Let Slip the Dogs

by Anna Castle

  Trumpet sometimes thought the whole ritual of life at court must be a conspiracy perpetrated by the Worshipful Society of Mercers to ensure that vast quantities of their finest cloth would be consumed each year. She saved that thought for Tom. He’d find it amusing.

  They walked slowly, eyes turned up, searching for red fruit gleaming among the green leaves over their heads. Trumpet spotted many bunches of yellow cherries edging into pink, but no ripe ones yet. “Maybe they’ve trained some against —”

  Mary screamed, stopping stock-still a few yards ahead.

  “What is it?” Trumpet rushed to her side, then stopped abruptly, tilting forward on her toes before rocking back hard onto her heels. “Oh my merciful God in heaven,” she murmured as she stared down at the man sprawled in the grass at their feet. “Who is it?”

  Mary swallowed audibly, then answered in a small voice, “I think it’s Mr. Grenville.”

  Trumpet nodded, patting herself on the chest and taking in a few short breaths. Recovering somewhat, she bent forward and pushed aside the velvet cap covering half the man’s face. “You’re right. It’s Arthur Grenville.” She drew her knife from the sheath at her back and held it under his nose. Nothing. She sheathed it again and tried the pulse at his wrist. His arm wouldn’t even budge. “He’s quite cold. And already stiff. And look: he’s been injured on the head there. It’s more brown than pink now, but you can see where it bled down into his hair.”

  Mary made a mewling noise that rose into a keen, growing louder and louder as she rocked from one foot to the other.

  Trumpet ignored her and walked around to the other side of the body. A long gray ladder lay in the grass a few feet from the corpse. The branch directly overhead was loaded with cherries, some of them possibly ripe enough to pick. Grenville must have been trying to reach them when he fell and hit his head on the wall. She bit her bottom lip as she studied the wall, the ladder, the grass, and the tree.

  Something didn’t make sense. If he’d hit his head on the wall, wouldn’t his head be closer to the wall than his feet? But he lay stretched out the other way around, with his feet near the wall and his head by the trunk of the tree. The ladder lay alongside him, but if it had been leaning against the wall, wouldn’t it fall to one side or the other as his feet pushed it aside?

  Too many puzzling elements and that hellish caterwauling! “Stop that!” she commanded, but Mary couldn’t seem to hear her. Trumpet strode toward her in three swift steps and slapped the nidget right across the face. “God’s bollocks, woman! Stop that racket! Haven’t you ever seen a dead body before?”

  Mary pressed her lips together and shook her head.

  “Well, he can’t hurt you, so stop howling. But we can’t just leave him lying here.” She wanted to get Tom first and send him for Mr. Bacon. But Captain Ralegh would have to be told as soon as possible. It was his job to examine deaths within twelve miles of the queen’s person. “Can you stand guard here while I run for help?”

  Mary shook her head again, pressing her lips together so tightly they turned white.

  “Then you go,” Trumpet said, revising her plan on the spot. “Get Captain Ralegh. And send someone else for the coroner.”

  “Thank you,” Mary whispered, then hurried off.

  Trumpet watched her until she reached the private door, then sprinted between the trees until she spotted a gardener. “You there!” She waved at him, closing the distance before he could turn full around. “There’s been an accident. I want you to run down to the kennels and find a Mr. Thomas Clarady. Do you know who he is?”

  “No, my lady.”

  “Tall, fair hair, friendly. He’s sleeping somewhere above the dog runs. He’s the Gentleman of the Privy Buckhounds.”

  “Them new dogs from France?”

  “That’s right. Find him and tell him to meet Lady Alice at once by the west wall in the orchard. Don’t speak to anyone else. There’s a penny in it if you get him here before everyone else arrives.”

  “Who’s arriving?”

  “Never you mind. Just run like the wind and bring me Thomas Clarady!”

  Mr. Bacon would have to wait. She couldn’t leave the evidence unguarded.

  She jogged back to wait by Mr. Grenville’s side. Poor man. He’d probably wanted to impress one of his paramours with the first ripe cherries. She hadn’t known him well, though he’d attached himself to Stephen recently. She’d managed to convince her husband-to-be that their wedding night would be better if they saw as little as possible of one another beforehand.

  She paced back and forth along the wall, contemplating the bricks. How could a man crack his head against a wall all by himself in an orchard? She didn’t think he could, especially not one as fit as the average member of Queen Elizabeth’s court. She walked in a circle around the body searching for a loose brick, but didn’t find one. Could it have been removed from the wall and put back? Holes behind loose bricks were a favorite hiding place for messages; she knew that from personal experience.

  She began to study the wall more closely, reaching out now and then to press or tug on a likely brick. Then she saw movement at the bottom of the orchard and turned to watch Tom jogging toward her. He wore the same outfit as yesterday, but with a soft cap and a leather jerkin.

  The gardener kept pace with him all the way along. He noted Trumpet’s solitary state and said, “He’s first, my lady. Like you said.” He held out his hand.

  “Do you have a penny?” Trumpet asked Tom.

  He rolled his eyes and obliged, waiting until the man was out of earshot. “I thought we agreed not to send messages through anyone but Catalina.”

  “This is an emergency.” She led him back to the cherry tree and pointed. “The late, and probably murdered, Arthur Grenville.”

  Tom flinched back a step. “God’s shaggy buttocks, Trumpet! You could give a man a bit of warning.”

  “Sorry. But we don’t have much time. Sir Walter will be here any minute.”

  It was still well shy of eight o’clock, but Ralegh reputedly only slept four hours a night. Whether true or not, he was always the first man, apart from the ushers, to greet the queen when she emerged in the morning. He was probably standing outside the Privy Bedchamber already.

  Tom scratched his beard, frowning down at the corpse. “Who killed him?”

  “How would I know? He’s been dead for hours. He’s cold as a fish. He’s probably been lying here all night.”

  “Oh no! Why here? Why now?” Tom sounded aggrieved. “Haven’t we enough to worry about this summer?”

  “Tom, Tom, Tom! Where’s your sense of justice? This poor young man has died before his time. We have an obligation to find out what happened.” She stepped close enough to look straight up into those beloved blue eyes, almost forgetting the point she meant to make. “Besides, if we can be tasked with the investigation, we’ll have an excuse to spend more time together.”

  Tom shook his head, not smiling as she’d expected. “It won’t work that way, Trumpet. First, no one knows you’ve helped me and Mr. Bacon with our commissions — even if they know about the commissions, which hardly anyone does. Second, who would hire us? There’s nothing secret or delicate about Arthur Grenville, unless I’ve completely lost my ability to judge a man. It’s the coroner’s job, not to mention Sir Walter Ralegh.”

  Trumpet clucked her tongue. “We’ll see what they have to say. Here they come.”

  A group emerged from the private door led by the imposing figure of the queen’s Captain of the Guards. The other man must be the coroner, Mr. Danby. Mary followed them out. Sir Walter had probably asked to her come along and recreate the act of finding the body.

  Sir Walter wore black and white, the queen’s colors, with a large white pearl hanging from one ear. An inch taller even than Tom, he moved through the world with an air of unshakeable confidence that set other courtiers’ teeth on edge and drew the ladies like bees to blossoms. Dark hair, brown eyes sparked with intelligence, a perfectly t
rimmed beard, long, shapely legs . . . Phew! He wrote poetry — good poetry — and could speak on any topic with authority. He rode, fenced, hunted, and sailed ships across the briny sea to bring home chests of Spanish gold. Rumor had it he spent four hours a day reading and never lacked for the intellectual conversation Her Majesty relished above all entertainments.

  He was far and away the favorite topic of gossip among the queen’s gentlewomen, most of whom suffered some degree of infatuation with him. Trumpet was protected from his allure by her all-encompassing love for Tom, but even she felt a tug whenever Sir Walter entered the room. She’d gotten used to it after a year at court, though sometimes it wasn’t easy to resist.

  Tom had only seen Sir Walter once in his life. He admired him just short of worship, like most West Country men. Now he straightened his back and set one fist on his hip in the absurd pose he adopted whenever he wanted to look impressive.

  “Sir Walter,” Trumpet said. “Thank you for coming so quickly.”

  “You did right in sending for me, Lady Alice. I thought it best to bring Mr. Danby at once to avoid delay in moving the body to a more suitable location.”

  He gestured toward the other man, a spindly older fellow in pink chamlet that made him look bilious.

  Ralegh looked Tom up and down. “You’re the Gentleman of the Privy Buckhounds from last night. What are you doing here?”

  Tom licked his lips, glanced at Trumpet, and said, “I don’t know.”

  Trumpet repressed a growl. “I sent for my husband-to-be, naturally, but the messenger found his retainer, Mr. Clarady, instead. I was afraid to stand here all alone.” She moved a few steps to stand beside Tom — not too close, but near enough to underscore her desire for protection. Tom glared into the middle distance as if watching for approaching hazards.

  Ralegh raised a skeptical eyebrow but accepted the excuse. He knew nothing about their friendship or Francis Bacon’s confidential commissions. How could he?

  Trumpet played the simpleton at court, finding it safer to be underestimated. Let everyone assume her to be the usual light-brained twit, like Mary and Anne. But a ray of intelligence leaked out now and then. Her Majesty’s keen-eyed favorite, in constant attendance in the Presence Chamber, must have caught a glimmer or two.

  “Clarady,” he mused, stroking his chin. “Now I know why you look so familiar. You’re Captain Valentine’s son, aren’t you? From West Lulworth?”

  “Yes, sir.” Tom beamed, always proud to have his father remembered.

  “A great loss,” Ralegh said. He cast a glance at the yellow pearl dangling from Tom’s left ear — the rival of his own — and turned at last toward the body in the grass. “What happened here? Lady Mary, pray tell us now how you happened to find him.”

  Mary recounted the short tale of their impulse to supply Her Majesty with fresh fruit to break her night’s fast.

  Trumpet nodded when asked for confirmation. “We nearly stepped on him!” She put a note of terror in her voice and took a few steps back, forcing Tom to move with her to maintain his position as her guard. She wanted to be able to speak to him without being overheard.

  Ralegh and the coroner knelt beside the body. Danby laid two fingers along the neck, feeling for the long-surrendered pulse. He shook his head. “Quite cold. He’s been dead for some time.”

  Ralegh reached for one of the hands and attempted to raise it. It didn’t budge. “He’s stiff too. What do you think, Mr. Danby? At least six hours?”

  “At least.”

  Ralegh put both hands under Grenville’s torso and rolled him up a couple of inches. “The grass is dry beneath him, but his doublet’s soaked with dew. It’s nearly half-past seven now. Six hours or more . . . Shall we say midnight?”

  “At the latest,” Danby said. “He could have been lying here much longer.”

  Ralegh nodded. “The sun set about half past nine last night. The whole court was gathered on the lawn for the midsummer entertainments, as well as all the servants. The orchard was probably deserted from the time supper was served, at say, half past six.”

  Danby pointed at Grenville’s forehead. “Notice this injury, Sir Walter.” He pointed at the two brownish gashes surrounded by dark bruises. “He obviously hit his head on something hard.”

  “Hard, with a pointed edge,” Trumpet murmured out of the side of her mouth. “And do you notice those reddish crumbles? I think that’s brick dust.”

  “Shh,” Tom hissed. But she was right. Neither Ralegh nor the coroner remarked upon the crumbles. They’d moved on to the ladder already.

  “I suppose he found the ladder somewhere nearby.” Ralegh got to his feet and scanned the orchard. Another weathered ladder leaned against a tree several rows away. Ralegh pointed at it and Danby nodded, also rising.

  Trumpet murmured, “Who could fall off a ladder and lie with both arms along his sides? Answer me that.”

  Tom grunted.

  “And why is the ladder lying parallel to the man?” she added.

  “It’s too neat,” he whispered. “You’re right; this is all wrong.”

  The queen’s men looked up into the tree, noting the ripening cherries out of reach on the upper branches, gleaming like jewels in the morning sun. Then they looked at the wall six feet away and twelve feet high, high enough to reach some of the reddest fruits. They turned toward one another and nodded.

  “I think it’s clear enough what happened here,” Ralegh said, putting both hands on his hips to render his judgment. “Mr. Grenville came out to the orchard yesterday evening to pick cherries.” He granted a sad smile at Mary. “No doubt he wished to surprise one of his lady friends with a treat. He found a ladder, set it against the wall, and climbed up it, probably right to the top. He overreached, lost his balance, and fell, striking his head on the wall as he came down.”

  Trumpet dug an elbow into Tom’s side. “I see it,” he whispered. “It’s impossible.”

  Ralegh didn’t hear or seem to care. In fact, he seemed to be in something of hurry to get the sordid business over and done with. “We’ve seen all there is to see here. Mr. Clarady, would you do us the favor of guarding the body until Mr. Danby’s men can come to fetch him? I will escort Lady Alice safely indoors myself.”

  “Yes, sir,” Tom said. “I am at your service.”

  Ralegh accepted a curt nod. “I will inform the queen, although there is nothing here to alarm her or the other ladies. A tragic accident. Sadly, not an uncommon occurrence on a summer progress.”

  Trumpet nodded while he spoke but simmered inside at his hasty summation. “That man was murdered,” she whispered to Tom.

  “Mm-hmm. We’ll have to tell Mr. Bacon.”

  FIVE

  THE KNOCKING STARTED again. Francis couldn’t tell if it was coming from inside his head or out. He wrapped his pillow tightly around his ears. “Make it stop, Pinnock,” he grumbled.

  The straw trundle bed on the far side of the bed squeaked as Simon Pinnock, his young servant, rousted himself to relieve his master’s torment. The door latch clicked and hinges creaked. Tom’s voice sounded, far too loud. “Still asleep? It’s half past eight!”

  “He was up late,” Pinnock whispered. “And he came home —”

  Some wordless description of Francis’s condition last night passed between them. He’d been cup-shot, not to put too fine a point on it. He’d polished off nearly two bottles of wine during that never-ending Midsummer Eve celebration. This morning, the bill came due in the form of a queasy stomach and a throbbing head.

  It wasn’t fair. Left to his own devices, he’d have spent the evening reading in bed and would have fallen asleep in a state of innocent sobriety. At least he’d gotten to share that second bottle with Michel Joubert.

  “It’s an emergency, Mr. Bacon,” Tom said, pitching his voice into the room. “A man’s been killed.”

  Why did everyone bring their beastly corpses to Francis? It was certain to have nothing whatsoever to do with him, but Tom wouldn’t go
away without hearing it from him. Francis groaned and rolled over, still clutching his pillow. “Let him in.”

  Tom bounced into the tiny chamber, smelling faintly of dogs — an unwelcome aroma. “Here, let me help you.” He moved forward with outstretched hands, as if to grasp his prostrate master under the arms and hoist him up.

  “I can manage.” It was a struggle, but Francis achieved a more dignified position. “Is there ale?” Pinnock handed him a cup and he slurped it thirstily. His mouth felt as if it had been swabbed out with a dirty wad of wool. “Go see if you can find something cooler. And some bread, very white, with only a touch of butter.”

  “Meat?” Pinnock asked.

  “Mercy, no.” Francis nearly slid back under the covers at the thought. He’d eaten too much last night too. He sipped some more ale, then sighed heavily. “Who died?”

  Tom pulled the curtains all the way back, flooding Francis’s eyes with bright sunlight. “Arthur Grenville. A courtier; you’ve probably seen him. I met him hanging about with Stephen yesterday.”

  “Did His Lordship kill him?”

  “What? Of course not.” Tom shook his head. “We don’t know who killed him.”

  “We?” Francis asked, knowing the answer.

  “Me and Trumpet. She’ll be here in a minute.”

  “Here?”

  Tom nodded. “I reckoned you’d still be in bed, so I came on ahead. It’ll take her a little while to find an excuse to get away.” He cast about and came up with the doublet Francis had worn last night. “Here, Mr. Bacon. Let’s slip this on and find your hose.” He shook the garment and held it out.