The Widows Guild: A Francis Bacon Mystery (The Francis Bacon Mystery Series Book 3)

by Anna Castle

  Trumpet placed her hand on his neck, feeling for a pulse. She shook her head. “I’m not sure . . .” She climbed up on one side and pulled his shirt open. Then she gasped and sat back on her heels. “By my maidenhead,” she whispered. “What’s been done here?”

  Someone had carved a cross into the center of the viscount’s chest — two thin red lines, the long piece about two inches, the crosspiece about half that. The bright color stood out sharply on the viscount’s pale chest. Dark smears, like bits of tar, clotted in the corners of the cuts.

  “Murder,” Tom said.

  “But is he dead?” Trumpet knelt over him and set her ear against his chest. Tom held his breath while she listened. She straightened up again. “I think it’s beating, but . . .” She shifted and bent her ear toward his nose. Then she bent her head to his chest again and listened for a long moment.

  She clambered down from the high bed, shaking her head. “It was beating at first, but faintly. The second time, there was nothing. I think he must be dead. I wonder . . .” She felt beneath his pillow, reaching all the way under it. She straightened and shook her head. “He kept a rosary under his pillows. I noticed when I plumped them up for him. It seems to be gone.”

  “That doesn’t sound nominally Catholic to me.” Tom frowned, but he got down on hands and knees to peer underneath the bed. Standing, he said, “You’ve got good servants, my lady. It isn’t even dusty. There’s a small chest, like a money box, under the middle, but no strands of beads or crosses or anything up near the head.”

  “Then it’s been taken.” Trumpet met Tom’s eyes, and they spoke together. “Mr. Bacon.”

  Tom said, “I’ll go. He’ll probably send me on to the sheriff. Who would do this? Did he have enemies?”

  “How would I know?” Trumpet shrugged. “Those two little cuts wouldn’t kill him, but I don’t see any other wounds.”

  “A poison knife,” Catalina said. “I have heard of such in Italy. They use venom of serpents to coat the blade. It kills you slowly, but first it turns your limbs to stone.”

  “Ah, my poor Surdeval!” Trumpet cried. Tom put his arms around her and she looked up at him with sorrow darkening her eyes. “I meant for him to sleep the night through and wake refreshed, to my loving greeting. I meant to give him strong, healthy sons to make him proud.”

  Tom patted her on the back, at a loss for comforting words. The viscount had been gallant even in his dotage; this was no way for such a man to die.

  Trumpet blinked away her tears. “This is my fault. I left him here, drugged and helpless. I even sent away his servants. I did this, Tom. His death is on my head.”

  “Well do I believe it.” A deep voice sounded from the doorway. The viscount’s cousin filled the frame, garbed again in formal black. “I suspected you of some dark scheme from the start, Lady Alice. I knew I’d catch you with your henchman if I returned early enough this morning. And here you are, both of you, gloating over my poor cousin’s murdered body.”

  Tom and Trumpet sprang apart as if they’d been pulled by giant hands, but too late. Tom could imagine how things looked from Sir William’s point of view: him half-dressed in shirt and hose, with one stocking sliding off his knee; she half-naked in her night robe, barefoot, her long hair hanging down her back in tangled curls.

  Sir William strode into the room, drawing his rapier as he walked. He pointed it straight at Tom’s heart. He spoke over his shoulder to a servant who had come in behind him. “Find a footman and send for the sheriff. I want these two arrested for murder and taken to the Tower at once.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Francis stopped at the edge of Holborn Road to wait for a flock of geese to pass. He wished they could be followed by a pair of sweepers to remove the hazards left by the waddling foul. He shouldn’t have worn his new kidskin shoes, but his mother would have noticed and commented on it, forcing him into a conversation about his footwear before a group of ladies and gentlewomen.

  He had been peremptorily summoned to attend upon a meeting of the Andromache Society: a sort of widows’ guild composed of wealthy, influential women who met for dinner once a month at the Antelope Inn. The proprietress of the inn was Mrs. Jenifer Sprye, herself a widow of not inconsiderable assets. Her establishment on the Holborn Road lay conveniently between Gray’s Inn and Lincoln’s Inn and had thus become a favorite resort of judges and lawyers, creating a fruitful juxtaposition of clients and counselors.

  Francis assumed the widows wanted to consult him about some legal matter. One of the society’s principal functions was the monitoring of laws relating to women, particularly with respect to property. Having gained some credit as a legal scholar, as well as being a member of Parliament for the past four years, he had often been invited to deliver addresses to the society. He lectured on Acts of Parliament and discussed interpretations of judgments in the courts.

  The ladies appreciated his scholarship, but that wasn’t why they invited him rather than some other barrister. His mother and his aunt were founding members of the guild.

  He hoped the questions today would be simple and brief. His work on the recusancy commission had exhausted him — spiritually as much as physically — and he had planned to treat himself to a day of light reading on his bed with the windows open to the breeze and a cool jug of spiced beer at his elbow. He’d been working his way through William Camden’s Britannia, saving it for days like today when he needed some special refreshment.

  The Antelope Inn stood three stories tall and spanned the width of three ordinary houses. It could accommodate dozens of guests and offered two private dining rooms upstairs in addition to the public room on the ground floor. The white plaster of the walls shone bright between the weathered oak beams on this sunny morning, as did the sprightly white antelope on the sign hanging over the entrance.

  He walked across the graveled yard and climbed the stairs to the gallery. One of his aunt’s liveried men stood at the door of the dining room. After being announced, Francis entered to find only half a dozen women seated at the long table instead of the usual twenty. The chair at the foot stood empty, but he did not attempt to sit. If he remained standing, it might encourage them to keep their questions short.

  His aunt, Lady Elizabeth Russell, sat at the head of the table as the ranking member. Her late husband had been the eldest son of the second Earl of Bedford. Unfortunately, the son had died before the father, cheating his widow of the title. Nevertheless, she considered herself a dowager countess and insisted on the honors due that rank. Considered a beauty in her youth, at forty-eight her cheeks were still smooth, and her hair beneath the severe white widow’s cowl still gleamed a tawny red. Her small, well-shaped lips held a characteristic tension of judgment as yet undelivered.

  Lady Anne Bacon, Francis’s mother, sat to her right. She greatly resembled her sister — and Francis — in coloring and build, though her features were sharper, especially her eyes, and her hair, like his, held more brown than red. Both women wore black from head to toe, relieved by touches of pristine white at the wrists, throat, and head.

  They were two of the five brilliant Cooke sisters, renowned throughout Europe for their intelligence and learning. Their father, Sir Anthony Cooke, had been a tutor to King Edward VI. All the girls had married well. The eldest, Mildred, was wife to Lord Burghley, the queen’s Lord Treasurer.

  A woman Francis didn’t recognize, rather younger than the usual Andromachaean, sat to the left of his aunt. Mrs. Sprye, with writing implements laid out before her, ready to take notes, sat on the other side of the new member. Three women of middling age sat across the table. Their somber dress contrasted starkly against the blue sky outside the windows, where late summer blossoms wagged on green trees behind the inn.

  Francis extended his leg in a full court bow, then asked, “How may I serve Your Ladyships?”

  “A matter of some urgency has been brought to my attention,” Lady Russell said. “I summoned such members as have remained in town during
this perilous summer to determine our best course of action. A request has been made specifically for your services, Nephew.”

  “My services?”

  “Sit down, Francis,” his mother said. She beckoned to a server standing against the paneled wall. “Have a cool drink after your walk. This may take some time.”

  Francis handed his hat to the server and took his seat. He made no attempt to speculate as to the nature of the emergency. His aunt regarded anything that touched her personal standing or the status of widows in general as an urgent affair of state.

  The server brought him a cup of light Rhenish wine. He took a sip, more to mollify his mother than from thirst. “What services might I perform, my lady?”

  Lady Russell lifted a sheet of paper from the table and showed it to him, as if he could read the thing from fifteen feet away. “Have you heard that Viscount Surdeval was found murdered in his bed yesterday morning?”

  Francis blinked. “I have not.”

  “Well, he was. Quite a nasty business. His new bride — now his widow — has been arrested for the deed. She had the presence of mind to pen this letter to Mrs. Sprye before they took her to the Tower. A quick-witted girl. Most commendable.” Lady Russell smiled. “She has her father’s nerve, it would seem. She made the sheriff’s men wait at the door while she wrote, and I have several pages here.”

  Lady Russell laid the single sheet atop the others, setting her palm firmly upon it. “I will give you the pith of the matter. The new Lady Surdeval was formerly Lady Alice Trumpington, daughter of the Earl of Orford.”

  Francis knew the name, if not the lady. Her cousin, Allen Trumpington, had been among his pupils at Gray’s Inn two years ago and had recommended Benjamin Whitt when the lady found herself in need of legal counsel. Her Ladyship, like Ben’s family, lived in Suffolk. Ben had visited her several times over the past year, working on marriage negotiations, planning nuptial contracts, and the like. He hadn’t seen any money from it yet, but he had expectations. Francis hadn’t spoken to Ben in private for a day or two; his friend had been so busy. Now he knew what had occupied him.

  Lady Russell continued. “She and His Lordship were married at Surdeval House on the evening before last. She says she helped settle her husband for a nap after the wedding supper and then returned to her guests. It was an intimate party. The wedding itself had been somewhat hastily arranged, owing to a sudden change in His Lordship’s tenuous health.”

  “He suffered from chronic infections of the throat and lungs,” Lady Bacon put in.

  “Thank you, Sister.” Lady Russell shot her a quelling glance. “The guests consisted of a cousin, Sir William Gumery, and Lady Surdeval’s legal counselors, Benjamin Whitt and Thomas Clarady.”

  Francis snatched his cup and took a hasty sip to cover his reaction to the idea of Tom in the role of legal counselor. Lady Alice would naturally have wanted her counselor to supervise the signing of the marriage contracts after the wedding. Ben, even more awkward in social situations than Francis, would have brought convivial Tom along for moral support.

  “Sir William left immediately after the supper,” Lady Russell said. “Mr. Whitt left at the same time in order to make copies of the marriage contract, a sensible policy. Lady Surdeval expected him to return within a matter of hours. Mr. Clarady stayed behind to review the properties designated for her jointure while they waited.”

  “I see.” Francis doubted anyone would employ Tom to explain the intricacies of a trust. He could, however, easily imagine a young woman preferring the company of a handsome young man to that of an elderly invalid, even on her wedding night.

  Lady Russell regarded him with a cool gaze. “We are assured that nothing untoward transpired. Mr. Whitt was detained and failed to return as expected. The happy couple had given the household leave for the evening so that they might also celebrate the nuptials of their master. Lady Surdeval disliked being alone in that unfamiliar house, so Mr. Clarady waited with her. They were attended at all times by her maidservant. Eventually, she fell asleep. Mr. Clarady, reluctant to leave her unprotected, took up a station outside her door, spending the night in a chair with a book. In the morning, when they realized that Surdeval had never come to visit his new bride, they feared some accident. They went down to his room and found him dead. Mr. Clarady deduced that he had been murdered, but before they could summon the authorities, Sir William Gumery appeared and leapt to the wrong conclusion. He insisted that Lady Surdeval and Mr. Clarady be arrested and taken to the Tower. She returned to her chamber to dress for the journey and wrote this letter. Mrs. Sprye received it yesterday morning and naturally brought it to me for advice.”

  Francis took a moment to absorb the information. He could see how things looked from Sir William’s perspective: a young bride, an old husband, and a handsome retainer. If he didn’t know Tom, he might have made the same assumptions. However, he did know him and knew him well. Whatever might have transpired within the lady’s chamber, Tom would never have been party to a murder.

  “What led Clarady to suspect an unnatural cause of death?” Francis asked. “My lady mother says Lord Surdeval suffered ill health. Could he not simply have succumbed to excitement and an overly rich supper?”

  “We have no details,” Lady Russell said. “Obtaining them is part of your job.”

  An unpaid job, no doubt. “Is it Lord Surdeval’s cousin who is pressing the charges?”

  “Yes,” Lady Russell said. “And with considerable adamancy.” She glanced at the other women, who frowned in unison like a silent Greek chorus. “We hear that he disapproved of the match, ostensibly because of the great difference in ages but also, we suspect, because he is next in line for the title and estates and does not want to surrender the widow’s third.”

  “Ah,” Francis said. “Then he’ll be eager for any excuse to invalidate the marriage. You’re asking me to investigate Lord Surdeval’s death, but cases involving peers of the realm are a matter for the Star Chamber. I have no legitimate reason to intervene.”

  “We don’t want you to intervene, Francis,” his mother said. “We want you to find out who did it.”

  His aunt said, “Lady Surdeval is one of us now. We cannot allow any member of our society to be treated in so peremptory a fashion.” She leveled her basilisk glare at him. “You’ve done this sort of work before, Nephew. Our sister Lady Burghley affirmed that you and this same Thomas Clarady performed similar services for her husband last year.”

  “Perhaps I should seek permission from my lord uncle before proceeding,” Francis said. Lord Burghley and wife had lost their only daughter to fever in June and remained disconsolate. His health had been further strained during the recent crisis to the extent that he refused to grant interviews to anyone for anything less than a national emergency.

  “His Lordship told our sister he would be grateful to leave this matter in our hands,” Lady Russell said. “He assures us that your work on the recusancy commission does not demand so much of your time as to preclude your assisting Lady Surdeval in her hour of need.”

  She had neatly forestalled his next objection. In truth, he could not refuse this task. He knew Tom was innocent of murder, if not of indiscretion. And he had to admit his curiosity was aroused. As far as he knew, Viscount Surdeval was a blameless, harmless old man. Who would want him dead?

  The women regarded him with eager gleams in their eyes. Francis sighed. Camden’s Britannia would have to wait. “Very well. I will do my best. The greatest likelihood is that Lord Surdeval died naturally in his sleep and that Clarady simply mistook the signs. The coroner may already have discovered the error. This affair could be concluded in a matter of days.”

  “We are agreed to abide by your determination.” Lady Russell gave him a knowing smile. “We will consider ourselves in your debt, Nephew.”

  He returned the smile. His aunt was one of the queen’s oldest and dearest friends. That debt would come in handy one day.

  He stood and waited whil
e the women filed out of the room. Mrs. Sprye offered him a slice of almond tart and he sat down again to enjoy it with another cup of wine. He had almost finished when his mother and aunt returned. They sat on either side of him before he could rise and turned their faces toward him with bright intent.

  “Finish your tart, Francis,” his mother said. “And don’t eat so fast. I hope that wine isn’t too strong.”

  He had long ago ceased responding to her admonitions about food and drink, but he did chew the last bite of the delicious pastry slowly, observing the arch gleam in the women’s eyes with a growing sense of impending peril. The Cooke sisters were renowned, true, but not for their fun-loving antics. His mother’s idea of a merry pastime was devising multilingual spelling games based on the Polyglot Bible.

  “Did you notice our newest member?” Lady Russell asked.

  Francis shook his head. “I was intent on the problem being presented.”

  “She’s very pretty,” his mother said. “She has rather a Tudor look about her: fine red hair, pale skin, a proud nose.”

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t notice.” A comely widower with a Tudor look would have been more likely to catch his eye.

  She narrowed her eyes, the playfulness gone. His lack of interest in women disturbed her, but the Cooke sisters were not easily deterred. “Her husband has been gone for many years, although his death was only recently confirmed. She has thus done her grieving and will soon be ready to marry again.”

  “Now, Mother, I am barely even —”

  “You’re twenty-seven; she’s twenty-three. That’s perfect. She has a son, so she’s capable. I want a grandson, Francis.”

  “I have no income to speak of.” Francis’s mind raced to list impediments. He had no intention of marrying anyone. “I don’t even own a house. Where would we live?”

  “She’s rich,” Lady Bacon said. “Very. She has two houses, one in London and another in Exeter. You could sell that one and buy something closer to Gray’s Inn, if you liked.”