by Anna Castle
Francis fumed, striding hard, oblivious to the golden leaves glowing in the morning light that slanted through the elms under which he walked. He was tired of striving to find his place in the world. Tired of expending his energies on mundane questions when he wanted to devise a method for revealing the innermost secrets of Nature herself. Tired of the endless cacophony of letters filled with conflicting demands.
Chatter, chatter, chatter, and nothing said of matter.
He laughed bitterly and decided that he would solve all these problems in a few bold strokes. Let them advance Avery Fogg to the Queen's Bench; let them make him Lord Chancellor. Why not? Let Shiveley, the new Reader, take his place as Treasurer of Gray's. Seat the whole benighted bench in Westminster; except for Francis, of course, who was too young and too arrogant for those lofty halls.
He would provide himself with a lesson in humility, going forthwith to Gorhambury to take the reins of his brother's estate into his own hands. Francis would marl the fields and clear the ditches and mend the hedges too.
As for the Smythson matter, why, he would confess to the crime himself. He'd be thrown into Newgate, where he could interrogate a representative selection of London cutpurses at his leisure. He'd winkle out the Catholics while he was about it. He had nothing better to do since he had not been called upon to prepare a Reading.
Francis made another full circuit of the fields, his thoughts writhing like eels caught in a weir. As his legs drove his feet along the path, his mind settled, returning to its accustomed order and tranquility — at least, in part.
He sighed. He would advise his mother to vote in Fogg's favor. The man had some distempers, but only minor ones, and might make a more compassionate judge because of them. He would try to urge some sense of economy on Anthony. Strategic gifts, not wholesale bribery.
The Smythson matter was more difficult. So far his only clues led dangerously close to prominent courtiers. He'd risked his uncle's censure — or worse — in sending that message to Lady Rich. He didn't know whether to hope his pupils would learn something useful from Lord Essex's men or return empty-handed. A negative report would spare him the need to find a way to communicate with the earl.
His anxiety mounted again at the thought. He shook his head. He needed a strong corrective for an excess of yellow bile. Something cold and moist: mushrooms, perhaps.
He turned back toward the Inn. He spied his four pupils coming through the postern passage. Good, they'd received the message he'd left with the under butler. He took a deep breath, willing himself to calm.
The four friends walked in order of height: Whitt, Delabere, Clarady, Trumpington. Did they do it on purpose? Perhaps the Lord Stephen liked to be flanked by tall men and little Trumpington was left to tag along as he might. He felt a stab of sympathy. He too had sometimes felt himself, as a boy, to have an insufficiency of brawn and a superfluity of brain. Time and maturity had obviated the need for the former and made the latter a distinct advantage.
Sometimes.
He stood where he was and waited for them to reach him. "Good morrow, Gentlemen."
"Good morrow, Mr. Bacon," they chorused.
"Did you learn anything useful from Essex's men?" He eyed them doubtfully. Judging by the colorful bruise around Trumpington's eye, they'd gotten themselves into an altercation.
"We did, Mr. Bacon," Whitt said. "The Wild Men in question have gone home, but their fellows told us they made quite a tale of chasing a barrister through the lanes that day."
Francis made a dismissive gesture. "We knew as much already."
"Yes, sir," Whitt said. "But we didn't know there were two men in barrister's gowns. One was limping and wouldn't play. The other ran, so they chased him. We surmise that the limping man was Smythson, since he suffered frequently from gout."
Francis nodded. He'd expected as much, from the evidence of the laundress. "Did they describe the second barrister?"
Whitt shook his head.
"Hm," Francis said. "Those men will have to be recalled to London for questioning." He sighed. Requesting favors from an earl demanded excruciating delicacy even when he wasn't under a ban. He'd have to get permission from his uncle first, which would mean betraying how little progress he had made.
They were watching him with disappointed faces. They probably thought they'd brought him information that would help him crack the case like a walnut. They couldn't know that they'd made his job harder. He dredged up a smile. "Well done. The next step is to speak with that limner."
Clarady said, "We don't know where to find her."
Francis raised his eyes briefly to heaven, his sole source of support in these trying times. "She's Flemish, I believe you said?"
"Yes, sir."
"Have you tried asking at the Dutch Church?"
They looked at him blankly.
"In Austin Friars? Broad Street Ward?" More blank looks. "Do you know anything about the City of London?"
Now they looked offended. No doubt they'd taken themselves on the standard tour of theaters, bear pits, and gaming dens and felt themselves sophisticated urbanites in full possession of their capital. He'd thought exploring the great City of London to be a customary diversion for Inns of Court men.
"Go to the Draper's Guild near Moorgate and ask for directions. Or simply listen for a man speaking Dutch and follow him." He'd meant that last as a joke, but they nodded gravely. Whitt drew out his commonplace book and pencil and made a note. Francis frowned. No one ever appreciated his little sallies.
"Mr. Bacon," Clarady said. "Is it possible that the second barrister could have been a man from Gray's? We've been worrying about it all morning."
Only for the morning? Why not yesterday afternoon?
Francis hesitated. He'd grown practiced in secrecy through managing Anthony's correspondence and was loath to impart information to those unprepared to wield it properly. On the other hand, the more they knew, the better they could assist him and the sooner this investigation might be concluded.
"Yes," he said. "I believe it must have been."
They gaped at him, dismayed.
"But how?" Whitt asked.
"And who?" Trumpington asked.
"And why?" Clarady asked, more pertinently.
Francis saw that he would have to explain the Catholic element to the puzzle. Trawling for witnesses was slow work and had thus far netted slender results. And if it came down to searching chambers, he would rather these energetic lads do the actual deed. But there were risks in telling them.
Young Trumpington might well be a crypto-Catholic. He was always skipping chapel and he lived with the somehow not entirely aboveboard Nathaniel Welbeck. His mother's family was in Derbyshire, home to many recusants. The other three lodged together. They would be hard-pressed to conceal a rosary, much less a priest or a barrel of pamphlets. It would have to be all or none. Whitt was clever enough and Clarady forward enough, but Lord Stephen was highly unlikely to be living any kind of double life. A single life was almost more than he could manage.
A greater concern was that the lads would babble about their mission in the tavern and the hall, sending their quarry deeper under cover, making him impossible to snare. All Francis could do was bind them to secrecy and hope for the best. A word to the wise was sufficient, but what of the less than wise?
The most serious risk was that the murderer must be in constant fear of discovery. He would be vigilate: always alert. If he became aware that the lads were tracking him, he might be moved to further violence. By drawing them deeper into this plot, Francis might be placing them in danger.
But a covert Catholic at Gray's was a risk to the whole society; indeed, such insidious conspirators were a risk for the kingdom and the very name of liberty. Catholics often allied themselves with Spain; the priests who wrote the inflammatory pamphlets were often paid by Spain. King Philip would like nothing better than to place his own pliant puppet on the throne of England. Lord Burghley and Sir Francis Walsingham had exposed pl
ot after plot aimed at the assassination of Queen Elizabeth and the termination of her support for the Protestant Low Countries. The Inns of Court were prime targets for infiltration because here was where future administrators and men of affairs were trained.
The threat was real, of that there could be no doubt. The conspirator had proven his capacity for violence. He must be found and brought to justice. To do that, Francis needed help.
He regarded his pupils with a cool eye. They stood silently, if somewhat restively, awaiting his next question. He tilted his head slightly. "Do you know how to identify a Catholic?"
CHAPTER 21
James Shiveley mounted the stairs to his chambers slowly, his shoulders hunched against the cold. He'd neglected to wear his cloak to supper. The light of his shielded candle preceded him. Its yellow glow drew the eye, making the shadows darker.
A man stepped out from the depths of the dark landing.
"Mercy!" Shiveley jumped. "You gave me a start. Were you waiting for me?"
"I wanted a word. I had a thought about the statute you've chosen for your Reading."
"Can't this wait until morning?"
"I might forget."
Shiveley frowned. What an odd remark!
His colleague moved closer and reached toward his candle as if to assist him while he unhooked his keys from his belt.
Shiveley took a step back. He suddenly felt boxed in. "I hardly think now is—"
"Allow me." The man grasped him firmly by the arm and swung him full about to face the steep descent into the black stairwell.
"What are you doing?" Shiveley's voice spiraled up. Fear had found him, too late to be of use.
Hard hands set flat upon his back and shoved. The candle flew from his hand. His keys tumbled, clanking. He struck the stairs on his shoulders. Pain lanced through his back. He rolled, helpless, down to the landing. There he lay, sprawled facedown, legs stravaging up the stairs behind him.
He groaned. "Help me."
Feet pattered down the stairs and stopped beside him. Hands cradled his face, their warmth reassuring. They lifted his head, testing the flex in the neck. And then twisted, hard.
Crack!
CHAPTER 22
"I need a crown," Stephen whined.
The lads were breakfasting in hall. It was early — still dark outside and cold — but the bread was hot from the oven and the butter was fresh.
They'd made a point of arriving in good time for chapel that morning. Missing chapel had been first on the list of Bacon's tell-tales, which included crucifixes, rosaries, surreptitiously making the sign of the cross, and incense. Tom had sniffed under every door on his way down the stairs. He'd smelled sour oil lamps and unemptied chamber pots, but nothing sorcerous.
"This very instant?" Tom was tired of Stephen's constant bleating about clothing. There were better things for a man to think about. Beautiful women, for example, and how to court them. His mind turned again to Clara. His memory of her face had grown less certain over the weeks. Had he imagined the near-white goldness of her hair?
Bacon had instructed them to find her without delay, an order Tom was eager to obey. The prospect of finally meeting her fanned the flames of his desire.
He couldn't marry her, but she would understand that. He'd discussed the issue at length with Trumpet and Ben. They all agreed that whether he ranked as a new-feathered gentleman lawyer or a merchant-adventurer's son, a craftswoman was beneath him. If she were a maiden, naturally he would leave her in that condition. He could still go walking with her on a Sunday afternoon and revel in her beauty.
Stephen snapped his fingers at him. "Are you awake? I need a crown for our embassy to the Inner Temple. Today."
Tom hated that finger-snapping. Was he a dog?
"We need to find that limner." Ben echoed Tom's thoughts. "Mr. Bacon gave us explicit instructions."
Tom smiled at the way Ben said Mr. Bacon, as if mouthing the name of a reverend potentate. Not unlike the way Tom said Clara. To needle Stephen, he said, "Bringing Smythson's killer to justice is slightly more important than your tickle-brained embassy."
Stephen's chin jutted forward as he compressed his lips. Tom's own lip quivered as he fought the urge to mimic him. He was wrestling with his baser self when a cry rang out in the courtyard.
"Help! Help! Oh, horrible! Help!"
The lads leapt up and raced out, reaching Coney Court ahead of the pack. A man stood in the doorway to Colby's Building, his hands clapped to his face as if to hold his head together. "Horrible! Oh, help!" His lamentation filled the yard. More men spilled out from other staircases.
Tom and the lads sprinted toward him. "What is it, Mr. Fulton?" Ben asked, laying a hand on the man's shoulder.
Fulton's face twisted with anguish. "Horrible. Oh, horrible." He seemed bereft of other words.
Tom and Trumpet pushed open the door and entered the building. Their eyes were drawn to the figure sprawled across the landing.
"God save us," Tom breathed.
"Oh, no," Trumpet moaned. "Who is it?" He began to climb the stairs, slowly, fearfully. Tom joined him. Ben and Stephen stayed behind to guard the door.
The man lay chest down across the landing, arms splayed on either side. His long legs trailed up the stairs behind him. His head was twisted at an impossible angle, his face turned up at them. The narrow windows in the stairwell let in enough of the early light to see his features.
Tom shuddered. "It's Mr. Shiveley."
Trumpet turned away, breathing shallowly, hand gripping the railing hard enough to show white around the knuckles. Tom simply looked up, blinking, and let his mind go blank.
This was worse than seeing Mr. Smythson's bloodied body in the street. Then, they had been in the company of bold captains: larger than life and fully in charge. The scene had seemed almost part of the pageant, the last act of a dramatic tragedy. This was homely, private. Everyday life invaded by sudden death.
"He is dead, isn't he?" Tom said quietly, when his wits returned to him.
Trumpet made an odd mewling sound then replied in a fairly steady voice, "He must be."
"Who is it?" Ben called up. He and Stephen blocked the doorway, keeping the crowd outside from shoving into the entryway. They'd learned that much from Captain Ralegh.
"It's Mr. Shiveley," Tom answered. "It looks like he's fallen down the stairs and broken his neck."
Ben relayed the news to the men outside the door.
"What should we do?" Tom said. He felt awkward, absurd, standing on a tread in the middle of a stair. He couldn't persuade himself to go up or down. Neither felt right.
Trumpet looked up at Tom, his face pale. "We should wait." They faced the door, standing straight, shoulders back and heads up, like an honor guard.
They didn't have long to wait. They heard Fogg's resonant voice and then saw the man's stout figure fill the doorway as he moved Stephen and Ben aside with a wave of his hand. He took command, tapping Stephen and two others to shoo the crowd away and sending someone to bring the surgeon and the priest. He bade Tom and Trumpet to fetch a blanket from Shiveley's room to cover the body.
They tiptoed around it and ran the rest of the way up. The door on the left was wide open.
"This must be his," Tom said.
"Why is it open?" Trumpet said, stopping on the upper landing with a puzzled frown on his face. "Didn't you think he was coming up the stairs and somehow tripped and fell down?"
Tom nodded. "He must have unlocked it and then gone back."
"I suppose so."
They went in, walking softly. Tom felt like an intruder. Mr. Shiveley had enjoyed private chambers: the outer room held only one desk and the inner only one chest. The bed was covered with a fur-lined blanket.
"Let's hurry." Trumpet shivered suddenly.
Tom grabbed the end of the blanket and yanked it off the bed, dislodging the pillows at the head. Something fell to the floor with a clatter.
Trumpet picked it up. "Uh-oh." He held up wh
at Tom thought was a necklace, until he saw the silver cross dangling at the end.
Mr. Shiveley had kept a rosary under his pillow.
***
Trumpet dashed off to fetch Bacon while Tom covered Shiveley with his blanket. Then he stood guard outside the chamber door. He pretended that he was just watching from a vantage point while Fogg managed the process of inspecting and removing the body. He and the surgeon agreed that Shiveley had tripped, fallen, and broken his neck.
They ushered the body out the door. The light in the staircase grew stronger as Tom stood and studied the scene. Something about it nagged at him.
He ran down to the ground floor and then climbed back up again, slowly, imagining himself to be a man of middle years as Mr. Shiveley had been. A weary man, trudging up to his well-earned rest. Tom held his left hand at shoulder height, as if carrying a candle to light his steps. He watched for obstacles in his path, but saw none: no stray rushes, no loose boards, no nails sticking out. When he neared the top, he pretended to trip on the riser. He fell forward, hands out — just a little, as an experiment — and then righted himself.
He mounted the last two steps and turned again to look down the stairs. He would have dropped the candle, but nearer the top than they had found it. And he would have fallen up — forward — not back.
He turned and pretended to unlock the door and push it open. Then he paused and cocked his head as if he'd heard a sound. He felt foolish, but wanted to play the scene out. He turned and walked to the edge of the stairs. Had he tripped from this height, he might very well have fallen all the way down to the landing. Then the candle might have ended up where it did.
Would he land facedown? Of a certainty, unless he somehow tucked himself into a ball and rolled part of the way, which seemed too athletic for Mr. Shiveley. Would he break his neck? Perhaps if he struck the landing head first, the weight of his body might snap the neck.
