Murder by Misrule

CHAPTER 31

  Francis undid his cloak and tossed it onto a chest. With scarcely a pause, he picked it up and put it on again. He'd forgotten to ask Whitt to order his supper. If he wanted food, he would have to sup in commons.

  The hall was alive with speculation about the body in the south field. Several men turned toward him as he made his way to the ancients' table, hoping he would have the full story. He offered only bland comments, striving to seem as if he knew no more than they. His messmates glared at him in an unwelcoming manner as he took his place. "No more investigating today?" Welbeck sneered. "Stairs quite free of unwanted corpses?" Francis saw no value in responding to his feeble sallies.

  "I should have thought you'd be busy writing letters to your uncle," Humphries said. "Maybe he'll make you Treasurer."

  "I fail to follow your logic," Francis said.

  "A man dies, and you move up," Humphries said. "Another man dies, and up you go again."

  "You can't deny it," Welbeck said.

  "Of course I can," Francis said. "I passed the bar years before Tobias Smythson was killed. And my election as the Lent Reader has nothing to do with my uncle. In point of fact, he's not well pleased with me at present, owing precisely to unresolved questions surrounding the deaths you propose as my stairway to success."

  "You see," Humphries said, his goatish beard bobbing as he nodded, "he instantly thinks of stairs when he thinks of the Readership. That's a guilty conscience speaking." He and Welbeck exchanged dark looks.

  Francis sighed. Did they genuinely believe any of their own nonsense? He was spared the need to respond by the arrival of a savory pottage rich with mutton and redolent of winter herbs. A simple dish but as good as a feast when well prepared.

  He ignored his messmates while he ate, although they continued their jibes and snickers for a while, entertaining each other with their paltry attempts at wit. Fortunately, he had excellent control over his attention, which enabled him to ignore background noises almost completely.

  He set his mind to review the problem at hand. His pupils would bring the limner in the morning to be interviewed. That might prove conclusive; however, it was equally likely to be of little practical use. She might have seen a barrister's gown, but not a barrister's face. Not tall and not redheaded. That didn't narrow the field much. Francis let his gaze wander through the hall. He saw fewer than a dozen men with hair as red as Shiveley's. 'Tall' was a relative term. Tall compared to Tobias Smythson, a man of average height? She would have been looking downward. Surely that would have an effect on her perception.

  He tore a piece from his loaf of manchet and chewed it thoughtfully. The flour had been less well sifted than could be desired; the crumb had tiny bits of grit.

  He wished there were more that he could do. He needed a way to flush the killer into the open where he could be caught and get this filthy business over with. Not only because he longed to spend Christmas Eve Day in the queen's presence, but because these terrible murders had to be stopped.

  He decided to write to his lord uncle in the morning. That was a ticklish task and he was too tired tonight. Tonight, he wanted nothing more than a few pages from the volume of Essaies by Michel de Montaigne that his brother had sent him from France. Something light yet pithy; then early to bed.

  Those Wild Men, the Earl of Essex's retainers, should be recalled to London as soon as possible for questioning. Perhaps they could be brought to Gray's for dinner under some pretext, to look about the hall and try to spot the man they'd chased. But how to summon them? Courtesy demanded that he ask permission of Essex before writing to his retainers. He'd have to ask his uncle to do it. More delay and frustration. Sending messages through his uncle made him feel like a schoolboy on probation, which was more or less his position.

  He glanced toward the benchers' table. Treasurer Fogg sat with a fixed smile pasted on his face, pretending to listen to the talkative man beside him. Francis was not the only one preoccupied with cares this evening. He remembered his suspicions concerning Fogg, Smythson, and the widow Sprye. What if the Catholic business were a separate matter? He'd neglected the other possibilities. Courtship and court appointments. Ambition and desire. Adding conspiracies to Fogg's slate of activities seemed excessive, but then, he was a man of parts.