The first puzzle Francis had to solve was how to request an interview with Lady Rich for his pupils without writing her a letter. She wouldn't speak directly to his servant and he had little faith in the fidelity of a message passed through a chain of underlings.
He drummed his fingers on the desk. It was just his luck that the only two threads he had to follow ran through prominent courtiers! Why couldn't the witnesses be oyster-sellers or wherrymen? Asking lords for favors was ticklish enough in the best of circumstances. Asking them without being seen to ask was nigh impossible.
Was it an accident that his threads led to this particular brother and sister? Francis fervently hoped so. If he turned up evidence that either the Earl of Essex or Lady Rich were involved in Smythson's murder, he resolved to drop his partial results in his uncle's lap without further ado and retire to his mother's house in Gorhambury. He was in no position to prosecute the nobility.
That thought raised his temperature in spite of the cool of his fireless chamber. He fanned himself with a sheet of paper. Their involvement was unlikely after all. The Devereux were society's darlings. Odds were high that they would make an appearance in any matter of importance, sooner or later.
Francis closed his eyes and calmed himself by willing his mind to think about nothing. He heard birds twittering nearby and the crunch of gravel as men strode across the yard below. He smelled the bitter tang of his ink and a soft undersmell of ashes from hearth. He inhaled deeply then exhaled and opened his eyes.
He had his solution. The muddling of messages as they passed through many mouths would serve him well in this instance. It was best that Lady Rich know as little as possible about the true errand of his emissaries, lest she refuse to see them. She would know, of course, about his exile from court. He hoped that she would find an oblique request arriving by way of her stable boy intriguing enough to grant.