The Widows Guild: A Francis Bacon Mystery (The Francis Bacon Mystery Series Book 3)
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“That’s not why.” She loved him for the dimple, the long legs, and the golden curls; at least that’s what made her heart beat twice as fast whenever she saw him, even from a distance. Even more, she loved him for the way he’d shrugged, laughed at himself, and gone on being friends after finding out she wasn’t a boy. “I need a new plan. How do they choose these eight matrons of good repute?”
“I do not know, my lady.”
“I’ll bet Lady Russell knows. She probably knows the judge who will appoint them.” Trumpet considered her reflection in the mirror. She didn’t care for black in general, but it did accentuate her unusual coloring. Would that be an advantage or a disadvantage in court? They never debated that sort of question at the Inns of Court, but she’d wager that the Andromache Society would have an answer.
“All right,” she said, “let’s imagine the horse riding did the trick and I pass the examination. How did my deflowering occur? I’ve said that I spent the night in my room alone with Tom gallantly guarding outside the door.” She held out each arm to receive her sleeves — silk striped black and gray, to match the forepart of her skirt.
Catalina laced the sleeves and shoulder rolls to the gown with a thoughtful frown. Trumpet watched her in the mirror while she walked through the events of her wedding night in her own mind. They spoke together. “The nap.”
“That’s the only possible time,” Trumpet said. “Luckily, I don’t think I said much about that part. But I wasn’t with my lord for long, and Sir William was in the house, waiting at the table. How long does the act of love usually take?”
Catalina grinned again. “That depends on many things, my lady. With an old man, I believe it is either very slow or much too fast.”
“Too fast, then. I was only away from my guests for about twenty minutes.”
“That is enough, I think.” Catalina stood back to survey her handiwork and nodded in satisfaction. “If you will sit, my lady, I will do your hair.”
Trumpet sat. She liked having her hair brushed. But she wished she had more facts about sex. Courtship and the arts of love were favorite topics among Her Majesty’s maids of honor after they retired to their shared chamber at night, but since most of them were maidens, their information ranged from the dubious to the absurd. Trumpet had gathered what she could, but there was no substitute for experience. One might learn a great deal from a book about navigation, for example, but things would look very different on the deck of a ship in the middle of the wide blue sea.
After a few minutes of silence, Trumpet asked, “How about this? I went up with Surdeval to make him comfortable, leaving my guests in the hall. That much I said before. But now I’ll say that as I unlaced his doublet, my Lord became inflamed with desire and insisted on possessing me right there and then. His passion burned so hot, the matter was completed quickly without the removal of any part of my costume, so I was able to return to the hall with minimal adjustment. Does that sound plausible?”
“I believe it could be so, my lady.” Catalina began brushing her hair into a tight coil at the back. “And I can help this story. You wore your red taffeta farthingale that day and your smock with white embroidery around the neck. I will stain them with pig’s blood and dry them in the sun. Then I will wash them, but not too well.”
“What a clever wench you are!” Trumpet grinned. “I think this will work. No one will ask for details — that would be vulgar.” Her gaze shifted over the bottles and jars on her dressing table while she rehearsed the new story under her breath. “Someone may ask why I didn’t mention this before.”
“You were too shy, my lady,” Catalina said. “A gentlewoman does not speak of such things.”
“That’s good,” Trumpet said, snapping her fingers. “I can be very demure, if I try. Watch this.” She pouted and cast her gaze at her folded hands, batting her lashes.
Catalina watched her with a wry smile. “Perhaps with practice, my lady.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“Four days and four nights.” Tom pressed his back against the door of his cell to peer sideways through the barred window and down the length of the stone corridor. Nothing to see but shadows; no sounds besides the echo of noise from other parts of the prison. No footsteps tromped up the winding stair, nor did a lanky figure appear bearing a satchel of food and drink.
Tom gave his cellmate a grim look. “They locked me in here on Friday, September 2nd, just before noon. I’m fairly sure today is Tuesday, September 6th.”
“That’s my best guess.” Jack Coddington bore confinement with unflagging good cheer. He was warm, dry, and fed — better than usual, thanks to Tom. That seemed to be enough.
“Four days and four nights.” Tom, in contrast, was ready to explode with sheer restlessness. He’d slept enough to last him a month and discovered that his limit for sitting and drinking was about two-thirds of one day. He wanted air, he wanted action, and, to his own surprise, he even wanted to get back to his books.
“Worse,” he said, “it’s now one night and nearly two full days since Ben brought fresh provisions. We’re out of wine, if you haven’t noticed.”
Coddington shrugged. “It won’t be long.” He had infinite faith in his upright man, due any day to come bail him out.
But Tom knew how these things worked. At first your friends are contrite and concerned. “We’re doing everything we can,” they say. They bring you treats and comforts and visit you twice a day. Then little by little, they weary of the chore and your ceaseless grumbling. They come less often and bring fewer gifts. Next thing you know, you’re alone and friendless, dependent on prison rations and the goodwill of the gaoler. Hunger and despair sap your strength until you fall prey to disease or worse.
“Be glad we’re not in Bridewell,” Coddington said. “Then those footsteps you’re listening for might be coming to take us down to the basement and hang us in the manacles.”
“We don’t torture ordinary criminals in England,” Tom said with authority. “That’s on the Continent. We only use torture for matters of state, like treason.” Francis Bacon had delivered a discourse on the subject a few weeks ago after supper at Gray’s Inn, shortly after being appointed to the recusancy commission.
“A lot you know about it! I know a boy was whipped bloody to make him tell the names of his accomplices.”
“Whipping isn’t torture.”
“Says the man who’s never been whipped. They’ll torture you whenever they please if they don’t like the answers you’re giving them.”
Tom pointed at him, arm fully extended. “False. Whipping is punishment, not torture. Legally, those two things are distinct. Even on the Continent, torture must be ordered by a judge. In England, you have to get a warrant from the Privy Council to seek specific information, like the names of the co-conspirators in some specific plot.”
He contemplated the space between the cots and decided he had room for a little fencing practice. Anything to beat back the boredom and give his muscles something to do. He adopted a sideways stance and measured the space with his arms, first front to back, then side to side.
Coddington had been lying on his back with his hands behind his head. As Tom’s long arms extended over his cot, he pulled himself up to sit with his back against the wall. “I once met a man who’d been racked, poor bastard. His knees were ruined. He could never walk again without two sticks to lean on.”
“Sad.” Tom pretended to draw his sword and moved into prime, the hilt above his head with the sword pointing at his imaginary opponent near the door. His fencing master taught them that slow movements, performed with exquisite attention, trained the muscles to respond without thought, even in the mad heat of conflict. “Even so, I’d rather have the rack than the Little Ease. I loathe confinement.”
“The Little Ease is barely four feet square, they say.” Coddington drew up his knees and curved his arms to define the space around him. “Campion survived it for four days. Could you sit like this for that long?”
“You’d never recover from that.” Coddington rolled his shoulders as if making sure they still worked. “Nor the thumbscrews. That’d be the worst for me. I need the full use of my hands. I’m the one with the charm, you see.” He fiddled his fingers in front of his face as if working some small mechanism. “Master of the dark art. The one that gets us in and out without a trace.”
Tom suppressed a grin. He’d gained his cellmate’s trust little by little — and bottle by bottle. He still hadn’t gotten the name of Coddington’s master, but he had learned the man was a member of Gray’s Inn. There were over three hundred members, a hundred of them seldom in residence, but even so, Tom had an inkling of who it might be.
Ingenious crimes involving the smuggling of prohibited Catholic goods? He’d lay odds on Trumpet’s uncle, Nathaniel Welbeck.
In fact, the more he learned about the chapel burglaries — Coddington had hinted at a number of others — the more he liked Mr. Welbeck as the upright man. He couldn’t picture him kneeling over a body to carve a cross in its chest, but he could easily see him planning the burglaries. Welbeck loved deception, pulling the wool over everyone’s eyes. He had friends with Catholic interests on both sides of the British Sea. And he’d been involved in smuggling prohibited materials in the past.
Coddington had bragged about his master’s clever timing, hiding their crimes under the general panic caused by the Spanish armada. The war raised the odds of getting away with the theft of Catholic goods to a near certainty. Who would dare to declare them missing? And who would care if they did?
Tom shifted into tierce, his hand at waist height, supinate, blade pointing up. “I wouldn’t worry, old chum. They won’t torture you for picking locks.”
“Thanks.” Coddington nodded contentedly, then shook himself and said, “Wait, now. You say they torture men for ordinary crimes on the Continent. Does that include France?”
“Of course.”
“Can they torture you for a crime you commit in another country?”
Tom turned full around on his heel and pointed his sword arm straight at his cellmate. “Are we talking about a theft in England?”
Coddington pushed the invisible blade away with one hand. “We might be.”
“And the goods are sold in France?”
“That’s where the Catholics are. The closest ones anyway.”
“What part of France?” Tom barked the question, like a judge in a courtroom.
“Dieppe, the one time I went. We handed the goods on to another ship. We only spent one night, down by the docks. We left at sunrise the next morning. I barely set foot on the shore.”
“Doesn’t matter.” Tom spread his arms in opposite directions, as if parrying thrusts from two opponents. “But why Dieppe? It’s too close; too much competition. If it were up to me, I’d go farther, to Jersey or La Rochelle. Or even St. Jean de Luz.”
“What do you know about it?” Coddington sounded a trifle indignant, as if Tom had cast doubt on his beloved master.
“More than you think. My father’s a privateer, didn’t I tell you?” He took two short, shuffling steps, right foot in front, then lunged forward, thrusting his sword toward the door.
“A privateer, eh?” Coddington sounded intrigued. “Isn’t that interesting.”
Tom glanced over his shoulder. “I was hoping you’d think so. The road I’m on isn’t taking me where I want to go. I need new friends.” He pulled in his arms, turned, and crossed his arms in front of his chest. “I could be useful to your master. I have chambers at Gray’s, and my father is captain of his own ship. When we get out, maybe you could arrange a meeting.”
When he got out, Tom intended to track down Nathaniel Welbeck by himself before mentioning the name to Mr. Bacon or Ben. Let them be left in the dark for a change! He could bring Trumpet along, dressed as a — whatever she chose. She’d mentioned once or twice that Uncle Nat had moved to Exeter, but he couldn’t be directing these burglaries from that distance. He must be in London somewhere. Tom would need her help to find the wily barrister and besides, she had a right to know he’d planned the burglary of her husband’s chapel.
If Coddington had picked the lock, there would have been two or three other burglars to carry the booty and row the boat. One of them must have killed Lord Surdeval for reasons of his own. Tom had probed as close to that subject as he dared. Coddington had steadfastly insisted that only incompetent burglars ever resorted to violence.
“In and out like cats, that’s the first rule of the game. Don’t leave a mess, that’s the second. The household either sleeps through it all like innocent babes, or they’re not home in the first place. Nobody knows a thing until next time they go inside their secret little church. By then, the goods — and us — are well out of reach.”
Tom believed him, but he’d spent too much time with Francis Bacon to believe the thefts and the murders could be completely unrelated. With a little luck and a little guile, Tom intended to solve both crimes while Ben and Bacon chased fruitlessly around London. Neither of them could interrogate his own mother without Tom’s help.
“I’ll ask my master when I see him,” Coddington said. “Not sure we’re in need of a new man, but you never know. But what about France? Will they torture me to learn the names of my accomplices?”
“If they catch you, they might.” Tom grinned. “My professional advice? Don’t go back.”
He swung full around again to face the door. He set his left hand on his hip and extended his right arm, making circular motions with his invisible blade. He imagined the door bursting open to reveal Mr. Bacon, hat in hand, stooping to beg his forgiveness on bended knee, clutching a letter from the Lord Treasurer demanding Tom’s immediate release.
His lip curled at the idle dream. Why not imagine the queen rushing in as well, to kiss Tom on the lips? No, not the queen — Trumpet, in that pink and silver gown she’d worn on her wedding night. No, not the gown. That slip of transparent gauze she wore later, barefoot, with her hair gleaming like black satin hanging down to her —
His brain stopped while the shape of her perfect round arse formed in his hands.
“Hoi!” Coddington said. “Sounds like someone’s coming up the stairs after all.”
“What?” Tom heard a booming voice echoing up the stone stairwell, a voice he would recognize from fifty yards away in a howling gale. “Father!”
The door swung open and there stood Captain Valentine Clarady in the flesh. He looked thinner than he had last winter but otherwise hale and sprucely dressed in dark green with pale green linings. His satin hat sported a band of woven silk and two stiff feathers to emphasize its height.
The captain spread his arms wide and Tom walked into them, tears of relief springing into his eyes. He would rather have his father here than the queen and all her ministers.
Although he hadn’t expected to see him anytime soon. He’d assumed the Susannah would remain at sea with the rest of the English fleet for many more weeks. He hadn’t begun to come up with a way to explain his present predicament.
They separated with hearty slaps on the shoulders. The captain looked him up and down with a critical eye. “Well, well, me boyo! You don’t look much the worse for wear, though you need a good barbering and a change of clothes. We’ll attend to that while you tell me what in the name of the seven seas you’re doing in here. Your lawyer friend just hums and mumbles when I ask him about it.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder.
Tom hadn’t even noticed Ben looming in the background. “Am I free?”
“You are,” Ben said. “Mr. Bacon got a letter from the sheriff.” He waved a roll of parchment. “Your father caught me on my way here to get you out. You may be interested
to know there have been two other murders and several other burglaries.”
“More murders?” Tom shot a glance at his cellmate, who had risen from the bed. Coddington shrugged. In and out like cats, the first rule of the game.
Tom snatched the document from Ben, unrolled it, and read it quickly. A grin spread across his father’s face, who loved watching his son doing anything lawyerly, even something as simple as reading a letter without moving his lips.
Tom rolled it up again and handed it back. “All right, then. I forgive you. But only because you brought my father with you.”
“Forgive me?” Ben’s dark brows knitted.
“Is there anything here you want to keep?” the captain asked, surveying the narrow cell.
Tom snorted. “Let Coddington have the blanket. Mr. Bacon did me a favor; perhaps the moon will turn blue and it’ll snow tomorrow.”
Ben frowned at him but said nothing. He gestured at the guard to move on so the rest of them could come through.
Coddington called, “It’s been a right pleasure, Mr. Clarady. I won’t forget what you said. Perhaps you’ll let me buy you a drink once we’re both at liberty again. You can find me at the Dolphin down by the Old Swan Stairs.”
“I’ll do it. Good luck to you!” Tom called as the door banged shut. They trailed the guard down and out.
Tom stood for a moment, appreciating the lack of walls. He felt like drawing in a deep breath of free, fresh air, but no place this close to the Fleet River smelled fresh at summer’s end. He gave his father another hug instead. “We won!” Holding on to his father’s shoulder, he grinned at Ben. “My father ran those Spaniards off with their tails between their legs.”
The captain chuckled. “I had help.” His smiled faded as he folded his arms and regarded Tom with an interrogatory eye. “That story can wait. I want to know how my son ended up in Newgate under an accusation of murder. And what’s all this about the Earl of Orford’s daughter?”