Bacon's Dozen: Thirteen Historical Fiction Short Stories

By Anna Castle

Welcome to the imaginary worlds of award-winning author Anna Castle.

 

This collection of short stories ranges through time and space from the Yucatán peninsula in the early years of the Spanish conquest (The Broken Circle) to a bank office in late Victorian London (The Stockbroker's Wife.) Most stories feature Francis Bacon and other characters from his milieu. You'll read about Bacon's first case (For Want of a Book) and Tom's first solo investigation (In Walked a Lady.) You'll find out how Trumpet wangled her year at Gray's Inn (Artful Bargains) and what really happened to Captain Valentine Clarady (All Englishmen Look Alike.) Sir Walter's Ralegh and two friends trade ghost stories on a stormy night (Dark Tales from the School of Night.) You'll even travel through time by a most unusual method (The Sneeze.) A bonus story brings you into the present, but not quite the present you're used to (Extinction.)

• Language: English
• Publisher: Anna Castle
• Release date: Jul 15, 2020
• ISBN: 9781945382390

Anna Castle

Anna Castle writes the Francis Bacon mysteries and the Lost Hat, Texas mysteries. She has earned a series of degrees -- BA in the Classics, MS in Computer Science, and a PhD in Linguistics -- and has had a corresponding series of careers -- waitressing, software engineering, grammar-writing, assistant professor, and archivist. Writing fiction combines her lifelong love of stories and learning. She physically resides in Austin, Texas and mentally counts herself a queen of infinite space.

Book preview

BACON’S DOZEN

Thirteen Historical Fiction Short Stories

by

ANNA CASTLE

Copyright 2020 by Anna Castle

Editing and cover image by Jennifer Quinlan at Historical Editorial

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Welcome to the imaginary worlds of award-winning author Anna Castle.

This collection of short stories ranges through time and space from the Yucatán peninsula in the early years of the Spanish conquest (The Broken Circle) to a bank office in late Victorian London (The Stockbroker’s Wife.) Most stories feature Francis Bacon and other characters from his milieu. You’ll read about Bacon’s first case (For Want of a Book) and Tom’s first solo investigation (In Walked a Lady.) You’ll find out how Trumpet wangled her year at Gray’s Inn (Artful Bargains) and what really happened to Captain Valentine Clarady (All Englishmen Look Alike.) Sir Walter’s Ralegh and two friends trade ghost stories on a stormy night (Dark Tales from the School of Night.) You’ll even travel through time by a most unusual method (The Sneeze.) A bonus story brings you into the present, but not quite the present you’re used to (Extinction.)

Table of Contents

Table of Contents

For Want of a Book

The Lost Mine of Don Fernando

Artful Bargains

Mustard on Velvet

The Broken Circle

fraNCIS bacon: The Shirt

Dark Tales from the School of Night

The Sneeze

All Englishmen Look Alike

Hamlet Reinvestigated

The Stockbroker’s Wife

In Walked a Lady

Extinction

Books by Anna Castle

About the Author

Copyright

For Want of a Book

[ALL FRANCIS BACON WANTS is a book, but when he reaches his favorite bookshop, the printer drags him into a murder investigation. This story first appeared in the October, 2017 issue of Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine.]

LONDON, FEBRUARY 1586

The cold wind blowing down Paternoster Row snatched at Francis Bacon’s hat. He grabbed it before it flew from his head and pulled it firmly down, hunching forward into the wind. He ought to be snug in his bed with a fur-lined coverlet and a hot posset, absorbed in his study of Niccolò Machiavelli’s works, not risking his health out of doors so early on a March morning.

But in order to develop his thoughts about realism as a moral stance, he needed to re-read Lucretius’s De rerum natura, and he didn’t have a copy in his chambers. Someone at Gray’s Inn undoubtedly owned the work, but his fellow barristers had been out of sorts with him since his recent promotion to a seat on the governing bench. Never mind that his late father had been the Lord Keeper of the Great Seal or that the position was merely probationary. Never mind that he knew as much about the law as the rest of them put together. The outcry had risen, loud and bitter. He’s only twenty-five! He’s barely passed the bar! He’s never argued a single case in court!

The fuss would die down when a fresh scandal came along. In the meantime, he had a compelling desire to read a book he did not possess and was thus driven out of doors to trudge through the icy London streets.

His favorite bookseller, Oliver Brocksby, traded under the sign of the owl at the top of the row. The street behind St. Paul’s Cathedral, usually crowded with men in legal and scholarly robes, seemed deserted. Was it too early for the shops to be open? The sun had been up at the point when he realized he needed the Lucretius, so he’d simply dressed and hurried out without giving a thought to the time. He hoped it wouldn’t turn out to be Sunday — or a holiday.

Never mind; Brocksby lived above his shop. He’d be there. Now if only Francis could persuade him to let him have another book on credit . . .

He tucked his chin against an icy gust and pushed on the door, half expecting it to be locked. But it swung open as if pulled from the other side, drawing him abruptly into the shop, straight into the arms of the bookseller.

Thank God it’s only you, Mr. Bacon. You must help me!

Francis blinked at him, uncomprehending and blinded by the dimness. "I’m hoping you have a copy of De rerum natura that you could —"

Not now! The most horrible — Brocksby flapped his hands in distress. He peered through a gap in the shutters and then turned the key in the lock, trapping them inside. You must help me, Mr. Bacon. I don’t know what to do!

The fine hairs rose on the back of Francis’s neck. The man seemed completely bereft of his wits. What do you want from me?

Come! Come! Brocksby plucked at Francis’s cloak to draw him deeper into the shop. I beg you! He now stood between Francis and the door.

There seemed no alternative but to placate him. Francis followed him through the bookstore and into the printing shop behind it. The familiar acrid smells of ink and metal struck his nose as he passed the threshold. Brocksby and his partner operated a single press on which they produced broadsides, pamphlets, and the occasional small book. The press dominated the long, narrow workspace, leaving scarcely enough room for two slanted typesetting tables, a pair of lines for hanging wet pages, and a laying-out table. Racks of type and various tools hung upon the walls over cases of different sizes and qualities of paper.

Small windows set high in the back wall admitted a thin gray light, augmented by the yellow glow of a candle. Brocksby led Francis around the press to the delivery and storage area inside the back door and stopped short. Look! Look!

At first, all Francis could see was a chaos of papers and bound books strewn everywhere, littering the tables and floor, as if the back door had been blown open to admit the March wind. He spotted a large barrel lying on its side against the wall near the door; perhaps somehow it had fallen over and the papers had been shaken out as it rolled around. He’d never seen the normally tidy workshop in such a state of disarray.

Then he saw the man lying sprawled upon the floor, face up, red blood soaked into his puce-colored doublet, his dark cloak bunched beneath him.

He recoiled with a strangled groan. His hand clutched his chest as he stepped backward until his thighs struck the press. What have you done?

"It wasn’t me! You must believe that, Mr. Bacon. Brocksby clasped his hands together. I could never do such a terrible thing."

The bookseller’s brown eyes were wet with tears and his thin cheeks drawn with shock. His face was so familiar, with its drooping moustaches and straggling beard. Francis had known him since he’d first moved to Gray’s Inn, some six or seven years ago. He’d explored all the bookshops in London and discovered that the sign of the owl was the best place for works by the more obscure philosophers, especially those from Italy. He’d spent many a pleasant hour over the years discussing such works with the proprietor.

He felt he understood the temper of the man. In some ways, Oliver Brocksby was a better friend than any member of Gray’s Inn.

Francis’s heart slowed to its normal pace, but he still couldn’t bring himself to look back at the man on the floor. Who is it?

My partner, Edward Kellett.

Kellett? Francis risked a glance and noted the dark spade-cut beard of the man he’d known. What happened?

I don’t know. I came down this morning and found him in the midst of this mess. He must have been stabbed, judging by the blood. His voice choked on the last words.

He looks like he’s been dragged. Francis pointed at the way the bunched cloak trailed toward the door, leaving a long red smear.

Brocksby gazed down at the body, wringing his hands. I confess I tugged at him a bit, trying to lift him. I don’t know what I thought I could do. He’s too heavy for me, and he was most certainly dead when I found him.

Now Francis noticed dark streaks on the bookseller’s buff apron and red spots on his white cuffs. He grimaced in disgust, thinking that the man could not look more guilty. Might he have deliberately muddled the circumstances? Where’s your son?

In Cambridge, thanks be to God, with our apprentice, looking for something to publish. Something cheap and popular, I hope. Although if they’d been here, they might have prevented this. Brocksby waved helplessly at the disaster. I sleep upstairs, at the front of the house. They can’t have made much noise, whoever they were.

You must call the coroner, Francis said, and inform the sheriff. Thieves must have followed him in from the alley . . . But where did all these books come from?

Frankfurt. The spring fair.

Of course. Kellett always went to both the spring and autumn book fairs to look for bargains, like works that might appeal to English readers in translation. When did he get back?

Last night, I suppose, after I went to bed. Which is not long after sundown on these cold nights. Brocksby shrugged apologetically. I usually take a draught. I haven’t slept well since Mary died.

His wife had died a year or so ago. Francis had rarely encountered her. Wouldn’t you wait up for Kellett?

I didn’t expect him until tomorrow. He shook his head. Today, that is. This afternoon. They must have sailed a day early. The weather, I suppose. That’s our barrel. Brocksby pointed at the owl branded on the lid, which lay near his feet. I came down to open the shop as usual this morning and heard a noise back here. I found the door wide open, banging in the wind. It was so dark I had walked across and closed it before I saw him.

You must call the sheriff, Francis repeated. Although I imagine the thieves are snug in their lairs by now.

Brocksby gave him an odd sidelong look. I’m not so sure it was a thief, Mr. Bacon. Look! He still has his purse.

Francis couldn’t bring himself to look again. Is it empty?

Brocksby sucked the fringe of his moustache, then heaved a sigh. I’ll see. He approached the body, bent down, and gingerly touched the small leather pouch tied to Kellett’s belt. No. It’s full of coins. He reached for it again but drew his hand back, fingers twitching.

You’d better take it, Francis said. It will only disappear into the coroner’s men’s pockets.

Brocksby gritted his teeth and untied the purse. He held it up by the strings to display its sodden condition. It’ll have to be washed. He scanned the cluttered print shop and spotted a clay bowl. He removed the pestle and dropped the blood-soaked purse into it. Then he covered the bowl with a rag and pushed it onto a high shelf.

He returned to stand near the body and shot that sidelong glance at Francis again. I can’t call the coroner, Mr. Bacon. His looked down at his twisting hands, but his gaze strayed toward a heap of small books.

What was in the barrel, Brocksby?

Nothing! He clucked his tongue. Nothing terrible. Odds and ends. Paper, of course. English paper is so dear these days. And a few works we thought we might have translated, that might sell. Kellett wrote me that he’d found a nice collection of minor Latin poets at an excellent price. Hadrian, Tiberianus. Not well-known in England and thus perhaps a novelty. You’ll like them, Mr. Bacon. Not that you’d need translations, of course, but the ordinary reader . . .

The man was babbling. That barrel had transported more than fine paper and minor poets into England. Francis stooped to pick up the nearest sheet with writing on it and read the first few words aloud. "I do not want to be Florus, to walk through the taverns . . ."

Latin poetry. He studied the mess, observing many small volumes bound in plain pasteboard. Palm-sized, sextodecimos. He picked one up and turned to the title page: A methode, to meditate on the Psalter. A Catholic guide to prayer, banned in England since the pope had issued his famous bull against the queen.

Oh, Brocksby! Francis shook the thin volume at the bookseller, who had backed himself into the corner and wrapped his arms around his chest as if for protection. Why?

Money. Money. What else? They fetch such a good price here, and they’re so cheap on the Continent. Pay a shilling, charge a pound.

As much as that?

Brocksby fluttered both hands. I exaggerate. But it’s a very profitable venture, or so we’ve heard. We’re desperate, Mr. Bacon. We haven’t got a single lucrative printing patent, and the books we like don’t sell. We love philosophy as much as you do, but so few share that interest and those who do rarely pay —

He cut himself off, pressing his lips together, but Francis could finish the sentence for him. Rarely pay their bills. He felt a twinge of guilt. Even so, Brocksby. You must know these books are illegal.

Barely. Besides, they’re scarcely different from a Protestant prayer book.

No, Brocksby. They’re different. Not much, but every spectrum necessarily had its endpoints. These guides to prayer anchored the mild end of the scale of prohibited literature; at the other extreme stood blatant exhortations against the lawful queen. The authorities might view even this minor offense as a stepping stone toward greater ones. They would ask, What will this bookseller attempt to import next? Jesuit calls to active rebellion? Scurrilous personal attacks on England’s noblemen? Lewd works from Italy?

Francis sighed, taking note of the bloody thumbprint marking the bowl holding the blood-soaked purse, the streaks on the floor showing that the body had been moved, the overturned barrel, and the evidence of a violent assault. And there stood the bookseller right in the middle, fearfully wringing his hands over his bloodstained apron.

I can’t call the sheriff, Mr. Bacon, at least not until I’ve done something with these books. And even then they’ll accuse me. Kellett and I — we’ve been arguing lately, loudly and often, debating what to do. He shot a dark glare at the east wall. A more successful rival held the premises next door. I’m sure everyone on Paternoster Row knows we’re up to our ears in debt.

He clasped his hands together, raising them in a gesture of supplication, and faced Francis with watery eyes. You must help me, Mr. Bacon. I beg of you.

What can I do? Francis took a step back. I assure you, my influence is not as great as you might imagine.

But you’re a gentleman. You’re a barrister. You’re a bencher at Gray’s Inn. They’ll have to listen to you.

But what would I say? I know no more about this tragic act than you do. No, I’m sorry. There’s nothing I can do. He shook his head and both hands for emphasis, then turned to find his way out of the workshop.

Brocksby closed on him swiftly, grabbing his sleeve. A stony glint appeared in his dark eyes. Help me, or I’ll tell your mother about your Brunos.

"You wouldn’t!" Francis possessed several works by the controversial and possibly blasphemous Giordano Bruno. The books Francis had were mainly about mnemonics, but Lady Bacon was a Calvinist of the very strictest variety and disapproved of almost anything written by an Italian or a Catholic, lapsed or otherwise. He would never hear the end of it.

I’m desperate, Mr. Bacon. All we need is an explanation that points the finger of blame away from me. You’re so clever. You’ll see things I can’t.

The two men, equal in height, stood nose to nose and locked eyes. Francis knew Brocksby could sense him wavering and strove to strengthen his resolve. He could weather his mother’s outrage. He’d been doing it all his life.

But Brocksby had his measure. I’ll forgive your bill. The edge of his lips turned up in the tiniest of smiles.

Francis blinked at him, calculating rapidly. He owed what — upward of five pounds? A blank slate?

Brocksby circled a palm in the air. Wiped clean.

Francis sighed, defeated. He took a few steps to gaze down on the body, which now seemed more forlorn than horrible. Did Kellet have any enemies?

I don’t think so. Brocksby shrugged. Unless you count his wife.

FRANCIS LEFT THE BOOKSELLER sifting the contraband from the other contents of the barrel and went back out into the cold, wrapping his thick cloak tightly around his frame. He didn’t know what he expected to accomplish, but visiting the widow seemed the obvious first step. Weren’t most murder victims killed by their spouses? At the very least, he could attempt to observe her responses closely as he delivered the sorrowful news.

He walked down Cheapside to Milk Street and found the house two doors up from St. Mary Magdalene. He paused to steel himself for the encounter, noting the clean and well-kept aspect of the building. Curtains showed behind the windows on the first and second floors; their black-painted sills and diamond-shaped panes gleamed in the morning light. Painted shutters protected the two upper floors from the winter weather.

Whatever else she might be, Mrs. Kellett was an exemplary housewife.

The polished door was opened by an adolescent girl, neatly dressed in a blue dress with a crisp white apron. She listened to Francis’s introduction in silence, then vanished in equal silence, leaving him standing outside the open door. He took it upon himself to enter the dwelling to get out of the wind. He closed the door behind him.

Where’s this icy blast coming from? A man’s voice resounded from the depths of the house. Then the man appeared, taller than average, with sharp features, hooking up the front of his doublet as he walked. He stopped short on noticing Francis. Who are you? What are you doing in this house?

My name is Bacon. Francis Bacon. Francis tilted his head courteously. I have a message for Mrs. Kellet. Whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?

The man puffed into his sand-colored moustache as if offended or struggling for an answer. Christopher Perival, he said at last. Of Perival and Sons, in the Royal Exchange.

I see, Francis said. His lack of further explanation, or perhaps his failure to be suitably impressed, earned him a sharp glare from the pale brown eyes.

Mr. Bacon? A woman’s voice called from the staircase. What’s happened? The girl says you have a message from the shop.

Mrs. Amelia Kellett wore fine gray broadcloth trimmed with black velvet and managed her wide skirts on the steep stairs with impressive grace. She was a handsome woman, no longer young but far from old, with the black hair, dark eyes, and olive skin of the southern climes.

Francis had met her once or twice at the bookshop. He knew that she had come by her Italianate complexion honestly; her mother, a native of that land, had married an English cloth merchant. The family lived in Italy for many years, long enough for the daughter to become perfectly fluent in the language. It was she who translated Italian works for her husband’s shop.

Francis offered her another tilt of the head. It’s bad news, I fear. About your husband.

She reached the ground floor and made a small curtsy. You must be mistaken. My husband is sailing from the Continent today. He’s been at the book fair in Frankfurt.

Alas, his ship sailed yesterday. He arrived late in the evening, sometime after Brocksby retired for the night. Francis paused, wishing he’d prepared a speech, something softer than the bare facts. I’m afraid he suffered an — well, no, not an accident. I’m very sorry to inform you that your husband is dead.

Dead? She blanched and clasped a hand to her breast, drawing in a sharp gasp as if absorbing a blow. Perival’s face fell slack, as if thunderstruck.

They hadn’t known; in which case, they hadn’t done it.

Perival recovered first. He can’t be dead. It’s a nonsense. He took a step closer to the new widow, reached out a hand, glanced at Francis, and drew it back. What business is it of yours, Mr. Bacon?

Tush, tush. Mrs. Kellett drew a lace handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed at her eyes. Mr. Bacon is a cherished patron and, we like to think, a friend. I imagine he wanted a book and offered to help in our time of crisis. She licked her lips and offered Francis a quavery smile. Perival is a dear friend of the family.

Perival frowned solemnly at Francis. I am here to provide support and comfort to the bereaved widow.

Of course, Francis replied with equal solemnity. How perspicacious of the man, to console the wife before the husband had departed!

Mrs. Kellett’s eyes rolled behind her fluttering lashes. What happened? If it wasn’t an accident?

We believe he was murdered. By thieves, we suppose, who caught him as he entered the shop last night.

Thieves? Mrs. Kellett shot a swift glance at Perival, who frowned, lifting his shoulders in a miniscule shrug. She seemed to have recovered her composure. How? Who?

I don’t know, Francis said. Had your husband planned to travel with anyone in particular?

Another exchange of glances. Perival opened his mouth, but she answered before he could speak. No, no one in particular. Not to my knowledge, at any rate.

Did he bring the barrel? Perival asked.

Mrs. Kellett made an apologetic grimace. All our hopes are contained in that barrel, Mr. Bacon. You may not be aware of it, but our business has been faltering lately.

Francis nodded. I understand. The barrel is there, but it was overturned and emptied of its contents. Whether anything was stolen remains to be seen. I left Brocksby sorting out the mess.

Mrs. Kellett’s dark eyes widened. Has the coroner been called?

Not yet.

Perival murmured, So he’s alone, his words overlapped by Mrs. Kellett’s melodic cry. Poor, dear Oliver! I must go to him at once.

I’ll come with you, Francis said, smiling blandly in response to her darkly knitted brows.

THEY WALKED BRISKLY up Cheapside, the east wind pushing at their backs. When they reached the bookshop, Perival said, I’ll leave you here. I have an engagement with, ah . . .

Oh yes! Mrs. Kellett cried. Your engagement. Of course you must go. She thanked him effusively for condescending to visit her family at so inconvenient an hour and apologized for her husband’s absence, forgetting that he hadn’t been expected so soon and was, in fact, now dead.

Francis waited with the bland smile he wore at court, his gaze settled absently in the middle distance. The expression revealed nothing whatsoever about his inner workings, and he could maintain it for hours on end.

Perival departed. The front door of the shop was locked, but Mrs. Kellett had a key. They found Brocksby in the printing room, nearly finished with his task. He had collected most of the books and papers from the floor and sorted them into neat stacks, ordered by size and shape, covering every flat surface, including the compositors’ stools. He’d spread an old blanket over the body.

Mrs. Kellett rushed to embrace him, emitting piercing cries of dismay. They exchanged the customary blandishments, each expressing profound concern for the other’s well-being, but their manners belied their words. A certain stiffness of posture, smiles that didn’t reach the eyes — there was no love lost between Brocksby and his late partner’s wife.

The handkerchief appeared again as Mrs. Kellett declined the offer to view the body. I couldn’t, she wailed. Poor Edwin!

Her sense of loss had grown during their short walk. Francis supposed it was possible. Grief took its own strange courses, different for every loss and every mourner. But then she shot him a glance from under her dark lashes precisely like a lady in a masque appraising the effect of her performance on her audience.

She might not be responsible for her husband’s death, but she wasn’t distressed by it either. Small wonder since his replacement had already been selected.

Brocksby retold his tale, augmenting the drama of his gruesome discovery. He pointed at the bowl concealing the bloody purse and promised to wash it before returning it to her. He shared the supposition that the unstolen coins indicated that the murderer had not been an ordinary cutpurse. The average thief would always choose money over books. She made no comment.

He refrained from mentioning the prayer books. He’d stacked them together, about two dozen of them, on the press. They stood out from the rest in spite of their plain covers, made remarkable by their sheer quantity. There weren’t more than three or four of any other bound books, and the reams of plain paper were tied up with strings.

Mrs. Kellett stooped to lift a splayed volume from the floor. She dusted it with her hand and added it to a stack — the wrong one for its size. Nothing seems to be damaged, for a mercy. She raised her shapely eyebrows at her late husband’s partner.

Nothing a pressing iron can’t fix, Brocksby agreed. He had an air of suppressed excitement or perhaps apprehension. He fairly quivered with it, whatever it was. Francis supposed he was afraid the widow would discover the contraband, but he made no attempt to block her path as she sidled toward the press.

She ran her hand lightly across the stacks, as if searching for something by feel. Poor Edwin. It appears he did well at the fair at least. Her hand paused at the topmost prayer book. She opened it, blinked twice, and closed it again.

Brocksby cleared his throat. Those are the special items. Perhaps Edwin mentioned them?

Yes, she answered, and they let the matter lie. Whatever the bookseller was suppressing behind his overbright eyes, it wasn’t that miniature act of treason.

Is everything here? Mrs. Kellett asked. Have you managed to check the inventory?

Not entirely, not yet, but I believe the shipment is almost complete. Brocksby half turned his head and widened his eyes at Francis, plainly intending to convey some private meaning. His words, however, were merely explanatory. We always attach an inventory to the underside of the barrel lid. It makes the unpacking go faster, and we can easily see if anything was left out.

Francis couldn’t interpret the eye-widening, so he responded with his neutral smile. Very sensible.

He doubted that the thing provoking all the dumb show had been entered into that useful record. The officers of the Custom House could open any barrel at whim and would certainly take note of an inventory. The object in question must be something Brocksby didn’t know about or else Mrs. Kellett would simply ask him about it — unless Francis was the cause of her reticence.

Now she asked, What’s missing? You said ‘almost complete.’

Kellett bought an alphabet book based on Roman mythology, Brocksby said. A large folio, fifteen inches high and about an inch thick, with illustrations. Larger than anything else here. I haven’t found it.

An abecedarium? Francis asked. Could it have been left out, as you suggested?

Brocksby shrugged. It would be hard to miss. And it would have been the most expensive book in the shipment. Edwin didn’t mention it in his last letter, but I believe I know which patron he had in mind for it. He leaned toward Mrs. Kellett and whispered loudly, Lady Holcroft.

She frowned. Francis frowned as well, watching her, imagining she struggled with the same perplexing thought as he did. He waited for her to ask the obvious question. When she didn’t, he did. Who would kill a man for a schoolbook?

Brocksby shrugged again, this time raising his shoulders almost to his ears and pressing his lips together as if determined not to speak. He’d taken on that quivering air again. Francis accepted the inference: the missing schoolbook was another key to the riddle of Kellett’s murder — one not to be shared with the widow.

Mrs. Kellett answered the original question. Perhaps the thieves mistook that book for something else. Perhaps they killed my poor, dear Edwin by accident and were shocked by what they’d done, so they snatched the largest book they could see and fled. That would explain why they left the purse.

Francis pressed his lips together to prevent a laugh from escaping him. Her absurd explanation failed to fit any of the observable facts. First, one could not stab a man to death by accident. Intention was surely a central component of that act. Second, the purse full of coins had hung from Kellett’s belt, outside his clothes, plainly visible. The barrel had been nailed shut. A tool would be needed to pry up the lid. Finally, its contents — two hundred pounds or so of paper — had been shaken out and strewn across the floor. That required strength and deliberate effort.

Someone had wanted something from that barrel, something specific. Francis refused to postulate separate thieves and murderers, so he supposed that the book-seekers had killed Kellett either in frustration, on failing to find their book, or to prevent him from identifying them. Could the abecedarium have contained some coded message? What sort of code?

A chill passed through Francis’s breast. If this situation took a political turn, he would excuse himself and abandon poor Brocksby to his fate. It seemed unlikely, however. Kellett and Brocksby had never shown any inclination to dabble in sensitive areas, the illegal prayer books notwithstanding. In fact, the mildness of those works supported the booksellers’ fundamental innocence.

Francis turned his attention to the barrel. How had it been brought into the shop? Kellett couldn’t have done it alone. He asked, How would Kellett have transported the barrel? Do you have a regular service?

No, Brocksby said. There are always carters waiting when a ship comes in. He would have hired one of those. He drew in a sharp breath. There’s a thought, Mr. Bacon! You might ask at the ship if anyone remembers who picked him up.

That would be extremely thoughtful of you, Mr. Bacon, the widow