Murder by Misrule: A Francis Bacon Mystery (The Francis Bacon Mystery Series Book 1) by Anna Castle Page A

able to use these visits to pursue one of his leads. Someone at Gray's had presumably arranged for the delivery of seditious pamphlets at the next half moon. Perhaps he could elicit some telling reaction — shock, guilt, dismay — by posing an unexpected question.
    One day he heard Nathaniel Welbeck's voice across the hall. The man had the audacity to stand within his hearing and give his pupils a false definition of the assize of mort d'ancestor. Intolerable! However, his meddling did give Francis the right to drop in his own pennyworth of advice. He had scrupulously stayed out of it hitherto.
    He strolled casually across the landing. Humphries, to his lack of surprise, was there as well. He greeted the lads and corrected Welbeck's misleading information. Then, to demonstrate his recognition that the rules had changed, he delivered a brief but cogent explanation of the principles underlying the restoration of dispossessed property. Whitt nodded rapidly, his eyes burning as if a prior argument were being vindicated. Trumpington scribbled down every word. Even Clarady's face shone as if the light of understanding had finally dawned. Their reactions were gratifying, but he enjoyed Welbeck's disgruntlement and Humphries's dumbstruck expression even more.
    Pretending to depart, Francis turned toward the door. He asked over his shoulder, as if he'd just remembered it, "Does anyone by any chance know when the moon will next be at the half? I don't seem to have an almanac handy."
    Welbeck blinked at him for a long moment, silent for once. Then he said, "I thought you collected the things. You must have dozens."
    "In a dozen languages," Humphries sneered. He seemed to think he had delivered a crushing insult.
    Neither of them seemed much interested in the date or alarmed by his question. Undaunted, he tried the same trick two or three more times until he realized that his pupils were studying him with concern for his sanity furrowing their brows.
     
    ***
     
    On Friday, Francis sought out the laundress in her domain. The question of the blood on the murderer's doublet nagged at him. There must have been a lot of it, especially on the sleeves and cuffs. The killer might have given the clothes away, but a costume suitable for Queen's Day would have cost a pretty penny. Worth salvaging. If the murderer was resident at Gray's, he might have sent the clothes to the Inn's laundress.
    The laundry was a stone outbuilding beyond the kitchens. An enormous kettle bubbled over a huge bed of coals. Two roughly-dressed but very clean boys stood on blocks of wood, taking turns stirring a mass of linens in the kettle. The laundress was a woman of middle years who had the hatchet face of an angry Turk and arms as brawny as a blacksmith.
    She regarded him with a deep frown as he approached. He knew she was remembering his foray into alchemical studies last summer, which had resulted in an unspeakable mess.
    He asked her if she had seen any clothing with unexpected quantities of blood on it shortly after Queen's Day.
    "How much blood d'ye expect?" she asked. He couldn't fault her astuteness.
    His efforts to describe the probable extent of splattering transformed her frown into a suspicious scowl. "What have you been up to now, Mr. Bacon?"
    "Nothing, nothing, I assure you. The clothes in question are not mine." He cast frantically about for an excuse. "Em, er, it was a colleague. An experiment, you might call it, involving poultry—"
    She held up a beefy hand to stop him. "T'ain't my job to know, sir." She scratched her chin, which was adorned with three coarse hairs. "Blood, now. I don't recall it, and ye'd think I would. Nasty business, blood. The devil to get out. It'll never come white again, howsoever long ye boil it. But I don't do all the washing, mind. There's many who think they'll get better in Holborn."
    "As I feared." How many women took in laundry between here and Westminster? A dozen at least as regular work. And what hard-pressed