Murder by Misrule: A Francis Bacon Mystery (The Francis Bacon Mystery Series Book 1) (15 page)

CHAPTER 22

"I need a crown," Stephen whined.

The lads were breakfasting in hall. It was early — still dark outside and cold — but the bread was hot from the oven and the butter was fresh.

They'd made a point of arriving in good time for chapel that morning. Missing chapel had been first on the list of Bacon's tell-tales, which included crucifixes, rosaries, surreptitiously making the sign of the cross, and incense. Tom had sniffed under every door on his way down the stairs. He'd smelled sour oil lamps and unemptied chamber pots, but nothing sorcerous.

"This very instant?" Tom was tired of Stephen's constant bleating about clothing. There were better things for a man to think about. Beautiful women, for example, and how to court them. His mind turned again to Clara. His memory of her face had grown less certain over the weeks. Had he imagined the near-white goldness of her hair?

Bacon had instructed them to find her without delay, an order Tom was eager to obey. The prospect of finally meeting her fanned the flames of his desire.

He couldn't marry her, but she would understand that. He'd discussed the issue at length with Trumpet and Ben. They all agreed that whether he ranked as a new-feathered gentleman lawyer or a merchant-adventurer's son, a craftswoman was beneath him. If she were a maiden, naturally he would leave her in that condition. He could still go walking with her on a Sunday afternoon and revel in her beauty.

Stephen snapped his fingers at him. "Are you awake? I need a crown for our embassy to the Inner Temple. Today."

Tom hated that finger-snapping. Was he a dog?

"We need to find that limner." Ben echoed Tom's thoughts. "Mr. Bacon gave us explicit instructions."

Tom smiled at the way Ben said Mr.
Bacon
, as if mouthing the name of a reverend potentate. Not unlike the way Tom said
Clara
. To needle Stephen, he said, "Bringing Smythson's killer to justice is slightly more important than your tickle-brained embassy."

Stephen's chin jutted forward as he compressed his lips. Tom's own lip quivered as he fought the urge to mimic him. He was wrestling with his baser self when a cry rang out in the courtyard.

"Help! Help! Oh, horrible! Help!"

The lads leapt up and raced out, reaching Coney Court ahead of the pack. A man stood in the doorway to Colby's Building, his hands clapped to his face as if to hold his head together. "Horrible! Oh, help!" His lamentation filled the yard. More men spilled out from other staircases.

Tom and the lads sprinted toward him. "What is it, Mr. Fulton?" Ben asked, laying a hand on the man's shoulder.

Fulton's face twisted with anguish. "Horrible. Oh, horrible." He seemed bereft of other words.

Tom and Trumpet pushed open the door and entered the building. Their eyes were drawn to the figure sprawled across the landing.

"God save us," Tom breathed.

"Oh, no," Trumpet moaned. "Who is it?" He began to climb the stairs, slowly, fearfully. Tom joined him. Ben and Stephen stayed behind to guard the door.

The man lay chest down across the landing, arms splayed on either side. His long legs trailed up the stairs behind him. His head was twisted at an impossible angle, his face turned up at them. The narrow windows in the stairwell let in enough of the early light to see his features.

Tom shuddered. "It's Mr. Shiveley."

Trumpet turned away, breathing shallowly, hand gripping the railing hard enough to show white around the knuckles. Tom simply looked up, blinking, and let his mind go blank.

This was worse than seeing Mr. Smythson's bloodied body in the street. Then, they had been in the company of bold captains: larger than life and fully in charge. The scene had seemed almost part of the pageant, the last act of a dramatic tragedy. This was homely, private. Everyday life invaded by sudden death.

"He is dead, isn't he?" Tom said quietly, when his wits returned to him.

Trumpet made an odd mewling sound then replied in a fairly steady voice, "He must be."

"Who is it?" Ben called up. He and Stephen blocked the doorway, keeping the crowd outside from shoving into the entryway. They'd learned that much from Captain Ralegh.

"It's Mr. Shiveley," Tom answered. "It looks like he's fallen down the stairs and broken his neck."

Ben relayed the news to the men outside the door.

"What should we do?" Tom said. He felt awkward, absurd, standing on a tread in the middle of a stair. He couldn't persuade himself to go up or down. Neither felt right.

Trumpet looked up at Tom, his face pale. "We should wait." They faced the door, standing straight, shoulders back and heads up, like an honor guard.

They didn't have long to wait. They heard Fogg's resonant voice and then saw the man's stout figure fill the doorway as he moved Stephen and Ben aside with a wave of his hand. He took command, tapping Stephen and two others to shoo the crowd away and sending someone to bring the surgeon and the priest. He bade Tom and Trumpet to fetch a blanket from Shiveley's room to cover the body.

They tiptoed around it and ran the rest of the way up. The door on the left was wide open.

"This must be his," Tom said.

"Why is it open?" Trumpet said, stopping on the upper landing with a puzzled frown on his face. "Didn't you think he was coming up the stairs and somehow tripped and fell down?"

Tom nodded. "He must have unlocked it and then gone back."

"I suppose so."

They went in, walking softly. Tom felt like an intruder. Mr. Shiveley had enjoyed private chambers: the outer room held only one desk and the inner only one chest. The bed was covered with a fur-lined blanket.

"Let's hurry." Trumpet shivered suddenly.

Tom grabbed the end of the blanket and yanked it off the bed, dislodging the pillows at the head. Something fell to the floor with a clatter.

Trumpet picked it up. "Uh-oh." He held up what Tom thought was a necklace, until he saw the silver cross dangling at the end.

Mr. Shiveley had kept a rosary under his pillow.

***

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?"