by Anna Castle
As would Sir Richard Topcliffe, come to think of it. But Sir Richard wouldn’t mind waiting for the credit to be revealed at some perfect opportunity. In fact, he would relish the private knowledge.
The steward returned and strode toward them. Francis gripped Ben’s arm. “Do not give that unspeakable idea another moment of thought, and do not, under any circumstances, ever utter it aloud again.”
Ben rolled his eyes but nodded to indicate compliance.
The steward led them to the library and bowed them through the door. His Lordship sprawled in a silk-cushioned chair before a wide bank of windows, open to admit a fragrant breeze from the walled garden outside. He wore very short hose and shining silk stockings, stretching his long legs out before him. He’d been reading a very old book, by the worn appearance of the binding. Clerks sat at two desks on the opposite side of the spacious chamber, each with a stack of books, scribbling notes on long coils of parchment.
“We’re taking inventory,” the earl said. He crooked his fingers for them to approach.
Francis performed the introduction. Ben bowed twice but otherwise acquitted himself well, apart from the deep blush rising up his sallow cheeks. His Lordship was too gracious to notice such a thing.
Francis composed himself in the balanced stance he adopted at court, where one might spend many hours standing in one spot. “An inventory of this important library is a laudable deed, my lord.”
“Alas, I don’t do it for the praise, Mr. Bacon. Everything in the house must be sold, right down to the inkhorns. My stepfather died owing the queen some twenty-five thousand pounds.”
“Faith!” The sum put Francis’s little book bill into perspective. “Her Majesty is the most generous of monarchs, but I suppose she must collect her debts.”
The earl acknowledged the mischaracterization of the queen’s parsimony with a swift grin. “So she must. But I mourn the loss of this library. Perhaps I’ll find a backer and buy it myself.”
“Then it could be preserved intact,” Francis said. “Always desirable, if seldom possible.” He looked at the overflowing shelves. His Lord of Leicester had been the chancellor of Oxford and a major patron of art, philosophy, and literature. Many of these books would bear his name as a dedicatee. There might be rare legal works here as well. Perhaps Gray’s Inn could enter bids for a few volumes. He would mention it to the other benchers that evening at supper.
“But enough of these sordid business matters,” the earl said. “Tell me what you’ve learned about Surdeval’s murder.”
Francis delivered his report, apologizing for its brevity. He highlighted the discovery of the name of the poison since that was really all he had.
“Curare,” the earl said, pronouncing the word in the Spanish style. “A most curarious method, wouldn’t you say?”
Francis and Ben laughed at the witticism.
The earl looked pleased at their response. He would doubtless employ the device again at court as soon as he could compose an opening. “It sounds too fantastical, however. A substance capable of rendering a grown man insensible with no other signs of distress? I wouldn’t believe it if we hadn’t seen so many marvels brought home in recent years. Who could have imagined a pineapple, for example, without ever having seen one?”
“An astute observation, my lord, and an apt example.” Francis admired the swiftness of the earl’s comprehension. “I confess I’m not certain how the poison works, or even it really was this curare that Orellana mentions. Nor have I discovered a source for a New World poison, and to be candid, I don’t know where to look. Spears and arrows might be hung on walls, but a bottle of tincture or a pot of paste would not make so gallant a display.”
“Ah, but it would make a most impressive gift! Think of it: the queen could bring down a wild boar by herself with such a poison on her darts.” A speculative look stole into the earl’s brown eyes. “You’d keep something like that quiet until the right moment. You wouldn’t want every stray traveler who wandered into your hall to see it. You’d keep it in your treasure room and only show it to a select few, those who could appreciate the tale of its acquisition.”
“I’m sure Your Lordship is correct.” Francis hoped he hadn’t inadvertently begun a fashion for exotic poisons. Surviving the twists and turns of the court was difficult enough with unvarnished barbs. “Although I’m not sure how I can pursue that trail.”
“I’ll see what I can learn.” The earl smiled at the shadow of doubt that crossed Francis’s face and added, “Never fear, Mr. Bacon. I shall exercise the utmost discretion.” He paused with that indefinable air noblemen adopt to dismiss the present topic, then plucked a piece of paper from the small table at his elbow and handed it to Francis. “This is the other reason I asked you to come. A sack of coins was delivered here yesterday, accompanied by this note.”
“Coins, my lord?”
“A substantial sum. About five hundred pounds.”
Francis read the note aloud for Ben’s benefit. “Those who would murder our Sovereign Queen and overthrow the right and lawfully established Church of England must pay for their criminous affronts with their own goods, the chattels of popery. However humble, however weak, all loyal English must sustain the battle against the viperous traitors who infest our very homes. I beg Your Lordship accept this first payment exacted from the slaves of Rome, to be spent in aid of the piteous yet valiant sailors and soldiers who rose to Her Majesty’s defense in her hour of greatest need.”
He turned the paper over, then held it up to the light of the window.
“We couldn’t find any sign of who had sent it,” the earl said. “The sack was delivered by a boy who disappeared at once.”
“Even if we could find him, my lord, he probably couldn’t tell us much. No doubt he was given the sack and the note by a gentleman in a hooded cloak who spoke in a whispery voice.”
“That was my assumption,” the earl said. “It’s all the more intriguing now that you tell me there have been other chapel burglaries. What do you make of it, Mr. Bacon?”
Francis studied the note more carefully. “This writing is odd. It seems to be deliberately distorted.” He couldn’t say if it resembled Sir Richard’s writing in any way or not.
“I thought so too.” The earl sat forward in his chair, an eager look on his face. “You see how it slants in different directions? I thought the writer might have been using his left hand, though he’s by nature a right-handed man.”
“What sharp eyes you have, my lord!” Francis had noted the same irregularities. “The author must have been trying to disguise his hand.”
“Doesn’t that suggest someone who would be known to me?” the earl asked.
“Or to your secretary,” Francis said. “Or it merely indicates a high degree of caution and forethought. If we had any idea who it was, we could compare some other sample of their writing with this note.”
“Forgive me, my lord,” Ben said, bowing unnecessarily. “But to be perfectly clear: Are we assuming these coins are part of the profits from the sale of the stolen chapel goods?”
“I believe we are, Mr. Whitt.” The earl smiled patiently.
“But, my lord,” Ben said, “can it be possible that the murderer of these three men acted out of love of country?”
“So it would seem, Mr. Whitt,” the earl said. “Like you, I find the idea repellent, though I love my queen and my country as much as any other man. Even while I despise the source, I will see the money is spent as intended. God knows we need it.” He tossed the note onto the table. “So, Mr. Bacon, does this tell us anything to help us apprehend our villain?”
Francis sensed that the interview had reached its conclusion. “I’m sure it must, my lord, although I will need to consider it further.” He knew better than to share his tentative theories with the earl, who might be unable to resist the impulse to speak of them at court. “It does tell us our villain is not an ordinary criminal. The motive appears not to be personal gain or even personal re
tribution. I have my assistant tracking the chapel goods. And I will continue to seek the source of the poison. My hope is that those two trails will converge.”
He had a horrible feeling he already knew where they would meet: in the home of Sir Richard Topcliffe on Mincing Lane.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Francis tossed and turned all night, struggling to think of a way to find out if Sir Richard Topcliffe had pots of New World poisons or a secret collection of stolen rosaries or any other damning possessions without approaching the man, his house, or his servants. It couldn’t be done. He must summon the courage to visit the house. But what excuse could he offer Sir Richard for wanting to inspect his library?
Francis knew himself to be a man of exceptional discretion, but he was not skilled in deception in the flesh, as it were. He made a better spymaster than an intelligencer. Fortunately, he had someone with the desired qualities right across the yard.
He found Tom and Ben in the hall, finishing their breakfasts of bread and ale. He slid onto the bench next to Ben and told them about his dilemma. Tom offered to go in his stead, but Francis considered a visit from a total stranger even less likely to be accepted as unremarkable. And he wasn’t sure what he expected to find, exactly. He would have to see for himself.
Tom said, “Well, the first thing is that you don’t want to go when he’s at home. Can you think of a time when he’s certain to be out?”
Francis hadn’t considered the idea of visiting a man known to be elsewhere, but of course it made sense. “He’ll be at the Tower at eight o’clock to interview our next prisoner. But I should be there as well.”
“Be late,” Tom said. “That’s the ideal time.”
“I can’t just walk in the door of his house,” Francis said. “What pretext will I give the servants?”
Tom snapped his fingers. “I know! Bring Sir Richard a book. Say you wanted to drop it off to spare him having to carry it home. You’re a bookish man; anyone would believe you had a few spare volumes you wanted to pass around.”
“I suppose that’s true.” Francis didn’t much like being called bookish — an ill-made expression — but he let it go in the interest of expediency.
“Take Ben,” Tom said. “He goes with you to the Tower sometimes, so it’s plausible.”
Ben said, “I’m willing, if we don’t linger. I must file a document in the bishop’s court this morning for Trumpet’s case.”
“You won’t have time to linger,” Tom said. “You can get in and prowl around a bit, but that’s all.”
Francis frowned. “How can we prowl around with the servants watching us?”
“You’ll create a diversion,” Tom said. “That’s why Ben should go with you.”
“Me? What can I do?”
“Pretend to sprain an ankle or get a sudden cramp in your belly,” Tom said. “Anything that draws the servants’ attention away from Mr. Bacon for ten minutes or so. Get them to walk you to the jakes or the kitchen or somewhere.”
Francis and Ben exchanged doubtful glances. Ben said, “I’m not sure I could be convincing enough.”
Tom sighed and rolled his eyes. “It does require a little acting ability. You have to believe your ankle hurts too much to walk on.” He fingered his earring. “All right. I’ll come with you. But only long enough to start the diversion. I’m drilling the militia this morning, and we had no end of trouble agreeing on the time. We’re participating in a review of the troops before Her Majesty in two weeks, and we’re nowhere near ready. Three of my men still can’t remember to light the fuse before they pull the trigger.”
Francis asked, “Won’t it be more suspicious for me to bring two men along just to drop off a book?”
“They won’t see me,” Tom said. “Oh, and you’re going to want to inscribe the book, which is why you’ll ask to be shown into the library. Draw it out; make a fuss.” He raised his mug. “Fear not, gentlemen. Sir Richard’s servants won’t be anywhere near you while you tear apart his library.”
Ben and Tom walked behind Francis on the way into the city, engaged in a disjointed conversation about firearms. They didn’t seem to mind the constant interruptions caused by the hurly-burly of the streets, where persons of arbitrary size and disposition might erupt into one’s path at any moment. Francis preferred to keep his eyes on the ground, watching for bits of refuse that might ensnare his feet, and his mind focused on the task of navigation.
When they reached Mincing Lane, Tom stopped at the corner to rehearse them in their story. Francis had a copy of the Genevan Book of Common Order his mother had given him — a plausible gift for a man of Sir Richard’s zealous tastes. Tom checked the first page to be sure it hadn’t already been inscribed. Francis hadn’t thought to do that; luckily, his mother hadn’t thought of it either.
Church bells everywhere began to clang, sounding the quarter hour. Tom said, “I’ll watch until you go in, then give you a couple of minutes to get into the library. Work fast; I can’t guarantee more than ten minutes.”
“How will we know when you’re ready?” Ben asked.
“You’ll know.” Tom’s grin sent a chill of foreboding through Francis.
The plan worked. Sir Richard had left for the Tower half an hour earlier, as expected. The servant who opened the door seemed suitably impressed by the name Bacon. Francis flourished the book, explaining that he didn’t like to bring it to the Tower for fear of soiling it. Ben had the bright idea of reaching over his shoulder to open the cover and exclaim, “Oh, you ought to have written a personal inscription since this book is intended as a gift.”
The speech sounded stilted, but the servant let them into the house without demur. Sir Richard’s home was substantial, though scarcely a rival to Lady Russell’s establishment in Blackfriars. They entered into a sort of screens passage, a partially closed-in area meant to protect the main rooms from drafts and prying eyes. Two doors punctured the floor-to-ceiling paneling. One presumably led to the service area. The other, through which they were conducted, opened into the great room.
The servant marched across the rush-strewn floor toward a staircase with a carved newel post, leaving the smell of crushed tansy rising in his wake. Francis turned to observe the small display of crossed pikes on the wall, topped by Sir Richard’s family crest. If he possessed a larger collection of weapons, it must be at his house in Lincolnshire.
The library had pride of place at the front of the house on the first floor. Wide windows hanging over Mincing Lane let in an abundance of light, a treasure in itself for a house in the center of the crowded city. The windows were open to catch what little breeze managed to straggle through the narrow streets. The view consisted entirely of the family parlor of the house across the street. That room seemed empty at the moment, but they would need to keep an eye in that direction as well, assuming they were left alone at all.
The library was handsomely furnished with carved oak chairs and tables, beautifully polished by well-trained servants, but there were fewer books than Francis expected. Sir Richard presented himself as a man of learning; perhaps he kept his books in Lincolnshire as well. The servant gestured to the writing materials on the largest of the tables. Francis raised his eyebrows at Ben, who raised his twice in reply. He had no more idea than Francis what Tom had planned.
Francis dallied, turning to the single stand of books. “I do hope Sir Richard doesn’t already have a copy of my humble gift.” He shuffled roughly through the neat stacks, feeling like a veritable pirate. He found only a blameless selection of Protestant works and useful volumes like The English Secretary, along with a few predictables like Thomas Hoby’s translation of The Book of the Courtier. Every gentleman in England kept those books in his house.
“Ah!” The small cry of discovery startled Francis; he hadn’t meant to make a sound. But here was one thing he’d been hoping for: Eden’s translation of De Orbe Novo. He pawed through the rest with wanton disregard for their original order, but found nothing else concerning
New Spain or other voyages.
Did the absence of Orellana’s book count in Sir Richard’s favor? No; Francis deemed it inconclusive. The pursuivant could have learned about New World poisons from a Spanish prisoner, a merchant, or a member of the Spanish ambassador’s household. Sir Richard moved in the same court circles as Francis and had also traveled the length and breadth of England in search of crypto-Catholics and the secrets they kept. Besides, he could have borrowed the book from a friend and long since returned it.
Ben had been chatting with the servant with an increasingly desperate tone in his voice. Francis could think of no further reason to delay. He walked to the table, set down his book, and opened it to the frontispiece.
An echoing bang exploded in the street. Tom’s voice shouted, “Spaniards! After them!”
Chaos erupted. Feet pounded, men shouted, women screamed. A series of loud clacks resounded as someone slapped the shutters across the windows of the house opposite. Sir Richard’s servant cried, “God save us!” and dashed from the room.
Francis and Ben froze where they stood for one long moment, then Ben laughed. “An unmistakable signal indeed.”
“I hope no one gets hurt.” Francis turned in a circle, fingers twitching, wondering what to do first. He saw nothing worthy of note in this room. Furniture. Books he’d already examined. A fireplace, swept clean, with paintings of dour-faced ancestors, one male, one female, on either side. A small tapestry hung on another wall.
Then he spotted a narrow door in an awkward corner to the left of the stairs. A storage area, perhaps?
Ben had spotted it too. He opened the door and they gasped in unison at what they found inside. The windowless closet, about eight feet square, had one small writing desk covered with neat stacks of paper, one set of shelves leaning in the corner, and one small chest set atop a larger one. These were unremarkable. Any man might utilize such a room for a private secretary or even himself if his house was filled with noisy family and visitors.
