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

by Anna Castle

  Bacon asked, “Is that woman with you?” His pitch rose steeply.

  “Who? Mrs. Palmer? Yes, she’s here. She stopped downstairs to speak with Mrs. Sprye about a coach or something. She’ll be right up.” She tilted her head at Ben, smiling away his disapproving frown, which she knew had to do with her being glad to see Tom. As if she couldn’t be glad without the world falling to pieces. “What a delight to find you all here! We came for a drink and —” She broke off as she noticed the fourth man in the room. Tall, fair, smiling, with a dimple creasing his cheek.

  She strode forward with both hands outstretched. “You must be Captain Clarady! I’ve heard so much about you. I feel I’ve known you for years!”

  “Good things, I hope.” The captain bowed and kissed her hand. “And you would be . . .”

  “This is Trumpet,” Tom said. “Or rather, Lady Alice Trumpington. Or no, oops — now she’s Alice Gumery, Lady Surdeval.”

  “That’s a weight of names for so slender a maid.” The captain smiled down on her. “Though I might have guessed, my lady. You’re the spit of your father, my Lord of Orford.”

  “Do you know him?”

  “What seafaring man doesn’t! You’re right glad to spot the Earl Corsair in the offing when you’re caught between the devil and the deep blue sea.”

  “You are?” Trumpet blinked at him, bemused. She couldn’t remember ever hearing her father praised. Usually, she caught knowing looks and gloved whispers about gambling, mounting debts, or other such faults.

  She beamed at the captain as she moved toward the empty chair between father and son. What extraordinary luck! She’d invited Mrs. Palmer to join her for a cup of wine at the Antelope after being released from the elder widows’ clutches. True, she’d secretly hoped Tom might choose to come to the inn for a well-cooked meal after a week of prison rations. But never in her wildest dreams had she imagined she’d get to meet his father!

  Even better, now that the whole team was together, they could have a full and frank discussion of the murders. She wanted to know whatever it was Bacon had kept from his mother and aunt. They were old and quarrelsome; naturally, he’d hold back in their presence. But Trumpet wanted details. She wanted to know every single thing Bacon had learned so far and what he planned to do next.

  Before she could sit, Mrs. Palmer appeared in the doorway. “Come in!” Trumpet cried. “Come meet my friends.” She gestured across the table. “You know Mr. Bacon, of course.” She introduced Ben, then Captain Clarady, and last, Tom, as if he were merely a minor participant. She didn’t want the pretty widow paying too much attention to him.

  Mrs. Palmer made a curtsy to each gentleman and murmured the conventional phrases. If she had any special interest in one or the other, she kept it to herself.

  Trumpet pointed at the chair between Ben and Mr. Bacon. “Sit!” She seated herself between the Claradys and clasped her hands on the table before her. “We’re going to discuss the murders.”

  “Oh!” Mrs. Palmer’s hand flew to her mouth. She glanced at the door as if contemplating flight, then turned to Ben for some reason. “If you promise not to say anything too frightening . . .”

  Ben somehow made himself taller and rumbled, “Your presence will be a bond for our good behavior, Mistress.”

  While he helped her into her chair and the other men resumed their places, an idea bloomed in Trumpet’s mind — a splendid idea that would serve many purposes at once. Ben should marry the rich, pretty, young widow, not Mr. Bacon.

  She’d always suspected Ben’s preference for men had more to do with his circumstances than his fundamental tastes. Tom had told her some men turned to other men in colleges and Inns of Court and such, but liked women well enough once they moved out into the world. Ben always noticed pretty women and responded to them, puffing out his chest and lowering his voice. Bacon never did that sort of thing. Bevies of naked goddesses could frolic beneath his nose and he would merely sneeze at their perfume.

  Mrs. Palmer’s wealth would solve Ben’s money woes once and for all, allowing him to pursue a legal career commensurate with his abilities. He’d adjust to marriage in time. He’d love the stability and the domesticity and be a good husband to both the woman and her estates.

  Best of all, if Ben and Sarah had a house in London — perhaps even here in Holborn, handy to Gray’s Inn — nothing would be more natural than for Trumpet to visit them frequently. Tom would do the same; he would naturally be a fixture in his best friend’s house.

  Yes, yes, yes! A marriage between Ben and Sarah would be ideal. She’d set to work on it as soon as the current problem was resolved. Yet another reason to get this sordid business behind them as quickly as could be. She pointed her chin at the papers on the table. “Were you making a plan, Mr. Bacon?”

  “Yes,” he replied. “I’ve listed four areas to be investigated. But Captain Clarady has only a short time to spend with his son. Perhaps he would prefer we postpone this discussion?”

  “Not on my account,” the captain said. He shot a wink across the table. “We’re in for a real treat, Mrs. Palmer, getting to watch Mr. Bacon’s gallant crew of intelligencers in action. Tom told me all about how they solved several ticklish murders at Gray’s Inn during his first Christmas here.”

  “I look forward to it,” Mrs. Palmer said.

  Trumpet and Tom traded grins. The captain was Tom times ten! And she was a recognized member of the gallant crew. She asked, “What’s first on your list?”

  “The first question is obvious: ingress and egress.”

  Tom leaned across Trumpet with a wink and said to his father, “That’s lawyer talk for how they got in and out.”

  Trumpet giggled, but the captain seemed unamused by Tom’s impertinence. “Sounds like the right question to me. Were there broken windows or other such signs?”

  “Not at Surdeval House,” Francis said. “I don’t know about the others.”

  “The windows in my lord’s bedchamber were open,” Trumpet said. “The night was mild.”

  “But the rest of the house must have been locked up,” Ben said. “Could the burglars have come through His Lordship’s bedchamber?”

  “Why not?” Tom asked. “The viscount was deep in the arms of Morpheus. I doubt they did though. There must have been two or three to carry out all the booty. One of them would have been a lock-picker, most like. They’d come up the lawn from the river, where they’d leave their boat. You’d need a boat to carry away that much stuff. You couldn’t very well leave a horse and cart standing about on the Strand, where every gate has a guard. They’d pick the lock at the bankside gate and whichever door they liked to get into the house. They’d go out the same way.”

  “I see you’ve given this some thought,” Bacon said.

  “There isn’t much else to do in gaol.” His tone was bitter. He probably blamed Bacon for his nights in Newgate. Unfair, if understandable. Trumpet shot him a sympathetic smile. At least he didn’t blame her.

  Bacon ignored the tone, or didn’t notice it. He could be heedless of other people’s humors. He said, “Baron Hewick had a house in Chelsea, I believe, although I don’t know if it’s on the river. I don’t know where Mr. Rouncey lived.”

  Ben said, “In Bermondsey, south of the river, although his house might not be on the bank.”

  “I’ll bet it is,” Tom said.

  “It would be worth finding out,” Bacon said. “It might tell us something about our villains’ capabilities. Ben, you and Tom should visit both houses tomorrow. Talk to the current householders. There might be other details about the crimes that the sheriff’s men failed to note.”

  “That I can well believe,” Ben said. “I’m afraid the sheriff is not overly concerned about these crimes.”

  Captain Clarady said, “If my son weren’t involved, and Your Ladyship as well, I might not care so much myself. Three Catholics the fewer? Good riddance, some would say.”

  “Many, I should think,” Mrs. Palmer said, then pl
aced her hand over her mouth, as if she’d spoken out of turn.

  Tom gave her a dimpled smile and answered his father. “That’s the wrong idea, Dad. We can’t let everyone go around murdering anyone they don’t like. Where would it end? If people have grudges, they should bring them into the courts and let us lawyers work it out.”

  “For a handsome fee, eh, me boyo?” A huge grin spread across the captain’s face. He winked across the table at Mr. Bacon. “‘Us lawyers,’ did you hear that? My son.” He poked himself in the chest.

  His unconstrained pride touched a chord of envy in Trumpet’s breast. She couldn’t imagine anything she could do to inspire such an emotion in her own father. In truth, the only person who had ever clapped her on the back to congratulate her for some achievement was Tom.

  Bacon regarded his pupil with a wry look. “Your analysis is correct, Tom, if crudely phrased.”

  Tom leaned sideways to whisper in Trumpet’s ear. “It could have been cruder.” She giggled, but stopped as she caught the severe look in Captain Clarady’s eyes. She didn’t want Tom to get in trouble with his father.

  The captain said, “I find it hard to understand, Mr. Bacon, how there can be any Catholics left in England, after what their masters in Rome and Spain have put us through.”

  “That’s an interesting question, Captain.” Bacon sounded pleased at the new topic. It was the sort of conversation he liked — abstract and political. “I wish I could offer you a simple answer, but if it were simple, we wouldn’t need pursuivants or recusancy commissions. Most English Catholics don’t see themselves as subjects of the pope. They love the traditions, the forms of worship they grew up with, the beautiful objects and music used in familiar rituals, and the connection to their own family histories.”

  “But fostering priests and spreading dangerous tracts only encourages our enemies,” Ben said. “How can loyal Englishmen not recognize that as treason? I find that baffling myself.”

  “Englishmen may recognize that such deeds put them outside the pale,” Bacon said. “But these men believe their estates are theirs to govern as they please, within their own bounds. And let us not forget the Englishwomen: the wives, and more especially, the widows.” He chuckled and took a small sip from his cup, making a face at the taste. “My mother is that sort of widow, as a matter of fact.”

  “Lady Anne Bacon is a Catholic?” Sarah Palmer’s voice rose shrilly. “You astonish me, Mr. Bacon!”

  “No, no. Heavens, no!” Bacon laughed. “Quite the contrary, I assure you. My mother is an ardent Calvinist. I only meant that she is in some ways like the Catholic widows who devote themselves wholeheartedly to their religious practices. Her Calvinism is the organizing principle of her life. Her household runs in accordance with the religious calendar. She summons her entire staff to chapel — a very plain chapel — for prayers twice a day, every day. She provides houseroom to visiting preachers, some of whom are so extreme they’ve been expelled from their own parishes. She spends hours a day translating religious tracts sent to her from the Continent, some of which might provoke the arrest of a man or a woman of lesser status. In short, she is the Protestant counterpart of Ladies Hewick and Surdeval — the late one, I mean.” Bacon inclined his head toward Trumpet.

  “It sounds exciting when you put it that way,” Trumpet said. “These women are actively engaged in important affairs of state, even though it looks like they’re just choosing the daily menu and deciding what should be read to the servants at meals. And of course all great houses have tutors in residence and other long-term guests; it’s part of their function.”

  “Precisely,” Bacon said. “Without such women, unapproved religions would find it hard to maintain any kind of foothold in our society.”

  “They’re virtually untouchable too,” Ben said. “Legally speaking. Since they have no standing, they can’t be prosecuted.”

  “That’s the part I like,” Trumpet said, “though I don’t plan to waste my time on religious conflict. I’m going to specialize in the law, like Lady Russell. When I have my own house, I’ll fill it with poets and philosophers.”

  Bacon tendered her a curious smile. Had he never considered that one of these days she would become a woman of consequence? He needn’t worry. Having Francis Bacon at her table would ensure its respectability and attract other men of intellect in one stroke.

  “What’s next on the list?” she asked.

  Bacon consulted his page. “The disposition of the chapel goods.”

  “They’ll be out of the country by now,” Tom said.

  The captain nodded. “France would be my guess.”

  “Dieppe, I’ll wager, or St. Jean de Luz. Don’t you think so, Dad?”

  The captain snapped his fingers at his son. “Just the place for them! And I’m not surprised you remember it.”

  The two men shared a deep chuckle, plainly remembering some shared adventure.

  “What’s in St. Jean de Luz?” Trumpet snapped. Knowing Tom, the adventure had involved a brothel.

  Tom waggled his eyebrows at her. “Nothing suitable for a lady’s ears.”

  She kicked him under the table and he grinned.

  “It has a vile reputation,” Mrs. Palmer said, widening her pale blue eyes. “Although every merchant is obliged to avail himself of its services if he wishes to stay in business.”

  “I’ve never heard of it,” Ben said.

  The captain said, “It used to be just a fly speck down near the Spanish border. Then King Philip closed his ports to English ships, and merchants on both sides had to find another way to deliver their goods. St. Jean has a good harbor and port officials eager to be bought. You swap your cargo with a German or French ship to take it on to the final destination. Cloth and corn for Spain, oil and oranges for England. Most folks care more about what’s on their backs and their tables than they do about what’s said in their neighbors’ churches, when it comes down to it. Trade must go on.” He nodded at Mrs. Palmer, who nodded back.

  Bacon said, “Those are basic commodities, bought and sold in bulk. Would you also sell small items of value and rarity in such a place?”

  “You would,” the captain said. “You’d need a special sort of buyer and you wouldn’t get half their value, but you can sell anything in St. Jean de Luz.” He flashed a smile. “When I take a ship, I take everything, right down to the officers’ spare linens. I’ve sold crucifixes studded with pearls, Bibles wrapped in scented kidskin, all manner of gewgaws.”

  “How would you find this special sort of buyer?” Bacon asked.

  “Depends on the goods, Mr. Bacon. Some things you can sell to anyone. A chalice is just gold and jewels once you melt it down. But some things are worth more than what they’re made from. Those saint’s boxes, for example — reliquaries, they call ’em. They can get to be part of the family, you might say. The owner will likely pay a smart sum to get that back.”

  Ben said, “Surely you don’t go into Spain to sell them.”

  “Not me,” the captain answered. “But I know a man who will. Jacques Le Bon, as slippery a Frenchie as ever you might hope to meet.”

  Tom laughed. “His name may be Le Bon, but there’s nothing good about him.”

  “Nothing but his connections and his smooth talk,” the captain said. “We’ve locked horns a few times over the years, but he’s the first I’d ask about selling any especially tricky goods.”

  “He could sell water to a wherryman, couldn’t he, Dad?”

  “Or pomp to the pope.”

  The Clarady men laughed heartily, leaning back in their chairs. Trumpet basked in the reflected warmth of their mutual affection. She wanted to be part of it. She wanted both of them, somehow, someday; the one for a husband, the other for a beloved father-in-law.

  Bacon also regarded the father and son with a wistful gaze. His father had been one of the most important men in the kingdom. He’d also had many other sons. Perhaps he hadn’t had much time for the youngest one. Funny, Trumpet ha
d never given a moment’s thought to Bacon’s relationship to his father before. At least Sir Nicholas had been an honorable man.

  Sticking to the matter at hand, Bacon asked, “Who manages the English side of these transactions?”

  “That’s the job of the upright man,” Tom said.

  Bacon frowned. “Do you mean upstanding?”

  Ben answered, “The upright man is the chief among thieves, the one who plans the swindle or organizes the job.” Bacon raised his eyebrows and Ben shrugged. “The broadsides love thieves’ cant.”

  And Ben loved the broadsides, the more scandalous the better.

  “I believe our upright man may be a gentleman, probably educated, possibly even a lawyer.” Tom said, a hint of challenge in his tone.

  “Oh, surely not!” Mrs. Palmer cried.

  Ben and Bacon made scoffing noises, but the captain held up a hand. “Tom could have the right of it. Not all gentlemen have the means to support their tastes, you know.”

  Bacon tilted his head. “I’ll concede the possibility, but we must not allow ourselves to be misled by unsupported assumptions.”

  “Someone must be organizing these jobs,” Tom insisted. “Someone with the authority to prevent the thieves from stripping the whole house bare. They only took what they came for; that shows restraint and planning.” He gave them a tight-lipped grin that suggested he could say more if he wanted to.

  Ben noticed it too. “I get the feeling you’re not telling us everything you learned in Newgate.”

  Tom gave a hollow laugh. “I sincerely doubt you want to know everything. For example, were you aware that rats can actually —”

  “I believe we can forgo the details,” Bacon said. His tone made it clear that he would not indulge in guessing games. “I’m sure the experience was most unpleasant. Let us hope it inspires you to greater discretion in future.”

  Captain Clarady and Ben grinned. Trumpet pressed her foot against his to signal that she was on his side. She’d get whatever it was out of him next time they found a way to meet in private.

  Tom kept his foot next to hers to show he understood. For the others, he leaned back and folded his arms across his chest. “I’ll find the upright man; wait and see if I don’t.”