by Anna Castle
“It isn’t a contest,” Francis said. “We must work together.” He returned his attention to Captain Clarady. “I had thought to send Tom and Ben out to survey pawnshops, but perhaps that would be a waste of time?”
“Not necessarily,” the captain said. “While I agree with my boy here that the goods have probably gone south, they must have been kept somewhere for a time. You’ve got five burglaries, according to Mr. Whitt, spread out over the last month. Your thieves would have stored up their takings until they had enough to justify the journey. It can take a week or more to sail to St. Jean de Luz and that long to return. The Bay of Biscay has some fearsome treacherous winds.”
“It’s faster to sail in than out,” Tom said. “And Dieppe is less than a day.”
“If the weather’s good. At any rate, Mr. Bacon, the lads might be able to find the place where they kept the stuff and pick up the trail from there.”
“Thank you, Captain. We need trails we can pursue in England, or we’re lost before we start.”
“I’ll be in Dieppe tomorrow night,” the captain said. “I could poke around a bit. Le Bon might be around and in the mood to parley. If I find out anything, I’ll send word with someone trusty.”
“That would be very helpful, Captain,” Bacon said.
Trumpet asked, “Won’t you come straight back yourself?”
“No, my lady, not for a few weeks at least. I’m going fishing.” He grinned, showing the Clarady dimple. “Our lads need food and medicine, commodities in short supply in England. But the Duke of Parma is still getting supplies for his troops in the Netherlands. I thought I’d see if I might relieve him of a cargo or two.”
“We wish you the best of success,” Mrs. Palmer said. “And a safe return.”
“And a longer visit next time,” Tom said. “You’ve got to see Tamburlaine, Dad; it’ll purely amaze you.” He patted Trumpet’s foot with his. She took it as an invitation to join them. She’d fund another performance of the play herself for the chance to sit between the Clarady men!
Tom cocked his head at Francis. “Did you want us to tour the pawnshops before or after we visit the victims’ houses?”
His father’s tutted at the disrespectful tone, but Mr. Bacon always ignored their attempts to bait him. “After,” he said. “Look for any place that seems to be dealing in religious impedimenta. You might try some of the less upstanding goldsmiths. Or should I say, ‘upright’ ones?” His eyes twinkled at the joke, but no one laughed. He had the worst sense of humor Trumpet had ever encountered — before she’d met his mother, that was.
He sighed and returned to his list. “The third item is the question of the poison we assume was employed to effect the murders. I’ll pursue this myself. My apothecary has a broad knowledge of herbs and other medicines, as well as a fine collection of books on the subject. He might know something.”
Captain Clarady said, “From what the lads told me, it sounds like it could be a sort of arrow poison.”
“Why, yes. My Lord of Essex suggested that as well.” Bacon shot a glance at Ben, whose lips had tightened. “He reminded me that the savages of the New World use such potions for hunting. Do you have any experience with them, Captain?”
“I’m sorry to say I don’t, Mr. Bacon. To be honest, I’m not altogether convinced they exist.” He wagged his finger. “I’ll tell you who might know something — a new fellow in my crew. An Indian, as we call them. I picked him up in the Spanish Main this last time out. It’s a pity you can’t ask him yourself, but by the time we could send for him, it would be time for me to leave.”
“I gather such poisons aren’t easily come by,” Bacon said.
“I’ve never tried.” The captain fingered his pearl earring the way Tom did when he was thinking. “I’d start with an apothecary, as you say. One that collects the nastier potions.” He chuckled. “I know a fellow in Amsterdam I wouldn’t care to be on the wrong side of.”
“Your apothecary is Dutch, Francis,” Ben said.
Bacon chuffed. “And a perfectly respectable man. Although there are apothecaries of the other sort in London as well. Can you think of any other source, Captain? A chandler, perhaps . . .”
“I don’t think so, Mr. Bacon. The stuff might be a myth, to my mind, like the fabled cities of gold. Something rare and dangerous that kills at a touch? Although if it’s real, it would appeal to the sort of men who collect exotic weapons. You know the kind I mean.”
“Lords,” Ben said with a pointed glance at Bacon. “Men with great estates and great houses, who cultivate connections abroad.”
Bacon gave him a dark look. “Persons whom we will certainly not be troubling with our intrusive speculations.”
The two men evidently had some sort of ongoing quarrel. Trumpet wished they would leave it in their chambers. Their continual carping was making a poor impression on Mrs. Palmer. “What about the last item, Mr. Bacon? You said you had four areas of investigation?”
“Yes.” Bacon tapped a finger on the paper, staring down at it as if unwilling to read what he’d written. After a longish pause, he said, “The last item concerns the selection of victims.”
“I would have put that first,” Tom said, earning another sharp look from his father. He shrugged. “I apologize, but it is first, logically.”
“They’re obviously choosing Catholics,” Ben said.
“But only certain ones,” Trumpet said. “And not the hottest by any measure.”
“Rich ones with chapels,” Tom said. “That’s the key, for the burglaries at least.”
“We can’t separate the burglaries from the murders,” Francis said. “We need one key that fits both.”
“I don’t see why,” Trumpet said. “You could easily rob the chapel at Surdeval House without waking anyone if you were quiet about it and had your boat waiting, as Tom said. Why murder my poor lord, who must have been sound asleep?”
Bacon shook his head and wagged his finger at her. “No, Trumpet, it doesn’t hold. The crimes cannot be unrelated. Occam’s Razor won’t allow it.”
“I thought the men were poisoned,” the captain said. “Did the murderer use a razor too?”
Bacon smiled at him. “It’s a principle of parsimony, Captain. It means we must not postulate superfluous entities.”
The captain’s face went blank. Tom grinned. “He means we should pick the simplest answer, Dad, that’s all.”
Trumpet added, “If we have two crimes in the same house on the same night, we should assume one person or gang is doing both of them.”
“That makes perfect sense,” the captain said. “I hold with Mr. Occam.”
Ben snapped his fingers. “Here’s another idea that bridges the two. What if the thieves committed the murders to confuse the authorities? They’ve figured out that they can steal quantities of valuables from secret chapels without much risk of pursuit, assuming there’s an upright man to coordinate their sale. But to cover their tracks even further, they commit these strange murders, seemingly motivated by religious hatred. That draws all the attention and sends any pursuers off in search of a lunatic.”
Mrs. Palmer gazed at him in admiration. “You are a most ingenious man, Mr. Whitt.”
“He’s an exceptional legal counselor as well,” Trumpet put in. “Easily the match of my uncle, in case you want a man in London.”
“That is an intriguing idea, Ben,” Bacon said, “although a shade diabolical.”
Tom said, “These burglars would have to be far more ruthless than the usual variety. Usually thieves avoid violence.” He gave them that tight-lipped smirk again.
Everyone fell silent while they pondered the implications of Ben’s idea. Tom had obviously picked up some gossip about burglaries in Newgate. He might even have had a long conversation with a thief and now considered himself an expert. Trumpet wanted to hear every detail. Could she get the men to stay for supper? Or better yet, come to Chadwick House?
“I believe we all have our tasks for the morr
ow,” Bacon said. “Ben and Tom will start by visiting the other victim’s houses and make inquiries in a few pawnshops. I will visit my apothecary and learn what I can about poisons that cause paralysis.”
“What should I do?” Trumpet asked. “I could visit pawnshops; many ladies do. My maidservant can help me concoct something Catholic-looking that I could try to sell.”
Tom patted her foot with his to say he thought it a good idea. But the other men only frowned. Bacon said, “Your task, my lady, is to remain at home, presenting a portrait of perfect propriety.”
My lady? It had been “Trumpet” a minute ago. “Do nothing?”
No one answered, not even Tom. If they thought she would sit at home twiddling her thumbs while they got to have all the fun, they had another think coming.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The counterman plunked two mugs of hot ale laced with nutmeg in front of Tom and his father, then slid a wooden plate of warm bread toward their reaching hands. The Claradys were breaking the night’s fast at a dockside tavern in Billingsgate that opened at the crack of dawn. In spite of the hour, the place was crowded with men waiting for the tide to turn so they could take the long ferry downriver to Gravesend, where the Susannah awaited its captain.
“Odd little man,” Captain Clarady said, with reference to Francis Bacon. “He slipped away like that the first time I met him.”
Tom took a wary sip of his ale — too hot. He followed his father outside, where a cool breeze rose off the river, strong enough to ruffle the hair curling under his hat. “Mr. Bacon finds sociability wearisome. He can only stand so much before he has to scuttle off to hide in a cool, dark room and recover.” He chuckled, expecting his father to share the joke, but got a stern frown instead.
“He may be odd, but he’s still your master, Tom. When he says froggy, you hop and hop lively.”
“Aye, Captain.” Tom dunked his bread in his mug and chewed it slowly, wondering what Mr. Bacon had said to his father last night. Mrs. Sprye had come in to ask about supper and they’d broken off their discussion of the murders. Ben had started collecting Mr. Bacon’s papers and Trumpet had gone down with Mrs. Palmer, who said she had to get home to her son.
Tom had taken the opportunity to go out to the jakes. When he came back, he’d found his father and his tutor having a quiet conversation in the corner, which they plainly did not want him to hear.
Then Ben and Trumpet had drawn him into a dispute about where to eat. Trumpet wanted to bring them all back to Chadwick House, but Ben adamantly objected. He forbade Tom — as if he could — to so much as walk up Bishopsgate Street. He wanted to send Trumpet home at once. She flatly refused to leave, claiming she had as much right to have supper with Captain Clarady as Ben, which in all fairness, she did.
They’d finally agreed she could stay and sup with them at the Antelope, a perfectly respectable establishment. Mrs. Sprye was there, after all, and Catalina Luna was somewhere about. One of the grooms would escort the young women home afterward.
Bacon had slipped out sometime during their debate, presumably to take his supper from a tray in the soothing solitude of his chambers.
Now Captain Clarady strode to the edge of the wharf and peered down, gauging the rate and direction of the water’s flow. One of the other men waiting for the ferry made some remark and they chatted for a few minutes. Tom watched them, his heart swelling in his chest. His father had always been his hero. Half of him wanted to toss his legal career into the Thames and follow him to sea, but the other half had learned that a court battle could be as exciting as one with steel blades once you knew the stakes and understood the tactics.
His father returned to the stretch of windowsill Tom had claimed as a table. “Should be here in a few minutes.”
“When do you think you’ll be back?”
The captain shrugged. “Depends on my luck, me lad, as always.”
They watched a small boat pulling up alongside a ship down the other end of the wharf. Two men climbed up a rope ladder to the deck.
The captain said, “I’ll pick up the gossip in Dieppe, sniff out who’s carrying what for who. The Duke of Parma’s suppliers are as like to be flying French or Danish flags. We need everything from rope to flour, but I’m hoping for munitions for a start.”
“Is that likely?”
“Oh, I think so. Parma’s so desperate for gunpowder he’d trade his own men for it if he thought anyone would take them. ’Course we are too. At any rate, I won’t capture many ships with what I’ve got at present, so powder has to be first on my list.”
Captain Clarady polished off his bread in two bites. Then he cocked his head and looked at Tom with pride warming his blue eyes. “I can see you’re moving well along the path I set you on two years ago. Your speech is more Westminster than West Country now. I’ll wager you’re handier with a quill than a rope now too.”
Tom winced. He hadn’t realized he’d changed so much.
His father chuckled. “Aye, lad, you’ve grown into your new life. I’m well pleased. I took the first ship ready to sail when I set you up with Francis Bacon, but that’s turned out to be a shrewd choice. I like this intelligencing game he’s gotten you into. It’s risky, granted, but it’s already made your name known to the Lord Treasurer. Be careful, me boyo. Keep your wits sharp and your blade sharper.”
“Always.”
“Good lad. And you couldn’t have chosen better than Mr. Whitt if you’d hired an intelligencer to spy you out the perfect chum. He’s a loyal friend and a true, or you can hang me for a lewd cur.”
“I trust him almost as much as I trust you.” Except where Mr. Bacon was concerned. “I believe you’ve set me on the right course, Father. I like my studies and I’m a fast learner. I acquit myself as well as most in the exercises in the hall these days. I’ll be a great barrister one day, I promise you.”
“That’s what Mr. Bacon told me.”
Tom’s jaw dropped. He barely heard his father’s booming laughter. Mr. Bacon usually treated him like a block-witted foreigner whose English was spotty at best. He’d never given a single hint that he regarded his unwanted pupil as anything but a burden.
Captain Clarady watched them load bales of wool onto the ship for a while, giving Tom a moment to absorb the unexpected compliment. Then he drained his mug and set it on the tar-streaked windowsill. “All that’s well and good, me boyo. But I do not like the way you’re carrying on with my Lord of Orford’s daughter. That’s a powder keg with a smoldering fuse and no mistake.”
“I’m not carrying on with Trumpet, Dad. We’re friends, that’s all.”
“She’s Lady Surdeval, Tom, even in your own head.” The captain grasped Tom’s shoulder to catch his gaze and hold it. “Never forget it. The nobility, they’re not like you and me. She may seem to be your friend. She may even believe with all her heart and soul that she’s your friend. But she’s the daughter of an earl and no more free to choose her friends than I am to choose which way the wind will blow. Her marriage is a matter of state. And so is her maidenhead.” He jabbed his index finger at Tom’s chest to emphasize each of those last words. “Touch her at your peril. One whisper of scandal and all we’ve built for you goes crashing onto the rocks.”
Tom held his peace. He wouldn’t contradict his father to his face, but the captain had some old-fashioned ideas. He would never understand.
His father wagged his finger in his face. “I mean it, Tom. No trifling with that girl. Promise me.”
“I promise.” Tom wouldn’t dream of trifling with Trumpet; it would be far too dangerous.
Men began to cluster at the edge of the dock. The ferry must be pulling up. The captain tilted his head to sniff the breeze. “It’s a good day for a sail.” He always said that, even when rain fell in buckets on their heads. He flashed a dimpled grin, reached into the deep pocket inside his galligaskins, and came up with a large gold coin. He flipped it to Tom, who caught it in his palm and held it up to examine both sides.
“Thanks, Dad. I’ll keep the coin in my pocket and the good advice in here.” Tom tapped his chest.
“Let the one remind you of the other.” Captain Clarady shot a glance at the queue, where some men had already started climbing down to the wherry. He threw his arms around Tom, clasping him close to his chest. “I love you, Son. And I’m proud of you.” He gave him a few thwacks on the back to shake the tears welling into Tom’s eyes, and he was gone.
* * *
Tom walked all the way home, knowing it would take forever to get a wherry going upstream at that hour. He wanted to stretch his legs anyway after a week in gaol and liked watching the city wake up. He passed a crew of men removing the heavy chains that had been strung across Cheapside and Tower Street to block the Spanish troops if they ever made it all the way to London. Some wards had laborers out forking heaps of rubbish onto carts to be hauled to the countryside. All manner of muck had been left to rot in the kennels during the long crisis, but Londoners were coming home at last and taking up their normal duties.
Tom walked up Bishopsgate Street to prove he could walk wherever he pleased, lifting his hat as he passed Chadwick House. He didn’t bother to look up. Trumpet wouldn’t be awake at this hour even if a Spanish tercio came marching past her door with pistols blazing. He strode out the city gate and up to Hog Lane to cross Finsbury Fields, enjoying the fresh smell of dewy grass and the view of fresh maids laying out linens to dry. Swinging back down Gray’s Inn Road, he bought a couple of plum and raisin pies from the vendor outside the gatehouse and tossed one to Ben as he walked in the door of their chambers.
