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

by Anna Castle

  Francis spoke rapidly to his pupils. "We'll discuss this later. No one else knows yet of the probable connection between this death and the earlier ones. We must keep that to ourselves as long as possible to avoid alerting the killer. Don't volunteer any more than is necessary. Don't say anything about our previous investigations, Lord Essex's men, or the limner. Do not utter the word Catholic. And don't mention the sack."

  Fogg strode up, followed by half a dozen benchers and ancients, including Nathaniel Welbeck and George Humphries. "Bacon? What's the matter here?"

  Bacon said, "My pupils found this man as they were returning from — er, to the Inn."

  "Is that so?" Fogg turned his heavy glare toward the boys.

  "Yes, sir," Clarady responded. "I stumbled upon him, literally. He's dead. Stabbed."

  Whitt added, "We naturally called upon our tutor first. To advise us."

  Francis caught Whitt's eye and shook his head minutely. Too much information. Whitt grimaced; Fogg noticed. Francis's heart began to sink.

  "Why would you need advice?" Fogg asked. "You should have come directly to me." He moved in to inspect the body on the ground, the others close behind him. They recoiled as one from the terrible sight. "Ugh." He blew out a noisy breath. "Any idea who he is?"

  "None whatsoever," Trumpington replied, too quickly.

  The boy was studying his uncle's costume as if he himself had tailored it and feared to have erred in some essential detail. He seemed especially concerned about the cuffs and sleeves.

  Welbeck noticed the scrutiny. He preened himself, turning slightly this way and that. "I see you admire my new doublet."

  "It's very clean," Trumpington said.

  Francis thought that an odd comment, but it apparently held meaning for Welbeck. He replied, "Yes, indeed. Nary a blemish. You needn't concern yourself on that account."

  A domestic matter. Francis dismissed it from his attention.

  Humphries spoke. "I think it's odd that these two —" He tilted his scraggly beard toward Clarady and Trumpington "— are always on the spot whenever a Gray's man is found dead. Or a man found dead at Gray's."

  "What's odd about it?" Fogg asked.

  Humphries pulled in his chin. "Nothing. Nothing. It's just —" He cast his eyes about as if seeking support. No one offered any. "Here we have a man who has died suddenly, by violent means, and here again is Bacon with his . . . with his . . . with his piglets."

  "Ha!" Welbeck barked his approval of the insulting yet inane remark. "Good one, Humphries!"

  "I prefer 'Francis and his franklins,'" Francis said, unable to resist a challenge of verbal skill. Really, a man's facile tongue was as much a traitor to his better judgment as Gray's hidden conspirator was to the queen's peace.

  He earned a smirk from Welbeck and a small frown from Whitt, who perhaps did not appreciate the downgrading of his social status. No one else seemed to grasp the outmoded reference.

  "Have you any idea how this man came to die here, just outside our Inn?" Fogg asked.

  Francis drew a breath to answer but was forestalled by Welbeck. "Looks to me like a falling out among thieves."

  "Me too," Humphries said. "A falling out. An argument. Some sort of dis —"

  Fogg's brows beetled at him. "We know what falling out means, thank you, Humphries. Why here? There's nothing out here but Gray's."

  "Perhaps they were traveling north," Welbeck said. "On their way to Oxford."

  "Could have been Oxford," Humphries said.

  "Except that they weren't on the road," Fogg said.

  "They may have been avoiding the road," Welbeck said. "Avoiding notice. Thieves would think in such terms."

  "They would." Humphries nodded. "Certainly they would."

  Francis was not unhappy about the trend of their discussion. A hypothesis based on the behavior of thieves nicely covered the scanty facts and led to no undesirable further speculations. Like so much academical philosophizing, it was superficially plausible yet wholly divorced from reality.

  Fogg frowned, pushing his lower lip in and out. "I suppose that could be the case. Or these thieves may have been conspiring to commit acts of caption and apportation — larceny — at Gray's."

  "Security has grown lax," one of the benchers said, inaugurating a widespread grumble about nonspecific lapses of responsibility.

  Francis was about to interrupt them to suggest that the body be removed before the light failed, when he saw a band of men with torches passing through the gap. They marched across the field in formation, led by Lord Stephen. The torches drove the dregs of the day before them, replacing the omniluminescent gray of twilight with bronzy flares. They arrayed themselves around the group.

  "Mr. Fogg. Gentlemen," Lord Stephen said. He flashed a supercilious smile at his messmates then returned his attention to the Treasurer. "I assumed you would need assistance."

  "Very thoughtful, Your Grace." Fogg smiled. "The light is indeed most welcome."

  Lord Stephen beckoned one of his torch men to follow as he stepped toward the holly bush. He took a quick look at the body and cried, "Why, it's the Fleming! How came he here?" He cocked his head at Francis as if expecting an answer. Then he gasped and pointed at the eastern sky. "Don't tell me: tonight is the half moon. Am I right?"

  "My lord," Francis said, "if you —"

  "Do you know this man?" Fogg demanded.

  "Stephen," Clarady said, his voice low and tense with warning. "Say no more."

  Delabere frowned at him. He answered Fogg, "Of course not. How would I know him? He's a man of mean estate. Some sort of laborer, we assumed. Ugly, isn't he? But you should see his wife!"

  He grinned at Fogg and Francis felt his heart clench in his breast. Heaven help them, the fool was being charming. He'd found himself in the center of attention, before a group of senior men, and meant to impress them. He could never do so with his legal knowledge — for that he have none — so now he meant to display one of his few talents: gossip.

  "My lord," Francis said, "I must beg you to —"

  Delabere cut him off with a little wave, as if to say, Don't trouble yourself, I'll explain everything. "We went to interview the said wife for Mr. Bacon. You know, about the Smythson matter. And, of course, because Tom had fallen madly in love with her. As per usual." He rolled his eyes.

  "What Smythson matter?" Fogg looked sharply at Francis.

  "Stephen," Clarady said, "kindly shut your lordly trap."

  One of the prince's retainers stepped toward him, squaring his shoulders. "Mend your words when you address the prince, sirrah."

  Clarady flushed darkly at the insult.

  Delabere grinned nastily at him. "Well, she truly is a beauty. I might be inclined to have a go at her myself. But a limner? Really, Tom. Tradeswomen are more trouble than they're worth, I've told you time and again."

  Clarady muttered through his teeth, "One more word, Steenie, and I'll lay you flat."

  Delabere scoffed at him and cast a glance over his shoulder to indicate his coterie of devoted followers. Clarady's ability to influence the young lord had apparently come to an end.

  "What about this so-called Smythson matter?" Fogg demanded.

  "Yes, it's quite remarkable, really," Stephen babbled on. "This extraordinarily beautiful woman was standing in a window overlooking the lane where poor old Mr. Smythson was murdered. Can you imagine the luck? We're fairly certain she saw the whole thing."

  "She's a limner?" Welbeck said.

  "There was a witness?" Humphries said.

  "Well, we never actually asked her," Stephen said. "When it turned out that old Mr. Shiveley had done the deed — which was a surprise to me, I can tell you, I never would have thought it — we never bothered to ask Clara whether she'd seen him there that day or no."

  "Clara who?" Humphries said. "Where does she live?"

  "Clara Goossens, of Oat Lane." Stephen pronounced the O's with an exaggerated foreign accent.

  Clarady roared, "You weasel!" and lunged
at him. He was pushed back by three of the prince's retainers.

  "What's wrong, Tom? Afraid of poachers? You'll never get near her, you know. She's guarded by an absolute dragon of a female surgeon, if you can imagine such a creature. Truly frightening." Stephen shuddered dramatically. He was enjoying himself to the hilt. "But it's simply too astonishing, really, just too amazing, that along should come her alleged husband — the Fleming, as we called him for want of a name, as if we cared to know it — to get himself killed in our fields, right here, on the day of the half moon, just as old Smythson predicted in his letter."

  "What letter?" Fogg turned his scowl on Francis. "What Smythson matter? What limner? Bacon, I demand an explanation."

  Francis leaned toward him, making a futile attempt to direct his words to Fogg alone. "Treasurer Fogg, I crave your patience, this is hardly the place —"

  "What had James Shiveley to do with all this?" one of the other benchers asked.

  A general clamor arose. Francis was pelted with questions from all sides. At the edge of the group on his left, he saw Clarady arguing furiously with Lord Stephen, bodily restrained by three of the lord's retainers. On his right, Whitt and Trumpington stood back-to-back, stammering non-answers to a spate of queries. The Fleming lay forgotten under his shrub.

  Francis closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose.

  CHAPTER 30

  "Perhaps it's not a complete disaster," Whitt said.

  No one answered him. Francis and his franklins were walking slowly back toward Chapel Court. He had finally managed to pull Fogg aside, promising that he would explain everything, but not there, not then, and not to everyone. First the body must be carried into shelter and the authorities must be notified.

  The other men, led by the prating Lord Stephen and his honor guard of idiots, accompanied the litter bearing the Fleming's remains to the sacristy. The lawyers bickered about whether the Sheriff of Middlesex or the Queen's Coroner should be notified first.

  Of course, they both should be notified, as nearly simultaneously as could be achieved. The protocols in this area were unclear and tended to revolve around the relative importance of the matter to the queen. Knowing what he knew, Francis intended to dispatch a note to his uncle that very evening.

  They reached his stair. The servants were lighting the lanterns that hung before the doors. The sky was fully black in the east but for twinkling stars. Men were queuing for supper outside the hall, talking animatedly about the body in the field. Many faces turned toward Francis with expectant curiosity.

  He ignored them. All he wanted was to return to the peace of his own chambers and a simple meal beside his own fire.

  But not quite yet.

  "A word, Gentlemen, if you will." He beckoned his pupils to follow him into the relative privacy of his staircase. He pulled open the door and encountered pitch-darkness. He'd forgotten to bring a candle in his earlier haste.

  He felt a long arm reach over his shoulder and turned his head to face directly into the broad shoulders of the privateer's son. For a brief moment, he felt sheltered by a strong body and the warm smell of an active man. He inhaled slowly, savoring the sensation. A man who valued his privacy learned to appreciate rather than pursue.

  Clarady lifted the lantern from its holder and grinned down at him. "We'll light you to your door." He stepped backward, breaking the spell.

  "Thank you." Francis preceded them into the staircase. "You needn't come up; we'll only be a moment."

  Clarady balanced the lantern on the newel post. The slots in the metal wind guard cast shadows in contorted shapes up the stairwell. Francis sat himself on a step about midway up. His pupils stood beneath him in postures of attention. He appreciated the leveling of heights.

  "I fear I was overhasty in concluding our investigations," he said. "I confess, I was too eager to dispose of the matter."

  Whitt said, "We were all glad to reach a conclusion."

  Francis smiled at him, grateful for his willingness to share the blame. "Nevertheless, the decision and the responsibility were mine. Now we must begin afresh. The Fleming's murder cannot be unconnected to those of Tobias Smythson and James Shiveley. Occam's Razor won't allow it."

  "Who's Occam?" Trumpington asked.

  Francis blinked at him then remembered that the boy had not attended university. "Occam's Razor, also known as the lex parsimoniae, states that 'entities must not be multiplied beyond necessity.' That is to say, we ought to choose the simplest solution, the one requiring the fewest additional causes or stipulations. In the present matter, it is simpler to assume that one murderer is responsible for all three of the deaths related to Gray's than it is to propose a separate killer for each victim, thereby multiplying the causes or motives."

  Trumpington frowned. "You're saying that if we find three murdered men, we should assume one single murderer. But if we find three horses standing in the yard, we don't assume they were all ridden in by a single rider."

  Whitt clucked his tongue. "That's different."

  "How?" Clarady asked.

  Francis pursed his lips. "No, it's a sound analogy. It shows us that our information is as yet insufficient. If we were able to observe, for example, that two of the horses bore packs instead of saddles, we could comfortably conclude that a single man had brought all three horses into the yard."

  "But if all bore saddles," Trumpington said, "it would be simpler to assume three riders than to concoct a tale whereby one man somehow came into possession of two riderless mounts."

  "True enough," Francis said. "Unfortunately, we have no signs here as easily read as packs and saddles."

  "Are we sure that James Shiveley was murdered?" Whitt asked.

  "I am." Clarady seemed to surprise himself by the assertion. "Begging your pardon, Mr. Bacon, sir. But I think I thought it at the time. Things weren't right. Things were odd."

  Francis wished that someone would teach the man to organize his thoughts before opening his mouth. Then he remembered that was his job now and restrained his impatience. "Elaborate, please, Clarady. What did you notice?"

  "It wasn't anything that was there. It was the things that weren't there."

  "You're talking riddles," Whitt said. "How could you see what wasn't there?"

  "Easily," Trumpington snapped. "Let him talk."

  Clarady gave one short nod. "First, the money. There wasn't enough of it."

  Francis said, "You mentioned that at the time. I see now that I was overhasty in dismissing that fact. It was a clue."

  Clarady shrugged and offered him a tight smile. Francis took the gesture as an acceptance of his oblique apology.

  Francis said, "Shiveley would have laid in sufficient coins to pay the deliverer. Our killer could not resist so tempting a prize. Why waste a good murder?"

  Clarady said, "Then there was the cloak. I remember wondering how Mr. Shiveley managed to trip himself on his own stair. Yes, it was dark, but still, he lived there. He went up and down those steps many times a day. We all thought, well, he must have heard a sound and turned too quickly and tripped on the end of his cloak. And that's what I remembered later: he wasn't wearing one. So he couldn't have tripped on it."

  Trumpington snapped his fingers. "That's right, he wasn't! I remember thinking the same thing and forgetting it in the same moment."

  "I've tripped on my own stairs more often than I care to admit," Francis said.

  "Your mind is occupied with important matters," Whitt said.

  Francis smiled at him. It was comforting to have so understanding an ally. Whitt was too tall and could hardly be described as comely, but his other attributes made up for those superficial failings. "I've never actually fallen to the bottom of the landing."

  "I have." Clarady grinned ruefully. "Granted, I was drunk at the time. But I've never broken my neck nor even come close. I don't think it's that easy. I think maybe —"

  "The killer did it for him." Trumpet twisted his hands and made a cracking sound.


  "Ugly." Francis shuddered. "Also the act of a cold mind. Unlike Smythson's frenzied murderer." He thought for a moment. "It's possible. But your evidence is inconclusive."

  Clarady frowned. He smoothed his moustache, a habit when he was thinking.

  They all fell silent. The cheap tallow candle in the lantern hissed and spat out a gust of muttony smoke. The light in the stairwell flared up and then retreated as the wick sank into the melted fat. Only the slits on Francis's side of the lantern still glowed. The other men were cast into shifting shadows.

  "The keys!" Clarady's outburst echoed up the stairwell. "I keep forgetting the cursed keys."

  "Shiveley's keys, I presume you mean? Were no keys —"

  "They weren't there." Clarady caught himself. "I beg your pardon, Mr. Bacon. But I walked up and down those stairs, searching for something that might have made him trip. I remember the candle and the spill of dried tallow. I would have noticed a bunch of keys. And the chest was unlocked and so was his money box. Nobody leaves their money box unlocked."

  "I was present when the chaplain reported to the bench." Francis reviewed the meeting in his memory. "He listed the items removed from the body, as a matter of course. No keys were mentioned."

  "The killer took the keys." Clarady grinned triumphantly.

  Francis smiled his concession. "Gentlemen, I believe we have sufficient grounds to conclude that James Shiveley was murdered."

  Trumpington said, "It could have been a thief. The thieves that the Fleming fell out with, as my uncle suggested."

  "I believe we can now dispense with that facile supposition."

  "It wasn't thieves, is what he means," Clarady said.

  "I speak English, thank you," Trumpington retorted. The boy was in an ill humor tonight, indeed. "My point is that we have no reason to assume the Fleming was killed by the same man that killed Shiveley."

  "We do, though," Whitt said. "The letter, remember? In Smythson's handwriting, which we all recognized, warning of the delivery of the pamphlets, which the Fleming was carrying just before he was killed. The letter in the book on Shiveley's desk."