Murder by Misrule

CHAPTER 17

  "Let's have a beheading," Thomas Hughes suggested. "King Arthur can execute Sir Lancelot. Or Queen Guinevere."

  "Absolutely not." Francis Bacon experienced a palpable shock of horror imagining the queen's reaction to such a scene. "Her Majesty would construe it as meddling in her prerogative. As a nudging toward the execution of the Queen of Scots. We must avoid that topic like a plague-bearing miasma."

  He and a group of literary-minded barristers were spending the wintry morning in the hall devising a masque to amuse the court at Whitehall on Christmas Eve. Whether he was allowed to attend or not, she might divine his hand in the work and recognize it as an offering of his devotion.

  "She needs a nudge," Hughes insisted. "A gentle one, of course. But the deed must be done, and soon. We can show her that her loyal subjects support the decision."

  "No," Francis said. "Trust me. She'd be furious, and rightly so. The execution of a monarch is not a subject for foolery. We should stick to themes appropriate to the season and the setting. Themes celebrating our queen's beauty and wit."

  "Same as last year, then," another barrister grumbled.

  "Yes." Francis smiled. "Only different." He rummaged in his memory for scenes from Ovid, usually a rich source. He enjoyed the challenge of creating fresh amusements from stock materials. He especially enjoyed these collaborations with intelligent yet nonpolitical, colleagues. He could happily spend the whole day right here at this table.

  A sudden draft made him shiver. He glanced toward the screens passage and saw his pupils filing in, shaking raindrops from their cloaks. They started to walk toward him, but he held up a hand and rose from his bench. Better to have this conversation in relative privacy. Since his quarry might well be a member of the Society, the fewer who were aware of his pursuit, the better.

  "Surely you're not making those poor lads study during the mesne vacation, Bacon?" Hughes asked. "The Prince of Purpoole and his court?"

  Francis smiled. "I am their Master of Revels, am I not? It's my job to advise them on our traditions and guide them toward sports that entertain without crossing the bounds."

  He gestured his pupils closer to the fire in the center of the hall. They might as well be warm. "Were you able to speak with Lady Rich?"

  "We were, Mr. Bacon," Whitt answered. "Lord Stephen posed our question to her."

  The lads exchanged a round of shrugs and head shakes. Francis frowned at them. "And were you able to obtain an answer, my lord?"

  Delabere looked at his feet and mumbled, "She was — she was —"

  Francis relented. "I have met the Lady Rich. She has, shall we say, a forceful personality."

  "Forceful," Delabere echoed, as if trying on the attribute. Francis had never met a peer for whom the word was less apt.

  He waited in silence. The privateer's son cleared his throat and Delabere continued. "Her maidservant told us to tell you that she could also be indirect. The lady, that is. We didn't understand that part."

  "Nor do you need to, my lord."

  "Oh. Well, that's all right then. She also said — the maidservant, that is — that the limner is a Fleming by the name of Clara Goossens." Stephen expelled a breath, as if he had just completed a daring maneuver.

  "Very good, my lord." Francis smiled approvingly. "And have you spoken with Limner Goossens?"

  "Well, no." Delabere looked startled. "We don't know where she lives. Lady Rich didn't give us a direction. And yesterday was Sunday."

  Francis sighed. "She can wait for the present. Your next task is to interview the two Wild Men that the sempstress saw in the lane. They must be retainers of the Earl of Essex."

  "Today?" Delabere's countenance took on a mulish cast.

  "I realize you have other demands upon your time, Your Grace." The honorific earned him a smile that transformed the young lord's sulky features. "However, we owe a debt to Mr. Smythson, do we not? To identify the villain who so untimely claimed his life?"

  Delabere said, "I suppose we do."

  "Your compassion inspires us," Francis said, ignoring the flash of disbelief in Clarady's eyes. "The next move may win the match. We can't know until it's played."

  "Shall we call upon the earl?" Delabere asked.

  Francis pretended to consider the question. Under no circumstances would he involve Essex until he knew what his servants had to say. "I rather think not, my lord. We don't know at this point if his men saw anything at all. I am informed that most of the earl's retainers are lodged at the White Lion on Fleet Street."

  He expected them to leave at once, but Trumpington blurted out, "Mr. Bacon, if it please you."

  Francis raised an eyebrow.

  "Is it possible that the Wild Men murdered Mr. Smythson?"

  Francis frowned. He hadn't considered that question, though he should have. He'd been so preoccupied with the tricky question of communicating with Lady Rich that he'd forgotten to fully examine the matter. If he left any avenue unexplored, however, he could be certain it would be the only one leading to a solution. He sighed. He longed to achieve that solution in time for Christmas Eve.

  "Yes," he replied, sounding as vexed as he felt, "it is possible. Why were they chasing Smythson instead of attending on their lord?"

  "Perhaps one of them had a grudge against lawyers," Whitt suggested. "Men have been known to lose everything in a badly fought suit."

  "Or a badly brought suit," Francis said. "Too many forget that waging law is always a gamble. Yes, that's quite possible. Such a grudge, nurtured into hatred, ripened with strong drink, might well produce a frenzied attack. Either or both of them might have done the deed. Then, on recovering their right minds and seeing what they had done, they might have stolen the purses to cast the blame on a thief. And to keep the money, of course."

  "That's even more horrible than a cutpurse," Clarady said. "Poor Mr. Smythson! First chivvied by drunkards in frightening costumes then killed for someone else's fault!"

  His ready sympathy did him credit. The lad had qualities; if only he were better fathered. And did away with that absurd earring. Sir Walter Ralegh could get away with dangling gemstones from his head, but lesser men should content themselves with lesser displays.

  Trumpington said, "What if Lady Rich paid the Wild Men to murder Mr. Smythson, to prevent him from, uh—"

  "Writing a brief? Engrossing a bill?" Francis regarded the boy frostily. Doubtless this idea clara derived from Welbeck's single-themed imagination. Trumpington's uncle was little better than a privateer, in some regards. "I hardly think a personage such as Lady Rich would stoop to such base instruments. Nor could she settle her disputes with Sir Amias Rolleston by dispatching his counselor. Sir Amias would simply do as he has done and engage another one."

  "Won't it be dangerous to question these Wild Men?" Delabere asked. "They'll know at once that we suspect them."

  Again, Francis pretended to consider the question. He doubted there would be any real danger. They were four active young men, not gouty old barristers, and they would be in a popular inn on a busy thoroughfare.

  "It could be so, my lord, as you sagaciously suggest, and yet I see no alternative. As far as we know, those two were the last to see Smythson alive. The possibility that they are themselves the murderers is remote. Even if they did harbor some grudge, they would more likely content themselves with simply frightening the man."

  "We should be wary, nevertheless." Delabere's chin jutted forward.

  "Indeed you should, my lord," Francis agreed. "Always. Wary and respectful. Be discreet; be polite. Don't ruffle any feathers."