Murder by Misrule

  ***

  Bacon finished his meal and prepared to leave. The hall was being transformed into a pleasure palace for the evening revels. Minstrels tuned their instruments in the gallery above the screen. Servants dismantled each trestle table as soon as its occupants rose, rearranging them around the walls for dicing and cards. The hanging candelabras were filled with rosemary-scented oil that gave the room a holiday flavor. A few men had already started dancing around the central hearth. The butler hovered near the door, ready to greet arriving guests. Women would grace the hall this night as well, adding the color and sheen of their wide skirts to the festive spectacle.

  Christmastide at Gray's Inn. Francis normally enjoyed the convivial season, supping in commons two or three times a week and often staying for the music. This year, however, with little prospect of being allowed to spend Christmas with the court and these foul murders still laid upon his shoulders, he was simply exhausted.

  Bed for him, and a good book.

  George Humphries appeared beside him. "Leaving so early? You'll miss the fun."

  "I've had enough excitement for one day."

  "I'll walk with you," Humphries said. "I left some papers in the library that Welbeck has been asking me for."

  They wormed through the press of gaily dressed revelers at the door. The night air felt cold and fresh on Francis's face. Lanterns were lit beside each door. Large torches marked the gate to Gray's Inn Road, where a pair of horses nosed through the arch. Yellow candlelight glowed behind a few panes around the yard, but only a few. Most men would be in the hall tonight.

  They crunched across the gravel in silence. They had almost reached Francis's stair when the matched black horses clattered into the center of the yard, drawing a black coach as lustrous as a jewel box. The liveried footman jumped down and opened the door, from which debouched a riot of brilliant silks and velvets.

  The Earl of Essex and his sister Lady Penelope Rich had come to Gray's to gamble. Francis couldn't be faulted if courtiers came to him. This was an opportunity not to be missed.

  He took two steps toward the coach then turned back to his nearly forgotten colleague. "You'll excuse me, I trust." He walked on. Behind him he heard Humphries mutter, "No less than I would expect."

  Francis skipped a little to catch up with the young nobles. He hastily smoothed his hair with the palm of his hand and checked the front of his doublet for smears. He circled around to approach them from the direction of the hall. They might assume he had come out to welcome them. He bowed from the waist. "My Lord Essex. How kind of you to grace our humble Society." He turned two degrees and bowed again. "Lady Rich." He quoted from one of the sonnets dedicated to her:

  "Stella sovereign of my joy,

  Fair triumpher of annoy,

  Stella star of heavenly fire,

  Stella loadstone of desire."

  The charmed couple favored him with a friendly laugh. Lady Rich said, "I'd rather a poem from your own fertile mind, Mr. Bacon. They say that angels lend you feathers from their wings to make your quills."

  "I am profoundly flattered, my lady." He bowed again.

  "I understand congratulations are in order," Lord Essex said. "I'm greatly looking forward to your Reading. Might one inquire as to the topic?"

  Francis was elated. He'd had no idea the earl took an interest in the law. They chatted about advowsons as they entered the hall and found their way to a dicing table. The earl fully appreciated the intriguing ramifications latent in the whole notion of incorporeal hereditaments. Even in so brief an exchange, Francis felt that a genuine bond had been established. Did he dare suggest — or rather enjoin, or plead — that the earl might utter a syllable or two in his favor to the queen? He shuddered. Better not; his uncle would hear of it. He heard everything.

  Francis made a show of establishing Lord Essex in the best spot at the table. He turned to assist Lady Rich and found her staring across the room, eyes narrowed with hostility. He followed her gaze to Treasurer Fogg, who was playing primero with some judges from the Queen's Bench. Sir Avery shot anxious glances at her whilst pretending to be absorbed in the game.

  The Rolleston case, Francis understood at once. He'd heard that Sir Amias had asked Fogg to step in after Smythson's death. Or was it after Shiveley's? The litigious merchant was no respecter of station. Rumor had it that he was threatening to bring Lady Rich herself before the bench. Impossible, of course. Why even suggest it? And yet, apparently, he had. The unwanted message would perforce have been conveyed by his counselor at law.

  He felt a tug at his sleeve and turned toward the lady with a smile on his lips. "How may I serve you, Madam?"

  "Mr. Bacon," she said, eyes glinting, "I've got a bone to pick with you."