Murder by Misrule

  ***

  Trumpet dashed off to fetch Bacon while Tom covered Shiveley with his blanket. Then he stood guard outside the chamber door. He pretended that he was just watching from a vantage point while Fogg managed the process of inspecting and removing the body. He and the surgeon agreed that Shiveley had tripped, fallen, and broken his neck.

  They ushered the body out the door. The light in the staircase grew stronger as Tom stood and studied the scene. Something about it nagged at him.

  He ran down to the ground floor and then climbed back up again, slowly, imagining himself to be a man of middle years as Mr. Shiveley had been. A weary man, trudging up to his well-earned rest. Tom held his left hand at shoulder height, as if carrying a candle to light his steps. He watched for obstacles in his path, but saw none: no stray rushes, no loose boards, no nails sticking out. When he neared the top, he pretended to trip on the riser. He fell forward, hands out — just a little, as an experiment — and then righted himself.

  He mounted the last two steps and turned again to look down the stairs. He would have dropped the candle, but nearer the top than they had found it. And he would have fallen up — forward — not back.

  He turned and pretended to unlock the door and push it open. Then he paused and cocked his head as if he'd heard a sound. He felt foolish, but wanted to play the scene out. He turned and walked to the edge of the stairs. Had he tripped from this height, he might very well have fallen all the way down to the landing. Then the candle might have ended up where it did.

  Would he land facedown? Of a certainty, unless he somehow tucked himself into a ball and rolled part of the way, which seemed too athletic for Mr. Shiveley. Would he break his neck? Perhaps if he struck the landing head first, the weight of his body might snap the neck.

  Tom stroked his moustache, thinking hard. Shiveley had probably tripped on the hem of his cloak. It was cold, he was old, he was juggling a key and a candle. Perhaps the outer door hadn't latched properly and he'd heard it creak and turned too hastily to go down and close it.

  Tom startled as the door below did creak loudly and swing wide, admitting Bacon, followed by Trumpet, Stephen, and Ben, who closed the door firmly behind him. Bacon wore a tight frown, lips pressed together, but his eyes were bright and his step was eager. They filed into Shiveley's outer chamber, where Bacon placed his hands on his hips and studied the room. He turned in a slow circle, taking note of the furnishings.

  Tom admired his patience. He would have rushed straight to the largest chest and emptied it onto the floor. He inhaled slowly — quietly — through his nose. He smelled beeswax and ink and dry rushes, but no incense, unless that's what incense smelled like. He wasn't actually sure; he'd always imagined something cinnamony.

  "You found the rosary under the pillow?" Bacon asked. "Did you find nothing else?"

  Trumpet and Tom shrugged at each other. "We didn't look," Tom said. "We didn't think to. We thought that was enough. It is a rosary, isn't it? It has a cross on it, like you said."

  Mr. Bacon smiled thinly in that way he had that made Tom feel like a numskull. "Yes, but anyone might have a rosary. It could have been his grandmother's, a sentimental keepsake. In itself, it is not solid evidence of seditious activities. We need something more compelling." He pursed his lips and strolled to the desk. He inspected a stack of books, opening each one and riffling the pages. A folded piece of paper fell onto the desk. He unfolded it and began to read.

  "Aha." He turned toward Ben. "I knew there must be a letter somewhere. Still, it's curious . . ."

  He trailed off, not sharing his thought. Tom supposed that they were too stupid to appreciate it. And how had he known there would be a letter?

  Bacon said, "This must have been taken from Smythson's body. I believe these dark stains are blood." He showed it to them.

  They all shuddered.

  "This should serve as proof that James Shiveley murdered Tobias Smythson. It's as much as we're ever likely to find."

  That was hard to swallow. Tom would never have pegged Mr. Shiveley as the conspirator. He was the sort of rule-minded stuffpot who tapped his finger on the table in front of you to make you pay attention while he patrolled the student tables during the after-dinner exercises. Smuggle forbidden religious pamphlets? Inconceivable.

  "Yes," Bacon said, giving the letter a closer reading. "It's addressed to my uncle. I recognize Smythson's hand. It warns of a delivery of Catholic pamphlets from the Continent." He turned the sheet over and studied the back. "Blank. Hm. Odd that he would begin with a formal salutation and then terminate so abruptly, but . . ." He shrugged and folded the paper briskly, tucking it into his pocket. "No doubt he decided to present his findings in person and kept the letter merely as an aide memoire."

  "Does he say how the delivery was to be made?" Trumpet asked. "Or when?"

  "Not here. The pamphlets were produced in France and are to be paid for with English currency."

  Bacon was definitely holding something back. Not here, he'd said. Then where? Well, they were only students. They couldn't expect the man to share his every thought. If Francis Bacon was satisfied, who was Tom to argue? He said, "The money must be here, then."

  Bacon frowned. "So it must. Hm. It should be given to Treasurer Fogg for safekeeping. Open the chest and let's have a look."

  "I'll help you," Trumpet said. He seemed to be relieved — happy, even — about the discovery of the letter. As if he'd had a grudge against Mr. Shiveley that was now paid in full.

  They dragged the chest forward so they could fully open the lid. A small box lay right on top. Tom opened it. "It isn't locked." He would never leave his cash box unlocked. He trusted his chambermates — well, he trusted Ben — but he wasn't so confident about the lock on the door.

  "What of it?" Stephen said. "He lived alone."

  "I fail to see the relevance," Bacon said. He poked a finger into the box, counting the coins. "They appear to be freshly minted. I wonder where he got them."

  "It doesn't seem like much," Tom said.

  "How much do you suppose there ought to be?" Now Bacon's tone was sharp. He was plainly keen to lay the Smythson affair to rest and not interested in any niggling oddities.

  Tom resolved to keep his mouth shut. He had twice that amount in his cash box and he wasn't performing a Reading or paying for smuggled pamphlets in the near future. But if the rest of them saw nothing untoward, so be it. Tom could celebrate the end of strife as gaily as the next.

  Bacon took the box from him, closed it, and tucked it under his arm. "I believe our work is done. We have our murderer, punished by God himself. We could have wished for man's justice as well, but we must be satisfied with what we receive. Quod erat demonstratum. I'll write a report for my uncle and then, with his permission, advise the benchers to be on the alert for the pamphlets. And you, Gentlemen, are free to pursue your revels. I heartily thank you for your efforts." He grinned at them — an actual grin. "Done in time for Christmas! Who could wish for more than that?"

  Ben shook his head, bemused. "It seems too simple."

  Bacon answered crisply, "Simplicity is often the sign of truth."