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

by Anna Castle

  “I think it’s more than that.”

  “Nonsense.” Francis tried a soothing smile. “The queen won’t hang him, if that’s your fear. If the worst has happened and Her Ladyship is proved to be no longer a maid, she might be put in the Tower for a few months as a lesson. It won’t do her any harm, and frankly, she could stand to learn some restraint. Then she would be sent home to Orford for a while, out of temptation’s way. Tom might be packed off to the Continent on some lengthy errand; that might be wise in any event. I could send him to France with letters for Anthony. I assure you, nothing worse will transpire. Her Majesty makes allowances for earls and their daughters. A story will be constructed and a bargain negotiated that allows the lady to retain her reputation while surrendering some of her property.” He rose and collected his hat from the peg by the door. “Shall we go?”

  “I appreciate all that, but there’s something else.” Ben drummed his fingers on his knee while he waited for Francis to return to his chair.

  “Another woman? Where does Tom find the time?”

  Ben ignored the feeble sally. “Tom had an idea while we were out visiting the other victims’ houses. Did you know Rouncey’s house was confiscated by the Privy Council? His widow was turned out. It’s already been sold.”

  Francis shrugged. “I’m not surprised. They have the right and they need the money.”

  “Baron Hewick’s son — the new baron — had to pay a substantial penalty in order to retain his hereditary estate.”

  “Again, I ask: Why does this surprise you? The Act of Parliament passed in 1581 declared it treason to reconcile with the Catholic Church. The property of traitors is forfeit to the Crown.”

  “You don’t think it’s a little convenient?” Ben asked. “That recusants with property are being killed and the said property being sold to replenish Her Majesty’s coffers?”

  “This is Tom’s idea? That the Privy Council hired someone to commit these murders for gain?” Francis kept his tone level, but something in his eyes must have betrayed him.

  “Aha!” Ben stabbed a finger at him. “You do believe it, at least in part.”

  Francis bit his lip. He wished he was a better liar. “I don’t believe it, not in the sense that I have any real confidence in the proposition.” He took off his hat and placed it on the desk. “Rather let us call it a foreboding or a suspicion.”

  “God’s teeth,” Ben said. “You do think the Privy Council is involved.”

  “I most certainly do not,” Francis said. “At least not directly. But it’s possible that someone said something to the wrong person, perhaps merely expressing a complaint, in the manner of King Henry the Second crying, ‘Will no one rid me of this troublesome priest?’”

  “Oh,” Ben said. “I hadn’t thought of that. That’s nowhere near as bad as Tom’s idea of a murderous conspiracy.”

  “No, but it isn’t good.” Francis sighed. “You’ve guessed that much. I might as well unburden myself of the rest. In truth, it might be helpful to discuss my fears out loud.”

  “You think you know who that wrong person is; the one who heard the innocent complaint.”

  “I might. But you must not repeat any of this to Tom. Not a hint. Not one word. I don’t fully trust his discretion.”

  “That’s why he’s keeping things from us, I think. He feels he’s being left out.”

  “Then he should conduct himself with greater circumspection. We are not the ones who got him sent to gaol, remember.”

  “I know,” Ben said. “I agree. And I think I may know who you mean. You’re thinking of Sir Richard Topcliffe.”

  “I am.” Francis shuddered. “The name alone gives me a chill. Those flat black eyes, like some predatory beast. And the little smile when he reads a warrant authorizing torture. He enjoys it, every part of the whole ugly business.”

  “He fits everything we know about the murderer too.”

  “We know next to nothing,” Francis said. Now that he’d passed his suspicions to Ben, he could play opposing counsel and argue against them.

  “We know some things. We believe the man is educated. You think he may have read about the poisons in De Orbe Novo. Sir Richard is a member of Gray’s Inn, and he reads Latin. We believe the killer is motivated at least in part by a fervent hatred of Catholics. Sir Richard is renowned for his hostility to papists. You suspect, as I do, that the victims are being chosen from your list of recusants. Sir Richard collected the original list. He would know exactly who possessed a house with a well-furnished chapel.”

  Francis had started shaking his head long before Ben reached the end of his list. “Houses large enough and old enough to have private chapels, situated on the banks of the Thames? They’re one of the major attractions of our fair capital. Any wherryman will gladly call out the names of historic dwellings if you pay him a shilling. For a penny more, he’ll throw in a brief history of their owners.”

  “Old houses, yes, but they don’t all have private chapels. Or at any rate, not Catholic chapels. And you can’t argue with the other points.”

  “I can,” Francis said. “Easily. Although I agree that Sir Richard possesses all the relevant characteristics and is probably capable of such cold-blooded deeds. I despise his zealotry, and I’m more than a little afraid of the man. Which is precisely why I distrust my suspicions.”

  “I don’t follow you.”

  “It is one of the greatest intellectual fallacies, Ben, to see only that which our personal fears and desires bring to our attention. We must be especially wary whenever we find our evidence singling out an individual we would be more than pleased to find guilty.”

  Ben smiled ruefully. “I would love nothing more than to see that odious man convicted of something — anything. But the converse is equally true, isn’t it? We can’t allow self-distrust to make us dismiss our best arguments.”

  “You’re right. We don’t know enough yet to point our finger in any certain direction.” He rose and picked up his hat. “Now shall we attempt to take one more step out of the darkness? The name of the poison might help us stumble a few yards farther along. I’d like to be back before dinner, if possible. Rumor has it there will be venison at the benchers’ table today.”

  * * *

  Francis’s favorite bookseller traded under the sign of the owl on Paternoster Row. The shop was modest in terms of trade, but Oliver Brocksby had something of a specialty in philosophical works. His shop spanned fifteen feet along the street and extended the full depth of the row. Shelves ran up to the beamed ceiling everywhere except the front windows. More books loaded tables obstructing the aisles, so that one was forced to sidle past the tantalizing offerings. Michaelmas term was almost upon them; the front tables were well-stocked with ABCs and books of illustrated catechisms.

  The bookstore occupied about a third of the building’s length. The counter stood at the back of the store. Behind that, in the larger portion, Brocksby ran a printing press with his son. They produced mainly translations of Continental poetry and philosophy deemed likely to appeal to English readers.

  Francis inhaled deeply as he entered the shop, savoring the acrid tang of potash. “I love the smell of ink.” He smiled at Ben over his shoulder.

  “I’m sure it’s very unhealthy.” Ben still seemed a trifle disgruntled at having been kept out of Francis’s confidence, even for so brief a time.

  Brocksby came forward to greet them. He wore a clean apron wrapped around his trim midsection, but his sleeves bore a few dark streaks. He must have been working at his press that morning. He smiled, showing teeth made gray from chewing type, and rubbed his hands together. “Mr. Bacon, what good fortune! Have you come to settle your bill?”

  “No.” Francis couldn’t remember how much he owed. It couldn’t be enough to warrant so much hand-rubbing. “But I’ll take a look at it, if you like.”

  Brocksby’s smile fell. “What can I do for you gentlemen this morning?”

  Francis said, “We’re not here t
o buy today. We want to have a look at your books about voyages, especially ones relating discoveries in the New World.”

  “Voyages?” Brocksby tipped back his cap to rub his brow. “Well, of course I have Peter Martyr’s De Orbe Novo, but I believe you already own that one, Mr. Bacon. Were you wanting the English translation?”

  “I didn’t realize there was an English version.” What a stupid oversight!

  “Oh, yes. Richard Eden translated it years ago.”

  “So much for that small bit of evidence,” Ben said. They frowned at one another. Every step forward took them another step back.

  Francis asked, “Is that a popular book?”

  “Oh, yes. It was one of my father’s best sellers. I always keep a few copies on hand. Do you want one?”

  “No,” Francis said. “We didn’t want that one, specifically. We’re looking for similar works.”

  “There are many travel books, Mr. Bacon. Amazing discoveries every year and everyone keen to publish their own account.” Brocksby guided them to a round table near the wall. “Here you’ll find all the books I have about voyages and suchlike. You’ll find quite a few in English, if that matters. It’s a popular subject these days. Call me if you see what you’re looking for. I’ll just draw up your bill. Perhaps you could take that little look before you go.”

  Francis moved around the table, running his hand over the leather covers of the books on top. Ben did likewise, circling around the other side toward the shelves. His dark eyes shone, and his lips curved in happy anticipation, the first smile he’d achieved all morning.

  Nothing balanced the humors of a scholarly man like the smell of ink and the touch of vellum.

  Brocksby returned to his counter and began fussing with papers. He called, “Don’t cut the pages!” As if they needed that reminder.

  Francis and Ben worked in companionable silence for thirty minutes by the bells of St. Gregory’s around the corner, opening volumes at whim to read the frontispieces. Some larger works listed their contents in a table at the front, a useful practice more printers ought to employ. They leafed through the most likely candidates, reading with a speed attained only by legal men and government clerks.

  At one point Ben murmured, “We’re just looking for references to arrow poisons, aren’t we?”

  Francis chuckled. “It is hard to stay on the track. Listen to this. It’s a creature said to inhabit the coast of Paria. ‘An extraordinary animal inhabits these trees, of which the muzzle is that of the fox, while the tail resembles that of a marmoset, and the ears those of a bat. Its hands are like a man's, and its feet like those of an ape. This beast carries its young wherever it goes in a sort of exterior pouch, or large bag.’”

  “That can’t be real!” Ben freed his fingers from the pages he’d been marking and came to read over Francis’s shoulder. “It sounds mythological, like a gryphon or a sphinx.”

  “Doesn’t it?” Francis closed the book and reached for another one. “We should take it as a cautionary note: whatever we find may be pure imagination.”

  Brocksby’s reedy voice sounded almost in Francis’s ear. “I would be grateful, Mr. Bacon, if you could pay any small part of your bill. The cost of paper has gone up, you see, with shipping to the Continent in such disarray. Any amount would help.”

  He handed over a slip of paper with a short bow and wove back through the maze of tables to his counter. Francis glanced at the bill and startled at the total. “Can this be right?” He passed the bill to Ben. “Two pounds, five shillings, and eight pence?”

  “It says you haven’t paid him in nearly two years.” Ben’s tone was a shade censorious.

  “Has it been that long?” Francis had done Brocksby a great favor two years ago and been forgiven his bill at that time. He’d evidently lost the habit of thinking about it as a result. One must have books, after all, and he got through them so quickly he needed a constant fresh supply. “I suppose I ought to pay him something. Do you have any money with you?”

  “No.” Ben clucked at him. “I know better than to carry money when I go shopping with you.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing.” Ben turned his back and grabbed a book from a shelf too high for Francis to reach. He held it in the crook of his arm, opened it, and focused his eyes on the page.

  Francis regarded him with pursed lips. He never borrowed money from Ben. He was too close a friend, and in truth, too poor. Francis’s irritation abated as he watched him become intrigued by whatever it was he had found. He’d miss the man, and the closeness, when Ben moved on to the next phase of his life. That would happen soon after he was called to the bar in December, God and the governors of Gray’s Inn willing. He wouldn’t yet be able to argue cases in court, but the new status would attract more clients for wills and deeds, as well as allow him to raise his rates. His parents would expect him to start looking for a wife.

  Now there was a thought! If Ben married the wealthy Mrs. Palmer, Francis would have a steady source of loans without having to alter his own living arrangements one whit. Or one Whitt, as the case may be.

  He chuckled at his little joke, and Ben turned to him with shining eyes. “I found it!” He held up his book. “I grabbed this book just because it was the biggest.” He set it on top of a stack on the table and opened at the place he’d marked with his thumb. “It’s an account of the discovery of the Grand River by Captain Francisco de Orellana, translated by Richard Eden in 1560. And look — published by one Oliver Brocksby.”

  “That must be our Brocksby’s father,” Francis said. “Nearly thirty years ago. Anyone who likes this sort of thing might have a copy. Where’s the Grand River?”

  “In New Spain, the part they call Peru. It’s very big and flows on into Brazil, which I believe is part of the Portuguese empire.”

  “Does it run through the region mentioned in the passage in De Orbe?”

  “I think so,” Ben said. “If it’s not the same Indians, they must be very similar. They make a tarry ointment from the bark and leaves of a plant they call ‘wourali’ or ‘curare.’ They coat their weapons with it when they go hunting. It causes animals like monkeys to fall out of trees insensible and unable to move.”

  “Does it say how long it takes to act?” Francis leaned his cheek against Ben’s woolen sleeve to read over his shoulder. “No, alas.”

  Ben flipped the page over. Francis read halfway down the next page until the story wandered to some other wondrous feature of that marvelous land. “They don’t say how big the monkeys are either. I’ve seen one, at court, about the size of a small child. I should think you’d need different doses or different quantities of the potion for a larger person.”

  “There’s no mention of convulsions or vomiting,” Ben said. “That’s hopeful.”

  “We mustn’t confuse the absence of evidence with evidence of absence.” Francis sighed. “At least we know the name of a drug that might cause the symptoms Tom and Trumpet observed. That’s something.”

  Ben added, “There can’t be many people in England who could obtain a rare poison from the New World. And we’ve discovered the means by which the killer could have learned about the poison. I wonder if Brocksby knows how many copies of this book he’s sold.”

  They took the volume to the counter at the back. Francis asked his question and Brocksby said, “Oh, several hundred, I should think. I ran another printing of that book only last year.” He regarded Francis with a weary look. “I couldn’t tell you who bought them.” He shifted his gaze pointedly toward the bill in Francis’s hand.

  Francis granted him a sheepish smile. “I’m afraid I’ve come without my purse.” Perhaps Tom would lend him the money, even if his feelings had been a little ruffled lately.

  No, wait! He had a better source of funds. Trumpet had told him to charge investigation expenses to the Surdeval estate. Why not include this bill? It had been presented as a clear condition for being allowed to stand reading — uncomfort
ably — in the shop instead of having all the books delivered to his chambers. Imagine how much his forbearance had saved the estate!

  He explained the plan to the bookseller. “So you see, Brocksby, you’ll be paid in full in a mere matter of months.” He patted the Orellana volume and added, “I’ll just take this one along with me since we’re all settled up.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  “What do you think?” Trumpet held the jade pendant against her chest, considering the effect in the mirror of her dressing table. Tom had sent it to her with a note early that morning, addressed “From Gray’s Inn” in a packet of old notes about lawsuits.

  Catalina leaned in for a closer inspection. “What are those scratches, my lady? Some kind of bird?”

  “It’s Tom, silly goose. In profile.” She laid the piece in her palm and pointed at the tiny indentation inside the curve of the jaw. “See the dimple?”

  “If you say so, my lady.” Catalina returned to wiping paste from her eyebrows with a damp towel. She had coated them with a mixture of honey, lime juice, and cinnamon, trying to lighten her brown-black hair. Foreigners were not well favored in England these days. Apprentices followed them through the streets, hissing and spitting. It was unpleasant at best and especially troublesome if you were trying to avoid attention.

  Trumpet’s hair was even blacker, but her green eyes and milk-white skin declared her Englishness at a glance. Catalina had the disadvantage of dark brown eyes and an olive complexion, marking her as originating somewhere well to the south. Her self-transformation required continual effort.

  Trumpet nodded at her maidservant’s face in the mirror. “Your hair is definitely lighter. If only we could do something about your face.”