by Anna Castle
Not Lady Surdeval. That made no sense. A clever woman — and she’d amply demonstrated that quality — would wait a few months and be certain the marriage had been duly consummated. Whatever else had happened that night, Trumpet had apparently spent little time alone with her husband. The marriage would be invalidated, and she would lose her jointure. She should fight for it, of course. Ben could use the fees.
The Andromache Society had charged him with finding out enough to clear Lady Surdeval’s name. Francis could think of no way of fulfilling that requirement without identifying the real murderer. Only that story would be exciting enough to supplant rumors about the young bride and her so-called legal counsel dallying through the wedding night while the groom lay dying in his bed. Gossip along those lines must have flown up the Strand before the constables had even handed Tom and Trumpet into the wherry for their trip down the river.
Francis helped himself to a serving of eels. The jelly had been barely seasoned; just the thing for his delicate stomach. This business would do his digestion no good. Especially discomfiting were the signs of a religious motivation for the murder. Or an attempt to suggest such a motivation?
More deviousness; excessive if the intention was to implicate the bride. What reason could she have to cut a cross in her husband’s chest or steal his rosary? If she hated Catholics so much, she wouldn’t have married the man.
His Lordship’s death benefited Sir William Gumery more than anyone else. Always look to the heir. Francis had never met him nor heard anything unfavorable. Ben must know about the entailments of the title and estates; he could review Lord Surdeval’s financial records to see if any other motives popped up. Perhaps His Lordship had cheated someone badly enough to inspire a vicious revenge. The religious business could simply be a ruse.
He’d have a word with Ben right after dinner and get him started. Francis would visit the viscount’s home himself to speak with the steward.
* * *
The servant who admitted Francis to Surdeval House had either been trained not to answer questions or had arrived at that strategy on his own initiative. He merely shrugged his eyebrows when Francis commented on the commotion emanating from the rear of the house, which sounded like furniture being roughly moved. When Francis tried to engage him in conversation about the night of the wedding, the man listened in courteous silence, then bade him wait and went to summon the steward. Tom would probably have elicited the life histories of everyone in the house, a gift Francis lacked.
The steward was a youngish man with glossy fair hair and a short beard circling his jawline. He wore black, but his extravagant taste countered any suggestion of mourning. His over-puffed sleeves larded with braids and his thickly padded doublet made him look as if he’d been baked, not dressed.
“Mr. Bacon of Gray’s Inn.” His eyes lingered on the velvet tufts on the shoulders of Francis’s legal gown, the symbols of his status as a bencher. “To what do we owe the honor?”
“My lord uncle — Lord Burghley — asked me to inquire into Lord Surdeval’s death. The strange nature of the crime, the distress of the young Lady Surdeval, and the putative involvement of a member of Gray’s Inn brought the matter to his attention.”
“Someone ought to make inquiries. This is the most appalling thing to happen in all my years of service. I suppose what you want is support for Sir William’s testimony. I’ll admit it’s distasteful to prosecute a young lady such as her —” He broke off with a sour twist to his mouth. “Justice must be served.”
“Indeed it must,” Francis said. “May I see the room in which Lord Surdeval was found?”
The steward led him to a spacious and handsomely furnished library, an enviable place in which to read and study except for the bedstead positioned at one end. The wide bed had been stripped of linens and its curtains removed.
Francis surveyed the room, noting the tall windows looking onto a small garden. If they had been open, they would have granted easy access to anyone who got inside the walls. “Has anything been altered in this room since the night of the murder?”
The steward shook his head. “I had the bedding removed, naturally. And His Lordship’s clothes, which were there on that chest. The windows were open, I’m told.”
“You weren’t here that night?”
“I was at the Surrey estate, on the course of my regular rounds.”
“You didn’t attend the wedding?”
“I didn’t even know about it until afterward.” The steward’s lip curled under his fringe of moustache. “They — or rather, she — arranged everything in a rush. Secretly. I suppose her lawyers got the contract done up the way she wanted, and she needed to get it done before anyone changed their minds. The very haste smacks of impropriety, if you ask me.”
Francis agreed, though he wouldn’t say it. The circumstances implicated Lady Surdeval as surely as if they had been designed to do so.
Now there was a twist. Could she be a target as well as the viscount?
He dismissed the idea almost at once. Whatever wealth Trumpet possessed would go straight to her father, who would gamble it away in a month, if he had earned his reputation. Francis smiled, striving to emulate Tom’s confiding manner. “I gather you didn’t approve of the match.”
The steward sniffed. “It’s hardly my place to approve or disapprove. I thought the thing was overly hasty, that’s all.”
So much for the friendly approach. “My understanding is that His Lordship needed an heir after losing his son to the Spanish.”
“His Lordship had an heir: his cousin, Sir William. An exemplary master. Sir William is a forward-thinking man. His estates are thriving. Lord Surdeval could not have chosen a better man to carry the family line forward. Far to be preferred to that — to Her Ladyship.”
Sir William had an ardent ally in the household, and Trumpet had an enemy. That in itself was worth knowing.
“Have you heard from the coroner?” Francis asked.
“Yes,” the steward said. “He had little to contribute. He ruled it a death by unknown causes.”
“Did they find no injuries other than the cuts on the chest?”
The steward shrugged, his whole stiff costume rising and falling with the motion. “Not that I know of.”
“Was there evidence of sickness? At the risk of seeming indelicate, did the servants find vomit on the bedclothes or the floor?”
“None.” The steward’s nose wrinkled. “And I know what you’re asking: Were there signs he’d been poisoned? I thought of that, of course, first thing, since Her Ladyship admits to giving my lord his sleeping draught.” He flapped his hand at the night table, still covered with the detritus of an invalid: small bottles, cups, and handkerchiefs. “I tested the remains of the medicine on a dog. The beast slept for ten hours but was otherwise unharmed.”
“Well done.” A vital element in Trumpet’s defense, made more effective by being produced by this hostile witness. “I noticed a stir at the back of the house as I came in. Surely nothing is being removed while the situation remains undecided?”
“Of course not. I know my duty. It appears the chapel has been robbed in my absence.”
“Appears?”
The steward pursed his lips. He didn’t want to say it, but some essential honesty — or the Lord Treasurer’s authoritative shadow — compelled him. “All the valuables are missing.”
“What manner of valuables?”
“Oh, many things. Lovely things. Jeweled crosses, embroidered altar cloths, a very old reliquary. Her late Ladyship — the viscount’s second wife — was devout.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “Catholic.” Then he placed his hand on his padded chest. “I am a committed Protestant, Mr. Bacon, I assure you. I attend the nearest church without fail every Sunday, wherever I find myself in the course of my duties.”
“I don’t doubt it. When did this happen?”
“On the same night His Lordship was murdered.”
“The same night!” Francis
frowned. More criminals wandering about in this supposedly empty house? “Where is the chapel?”
“On the other side of the house, behind the hall. Rather isolated. We might not have heard the burglars even if we had been home.”
“Who could have known the house would be empty?”
The steward shrugged. “Most of the servants went straight to the Dog and Duck to spend their wedding largesse. Any rats who happened in that night would learn the cats were away.”
“Was the gatehouse left unguarded?”
“No,” the steward said. “Her Ladyship had that much sense. The chapel treasures must have been taken away by boat, but they’d need a key to open the gate.” He plainly believed the bride had supplied that key.
“Was anything else stolen?” Francis looked around the room, noting a silk tapestry, silver candlesticks, and dozens of leather-bound books. Hundreds of pounds’ worth of goods had been left behind. “Was anything taken from any other rooms?”
“Nothing at all.” The steward poked a finger under his heavily starched ruff to scratch his neck. “Which is odd, when you think of it. The Surdevals are a very old family. This house is full of treasures.” He sounded as proud as if the lineage were his own. Perhaps it was; stewards were often recruited from the cadet branches.
“It is odd. And oddities demand explanation. Why, for example, would Lady Surdeval steal from her own chapel? The family treasures are hers now.”
The steward glared at Francis through narrowed eyes and licked his lips a time or two. “I can think of no reason.”
Francis smiled. “Neither can I.”
* * *
Francis stood outside the gates of Surdeval House in the shelter of the wall bordering the Strand, so lost in thought he barely heard the bustle of the busy street. Surdeval’s chapel had been stripped of centuries of religious treasures. On the same night, the lord had been killed, his rosary stolen, and a cross carved into his chest.
“Mr. Bacon?”
The two deeds could not be unrelated; Occam’s Razor would not allow it. Given two competing hypotheses, the one with the fewest assumptions was most likely to be correct. The simplest explanation here required that the same person or persons had executed both crimes.
“Mr. Bacon? Are you all right?”
Francis startled and focused his eyes on the world in front of him, only to find the Earl of Essex sitting in a painted coach, speaking to him through a small window in the door.
“My lord!” Francis bowed from the waist.
“I’m sorry to disturb you,” His Lordship said, gracious as always. “You are clearly absorbed in some deep thought. But I feared the traffic might not respect the demands of the intellect.”
Before Francis could formulate a reply, the earl added, “Allow me to offer you sanctuary.” He unlatched the door of his coach and slid to the far side of the seat.
How could anyone refuse so a noble a gesture? Francis climbed up and sat beside him. “Thank you, my lord.”
“May I ask what captured your attention so completely? I notice you were standing at the threshold of my recently deceased neighbor, Lord Surdeval. Dare I presume you were making inquiries into his death?”
“I would believe Your Lordship to be a reader of minds did I not already know you to be both observant and swift of apprehension. Yes, my lord, I have been asked to look into the matter of Lord Surdeval’s murder.”
“So the rumors are true.”
The stepson of the Earl of Leicester, Essex was the rising favorite of the queen. Not replacing Sir Walter Ralegh, for better or worse, but adding his youthful zest to court society. Not yet twenty-three years old, he had already become fully engaged in the business of government. Lesser scions of the nobility might idle their days away in frivolous amusements, but this brilliant man had more serious ambitions. He had learned some discretion as well; he’d demonstrated that quality at court more than once.
Perhaps he was the confidante Francis needed at this moment. “I wonder if I might enlist Your Lordship’s aid, if only briefly, to help me think through what I have learned from the steward of Surdeval House.”
“By all means.” The earl rapped on the front wall to signal the coachman to drive on. He turned toward Francis, hands on his knees, his brown eyes alive with interest. “Your solution of the murders at Gray’s Inn impressed everyone at court. In truth, I would love to learn more about your methods, Mr. Bacon. My first question is: Why do you believe Surdeval was murdered?”
Francis summarized the story Tom and Trumpet had told him of finding the viscount in his bed, heart beating faintly but unable to move. He skipped over their reasons for being together at that hour.
A smile flickered across the earl’s lips, but he didn’t interrupt. Then the expressive lips twisted in distaste on hearing about the cross carved in the old man’s chest. “Who would do such a foul thing?”
“That is the essential question, my lord. Who — and why.”
The earl said, “Rumor has it that Lady Alice, or Lady Surdeval, I suppose, did the deed. I don’t know her well; she hasn’t spent much time at court. Her father approached me about a match, but his terms were unacceptable. Orford thinks his title is a sufficient portion, but my sons will be earls on my own account.” He held a hand to his mouth, pretending to whisper. “I need a wife with money.”
Francis chuckled. “Such matters are multifaceted, are they not, my lord?”
Essex grinned with a roguish air that made Francis’s heart skip a beat. “She is pretty and well educated, for a girl. But my impression is that if Lady Alice wanted to kill a man, she would stick a knife in his chest, not poison his sleeping draught. I can’t imagine her — or anyone — kneeling over the victim to cut a cross in his chest. I find that aspect very odd.”
“Exactly the word I used, my lord. Odd. Unnecessary, if the viscount’s death were the only goal.”
“I believe I understand you.”
They fell silent, allowing the sounds of the street to invade the silk-lined sanctuary. The coach squeaked and rattled as it rocked up the street. People shouted at each other and at their animals; the animals added their distinctive cries. All part of the ceaseless rumble of London.
Francis had no idea where they were going and didn’t care. He had never before sat in such close proximity to this potent and engaging man. He found the experience exhilarating. The earl’s much-lauded beauty — his fine features and curling red-brown hair — could be observed from a distance, but close like this — thighs touching, shoulders meeting at every jolt, hands a mere hand’s-width apart — one could feel the heat of the man’s body, a palpable emanation of strength and youthful vigor.
The earl broke the silence. “A cross is a symbol, the symbol of the Christian religion as a whole. But Catholics make the sign of the cross over their breasts as part of their regular ritual, as I understand it.”
“A valuable insight, my lord. That symbol might be the most salient feature. Although the cuts may have been the means of delivering the cause of death.”
“You said they were shallow. Could the killer have used a poisoned blade?”
“The paralysis suggests a poison. The cuts suggest a poisoned blade, especially since the witnesses saw no other signs of distress, and the sleeping draught was tested and found harmless.”
“Some type of arrow poison, I’ll wager.” The earl wagged his finger in no particular direction. “The savages of the New World and Africa use such things. You might search the less reputable apothecaries and pick up a hint there.”
“An excellent suggestion, my lord!” The coach lurched sharply to the right, throwing Francis against the earl. He struggled to right himself without leaning on the noble person. “I beg your pardon, my lord.” Embarrassed, Francis turned his face to the window while he recovered his composure. His wits were so rattled by the earl’s civet perfume he didn’t even recognize the street. He cleared his throat again. “There is another oddity, my lord, if I may co
ntinue.”
“I insist on hearing everything.” The earl smiled to soften the command. “I assure you, Mr. Bacon, that nothing you tell me about your investigation will go further than this coach.”
“Your Lordship’s discretion is beyond question.” Francis told him about the robbery of the chapel.
“On the same night? The two crimes cannot be unrelated.”
“I agree, my lord, although it is possible. Coincidences do occur, although they must always be regarded with suspicion. Most of the servants spent the better part of the night at a nearby tavern. It is possible that two criminals, intent on separate crimes, heard them celebrating. Realizing the house must be empty, each went forth to commit his particular deed.”
“The people at the tavern should be questioned,” Essex said.
“So they should, my lord.” Another reason to get Tom out of the Tower as soon as possible. He would get more information from tavern wenches than Francis ever could.
Essex asked, “Nothing else was taken?”
“Only the rosary beneath His Lordship’s pillow.”
“I’ve been inside Surdeval House. That library alone is worth a small fortune.”
They fell silent again, then spoke up at the same time, breaking off with a laugh. How easy this man’s company was! An easy, intellectual accord.
Essex asked, “Who would steal only Catholic impedimenta?”
“My question exactly, my lord. Who? And again, why?”
“That’s easy,” Essex answered. “To sell it. Although it would be difficult to dispose of in England at present.”
“Far more difficult than the books, which suggests that money was not the main objective.”
“The chapel and the cross connect the two crimes,” Essex said. “The underlying theme must thus be religion.”
“I’m sure you are correct, my lord. Lord Surdeval was a Catholic.”
Essex made a dismissive noise. “More by tradition than conviction. The queen considered him a loyal subject.”
“Yet his late wife was devout. She furnished and maintained a Catholic chapel. She might even have kept a priest or helped one move through London.”
