Murder by Misrule

  ***

  If Tom was told to 'clap on more sail and put his back into it' one more time, he would overpower Ben and wring Mr. Bacon's scrawny genius neck. He swore to himself that he would not return to that Chamber of Taunts until he had Clara's evidence in hand.

  And possibly not then.

  He had Stephen to contend with as well, who kept hounding him for help with his costume. He was playing the Forlorn Prince in the masque. Tom had his own role to prepare for as a Wild Man. His dialog consisted solely of grunts and roars, but the fittings were time consuming. And the costume was itchy.

  Tom wanted their performances to be memorable as much as Stephen did. He welcomed the dance rehearsals as a release for his rising anxieties. He even found Stephen's self-centered stupidity refreshing after being badgered at regular intervals by men with razor-sharp wits. But he had no time for foolery, and he couldn't explain why he had no time, so he took to rising at first cockcrow, dressing by the glow of the embers in the hearth, and taking his meals at the Antelope.

  The only person of his acquaintance who did not make tormenting him a daily ritual was Trumpet, who was burdened almost to breaking with his own troubles. His uncle was missed; questions were asked. Welbeck had sent a letter that could be shown about, claiming an urgent call from an aged relative in Derbyshire. Even so, Trumpet was dancing as fast as he could to avoid being pressed for details or trying on costumes in front of anyone.

  He and Tom had taken to spending their scant free time in Trumpet's chambers, feet resting on the warm bricks before the hearth, in companionable and much-needed silence.

  Between dashing about town like a dowager's footman, fetching materials and delivering messages, Tom tried everything he could think of to persuade Clara to unburden her secret to him. Nothing availed. He had never in his life met a female so resistant to his wiles. Had his dimple disappeared? Had his curls wilted? Had his legs grown thin?

  But no, she seemed fond enough of him still. She was willing to snuggle and listen to his poetry, which she claimed to admire. She was stubborn, that was all. He would get nothing from her as long as she remained in Newgate. At least his daily visits — and daily bribes — protected her from the worst of the prison's abuses.

  His first plan for freeing her had been to somehow oblige Treasurer Fogg to unwrite his writ. Tom was prepared to threaten the man with cold steel if necessary, but he was nowhere to be found. His clerk finally admitted that Fogg had gone to Kent to visit his elderly mother. Tom considered this highly suspicious. Why should a mother need visiting at this precise moment, however elderly? Surely a man might visit his mother after Christmas as easily as before.

  On Friday, men began returning to Gray's, filling the yard with restive horses and the hall with hungry travelers. Gray's had the honor of entertaining the royal court on Christmas Eve only every fourth year, alternating with the other Inns of Court. Even those men who preferred to pass the holiday in the peace of their country homes were not so careless of their careers as to miss an opportunity to spend an afternoon in the presence of the queen.

  Tom's frustration mounted. Not knowing where else to turn, he confided the whole story to Mrs. Sprye over a pot of spiced cider. She gave him her full attention, anger drawing sharp lines from nose to chin.

  "This can't be allowed to continue," she said. "Not that I'm convinced Sir Avery is your man, mind you. The sorry truth is I'm not convinced he isn't. He'll be back tonight, but this can't wait. That poor woman must be released at once."

  She gave Tom a letter addressed to Justice Roger Jarman of the Old Bailey. Tom found the man dining at an ordinary near the prison and sent for a jug of claret for him to drink while he read.

  "Hm," Justice Jarman said. He folded the letter and tucked it into his sleeve. "Mrs. Sprye makes a pretty case, doesn't she?" He smiled as at a fond remembrance.

  Her letter did the trick. As soon as the judge had finished his meal, he walked with Tom to his chambers in Newgate and stirred up a bustle among his clerks that swiftly produced a stack of documents, signed and sealed.

  Clara was released within the hour.