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

ready. I told you December fifteenth and not one day earlier."
    "We're from Gray's," Trumpet said.
    "Gray's won't be done till day before Christmas Eve. Every year, you expect a miracle, putting in your orders at the last minute. Well, you'll not get one this year neither. You can't get quality workmanship at a moment's notice."
    "We're not here for costumes," Ben said.
    "What costumes?" Stephen asked. Tom grabbed his arm and pointed at a turban in gleaming purple silk topped with a spray of white plumes. Stephen drew in a delighted breath. They exchanged excited grins. This would be their first Christmas in London, and they meant to enjoy every minute of it. Feasts, plays, gaming, masques, music; dancing, dancing, and more dancing. They had been practicing their leaps for la volta for weeks.
    Tom winced as Ben trod heavily upon his foot. "We'd like to speak with someone upstairs," Ben said. "A woman at the window?"
    The costumer groaned. "My grandmother, you mean. She's been flirting with you, hasn't she? I pray you, good sirs, kindly ignore her."
    "We'd like to visit her, Tailor," Ben said. "Only for a moment. We're investigating a murder that was committed here last week."
    "Oh, the murder! I heard all about it, that evening when I got home. I was at the pageant, you see, in the tents doing the last minute fittings, so I missed all the excitement."
    "Your grandmother may have been a witness," Ben started, but the costumer was shaking his head vigorously.
    "Forgive me, sir, but that she wasn't. She was having her mug of ale. She takes it at the same time every day. She didn't see a thing. She's been moaning about it ever since."
    "She might have seen someone in the lane a few minutes before or after," Trumpet said.
    "Or she might know who was at the window across the way," Tom put in.
    The costumer rubbed the back of his neck. "I suppose she might. She'd only have been away a few minutes. She knows better than to linger gossiping over her mug at this season." He regarded his worktable, heaped high with fancy stuffs, and sighed the heartfelt sigh of a man who would earn a year's wages in two months of heroic labor. "It's only going to get worse between now and Twelfth Night."
    He directed the lads to the stairs at the back of the house. "I can tell you this, young masters. If she says she saw something, that something was there. There's nothing wrong with her eyes ."
    They mounted the narrow stairs in a single file.
    "I don't like the way he said that last bit," Tom said. "The way he emphasized her eyes ."
    "Like there might be something wrong with the rest of her," Ben said.
    Trumpet half turned on the first landing. "Like her wits, do you think?"
    "A witless witness," Stephen said.
    "Oh, that's good," Tom said. "That's really good."
    "Witless witness?" Stephen hummed a rhythm under his breath. "How about this:
     
    The morning sun shall bear me witness,
    Thy something beauty strikes me witless."
     
    "Sparkling," Trumpet suggested. "Thy sparkling beauty. To go with morning sun."
    "Too shallow," Ben said. "A sparkling beauty would be superficial only. The loved one should have depth of character as well."
    They reached a square landing that allowed access to two chambers. Ben knocked on the door to the rear one.
    It opened immediately. Tom had to look straight down to greet the tiny woman before him. She grinned up at them, displaying her nearly toothless gums. "Here are my pretty gentlemen," she crooned. "Welcome to my forest."
    Tom crossed the threshold into a dream. The crone's chamber seemed indeed to be more forest than house. Row upon row of leaves sewn of gossamer and silk hung on wire-strung racks that covered all four walls, saving only the window and the door. The leaves, in every hue of green and yellow and brown, rustled as they shifted in the breeze from the open window.
    "How do they rustle?" Tom asked in wonder. "They sound so real."
    The crone burst into a peal of laughter. "Them's the taffeta. Crispy, they