Murder by Misrule

CHAPTER 3

  Francis Bacon entered the hall for dinner on Friday, his stomach roiling with a turbulent mix of anticipation, curiosity, and dread. Lord Burghley was joining the men of Gray's Inn to honor the late Tobias Smythson. Francis had not seen his powerful uncle since his banishment from court. He fully intended to take this opportunity to induce a favorable impression. Yet he wondered why his uncle was here. He hadn't come last month after Serjeant Oldthwaite had died peacefully in his bed. He should think his uncle would prefer to let Smythson's death by violence fade quietly into the past rather than draw attention to its rebuke of the government's ability to keep the streets safe.

  Perhaps he meant to leverage men's fears of bodily harm to gain compliance with some new regulation. Or take the opportunity to issue some pronouncement from the queen about watchfulness and duty in these troublous times. That was the most likely explanation.

  He hoped his uncle hadn't come to see for himself whether Francis was keeping his word and comporting himself correctly, repairing the rifts he'd inadvertently torn in the fabric of the Society. He was trying, genuinely trying. He didn't need to be monitored.

  He braced himself for the crowded room ahead. He normally dined in his chambers, having received special permission from the bench on account of his delicate health. But he always felt a thrill of pride, a sense of ownership, on entering the building. His father had been instrumental in its remodeling. One entered at the bottom of the long hall. Passing through the screen, one's eyes and spirits rose to the soaring hammerbeam roof. Stained-glass windows graced the upper walls on all four sides, admitting enough light, even on a dismal day like today, to obviate the need for candles at the midday meal. Many panes displayed the coat of arms of distinguished members of the Society.

  Francis always glanced toward the Bacon arms. The family motto was mediocria firma: moderate things are surest. The message helped to ground him when his ebullient imagination went spiraling up into the clouds.

  The motto and seal had been chosen by his pragmatic father, Nicholas Bacon, who had died unexpectedly after falling asleep by an open window after a heavy meal. Francis had been recalled from his educational sojourn in the French ambassador's household to find himself fatherless and penniless, his mother battling like fury against his elder stepbrothers over the will. The future he had been anticipating crumbled to ashes like a burnt letter. He had always believed he would join his father in due course as a sort of privy clerk, learning to handle the reins of government at firsthand. His cousin Robert Cecil was being groomed in just that way by Lord Burghley.

  After his father's death, he'd hoped at least to be granted some modest post, as clerk in one of the lesser courts, for example. That would be suitable at this stage. He didn't expect to rise all on a sudden, by sheer force of personality. He was no Ralegh. He would have to work his way up. But a young man needed a father to place his feet on the rungs before he could start to climb. In his clumsy efforts to raise himself, he had offended the queen and his lord uncle, so they had taken the ladder away altogether. He might as well have been exiled to the Baltic lands.

  Men's voices filled the hall like the roar of the surf on a rocky coast. Francis found it both soporific and mildly alarming, as if his mind were being dulled when he most needed to have his wits about him. He walked between the long tables where the students and junior barristers sat, skirting the round hearth in the center of the room. The tables were full already. He was late.

  Two tables stood at the far end of the hall, perpendicular to the rest. The lower one was reserved for the Grand Company of Ancients — the senior barristers. This was where Francis sat. The upper table, raised on a dais, was for the benchers, the dozen or so gentlemen who governed the Society.

  Francis's feet slowed as he scanned the benchers' table. His uncle was seated already; that was unfortunate. Francis had meant to arrive first and be found sitting at his ease among the other ancients, flourishing in his professional setting. Spiteful gossip, provoked by his rapid rise through the ranks at Gray's, had reached the court and contributed to the controversy that had gotten him banned. Lord Burghley had summoned Francis to his office and advised him to amend his manners and learn how better to ingratiate himself with his fellow Graysians.

  Francis shuddered, remembering that humiliating interview. He'd felt like a schoolboy. He could only be grateful that he hadn't been obliged to lower his hose for a caning. If only His Lordship could have entered the hall to find him laughing, engaged in some lively discussion with his messmates, visibly a welcome dinner companion . . .

  He'd spoiled that chance by arriving late.

  Ah, well. Non nocet. He could explain that he had been studying and lost track of the time, which was the simple truth. Nothing need be said about having fallen asleep in the middle of the morning.

  Francis hesitated as he approached his table. Should he walk up to the dais to greet his uncle privately, or simply bow — a half bow? — and take his seat? Navigating the subtle shoals of etiquette was agonizing. Too much, and one risked scorn for obsequiousness; too little, and one caused offense.

  He caught his uncle's eye and ventured a smile. Burghley crooked his fingers, gesturing him forward. Francis's heart leapt. Perhaps the queen had relented and decided that a sufficient term of punishment had elapsed. Certainly, he'd learned his lesson. He was quite ready to reform.

  He flashed a grin at his messmates as he passed them, lightly leaping up the step to the dais. He nodded greetings to the seated benchers as he walked around to stand behind his uncle in the center seat.

  "My Lord Burghley." Francis bowed from the waist. "How fares my gracious uncle on this day?"

  "Good afternoon, Nephew." William Cecil acknowledged the bow with a tilt of his head.

  He'd said "nephew" instead of calling him by name. Did he mean to emphasize the family relationship, here, in the presence of the benchers? That would be an aid to him, a friendly gesture, reminding them of his close connection to the highest levels. After his father died, Francis had hoped that his uncle would step in and take a father's role in helping him forward.

  His hopes had foundered. True, his uncle had helped him to pass the bar early and win a provisional, non-voting seat on the bench. He'd been advanced well ahead of his peers. But his uncle seemed determined to keep him boxed up at Gray's Inn. Francis knew where the problem lay: Burghley feared competition for his son. If Francis were allowed full scope for his abilities, he might surpass his younger cousin. That could never be allowed.

  Francis suppressed his nervous excitement. Over-eagerness was one of the charges against him. They exchanged a few words of trivial family news. The horn blew to announce the first remove. Before he could slip back to his seat, Burghley caught his sleeve. Francis bent to hear the murmured instructions: "I'd like a private word before I leave."

  "As you wish, my lord."

  Francis took his customary seat, girding himself for some chaffing. His messmates were George Humphries, who sat on his right; James Shiveley, directly across; and Nathaniel Welbeck, seated on James's left. Welbeck and Humphries had been among those who'd grumbled loudest about his early advancement. Arrogance, abuse of privileges, unsociability: these charges had added fuel to the conflagration of his schemes at court. Their hostility was one of the reasons he preferred to exercise his new privileges and dine in his chambers.

  Welbeck's dark eyes glittered with derision as he said, "Bacon, what a pleasant surprise! You ought to have given us some warning. Poor Humphries will have to tighten his belt without your portion to fill out his plate."

  Humphries frowned in embarrassment. An unfortunate expression: it drew down his wiry eyebrows, which, given the tufts of hair in his pointed ears, gave his face a goatish expression. The homely fellow was no match for Welbeck's teasing. Perhaps that was why he could usually be found one step behind, snickering and adding a jab or two of his own.

  Welbeck wasn't finished. "Perhaps not altogether a surprise, though, eh?" H
e cast a meaningful glance toward Lord Burghley then leaned forward to whisper conspiratorially. "Mustn't let the old man think we're slacking. Hiding in our chambers, snacking from a tray." He wagged an admonitory finger. "Won't do, won't do."

  Francis refused to be goaded. He was determined to show his uncle that he could live harmoniously with his fellows in spite of all that had passed. He merely said, "Naturally, I wished to join the Society in honoring Tobias Smythson. This is a solemn occasion."

  James Shiveley said, "Solemn, indeed. Poor Smythson. May God preserve him. I suppose that's why your uncle's here. I had no idea Smythson was so well connected." Shiveley had a tonsure of red hair and a freckled complexion that gave him a trustworthy mien.

  "Nor had I," Francis admitted. "Although some of his clients had affairs that reached into high places."

  "Sir Amias Rolleston." Welbeck nodded sagely. Sir Amias was as litigious as he was wealthy. He'd employed Smythson as chief counsel for his endless series of property suits.

  Humphries leaned forward and hissed across the table. "I hear he's suing Lady Rich for unrecovered debts."

  "Is he?" Francis was impressed. Née Penelope Devereux, Lady Rich was the sister of the Earl of Essex and the wife of one of England's wealthiest men. "I had no idea Rolleston's affairs extended into such lofty circles."

  "You see, Bacon," Welbeck said, "one learns many things when one troubles oneself to dine in commons." He tore a piece from his loaf of bread and chewed it as if displaying his masticatory prowess. Welbeck was handsome in spite of a long, spondulate nose. He had a convivial manner that drew men — especially shallow, striving men — into his circle. Francis found him irritating beyond tolerance but was determined to repress that reaction in public.

  "I had a most interesting conversation with Sir Amias at Westminster this morning." Shiveley treated his messmates to a satisfied smirk.

  "You did what?" Welbeck glared at him. "You poacher!"

  Humphries shook his head, jowls wobbling. "It's too soon! It's unseemly! It's not fair! Smythson hasn't even been buried."

  Shiveley shrugged, unchastened. "I could hardly refuse to speak with the man. Sir Amias has so many suits in play he can scarce afford a period of mourning for his counselor. He needs constant, ready, expert advice." That last was delivered with a pointed glare at Humphries, who frowned at the slight to his abilities.

  Francis thought Shiveley was stooping to bait a man whose gifts were so limited. But neither had he any sympathy for Humphries. A man should know his own worth: his weaknesses as well as his strengths. Humphries was one of the more marginal members of Gray's Inn. He dined in commons every day, thereby maintaining his place in the Society, but his cases were limited to minor disputes among tradesmen. He had barely squeaked past the bar and more nearly resembled a pettifogging attorney than an ancient of Gray's.

  "Did he choose you to replace Smythson?" Humphries asked, a tremble in his voice.

  Shiveley deflected the question with a flick of his fingers. "We found ourselves much in agreement."

  Welbeck's retort was mercifully forestalled by the appearance of the servers. The discussion of Rolleston's affairs ceased as dishes of green pottage, eggs in mustard, conger eels in souse, and turbot pie were set upon the table. The men served themselves with the economy of interaction engendered by long familiarity.

  They ate in silence for a while. Francis picked at his pie, eschewing the eel altogether. His stomach was jumpy with the tension of his uncle's request for a private conversation. What could he want from him? Would it be good news or bad?

  He was startled from his thoughts by Shiveley's voice. "What are you reading, Bacon?" His messmate nodded at the book beside his plate.

  Francis briefly laid a hand on the leather cover. Why had he brought it? He wouldn't dream of reading through the meal in his uncle's presence. "It's a new work by Giambattista Della Porta, the Italian polymath. A treatise on natural magic." He shrugged as if reading obscure scientific works were as commonplace as playing at bowls.

  Francis savored the look of incomprehension on Welbeck's face for a moment then realized that he'd left Shiveley blinking like a cornered hare. He should have lied and mentioned another author — Seneca, Rabelais — anything that would stimulate conversation instead of killing it dead. Another social misstep. He'd cut Shiveley's friendly gesture short.

  Welbeck gamely picked up the thread. "Isn't that a little catholic for your tastes, Bacon? Or are you planning to use magic to rationalize the whole of the English common law?"

  Humphries tittered.

  Francis forced his lips into a bland smile. "Scientia est potentia: knowledge is power."

  "Doesn't seem to work that way for you, though, does it?" Welbeck smiled nastily. He'd won that round. Francis only hoped his uncle hadn't been watching.

  The dishes from the final course were removed and the cloth withdrawn. Francis felt somewhat overstuffed. The savor of the too-sharp mustard sauce lingered unwholesomely in his gastric passages. He always ate too much in hall. He'd pay for this indulgence with a restless night.

  A rustle of motion rose through the hall as men shifted on their benches, repositioning themselves for the after-dinner speeches. The noise subsided as Treasurer Avery Fogg stood up from the bencher's table and raised his hands. Servers scurried through the rows of tables, placing an earthenware cup of wine before each member.

  "Gentlemen." Fogg's deep voice filled the hall. "The bench would like to raise a toast in remembrance of Mr. Tobias Smythson. Then I have a few words about pending matters." He waited until everyone had a cup. "To our dear departed colleague, adversary, tutor, and friend. May God rest your soul in heaven."

  Two hundred voices echoed, "God rest you."

  Sir Avery nodded. "We will miss Mr. Smythson, each and every one of us, individually and collectively as a society of professional men. He served our Society ably through the years in any office that was asked of him. His tireless and competent practice of the law reflected well upon us all."

  Francis suppressed a chuckle. Tireless and competent was faint praise. Had Smythson and Fogg crossed quills as opposing counsels for some important lawsuit, resulting in Fogg's comeuppance?

  "It will take many men to fill the shoes of a Tobias Smythson."

  This time Francis wasn't the only one struggling to contain his response. Sputters of laughter escaped from the lower tables. Fogg frowned repressively, his thick black brows drawing together.

  "Many men," Fogg repeated in booming tones that set the iron candelabra ringing. "Tobias Smythson was closely involved with all of us, in one way or another, over the years. Some of us had our differences with him. There may have been some encroachments."

  Francis raised an eyebrow toward James Shiveley, who shrugged. Fogg had built his career on property law. Perhaps it was natural for him to think of all relationships in terms of trespass and assignments.

  He wondered if any attempt had been made to apprehend the murderer. Gossip at Gray's, according to his servant, had it that Smythson was struck down by a cutpurse. A clumsy, aggressive thief, then. Usually, you only realized you'd been robbed when you reached for your purse to pay the vendor and found dangling strings instead.

  Fogg rambled on. Finally, his voice rose to a crescendo. "Let the past be buried. When we think now of Tobias Smythson, let us remember the best of the lawyer and of the man." He raised his cup to signal another toast. "One last consideration." He had to raise his voice to compete with the increasing restlessness of his audience. "Mr. Smythson was slated to Read this Lent vacation. As a man, he can never be replaced; as a Reader, he must be. The bench will meet to choose a new Reader during the coming week." He glanced down at Francis. "These meetings will be for voting members only."

  As a provisionary bencher, Francis was allowed to attend meetings and contribute to discussions, but he was not eligible to vote. It was a reasonable compromise between his obvious ability and his much-objected-to youth. Benchers were expected to be
"the chiefest and best learned" of the senior barristers. Francis was only twenty-five. His learning could not be faulted. Time would remedy the latter failing.

  He nodded at Fogg to signal his understanding. His eyes flicked toward his uncle, whose gaze remained fixed on his goblet. Would it hurt him so much to offer Francis one small gesture of familial accord? On a more positive note, he didn't seem to be monitoring Francis's behavior. He blinked the idea away, smiling to himself. He mustn't allow this spot of trouble to make him overly suspicious. It was absurd to imagine his busy uncle taking the time to eavesdrop on Francis's dinner conversations.

  Fogg resumed his seat. Several benchers turned toward him, elbows on the table, and began speaking in low, urgent voices. Doubtless they had views on the thorny question of when and where to meet. That debate could take an hour in itself.

  Francis felt a tingle of excitement. He was an obvious choice for the Lent Reader, having already been admitted to the bench with provisional status. One must Read to earn a voting seat. And only full benchers were chosen for judgeships, the lucrative pinnacle of the legal profession.

  He had dreamed of devoting himself to the reformation of the tangled and obfuscated English legal code, but his efforts to pursue that dream had ended in humiliating failure. Being chosen for the Lent Reading would give him a chance to prove himself in a fresh venue. A different ladder to success than the one he had envisioned, but he'd be starting on a higher rung.

  Reading constituted a week-long public display of scholarship and oratorical skill, giving a man an opportunity to display his abilities before an audience that included members of the nobility, especially the more scholarly peers like the Earl of Essex. Readers were expected to deliver lucid expositions of historically important statutes in a series of set speeches and formal debates. Readings were challenging on all levels: intellectually, physically, emotionally, and financially.

  Reading wasn't cheap. Most Readers bought new clothes for themselves and livery for their assistants. They were obliged to host a dinner during the week and a supper on the last day for the whole Society and their distinguished guests. The costs were substantial, which was part of their function. They formed a barrier to admission, ensuring that only men of status and sufficiency would participate in the governance of the Society.

  Francis sipped his claret and turned his attention to his messmates, who were his most likely competitors.

  If one counted only years in commons, George Humphries was first in line. He had been called to the bar twelve years ago and had made clear his desire to advance, but he was unpopular. Apart from Welbeck, who tolerated him as a sycophantic sidekick, he had no friends. His father had squandered the family estate in unfounded suits, leaving his son nearly penniless. If he were a lawyer of exceptional acuity, these faults might be overlooked, but he was below the mean in all regards.

  Nathaniel Welbeck was a far better candidate. He was a decade senior to Francis: a ripe and ready thirty-six years old. His connections were excellent, his late sister having married the Earl of Orford. He was well dressed, well-spoken, and popular among both barristers and students. He tended to be short of funds, although that condition seemed to be mitigated of late.

  James Shiveley was on a par with Welbeck in terms of seniority. Devoted to Gray's, he took genuine pleasure in the moots and bolts and other training exercises. His family was respectable and he had recently inherited a tidy estate. Shiveley was one of those indispensable middling sorts of people who do most of the work in any organization.

  Francis wasn't worried — much — about any of them. His abilities surpassed his competitors' as the sun's light surpassed the moon's. He was young; that would count against him. His chief concern was the expense. He'd have to borrow the money against his brother Anthony's estate unless Captain Clarady could be persuaded to fund the event. Perhaps if he promised the son some visible, yet unimportant, role . . .

  The benchers' talk droned on. Under normal circumstances, Francis would excuse himself and leave. With his uncle here, it would be impolitic. Perhaps he wanted to sound him out about being chosen as Reader on such short notice. He might want him to decline in order to advance a man owed a favor. Or perhaps he wanted him to accept to forestall someone owed a setback. Lord Burghley was a long-range thinker; his motives were not always identifiable in the immediate context.

  The prospect of presenting a week-long lecture on a significant statute with barely two months of preparation was not one of unmitigated joy. On the one hand, accepting would show that Francis was willing to leap gallantly into the breach for the betterment of Gray's. On the other hand, declining would allow him to do a more considered job on a later occasion. He wanted his first Reading to be remembered.

  He began mentally reviewing the Henrician statutes relating to advowsons and annuities. Suddenly, he realized that everyone else was rising. He got to his feet and bowed to his uncle, who had apparently been trying to catch his eye.

  "Walk with me, Nephew."

  "My lord."

  They strolled the length of the hall, Francis a pace behind of necessity as much as courtesy, owing to the narrowness of the aisles between the tables. They reached the screen and filed through the door into the yard. They walked slowly toward the gatehouse, beyond which Lord Burghley's coach awaited him.

  "How may I serve you, my lord?" Francis shivered. He would have brought a cloak to dinner if he'd known he would be lingering out of doors on such a bitter day.

  "It's about Tobias Smythson." Burghley seemed not to notice Francis's discomfort. He glanced about, saw they were alone, and stopped near the chapel wall.

  "We are all deeply grieved." Francis tucked his hands under his armpits and painted a portrait of attention on his face. He was determined to appear humble and amenable to anything his uncle should propose.

  Burghley blinked away the platitude. "Smythson was assisting me with enquiries into the conduct of some of Gray's members."

  "What manner of conduct, my lord?"

  "I have received intelligences concerning covert Catholic activities at Gray's Inn. Someone here is facilitating the importation of missionaries and subversive literature into England."

  "One hears these rumors, yet I myself have observed no evidence of such activities." Francis deemed it irrelevant to add that he rarely left his chambers except to go book shopping.

  "The Jesuits are subtle and trained in secrecy," Burghley said. "Many of their supporters are from old Catholic families here in England. Men who are well placed and even well liked. Their machinations are not easy to discover until after the damage is done."

  Francis considered the proposition. "I suppose it is possible, especially for some of the members who have a large clientele. One might not notice the particulars of any given visitor or parcel delivery. One has one's own work, of course. I dine so seldom in hall, you see, what with my studies and my health—"

  "Yes, yes. I know. Your mother keeps me well informed about the state of your digestion."

  Francis winced. His mother did rather tend to overstate her cases.

  "The issue at hand," Burghley said, "is that Smythson was looking into these matters on my behalf. He sent me a message intimating that he had news of a significant nature. He was coming to see me on the day he died to deliver proofs. I do not believe his death was coincident upon a simple act of thievery. I suspect he was deliberately murdered to prevent him from meeting with me."

  Francis was shocked. "Too bold, surely, to murder a man of the law on the queen's doorstep?"

  Burghley shook his head. His square beard glistened with fine droplets of rain. "These are perilous times, Nephew. Perilous in the extreme. Now that Mary Stuart has been brought to trial, the Catholic element in England is in a desperate moil."

  "I warned you about overly harsh measures against the religious factions." Francis tried not to sound peevish, but really, every point in the letter he'd written to the queen on this topic two years ago had been amply bo
rne out by subsequent events and yet he had not received so much as a simple thanks for his efforts.

  "You did. As did others."

  Not a word of acknowledgement. Francis repressed a sigh and wriggled his toes in his boots to make sure they were still unfrozen. "The Queen of Scots was condemned to death by the nearly unanimous vote of both the lords who tried her case and the House of Commons. Once she's gone, the conspiracies around her will die too."

  "I doubt me they will ever die, not fully. The Catholic faction can always find another distant relative of royalty to bear their futile hopes." Lord Burghley's weary expression showed every line of his thirty-and-more years in the queen's service. "We do not yet even have a date for the execution. And while the Stuart woman lives, her admirers will continue to conspire."

  "I suppose the queen is reluctant to order the death of an anointed monarch."

  "It is a practice of which she strongly disapproves, in general." Burghley allowed himself the shadow of a smile. "The central point here, Nephew, is that Tobias Smythson was murdered for political reasons. The murderer must be apprehended and whatever plot he is forwarding must be foiled."

  "If it can be." Francis smiled noncommittally. "Was there evidence of any kind? On the body or nearby?" He hadn't thought to look. He'd scurried away from the scene before any courtiers could arrive.

  "Nothing conclusive. I'll have the coroner's report sent to you. The body should also be delivered here shortly."

  "Here? To me?"

  "Yes, Nephew. I'm giving this job to you."

  Francis detected an odd glint in the back of his uncle's eyes and understood that the position was uncontested. Perceived, in other words, as a difficult and probably hopeless task. Yet still better than utter banishment. He'd take it. Besides, Tobias Smythson deserved justice.

  "I accept. Willingly. Smythson was a friend; I don't have many of those."

  Burghley's expression was unreadable. "I believe Smythson was carrying a letter for me. It was not on his body, but an ordinary thief would have no reason to take it."

  "But a conspirator would. I understand." Francis's mind whirred. How could a man investigate the cause of an event days after the event occurred? "Evidentia, testimonium. What there is must be found. Although I doubt there will be anything material. Witnesses, there may be. The people who live along that street could be questioned. Have they been?"

  "No. Nothing has been done. I am outwardly supporting the assumption of theft as a cover for the real investigation. But I must know what's happening at Gray's. We can't allow the Inns of Court to be corrupted. They are England's schools of government, as much as of the law."

  "Indeed."

  "I trust that you will not disappoint me." Burghley held his eyes to ensure that his meaning was fully communicated. "This is an opportunity to do the queen a service and regain her favor."

  Francis felt a trickle of hope. "May I trust that I'll be reinstated when I succeed?"

  "If you succeed. The conspirator has been thus far untraceable." His uncle allowed himself a smile. "Find me Smythson's murderer and I believe I can at least assure you of an invitation to dinner on Christmas Eve."

  Everyone who mattered attended on the queen on Christmas Eve. Such an invitation would announce to the whole court that he had been restored to favor. Francis bowed low to hide the tears that sprang unexpectedly into his eyes. "Her Majesty is most gracious. As is my lord uncle. I will do all that can be done."

  Burghley gave an almost inaudible chuckle. "Be careful, Nephew. These are desperate times. I should greatly mislike being obliged to inform your mother of your demise."