empurpled face.

  Trumpet groaned and lowered his forehead to his empty plate. "We'll never get any food."

  "I don't understand why they're so upset," Tom said. "What's so important about being a Reader?"

  "It's essential," Trumpet said, sitting up again. "It's the next-to-last step on the climb to a judgeship."

  Ben said, "Here's how it works. We're students, yes?" The others nodded. "Six years after we enroll, we are eligible to pass the bar, subject to the approval of the bench. Five years after that, if we behave ourselves, we are allowed to argue cases in the Westminster courts."

  "Eleven years!" Tom was horrified. "We'll be old men!" He'd expected to become a barrister in two or three years. Five, at the outside. As long as he lived at Gray's, he had the right to wear the robes that proclaimed him a member of an Inn of Court: undeniably a gentleman. But someday he would surely want to live somewhere else. If he were a barrister, his status would be assured. If he weren't, who would he be?

  Ben grinned at his dismay but mistook the cause. His worries were the opposite of Tom's: he had breeding but no money. "It's not that bad. We can write wills, advise about investments, counsel persons considering a suit at law. A man can earn a handsome living without ever passing the bar. At any rate, once you pass, you're eligible to Read. But then you have to wait your turn."

  "Readership is a bottleneck," Trumpet said. "That's why there's so much contention. They can call a dozen men to the bar at once, but only
two can Read in a year."

  "Luckily," Ben said, "not everyone wants to Read. A man can do very well managing the legal affairs of his own county or maintaining a London practice. But you have to Read if you want to be a bencher at your Inn, and you have to be a bencher if you want to be a judge."

  "And then you have to wear one of those idiotic little coifs," Tom said, startling a blurt of laughter from Stephen. "Did you see those three this morning?" They hummed a galliard, mimicking the dancing judges with their fingers on the tabletop.

  The fracas at the ancients' table was winding down. Bacon had settled once again into his habitual slouch and was picking discreetly at his bread. Treasurer Fogg returned to the dais and raised his arms, gesturing for silence. "I thank you for your patience, Gentlemen, and beg you to forbear a minute longer while we turn to a happier theme. We must elect a leader for the season that is now upon us."

  Tom groaned. "Can't we eat first?"

  Fogg donned an impish smile that sat unnaturally on his stout cheeks. "Christmastide is here. We need revels; we need dancing; we need gaiety. We need a leader to guide us toward those timeless ends. In short, we need a Prince of Purpoole!"

  Cheers shook the roof beams as caps flew into the air. This was the real signal for the end of term: the election of a Court of Misrule to devise the festivities that would occupy the Society until Lent.

  "Have we any nominations?" Fogg cried.

  Ben leapt to his feet. "We have, Mr. Treasurer. None better. One of our newest members is the scion of one of our oldest families: Lord Stephen Delabere, son and heir of the seventh Earl of Dorchester."

  Tom and Trumpet pounded cupped palms together. A howl of disappointment sounded from one of the other tables, but Stephen was the ranking member of the new students. There really was no contest.

  Treasurer Fogg bowed low, extending a surprisingly well-formed leg. "My Prince, I salute you. May we be informed of the composition of your court tonight at supper?"

  Stephen stood and granted him a regal nod. "You may be so informed after dinner, Mr. Treasurer. If we ever get to eat."