Murder by Misrule

CHAPTER 11

  Francis Bacon had a quiet word with Sir Avery Fogg before supper. The meal was tench in jelly, onions boiled with sugar and raisins, and eggs in broth. He gave most of his share to George Humphries. After the cloth was withdrawn, Fogg rose and announced the case to be put: a rematch between Benjamin Whitt and Nathaniel Welbeck in the matter of the bastard's inheritance.

  Whitt stood in the aisle between the long tables. He had an array of papers laid ready on the oak that Allen Trumpington and Thomas Clarady sifted briskly through when called upon, presenting him with the relevant note at the critical moment. They sat on the edges of their respective benches, leaning forward, ready to support their spokesman. Lord Stephen leaned back with his arms crossed to signal his nonparticipation. Francis was surprised to observe that it was Clarady who supplied the needed term — twice — when Whitt stumbled on a phrase in Law French.

  After his pupils had thoroughly demolished Welbeck's defense and received the thundering applause they deserved, Francis summoned the under butler to order a jug of malmsey for his pupils and another for his messmates. Their astonished response to his largesse was not altogether flattering.

  Humphries remarked, with a characteristic lack of civility, "If we were benchers, we would never have to pay." To Francis's best knowledge, Humphries had never treated his messmates to wine.

  Welbeck accepted a cup with ill grace. "Perhaps they should nominate your new pupil for Reader. He's old enough. About your age, isn't he, Bacon?" He laughed heartily at his own joke. Humphries snickered along with him.

  Francis gave him a withering look.

  Shiveley said, "They're a fine group of men, Bacon. A credit to our Society."

  "I wanted to honor them." Francis raised his cup. "To the queen, to England, and the future of Gray's Inn!"

  The others followed suit. An innocuous enough toast, and the wine was not half-bad.

  "I also wanted to share a cup or two with my messmates in remembrance of Tobias Smythson," Francis added. "I find myself thinking about him often since his death."

  "To Smythson!" Shiveley raised his cup and they drank again.

  Francis let a silence develop as each man savored the wine and relaxed into the familiar mellowness of the hall on a dark autumn evening. Men's voices rumbled in the background. Yellow candlelight reflected on the oak paneling. A servant fed the fire from a basket of staves. Most members would pass the hours before bedtime here in warmth and fellowship. A group in one corner was reading through the play to be performed before the queen on Christmas Eve. They'd chosen The Misfortunes of Arthur by Graysian Thomas Hughes. Francis was charged with devising the masque for the interlude— a tribute to his talents. He'd hardly given it a thought, however, being occupied with more serious matters. He couldn't give it up now, though, without risking more censure for being unreliable and lacking holiday spirit. He ought to be grateful they allowed him this small involvement in the court's festivities. He could write the masque even if he couldn't watch it be performed.

  "Who's getting Smythson's chambers?" Welbeck asked, breaking the comfortable silence.

  "It's not decided," Shiveley said. "I myself have put in a bid."

  Chambers were typically leased for long periods. When the lessee died, the chambers reverted to the lessor, which in this case was the bench. Since the Inn was desperately overcrowded, desirable chambers such as Smythson's were hotly contested.

  "Have you?" Welbeck's eyes glittered. "So have I."

  Humphries grinned suddenly, hunching his shoulders with a private joke, but said nothing.

  Francis wasn't interested in the question of chambers. He already inhabited the best lodgings at Gray's, courtesy of his father. He supposed that Smythson's rooms would go to whomever had the most compelling combination of seniority, influence, and cash. Since Treasurer Fogg was, he believed, the last of the benchers with third-floor rooms, Smythson's first-floor address would most probably soon be his.

  He let that topic die. A short time later, he asked, as though the thought had arrived in train with other matters, "What do you suppose Fogg meant about 'encroachments' in his eulogy? Did he and Smythson ever oppose one another in court?"

  "Not in court." Welbeck smirked. "In courting. Something you wouldn't understand."

  "Why not?" Francis asked, puzzled.

  "A matter of the heart, Bacon." Welbeck patted himself on the chest. "A conflict de amore. In short, a woman."

  "Ah. The Widow Sprye." Francis enjoyed the look of thwarted malice on Welbeck's face. "I merely thought the subject too inurbanus for a eulogy." Absurd how people assumed that simply because Francis declined to spend his leisure time chasing prostitutes around the city that he was wholly ignorant of the earthier passions.

  Everyone knew that Avery Fogg was involved in an affaire de coeur with Mrs. Anabel Sprye, proprietress of the Antelope Inn in Holborn. She was well-endowed in every sense of the word: voluptuous, influential, and rich. Fogg's wife had died many years ago; his children were grown. He was free to court handsome widows by the dozen, if he so desired. The widow in question seemed not averse to his attentions. Fogg was more often to be found in her well-ordered establishment than in his own chambers.

  "Smythson was courting Mrs. Sprye?" Shiveley asked. "I never heard that. I don't believe it either. He wasn't the type. He was too—"

  "Cold? Limp? Lacking the sensual spark?" Welbeck prompted. Humphries guffawed loudly. Shiveley frowned at his lack of delicacy.

  Francis reviewed his memories of Smythson in the last month or two. He had noticed, now that he was reminded of it, greater attention to grooming than had been customary for the man. Thrice-weekly visits to the barber instead of once; a fashionable new hat that accorded ill with his outdated doublet. Francis suspected that he would have better advanced his cause with Mrs. Sprye if he had spent the money on a set of leather-bound Year Books. She knew more about the law than many a judge in Westminster.

  "It's not implausible," Francis said. "Men his age often conceive a longing for the comforts of a woman's care."

  Welbeck barked a laugh. "A woman's care! How delicately you put things, Bacon. As if he had developed a passion for possets and broidered cushions for his gouty knees."

  "Possets!" Humphries chortled. "A man with Smythson's money could have possets brought to him in bed around the clock."

  Welbeck helped himself to another cup of wine. "I suspect Smythson's interest in the delectable Widow Sprye had less to do with her personal charms and more to do with the influence of the Andromache Society."

  Francis laughed. He might well be right. His mother was a member, along with her sister, Lady Russell, and a dozen equally formidable women. The Andromache Society was a group of widows who met once a month for a private dinner at the Antelope. Their collective influence at court surpassed that of any courtier other than his lord uncle or the Earl of Leicester. Rumor had it that no man could attain a judgeship without their approval.

  "He wanted her influence, not her favors." Francis nodded. "Surely Mrs. Sprye is too wise a bird to allow herself to be netted for such unflattering purposes?"

  Welbeck said, "She's a woman, isn't she? She was probably stringing Smythson along to keep old Foggy on his toes."

  Francis wondered if that was a mixed metaphor. The French puppets, called marionettes, were made to dance by pulling on strings. They did seem to dance on their toes. Not strictly mixed, then, but still not a pleasing turn of phrase.

  "Disgraceful," Shiveley said. He was entering into his middle years and had lived a bachelor life. He tended toward the prudish. "Think of the example it sets the young students." He nodded toward the table where Whitt and his friends were playing primero.

  "Yes," Welbeck said, affecting an expression of concern. "Because none of those round dogs has ever wooed a wench under false pretenses." That elicited a fresh snicker from Humphries, who was unlikely ever to have wooed any female under any pretenses whatsoever. "My nephew tells me that Delabere and Clarady ha
ve left a trail of broken hearts through every bawdy house from Westminster to Smithfield."

  Francis smiled serenely at the intended slight to his pupils. Their extracurricular activities were no concern of his. The money for the wine had been well spent. Fogg's temper was notorious and the man was as territorial as a mastiff. Jealousy was one of the commonest motives for murder. It might well inspire the sort of frenzy that had left its marks on Smythson's body.

  He must pay a call on Mrs. Sprye. Why would a woman of her wit and influence tolerate the clumsy courting of Tobias Smythson?