Murder by Misrule

CHAPTER 22

  "I need a crown," Stephen whined.

  The lads were breakfasting in hall. It was early — still dark outside and cold — but the bread was hot from the oven and the butter was fresh.

  They'd made a point of arriving in good time for chapel that morning. Missing chapel had been first on the list of Bacon's tell-tales, which included crucifixes, rosaries, surreptitiously making the sign of the cross, and incense. Tom had sniffed under every door on his way down the stairs. He'd smelled sour oil lamps and unemptied chamber pots, but nothing sorcerous.

  "This very instant?" Tom was tired of Stephen's constant bleating about clothing. There were better things for a man to think about. Beautiful women, for example, and how to court them. His mind turned again to Clara. His memory of her face had grown less certain over the weeks. Had he imagined the near-white goldness of her hair?

  Bacon had instructed them to find her without delay, an order Tom was eager to obey. The prospect of finally meeting her fanned the flames of his desire.

  He couldn't marry her, but she would understand that. He'd discussed the issue at length with Trumpet and Ben. They all agreed that whether he ranked as a new-feathered gentleman lawyer or a merchant-adventurer's son, a craftswoman was beneath him. If she were a maiden, naturally he would leave her in that condition. He could still go walking with her on a Sunday afternoon and revel in her beauty.

  Stephen snapped his fingers at him. "Are you awake? I need a crown for our embassy to the Inner Temple. Today."

  Tom hated that finger-snapping. Was he a dog?

  "We need to find that limner." Ben echoed Tom's thoughts. "Mr. Bacon gave us explicit instructions."

  Tom smiled at the way Ben said Mr. Bacon, as if mouthing the name of a reverend potentate. Not unlike the way Tom said Clara. To needle Stephen, he said, "Bringing Smythson's killer to justice is slightly more important than your tickle-brained embassy."

  Stephen's chin jutted forward as he compressed his lips. Tom's own lip quivered as he fought the urge to mimic him. He was wrestling with his baser self when a cry rang out in the courtyard.

  "Help! Help! Oh, horrible! Help!"

  The lads leapt up and raced out, reaching Coney Court ahead of the pack. A man stood in the doorway to Colby's Building, his hands clapped to his face as if to hold his head together. "Horrible! Oh, help!" His lamentation filled the yard. More men spilled out from other staircases.

  Tom and the lads sprinted toward him. "What is it, Mr. Fulton?" Ben asked, laying a hand on the man's shoulder.

  Fulton's face twisted with anguish. "Horrible. Oh, horrible." He seemed bereft of other words.

  Tom and Trumpet pushed open the door and entered the building. Their eyes were drawn to the figure sprawled across the landing.

  "God save us," Tom breathed.

  "Oh, no," Trumpet moaned. "Who is it?" He began to climb the stairs, slowly, fearfully. Tom joined him. Ben and Stephen stayed behind to guard the door.

  The man lay chest down across the landing, arms splayed on either side. His long legs trailed up the stairs behind him. His head was twisted at an impossible angle, his face turned up at them. The narrow windows in the stairwell let in enough of the early light to see his features.

  Tom shuddered. "It's Mr. Shiveley."

  Trumpet turned away, breathing shallowly, hand gripping the railing hard enough to show white around the knuckles. Tom simply looked up, blinking, and let his mind go blank.

  This was worse than seeing Mr. Smythson's bloodied body in the street. Then, they had been in the company of bold captains: larger than life and fully in charge. The scene had seemed almost part of the pageant, the last act of a dramatic tragedy. This was homely, private. Everyday life invaded by sudden death.

  "He is dead, isn't he?" Tom said quietly, when his wits returned to him.

  Trumpet made an odd mewling sound then replied in a fairly steady voice, "He must be."

  "Who is it?" Ben called up. He and Stephen blocked the doorway, keeping the crowd outside from shoving into the entryway. They'd learned that much from Captain Ralegh.

  "It's Mr. Shiveley," Tom answered. "It looks like he's fallen down the stairs and broken his neck."

  Ben relayed the news to the men outside the door.

  "What should we do?" Tom said. He felt awkward, absurd, standing on a tread in the middle of a stair. He couldn't persuade himself to go up or down. Neither felt right.

  Trumpet looked up at Tom, his face pale. "We should wait." They faced the door, standing straight, shoulders back and heads up, like an honor guard.

  They didn't have long to wait. They heard Fogg's resonant voice and then saw the man's stout figure fill the doorway as he moved Stephen and Ben aside with a wave of his hand. He took command, tapping Stephen and two others to shoo the crowd away and sending someone to bring the surgeon and the priest. He bade Tom and Trumpet to fetch a blanket from Shiveley's room to cover the body.

  They tiptoed around it and ran the rest of the way up. The door on the left was wide open.

  "This must be his," Tom said.

  "Why is it open?" Trumpet said, stopping on the upper landing with a puzzled frown on his face. "Didn't you think he was coming up the stairs and somehow tripped and fell down?"

  Tom nodded. "He must have unlocked it and then gone back."

  "I suppose so."

  They went in, walking softly. Tom felt like an intruder. Mr. Shiveley had enjoyed private chambers: the outer room held only one desk and the inner only one chest. The bed was covered with a fur-lined blanket.

  "Let's hurry." Trumpet shivered suddenly.

  Tom grabbed the end of the blanket and yanked it off the bed, dislodging the pillows at the head. Something fell to the floor with a clatter.

  Trumpet picked it up. "Uh-oh." He held up what Tom thought was a necklace, until he saw the silver cross dangling at the end.

  Mr. Shiveley had kept a rosary under his pillow.