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Tuesday morning, shortly after breakfast, Francis knocked on Tom’s door. It opened almost immediately. He’d been waiting.
“Are you ready?” Francis asked. “Sir Avery will meet us there.”
“Ready enough, since it has to be done.” Tom closed his door. He’d dressed for the occasion, wearing his second-best suit. It displayed no slashings or pricks, and the buttons were glossy black, not brass or silver. But the fabric had the gleam and drape of fine cloth, and he’d chosen a ruff with a quarter inch of imported lace. The distinctive velvet welts on the sleeves of his barrister’s gown displayed his status.
Francis wore his bencher’s gown with its tufts of silk and velvet, as well as a tall hat with a lavender ribbon. Sir Avery would be wearing his serjeant’s red robes with the coif and furred cloak of that office. Sheriff Hanton would see at a glance that Gray’s Inn did not take threats — however mild, however implicit — to its members lightly.
Francis noted the hollows under Tom’s eyes. “Did you sleep?”
Tom shook his head.
“I’ll send Pinnock for another bottle of laudanum.”
“Thanks.”
They crossed the corner of the yard to the great hall and went upstairs to the treasurer’s chamber. Though paneled in well-tended oak, this room was meant for work, not ostentation. Although portraits of famous Graysians did adorn the walls here and there. Francis sat beneath the painting of his father, though the sheriff might not see a resemblance.
Sir Avery, seated at the head of the table, put aside the document he’d been reading and gave Tom a narrow-eyed inspection. “You look exhausted. That isn’t good. An innocent man sleeps a dreamless sleep.”
“Unless he has reason to fear a groundless arrest,” Francis said. “He can’t help how he sleeps.”
“True, true.” Sir Avery smiled. “I merely note that his appearance works against us to some degree.”
“I’ll endeavor to keep my chin up,” Tom said. He sat next to Sir Avery, opposite Francis. A goodly expanse of polished bench ran from them to the small chair at the foot. But the sheriff would most likely remain standing.
They barely had time to compose their expressions when the door swung open to reveal Sheriff Hanton. He had to duck his head a bit to clear the lintel. When he straightened again, he stopped still, his gaze taking in the evidence of legal prowess presented before him. Doubt clouded his features for a moment, and his shoulders sank. But he rallied, squaring his short-bearded jaw and his shoulders together.
He bowed to the seated men as a group. “Sir Avery, I appreciate your taking the time to allow me to question this man.”
“Only a little time, I hope.” Sir Avery granted the intruder a thin smile. “I am too busy for a goose chase this morning.”
The sheriff’s eyes flashed. “Mr. Clarady was heard to threaten a man who was murdered soon after. I think we can all agree that he should at least be questioned.”
“For the record,” Tom said, enunciating each word, “I did not threaten Attorney Strunk. Either your witnesses are exaggerating or you are.” That struck its mark. The sheriff’s nostrils flared. Tom smiled for the first time. “What I said was, ‘I hope you choke on that wine.’ Wine I had given Mr. Strunk as a token of my appreciation for his work.”
Francis raised a finger before adding the clarification. “A hope is merely a wish, not a threat or a promise. It cannot be construed as an act. The law does not apply to our fancies, Sheriff. You therefore have no sound reason to suspect our colleague.”
The sheriff’s lip curled. He brought up the card reading ‘From a gentleman of Gray’s.” Francis made short work of that as a viable piece of evidence.
Hanton managed a few more questions about when Tom had arrived, when he had left, and who else had been present at both times. Tom answered each question as succinctly as possible, letting his disdain for their triviality color his tone. Hanton’s gaze made the rounds from Tom to Francis to Sir Avery after each one, lingering longest on the treasurer.
Sir Avery, master of intimidation, allowed his increasing boredom to show on his heavy features. “I believe we’ve given you all you need, Sheriff.”
Hanton pressed his lips together, but in truth there was little to be asked or answered. He turned to give Tom his full attention. “I’ll be keeping an eye on you, Mr. Clarady.”
“Toward what end?” Francis snapped.
Hanton’s eyes shifted to acknowledge the questioner but then returned to hold Tom’s gaze. “I want to make sure I can lay my hands on you when the time comes.”
* * *
THE MASTER KEY TURNED smoothly in the lock, and the door opened with nary a squeak. Either his servant had been more diligent than the average or Strunk had been a keen-eyed task master.
Francis suspected the latter. He’d borrowed the key from Gray’s steward to perform a search of the late attorney’s chambers. No record of unofficial payments had been found in his office in Westminster, according to Sir Avery, who received daily reports from the sheriff.
But a man like Strunk would keep records. Francis wanted a look at them. He also wanted a look at another hypothetical list, this one of loans made to Graysians. There must be one here somewhere. Tom had told him about Roger Maycott’s complaints. Strunk’s money-lending seemed to have shaded into extortion, at least in Maycott’s case — a good motive for murder. They only needed a few names to provide alternatives to Tom.
A man like Richard Strunk, who spent most of his days searching old records for vulnerable properties, would keep track of his sources of income. Illicit or not, he would want to know how much he received from whom on what date. Indeed, an affinity for records and account books would have been a requirement for attaining his position.
That, and a large bribe to the master of the court.
Some government positions cost thousands of pounds, paid to whomever held the prize in his gift. The queen appointed the Attorney of the Court of Wards, but she would follow Lord Burghley’s recommendation. She might receive some share of each bribe, but more likely she would regard them as payment for an otherwise unfunded post. So the bulk of those “gifts” would go straight into His Lordship’s purse. Or rather, his houses.
The salary for the office had been ninety pounds per annum in Sir Nicholas Bacon’s day. A goodly sum back then. It probably hadn’t risen much, though costs had shot up. Still, ninety pounds was considerable — about what a prosperous merchant might earn. A man could keep a wife and children in a comfortable house in Holborn on that salary. He could dress according to his station and entertain friends at holidays.
He couldn’t raise horses on a large estate in Surrey or send his sons on tours of the Continent. He couldn’t drink wine from Venetian glassware or pick nutmeats from a silver salver. Strunk had made a moral choice — the wrong one — when he decided to turn himself into a major landowner.
His father had been a gentleman and his mother the daughter of a knight. Strunk Senior had served his turn as justice of the peace and other county offices. He’d been a worthy member of the Surrey gentry, but not a wealthy man. Francis had learned that much from Sir Avery. Whether the Court of Wards had corrupted its official or Strunk had sought a seat known for such venality could now never be known.
The original bribe that bought him the post had been raised somehow. Had he paid it off over the years? Or had pressure from his creditor provoked greater pressure on the wards? Corruption bred corruption, after all.
Francis sighed, then breathed in the well-loved smell of ink and paper. Francis no longer noticed that underlayer in his own chambers, but it struck him afresh here. No one had opened that door since the servant had left on Saturday afternoon. Two days and three nights. The place had an abandoned air, though whether that came from some specific source, like dust or from Francis’s imagination, he could not judge.
As he walked toward the desk, he crushed the lavender strewn across the wood floor to ward off fleas. The wholesome fragrance relieved the fustiness. Francis stood in the center of the room and turned full circle to survey the whole. Strunk had a fine taste in furnishings, almost as fine as Francis had himself. An ornately carved cupboard displayed a collection of silver cups and plates. Not a matched set, however. Some plates bore engravings around the rim, some cups had decorative feet, while others had plain stems.
Gifts from petitioners, most likely. The sort any official might expect to receive. Strunk wouldn’t have had to ask for those; they were routine in court cases.
He also owned a set of goblets made of Venetian glass. One sat on the desk next to an unopened bottle of wine, ready for the master to refresh himself after a hard day in Westminster. A silk tapestry hung over the mantelpiece. It portrayed a hunting scene, though Francis doubted Strunk had ever chased a deer. Two large sets of shelves leaned against opposite walls, each holding many books. Some looked costly, with leather bindings and gilt titles. One shelf displayed a row of bottles in different shapes and sizes, presumably wine and spirits from different vintners. More gifts, no doubt. Tom’s Rhenish must be among them.
Francis opened the door to the bedchamber and found a similar level of opulence. A coverlet of squirrel fur lay across the bed, whose posts and headboard boasted elaborate carvings. The hangings were of supple scarlet wool. Two large chests stood against the walls, doubtless filled with tailored garments of best cloth. Silver candlesticks stood on walnut tables on either side of the bed.
The ledgers might be buried under layers of cloth inside those chests, but Francis guessed not. If they were his, he would keep them somewhere more accessible. He closed the door and went to sit at the desk.
He plucked a quill from the silver stand and fiddled with it as he contemplated the quiet splendor of the room. He lived in a similar style, although none of it had come from bribes, at least not to him. Who would offer him a bribe? He had less power than Tom, who was gifted with a comely face and figure and an abundance of natural charm.
The costly goods that soothed the turmoil of his life had been acquired by his father and his elder stepbrothers during their turns in Bacon House. The three brothers had inherited large estates in Norfolk and Suffolk. They also owned houses in London for the rare occasions when they came to town. Sir Nicholas had died before he’d been able to arrange similar support for his youngest son. A few pieces of plate and a goblet or two were scant compensation for that lack.
It occurred to Francis for the first time that some of his finer pieces might have been gifts to his father during his tenure as Lord Keeper. In fact, some of them must be. His Venetian glass vase, for example. It was a work of art, not something pragmatic Sir Nicholas would purchase for himself.
But the Attorney of the Court of Wards sat far below the Lord Keeper of the Great Seal. One wouldn’t expect so much finery at this level without some additional pressure. Strunk couldn’t even have afforded these chambers on his salary, not without skimping on something else. Chambers on the first floor of Stanhope’s Building cost more than any others at the inn. They offered privacy, being set behind the Middle Gallery. The windows overlooked the leafy, tree-lined inner court instead of the busy, graveled Chapel Court. No one came back here who didn’t have good reason to.
Francis could observe the comings and goings through the gate from the window behind his desk, which he often liked. He could see men queuing up for dinner or coaches delivering notables to some festivity. He was impervious to distractions when working, but not all men enjoyed that facility.
He tapped the quill on the polished desktop. Now that Anthony had moved out and taken his army of clerks with him, Francis could lease the chambers on his second floor to another Graysian. He couldn’t charge as much as this set in Stanhope’s building, but it would be worth noticing how much these went for. The benchers wouldn’t waste any time finding another lessee for this desirable property. If Tom achieved his livery, Francis might even be able to raise the rate for his ground floor chambers as well.
But he hadn’t come here to assess Strunk’s goods. He’d come to find out how he’d paid for them. Where would the man keep his private account books?
Where would Francis keep such things if he had them? He acknowledged a twisted kinship with the attorney after studying his precious objects. In some ways, they were two sides of the same coin.
He wouldn’t hide anything he wanted to retrieve on a regular basis anywhere the least bit troublesome. So not in that low chest covered with a figured carpet, for example. A tall bronze candelabra stood atop the carpet. One would have to lift that down and then pull off the heavy carpet in order to raise the lid of the chest. Far too much effort.
His gaze lit on a stack of thick books lying on a bottom shelf within easy reach of the desk. He bent to peer at the title on the spine of the topmost volume: Littleton’s Treatise on Tenures. Hmm. Strunk doubtless kept another copy in his chamber at Westminster to consult when reviewing a questionable deed. He wouldn’t have much need for it here.
Francis scooted his chair toward the shelf and lifted the book from the stack. He set it on the desk, opened the stiffened front cover, and laughed. A ledger about half the size of its host lay inside a neatly cut hole. A classic hiding place for a man of letters.
Most convenient! He took out the ledger, then closed up Littleton and put it back on the shelf. He centered his chair at the desk again to examine his find. The small book was bound in thin, flexible gray leather. It would fit snugly in the deep pocket of a pair of round hose in case its owner wished to carry it back and forth from work.
Strunk hadn’t bothered with a title page. Perhaps the book’s color was sufficient identification because this book clearly held notes about his loans to fellow Graysians. Each entry included the name of a borrower, most of whom Francis recognized, and an original loan amount. The interest to be paid came next inside parentheses. The date and amount of each monthly payment were duly recorded as well.
Many loans contained no other information. They were ordinary loans, in other words, such as the ones Francis had received from one or two — or perhaps three — Graysians over the past year. He’d had to send gifts to Privy Council members and other courtiers, encouraging them to support his bid. His cheeks burned at the thought of his name jotted down in similar ledgers elsewhere around the inn.
Such loans might engender mild embarrassment, but they were hardly enough to rouse a man to murder. Tom’s messmate, Roger Maycott, had hinted at something much worse. Tom had said he’d borrowed money to cover a debt for a purchase his wife had made, something he didn’t want anyone here to know about. Tom had guessed it was some sort of contraband, probably religious in nature, like Catholic impedimenta. No one here would worry much about buying Belgian lace without paying the import tax.
Francis flipped to the end of the book and worked backward until he found Maycott’s entry. He’d borrowed seventy-five pounds to be repaid in monthly increments of seven and a half pounds. An enormous sum! That purchase hadn’t been lace or ivory rosaries. A whole Jesuit priest, perhaps, with a shipful of men to be bribed into silence.
Strunk would have made the same calculation. Poor Mr. Maycott! Lucky for him, Francis had no obligation to report his guesses to anyone, especially about such tangential matters. His task was to identify a murderer, not scour around for crimes in general.
This entry had an additional line noting a ten-pound fine for “consideration.” Francis snorted. A euphemism for “silence,” one assumed. This was clear evidence of extortion. Not completely explicit, but anyone with any understanding of the world would recognize it.
He paged backward, looking for that extra line. He found several more recording similar sums. Some men had paid for consideration again and again, tithing ten pounds a month to their rapacious master.
The secrets had not been written down, but some of the names were prominent ones in Graysian society. Francis would commit this notebook to the fire once he’d gleaned everything relevant to the murder. He would have to show it to Sir Avery, but he was confident the treasurer would agree that the details should be restricted.
Francis closed the small ledger and leaned back in the well-proportioned chair. Strunk had extracted hundreds of pounds from his victims over the years. He had died a wealthy man. Respected, if not much liked. No one here seemed to miss him in the least.
Strunk might have been the single most corrupt man Francis had ever known, now that the depths of his extortions had been plumbed. Yet he had participated in events at Gray’s on a congenial footing, contributing generously to the Christmas revels and maintenance of the grounds. His beneficence had been made possible by his avarice, however. Perhaps that stink had clung invisibly to his offerings. They would be accepted out of need, but the donor would not be appreciated.
Francis had come here looking for possible enemies. He’d found them, well enough. He had a list of names of men he’d lived among for fifteen years, rubbing elbows as they crowded into the hall for dinner or a lecture. Men he had respected for their demeanor, their learning, and their achievements. Now he knew some of them possessed a secret dark enough to pay a monthly tribute to a grasping villain. Could he look at them this evening at supper without wondering what each one kept hidden?
He gazed at the treasures collected in the ornate chamber and felt sick to his stomach. He must get away, get back to the clean air at Twickenham. He’d meant to have supper in the hall, but he couldn’t face Strunk’s victims this evening.
He jumped up, stuffed the book into his pocket, and fled. He hastened down to Temple Wharf and flung himself into the first wherry headed upriver. It wasn’t until they had rowed past Westminster Hall that he remembered he still had the steward’s master key.
