by Anna Castle
Lady Alice probably had it right: Grenville discovered someone doing something furtive, like hiding a letter behind a brick. But was the secret romantic or political?
If romantic, Francis would keep well away. No good could come of meddling in such affairs, only embarrassment for all parties, especially him.
But what if the secret were political? That could mean there was a spy at court.
Francis laughed out loud. Of course there were spies! The English kept spies in every court in Europe; other nations naturally returned the favor. How else could a government learn about plots and plans affecting national security?
It might do him some good to expose a spy. It might not, depending on who, what, and why, but the odds of a favorable result for himself were not nil. Knowing there were spies in the abstract wasn’t nearly as useful as knowing which individual was passing what news on to whom, especially if the spy were employed by a Spaniard or the Catholic League in France. His cousin Robert might find information about a murderous spy at Her Majesty’s court valuable enough to support Francis’s next bid for a sustaining position. Something in the legal line, like Solicitor General, would suit his talents and inclinations admirably.
More likely, however, Robert would take the information, extract a promise of eternal silence, and reap whatever rewards there were for himself.
Risky, fruitless labor — that was all Francis could expect from poking his nose into the death of Arthur Grenville. But if the man had been murdered, shouldn’t his killer be brought to justice? If he got away scot-free, he might be emboldened to do it again. Francis would own a share of that second death for the rest of eternity.
He sighed and swung his legs off the bed. He could at least visit the coroner’s office to see if anything more had been learned. Tom would question the orchard men, who might have seen or heard something they failed to connect to the murder. He’d report what he learned whether Francis wanted to hear it or not.
Trumpet could — Lady Alice could do as she pleased. Francis wasn’t sure how to treat his erstwhile pupil as she moved closer to becoming the Countess of Dorchester.
He heard the chapel bell tolling nine. Hours yet before dinner. He contemplated the state of his interior and decided he might be ready for a meal by noon. But if he were going to look at a corpse, better to do it sooner than later.
The coroner’s office was in the gatehouse, right outside Francis’s building. As he walked down the battered stairs, he tried to think of an excuse for intruding into this matter. The best he could come up with was a desire to learn more about the investigation of sudden death in relation to his work on the commission charged with reviewing the statutes.
Like any sensible palace servant, the clerk in the coroner’s office neither asked for nor expected a reason for the request. He merely directed Francis to a utility room connected to the laundry house beyond the kitchens, where the midwife should already be at work washing the body. Francis went out the main gate and walked around the long range of two-story houses to the spreading village that constituted the service area for the palace. The midwife’s workroom had clean plaster walls and a hard-packed earthen floor. It was supplied with a small hearth furnished with a hook for a kettle and a stone sink served by a water barrel.
A middle-aged woman with her sleeves rolled up and an elaborately coiled napkin covering her broad head stood before a well-scrubbed table whereupon lay a corpse. She had a washtub at her feet into which she bent to dip her cloth. She wrung it out and stood up again before noticing Francis.
“How may I help you, sir?” She seemed unperturbed by his intrusion; indeed, something in her smile suggested she welcomed it.
“That’s Arthur Grenville, isn’t it?”
“The earthly remains of one who went by that name, sir, or so I’m told.”
A woman with a precise habit of mind. “I’m Francis Bacon. I understand there’s some question about the manner in which Mr. Grenville met his death. Since I have some experience in these matters, I thought I might see if I could clarify the situation. If you have no objection.”
“Not my place to object, sir. Just one moment, if you please.” She took a sheet from a stack on a shelf and draped it across the body’s lower half. “He wasn’t injured in that area, sir. You have my word on that.”
“I appreciate the consideration.” The nakedness of the body reminded him of the first logical question. “Do you have the clothes he was wearing?”
“Yes, sir.” She pointed at another table along the wall under the window.
Francis examined the outer garments first. The doublet and round hose were of the finest quality: a dark green velvet with bands of gold ribbon and a double row of gilt buttons. The hose and sleeves were lined with silk. The stockings were also silk, the same rich green as the velvet. Grenville had been wearing his best clothes.
He must have been on his way to the feast. The heralds had summoned them to be seated around six o’clock, but some people had already begun queueing through the gates or finding their way around to approach the tables from the river.
Francis gazed out the small window, absently fingering the plush velvet while he revisited the scene in his memory. He’d been seated already, preferring to avoid the crush. He remembered well the ignominy of being ushered to the lesser persons’ table instead of the one at which Lady Stafford already sat. Sir Robert hadn’t yet arrived. Her Ladyship had been watching a group of young ladies coming up from the path along the river, doubtless wondering what they’d been doing down there. Though her primary responsibility lay in caring for the queen’s wardrobe, the matronly older woman took it upon herself to maintain a watchful eye on the maids of honor.
Ladies Mary and Elizabeth had joined Francis on his bench not long after. They had come up from the river a few minutes after the other girls, walking arm-in-arm, making an entrance in their shimmering silver-and-white gowns. As the usher seated them, they’d joked about how well Francis’s black clothes set off their costumes.
Then a servant had delivered a bottle of wine, and he’d stopped watching the guests. Even if he had been paying attention, it would be impossible to state conclusively who had arrived when and from which direction. Over a hundred persons had attended the Midsummer Eve supper. Several of them had found reason to dispute their placement, creating eddies of confusion in the general flow.
Mr. Grenville had not been among them, however. Lady Mary had commented on his absence soon after taking her seat. She’d expected him to sit next to her and had been looking forward to twitting him about some offense. His place had remained empty.
So Grenville had dressed in his finery, but had never reached the event. He must have detoured through the orchard for some reason; to follow someone, perhaps. It was a good time to leave a secret message, come to think of it. Everyone in the palace, servants included, would be focused on the front lawn. That narrowed the time of death to the half hour before supper, assuming the youth wouldn’t don his fine clothes too far in advance.
Francis pressed the hose, feeling for objects in the pockets, and found nothing. He held up the doublet to study its front, then spread each sleeve out in turn. No irregular tears or bits of twig or leaves, which one would expect if Grenville had fallen through the tree. The kidskin slippers were clean, if a bit stained with damp, and the silk stockings unharmed.
He turned to the midwife. “I wonder, Mrs., ah . . .”
“Woolley.”
“Mrs. Woolley. Did you find anything in the pockets?”
Her expression became guarded. “Nothing much. A few coins.”
Francis nodded. He didn’t care if she’d taken them. Such tips might constitute a significant portion of her income. He returned to the laying-out table and watched in silence as she worked her cloth around the feet and between the stiff toes.
“Have you noticed any injuries other than those on his forehead? Bruises or scratches, especially on the hands and face?”
“None, s
ir.”
“Does that seem normal to you? They say he fell off a ladder from a height as great as eight or twelve feet.”
“I couldn’t say what counts as normal around here, sir.” A touch of amusement sparkled in her blue eyes. “I’ve been laying out bodies at Richmond Palace most of my life. My mother had the job before me, and I used to help her. I’ve seen every manner of death, short of out-and-out war.”
“I suppose you have.” Francis thought about the range of sports courtiers engaged in, especially on a summer progress: hunting, jousting, archery, tennis — which could be a very aggressive game — horse racing, boating, fencing . . . The only game these young bloods played that wasn’t hazardous was hazards. No wonder he and Robert kept bumping into one another in the library!
“I found no bruises on the torso,” Mrs. Woolley said, “but the grass in the orchard is thick, and the gentleman was fully dressed. I can tell you one thing. He couldn’t have gotten that by falling onto the ground.” She pointed to a wound on the forehead.
Francis smoothed his moustache with two fingers, as if preparing his nose for an unpleasant experience, although the body didn’t smell so bad. The clean scent of the rosemary in the washing water predominated. He moved toward the head, steeling himself to look.
Two dark red gashes dug into the ashy flesh at the crown of the forehead, about three inches apart. The skin had been broken in a line between them, deeper at the corners and torn on either side, defining three sides of a rectangle filled with purple.
Francis looked away and closed his eyes. He took a few shallow breaths and recovered. “It’s been suggested that he struck his head on a brick. Does that make sense to you?”
“Perfect sense, sir. It’s what I thought myself. Did you notice the red grains around the wound?”
Francis shook his head, keeping his eyes on her kindly face, unable to bring himself to examine the ugly wounds again. Lady Alice must have the heart of a lion.
“Well, they’re brick crumbs, no doubt about it. And those deep points are about the width of a brick.” She went to the hearth and picked up one of the bricks used to set kettles on, wiping it with another rag from a basket. She held it above the wound on Grenville’s forehead. “It fits, all right.”
Francis risked a glance with one eye. It did fit the injuries almost perfectly. “Can you think of anything else that could make such a wound?”
“Another brick.” She chuckled at her wit.
“All right, then. We may conclude that a brick was the proximate cause of death.”
Mrs. Woolley raised her thin eyebrows at his choice of words and added, “The short end of a brick, sir, if you want to be precise. It entered the flesh about a quarter of an inch, in my judgment. That would take a fair bit of force.”
“Could a woman do it?”
“Are you a married man, Mr. Bacon, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“No to both questions.”
She smiled. “Well, women are stronger than you might think. If she can lift a two-year-old child, she could strike that blow. Bricks have some weight to them, and that would help. If she could reach it, that is.”
“Reach up to his forehead, do you mean?”
“No, sir, I mean reach down to it. That brick came from above. See how the points dug in there, just the below the hairline?” She pursed her lips together, frowning at Francis. “I know you don’t like to look, sir, and it is a sorry sight.”
“I’m a coward.”
“Not at all, sir. I’m accustomed to it, that’s all. There’s nothing I haven’t seen.”
Francis had learned enough with his one brief glimpse anyway. “I believe I can recall the position. It’s right about here, isn’t it?” He rubbed a spot just under the brim of his hat, an inch or so above his right eyebrow.
“About half an inch higher, Mr. Bacon, and you’re spot on the mark.”
“But then I’m up under my hat.” Their eyes met as they each arrived at the same thought.
“His hat should’ve been crushed,” Mrs. Woolley said. “I didn’t look.”
“I’ll do it.” Francis went back to the small table and found a green velvet cap adorned with a gold brooch. He turned it around in his hands but could see no hurt on it anywhere. He brought it back to the washing table. “You’d expect the brim to be crushed.”
“I wonder . . . May I have that for a moment, sir?”
Francis handed her the cap, which she fitted gently around the top of Grenville’s head. “A touch too small, just I suspected.” She gave it back to him.
“Mrs. Woolley, I am impressed! What made you suspect such a thing?”
“His curls are too neat, at least up on top. I suppose he didn’t want to muss them. Young men have their vanity, you know. The hair at the back has a fair amount of blood in it, though not as much as you’d expect from a head wound. He must have died quickly.”
“A small mercy.” Francis returned the cap to the small table, wondering who would get Grenville’s clothes — many pounds’ worth of silk and velvet, relatively unscathed. More than this midwife earned in a year. Happily, it was not his concern. He went back to stand across from her again. “I surmise the cap fell off before the blow was struck.”
“Perhaps he looked up at the brick as it was raised,” Mrs. Woolley said.
“That’s plausible,” Francis said. “And it suggests that the striker was taller than Mr. Grenville.”
“Or he was standing on something.”
“No one mentioned anything other than the ladder,” Francis said, “which was lying flat on the ground. How tall is this man, do you suppose?”
“I can tell you to the inch, Mr. Bacon.” She went to the back of the room where she kept the tools of her trade and found a coil of tailor’s tape. “I have to measure him for the coffin anyway.” She tucked one end between the stiff toes and uncoiled it along the length of the body. “Five feet and nine inches, sir.”
“That’s how tall I am.”
“Someone taller than you, then.” She rolled her tape back into a tight coil. “That brick would have blood on it too, I warrant, if that’s of any use to you.”
“I’m told there weren’t any loose bricks in the vicinity of the body.”
“Perhaps the killer took it with him. If you found it in their room, that’d be something, wouldn’t it, sir?” She smiled, amused at her little joke.
“It would indeed.”
“More likely they just tucked it back into the wall, supposing that’s where it came from.”
“That’s precisely what I’m supposing, Mrs. Woolley.” Francis flicked his gaze across the corpse, grateful for the cover over the private parts. “Is there anything else this body can tell us?”
She shook her head. “Only that the gentleman was healthy and well cared for. And that he died too young. But you knew that already.”
Francis nodded. “I thank you for your invaluable assistance, Mrs. Woolley. I think we can conclude that Mr. Grenville’s death was not an accident. Wouldn’t you agree?”
She shook her head. “I’m only the midwife, Mr. Bacon. I wash them and I lay them out. It’s not my job to think about how they came here.”
Francis met her wise blue eyes. It wasn’t his job either, in this instance. But it ought to be someone’s.
SEVEN
TOM SPENT HALF AN HOUR or so wandering around the orchard, stopping every servant he saw to ask his questions. He learned nothing of any value. They’d all been released from their duties early, on account of the feast, and gone upriver to a favorite tavern to enjoy their liberty. He found a letter waiting for him in the kennel office, which sent him on an errand to Petersham, the nearest village. The last step in Trumpet’s plan, neatly checked off the list.
Mr. Bacon had blatantly avoided him after dinner, so he’d gone back to the kennel office to find something else to do. Mr. Lacey had invited him to take the dogs out to try their noses in Richmond Park, and he’d leapt at the chance. He’
d spent the rest of day in that good company, soaking up fresh air and stretching his legs. No strife, no conflict. He could get used to that life.
The steward seated him at Stephen’s table for supper in the Great Hall that evening, several seats down from the mighty earl. He was grateful for the distance and for the strangers on either side. They were polite but uninterested in him; he returned both favors. He wasn’t in the mood to make new friends.
He had a tryst with Trumpet later. It would be the first time they’d been truly alone together in . . . how many months? His skin tingled just thinking about it. He gulped wine and looked around to distract himself.
This hall had a soaring hammerbeam ceiling, like the one at Gray’s Inn. It had similar long tables and tall windows with portraits of great warrior kings in between. The servants were more attentive and the wine was better, but the main difference was the presence of women. Their high voices and musical laughter improved the whole tenor of the echoing roar of conversation. He enjoyed the sight of their vivid costumes and pretty faces too, but he had no desire to return the inviting smiles sometimes sent his way.
When the meal ended and everyone rose, he lingered, in no rush. He wouldn’t meet Trumpet until half past eight. He followed the throng into the Middle Court to stand by the famous fountain adorned with lions and red dragons. He looked up at the clear sky, willing the sun to sink lower, faster.
“You should come with us, Tom,” Stephen said, striding up to slap him on the shoulder. He tilted his head toward a group of bravely dressed men. “We’re going downriver to a place called the Goat and Compasses. They’re reputed to offer an exceptional range of services.” He dug an elbow into Tom’s side.
He got the message: there would be whores. Two years ago he would’ve leapt at the invitation. Now he couldn’t think of anything he wanted to do less. He shook his head. “I promised Mr. Lacey I’d finish copying the mastiff pedigrees for him. He’s thinking up names for that new litter.”
