by Anna Castle
Mrs. Palmer gasped at the brusqueness of the question. Trumpet shrugged an apology.
“Let the sheriff pursue him,” Lady Bacon said. “I don’t like you trotting about after a madman, Francis.”
“Now that Mr. Clarady is free,” Trumpet said, “he can do the trotting. But we cannot stop. I must know who murdered my poor Lord Surdeval and I want our names to be cleared beyond all doubt.” Bacon didn’t want to do anymore work, no doubt. Trumpet knew how to persuade him. “You might charge your expenses to the Surdeval estate. Sir William can’t object without making himself look guilty.”
Bacon’s hazel eyes shone. He took a sip of his wine, obviously stalling so as not to appear too easily bought. Then he smiled and said, “On those terms, I accept. Justice must be served, even in crimes against our enemies in times of war.”
“Your commitment does you credit,” Trumpet said wryly.
Lady Russell flicked her a glance to acknowledge the ironic tone. “You’ll continue to report to the Andromache Society, Nephew.” With a nod to her sister, she added, “You will naturally take every precaution.”
“Of course,” Bacon said. He took another sip of his wine and set the cup down with an air of finality. “If we’re done . . .”
“Why don’t you show Mrs. Palmer the orchard, Francis?” Lady Bacon said, as if the idea had just occurred to her.
“Oh, yes,” Lady Russell said with the same artificial lilt. “It’s especially lovely at this time of day.” That much was true. The shadows were lengthening as evening drew in, bringing a cool breeze up from the river, though warmth still radiated from the brick walls. The bright sunlight had softened to a rosy glow.
“Ah.” Bacon smiled through his teeth. “I do have a report to write, for the recusancy commission, you know.”
“Nonsense,” Lady Bacon said. “You could use the exercise.”
Trumpet enjoyed watching her former tutor squirm under his mother’s unrelenting eye. Now she understood why Sarah Palmer had been invited: not as a young companion for Trumpet nor as a widow with experience in Chancery, but as a potential mate for a bashful barrister in chronic need of funds.
She took pity on the man. He had been an excellent tutor, after all. She bounced to her feet and held out a hand to Mrs. Palmer. “I adore orchards. Let’s all go.” She beamed at the older women, batting her lashes at their smoldering glares. Let them smolder; she outranked them by birth and by marriage.
The three young persons passed through a side gate into the next garden. Here fruit trees had been trained in spreading patterns against brick walls and willow scaffolds. Bacon knew a great deal about gardens, to Mrs. Palmer’s evident surprise and Trumpet’s inner satisfaction. She and the other lads made fun of him behind his back, but they nevertheless took pride in his gifts. Francis Bacon knew something about everything.
They strolled around the neatly raked path while Bacon pointed out varieties of pear, plum, and apricot. Tiny limes formed under spent flowers on trees with waxen leaves. After one circuit, Bacon fell silent, his gaze darting constantly toward the gate. Trumpet could almost hear his nerves thrumming with his desire to escape, but she knew they had only used up a few minutes.
In all honesty, Mrs. Palmer would be a good match for him. She had a son already, so they wouldn’t need to produce a child. She was rich, thanks to her husband’s lucrative trade with the Spanish. Her mother had been the daughter of the cadet branch of a baronage, so she was more or less gentle by birth. She had an interest in the law and a sense of humor, both of which she would need.
Trumpet lifted her foot and began another circuit, forcing the others to join her. “Do you enjoy the theater, Mrs. Palmer?”
“Oh, yes! I go with my neighbor every Saturday. Have you seen Tamburlaine, Mr. Bacon? I thought it the most astonishing play I’ve even seen.”
“I loathe the theater.” Bacon’s mild tone contrasted with the rudeness of his words. “Egregious nonsense served to a vulgar crowd.” Now he had insulted them both, though he didn’t seem to realize it. He fixed his eyes on the outer gate. “I really must go. I have an important —” He took three steps away from them, stopped, half turned around, and said, “Do forgive me.” Then he turned again and fled through the gate.
They waited, listening for a reaction from the neighboring garden. Nothing.
“I believe he has managed his escape,” Mrs. Palmer said. She and Trumpet grinned at one another, then began to giggle helplessly, their laughter rising until they were forced to cover their mouths with their hands.
“Mr. Bacon may not be quite ready for marriage,” Trumpet said.
“Perhaps not quite.” Mrs. Palmer gave Trumpet a conspiratorial look. “Would you happen to know if your uncle has any plans in that direction?”
“If he hasn’t, he ought to,” Trumpet said. “In my opinion, he could not do better than a woman such as yourself.” She tucked her hand under her new friend’s arm and began another turn around the garden. “I beg you to tell me the truth, Mrs. Palmer. Do you think the ladies believed my story about the nap?”
Mrs. Palmer laughed again, a high, short peal. She snapped her lips closed but couldn’t repress another throaty chuckle. “Perhaps not entirely. But they have their own objectives. They’ll support you to prevent Sir William from setting a precedent harmful to widows. We must protect our own, after all. Who else will do it for us?”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Francis left the city through Ludgate and passed the Old Bailey as he trudged up toward Holborn Bridge. He could feel his left garter loosening and only hoped he could make it home before the stocking descended and left him bare-legged in the street. To add to his misery, the stink of the Fleet River assailed his nose and the shame of that humiliating interview in the garden clung to him like a sour sweat.
His aunt and mother ought to have given him some warning. No doubt they assumed he would have made an excuse to avoid the meeting, and so he would have. He had no use for a wife. He’d managed to keep his debts at a manageable level in the past few years, and he’d rather borrow from Tom’s father again than lock himself into a fruitless bond. He was comfortable in his house at Gray’s Inn, which his own father had built. He liked living in a community of intellectual men. He had no desire to set up housekeeping in some little manor in Hackney or wherever the Palmer woman made her home.
His mother knew all that. The real problem was that, being no sort of a fool, she suspected he would never take an interest in any woman and she kept trying to force the matter. Lucky for him, Trumpet had been there to foil the plot. She’d done him a small favor by leaping in to defuse a tense moment and then deflect the widow’s attention in the garden.
Did that place him in her debt? Francis paused briefly, tilting his hat to protect his ear from the sun’s burning rays, and considered the question. No, on balance, he thought not. He’d gotten the lady released from the Tower, after all; a greater favor by anyone’s standard.
He smiled as he turned up Holborn Road. He would do well to remember that Trumpet — absurd little minx though she might be now — would one day develop into a lady of influence, not unlike his formidable aunt. That day might come sooner rather than later if her next marriage could be arranged more astutely. Perhaps he ought to take an interest in that himself. He could keep his ears open and drop an appropriate word at the opportune moment. He resolved to retain her goodwill and maintain a healthy balance of favors.
When he reached the corner of Gray’s Inn Road, he spotted the white sign of the Antelope Inn swinging temptingly up ahead. He wouldn’t mind a few moments of solitary respite before going back to Gray’s. Ben would be waiting to pepper him with questions about the meeting and who he might or might not have met on the way home, like the nagging wife he didn’t want.
He stepped quickly across the road and entered the inn. Mrs. Sprye comprehended his distress at a glance. She led him upstairs to a private room, mercifully dim with curtains drawn against the slanting rays of
the sun. He ordered a cup of dragon’s milk, a potent ale he rarely imbibed. He felt the need of something strong to rebalance his humors.
The strong drink made him light-headed at first but sent a renewed vigor coursing through his veins. After a few minutes of rest, he felt sufficiently revived to call for a jug of spring water and a writing desk. He would make notes to guide the next steps of his inquiry into the recusant murders. He could send Ben and Tom, now that Tom was free, out to ask the questions.
He dipped his quill and paused to arrange his thoughts. Like a hunter, he needed tracks to follow. He wrote “Matters to pursue” across the top of the page and underlined it twice. The first item was obvious, deriving from the first question the villain or villains must have asked themselves. How could they gain entrance to the victims’ houses?
Francis wrote “1. Ingress” and then paused again. The burglars must have left with sacks or chests filled with loot. Heavy, bulky burdens; they might not have gone out the way they came in. He added “and Egress” to the item. These facts might not uniquely identify the villains, but they would help him understand how events had transpired.
Once the burglars got away with their goods, where would they take them? Francis wrote “2. Disposition of chapel goods.”
Where could proscribed objects of Catholic worship be sold in England in these fearful times? Selling them might be more dangerous than stealing them in the first place. This was another good trail for Tom to follow given his father’s livelihood. Privateering and smuggling were two sides of the same ill-gotten coin, after all. Besides, there must be dozens of pawnshops in the London area; that meant days of dusty legwork.
So much for the burglary aspect. The third matter focused on the more heinous crime. He wrote “3. Poison” and began a search within his own well-stocked memory. What substances caused paralysis? Monkshood, also known as wolfsbane, would work, but its known symptoms did not accord with the description of the scene. He would follow the poison trail himself since it was as much a matter of natural philosophy as of criminal expedience. He would start with a visit to his own apothecary tomorrow.
What else? Francis reviewed his short list and realized that he hadn’t begun quite at the beginning. Before considering methods of ingress, the villains must first have chosen a target. He wrote “4. Selection of victims” and stopped, holding his quill suspended over the squat inkpot while he took a sip of the strong ale.
This question troubled him the most. The killer appeared to be choosing recusants who had been questioned by Her Majesty’s pursuivants and then merely confined to their homes until the crisis had passed. They were too rich or too well bred to be locked in a common prison yet deemed too tame to be sent to Wisbech Castle with the most dangerous peers. All three victims had been the milder sort of Catholic, with houses in the London area with private chapels and wives suspected of giving aid to seminary priests.
The victims formed an obvious class to Francis, but who else would see them that way? The public at large knew little about the recusancy commission until their work resulted in a hanging. Suspects who answered the questions satisfactorily returned to their homes without fanfare. Their names were ticked off the list and a mild eye kept on their activities; sufficient for the government, but not, apparently, for the murderer.
Who had access to those lists? Francis kept one; Sir Richard Topcliffe kept another. Sir William Waad, secretary to the Privy Council, kept the master copy. The commission’s activities were confidential until verdicts were reached. Copies of those lists were not meant to be circulated. Of course, the clerks who made and kept the copies knew everything, as always.
Francis kept a close guard on his list; only Ben had seen it. Members of the Privy Council generally took pains with such documents. Everyone loathed torture, however necessary it might be in times of war, and sought to limit its use and public knowledge of same. Almost everyone — Sir Richard had boasted of his ability to pry secrets out of men by such measures.
Could the murderer arrive at those particular names by some other means? Did the victims have anything else in common besides their religious preference and their well-furnished chapels? Could their deaths somehow benefit the same person?
Francis doubted it. Only the chapels were emptied; nothing else was taken from houses filled with ancient treasures. That fact and the crosses carved in the victims’ chests proclaimed the religious connection; indeed, the crosses declared a hatred for Catholics that went beyond mere wartime loyalty to queen and country.
A sour taste bubbled up from his stomach, not caused by the dragon’s milk. Francis feared he knew where the fourth trail would lead: back around in a circle to the recusancy commission. He also feared he lacked the courage to follow it to the end.
A bustle arose outside the door. Some lively group was probably coming up to have supper in one of the other private rooms. They’d be noisy. He might as well go home. But his door opened before he could finish his drink, and in bounded Thomas Clarady, crying, “Here you are!” Behind him came a man who might have been his twin but older and more weather-beaten, dressed like Tom in gay colors. Captain Clarady, home from the sea. Ben brought up the rear, a tall brown heron shepherding two peacocks.
“What luck!” Tom said. “We came for a drink and Mrs. Sprye told us you were here. My father had hoped to speak with you, and he only has the one night ashore.”
Francis glanced toward the windows, knowing there was no escape. Mrs. Sprye might have warned him; he could have slipped out the back. Too late now. He rose and answered, “Luck indeed. I thank God for your safe return, Captain Clarady. Any news of the Spanish fleet?”
“Of course there’s news,” Tom said. “News aplenty, and the truth for a change. But first let’s get a fresh round of everything.” He eyed the cup and jug beside the writing desk, then turned to the serving wench. “More of that, Dolly, whatever it is, and three pitchers of your best beer. And let’s have some savories — bread and cheese, whatever’s handy. I’m too hungry to wait for supper.”
“Another dragon’s milk, Mr. Bacon?” Dolly asked.
Francis declined the offer with a wince as Ben and Tom traded amused grins. He withstood a hearty clap on the back from the captain and allowed his hand to be shaken almost free of his arm.
He had met Tom’s father once two years ago, when Tom had first come up to Gray’s in the train of the Earl of Dorchester’s son. Tom had been placed at the clerk’s table as befitted his station, but the captain had higher ambitions. Through his connections among merchants and port officials, he had identified a senior barrister with a substantial burden of debt; namely, one Francis Bacon. The captain had paid him a visit and a deal was struck. Tom had moved into Ben’s chambers and up to the students’ table in the hall. He and his chums had also become Francis’s pupils.
Ben walked around him to move toward the far end of the table. “I was surprised to learn you were here, Francis. Why didn’t you come home after your appointment with the widows? Did you meet the Earl of Essex again?”
“No.” Francis frowned at the waspish tone. Ben had been harping on His Lordship as if some great personal bond had formed during that one short ride in the coach. A seed might have been planted — Francis hoped it had — but it was far too early for fruit. “I just wanted a respite from people and their endless questions.”
They glared at one another, but Tom broke in with his relentless cheer. “Then you should have gone someplace where no one knows you, Mr. Bacon.” He followed his father to take a seat on the opposite side of the table.
Ben slid past, ostentatiously averting his gaze from the half-written page of paper, and took a chair across from the captain. Francis resumed his own seat, arranging his list and his writing materials in orderly squares.
Dolly came back with a big tray, followed by a footman with an even bigger one. While waiting for the servers to distribute cups and plates, Francis regarded the two Clarady men. They made a handsome pair, each having
the same clean-limbed frames and well-proportioned features on faces apt to smile, which displayed identical dimples in their left cheeks. Each had an abundance of fair, curly hair, although the captain’s was a shade ruddier, especially his beard. He wore his beard and moustaches long while Tom preferred the more fashionable pointed beard with thin moustaches. Each wore a large pearl dangling from his left ear, an affectation that never failed to irritate Francis, ever since Sir Walter Ralegh had brought the fashion to court.
Tom met his gaze with a hint of challenge; from what cause, Francis could not imagine. He decided to ignore it. He smiled at his pupil. “Your time in Newgate doesn’t seem to have done you any harm.”
“So kind of you to take an interest.” Tom’s tone dripped with irony, earning him sharp looks from both Ben and his father. Ah. The lad had chosen to blame Francis for his recent predicament rather than Trumpet or his own poor judgment.
“Tush, Tom!” the captain said. “That cell looked better than your berth aboard the Susannah. A sight cleaner anyway, and I’ll wager the food was fresher. That’s thanks to your friends here. You owe them your freedom as well.”
“I may be free,” Tom said, “but I’m not clear. Until we catch the murderer, I’ll be walking under a constant cloud of suspicion.”
“I fear you are correct,” Francis said. “Lady Surdeval said as much. In fact, she —”
As if summoned like a demon by the mention of her name, the door flew open and Trumpet appeared on the threshold. She made a striking figure in her widow’s black, with the arching white widow’s coif framing her face.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Trumpet’s gaze flew straight to Tom. “You’re free!” He grinned back at her, holding her gaze for a long, long moment, reveling in the simple pleasure of being together. A throat cleared and her attention shifted to the other side of the room, where Francis Bacon edged slowly toward the rear of the room, where Ben stood frowning at her.
