Death by Disputation (A Francis Bacon Mystery Book 2)

by Anna Castle

  Tom chuckled. Another sly bit of Puritan humor, no doubt.

  Thursday must mean this coming week, else a date would have been supplied. Three must indicate the hour and it must be afternoon. They could hardly lurk about the churchyard in the wee hours like ghosts and he doubted the church would be open all night.

  Who were the others? Would the leader himself attend? The man in Dry Drayton might be responsible for his own small group, organizing some part of the main event during commencement. But then why wouldn’t he be the one sending the summons?

  No, this letter had come from the top. The words had been written by Steadfast, probably at his father’s direction. A brief note written hastily after dinner. That’s why Steadfast had reminded him to be sure to bid the parson good-bye before he left; to make sure he knew Tom had accepted this first task. True, the parson had seemed overly self-absorbed, but perhaps all seditioners possessed an excess of vanity. It could simply be their nature.

  Bacon would know. And he’d be pleased by this forward step. Tom knew what his next instructions would be: go to that church at the appointed hour and observe the proceedings — without getting caught.

  ***

  Thursday afternoon brought rain in thundering gusts. Tom was glad. The bad weather let him cover up well for his clandestine rendezvous. In his black cloak and deep hood, he looked like any other academic hurrying across the market square with his shoulders hunched against the wind.

  He had no excuse for visiting that church if anyone he knew saw him. He hadn’t been invited to the meeting and shouldn’t even know about it. And he could hardly pretend the butcher had read the letter to him with the man himself standing right there.

  He’d tossed and turned the night before, racking his brains to no avail. Why should he suddenly decide to visit the Church of the Holy Sepulcher? He had the chapel in his college or Great St. Mary’s in the center of town if he needed a bit of grandeur. Visitors made a point of taking in the Round Church, but Tom had been living in Cambridge for months. Why should he choose one of the worst days of the season to see the sights? He had no answers.

  He couldn’t simply stay away and stick to his normal routine. He had to go. That’s why he was here: to push, to pry, to take risks and catch a dangerous rebel. He had to take this chance, even at the risk of being caught.

  What would they do to him? Not much, he’d bet; not for the first offense. His sin was curiosity, nothing more — that they could prove. He’d be lectured, not beaten. Not hanged from a roof beam? Not this time.

  There was more at stake than his skin, however. If he were caught lurking about the church, whoever caught him might think, “Better safe than sorry,” and bar him from the godly community as a spy. Then he would never be able to identify the seditioner and be forced to slink back to London with his tail between his legs, a failure. They wouldn’t allow him to return to Gray’s Inn. He probably wouldn’t even be able to stay at the university, not even in a different college since nobody wanted a traitor in their midst. All his father’s efforts on his behalf would come to nothing. He’d have to go home to Dorset and start from scratch. Never see Ben again. Never see Trumpet.

  No. He would go, he would hide, and he would listen. He would learn something useful that would put him a step forward on his path to success.

  Tom arrived a few minutes early and found the churchyard empty, too empty to linger in. No one would meet outside on a day like this anyway. He’d have to go inside. He opened the heavy west door just wide enough to slip inside and dodged across the entry to hide behind one of the massive columns ringing the ambulatory. He stood there, drawing shallow breaths through his open mouth, waiting for his heart to stop pounding so he could hear.

  The nave was silent; not a whisper, not an echo. It smelled old and damp, with a faint, lingering scent of incense. Tom peered around the column. No one. No men in tall brown hats, no priest in long black robes.

  Was he early? Late? The bell tolled as he asked himself those questions; he was right on time. His stomach churned with doubt. Could the note have meant three o’clock in the morning? Impossible. Or three men, with the time arranged in advance by regular practice?

  He circled the ambulatory, moving swiftly from column to column. He walked as silently as he could, acutely aware of the soft pat made by his leather soles at each step. He had the sense of a shadow moving ahead of him but could be certain of nothing inside this strange round chamber on so dark a day.

  As he reached the last pillar, he heard a sharp squeak of wet leather on the polished marble floor. Footsteps pattered into the entryway. He felt a gust of chilly wind as the door thumped shut.

  Someone had been hiding behind the pillars also, circling around, avoiding him. Waiting for him? Watching him?

  A chill unrelated to the dismal day sank into his bones. The message had been a test and he’d failed it. He had walked right into a trap.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Tom returned to his college, huddled in his cloak, racked with fear. Who had seen him? Steadfast? The man from Dry Drayton? The seditioner himself? Or had the footsteps merely been those of a church-goer or priest oblivious to Tom’s dramatic stupidity?

  He didn’t know whether he had just been exposed as a sneaking spy, thereby failing in his commission and opening himself to a murderous attack, or if he had worked himself into a lather over a misread note and an unsociable priest.

  He needed time to think, recover his balance, and plan his next move. He jerked his chin at the porter as he walked through the gate and strode quickly across the yard. As he approached the door to his stair, a sizar ran up. “Better hurry, Tom! You’re late!”

  Mrs. Eggerley had summoned him to attend her Annual Bachelors’ Dessert Banquet. Tom groaned. He didn’t have time for this. Then he thought again and realized the silly affair would provide him the respite he needed. Even if he had walked into a trap in the church, the seditioners couldn’t pursue him into Margaret’s gallery. He could sit on a bench sipping cheap wine, smiling at nothing, while he considered his options.

  He sprinted up the stairs to his chambers and on up to the cockloft, shedding his outer garments as he went. He used his shirt to swab the sweat from his body and opened the lid of his large chest, wondering what he should wear. His yellow silk shirt winked at him from its place beside his favorite green velvet doublet.

  Margaret doubtless expected him to wear such finery to enhance the spectacle of her one special event. But he needed to show his Puritan colors now more than ever. He might be able to mend this situation if he could think of a good enough reason for reading that note. He could signal his loyalty by dressing in plain Puritan brown. He found a clean shirt with barely half an inch of ruffle and only a single band of embroidered cross-stitches, one of his youngest sister’s early efforts. Then he washed his face, combed his hair, checked his teeth in the small mirror over the basin, and left.

  A sizar in a stiff ruff blocked his path as he entered the gallery and forced a cup of wine and a dish of comfits into his hands. Thus burdened, Tom ambled toward the center of the long room, watching for an empty space on a bench. He hadn’t seen the gallery in many weeks. Margaret had made him use the back stairs to preserve her surprise.

  The results of her planning were impressive. The windows on both sides gleamed with new glass; the carved oak panels between were painted in brilliant shades of green, yellow, and red. One side afforded a view of people coming and going through the south entrance to the college; the other looked into the master’s garden. This was not yet fully planted, but the bow window of Margaret’s bedchamber showed to advantage.

  Margaret noticed him, acknowledging his late arrival with tight smile and a toss of her head. She wore a dark red satin gown embellished with orange braids. The colors made her hair glow like wildfire. She shone with happiness, a fitting mistress for the lavish room. Tom felt a twinge of sympathy; she didn’t get many opportunities to play the lady in this masculine environment.<
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  Tom found a free spot on a bench and perched, conscious of the fact that his buttocks rested on fifteen shillings’ worth of embroidered silk. That sum would feed a poor family for months. He let his gaze follow Margaret’s bright figure while he chewed on a coriander sweet and sipped the watery tinto, pondering who had been in that church and how he could find out.

  Margaret’s banquet honored students who had performed their disputations and would thus be taking their bachelor’s degrees at commencement. She also invited any student of high rank, like the fourteen-year-old son of a viscount who had arrived at the start of Easter term. They ranged along the length of the gallery in their best clothes, some sitting, some standing, all ill at ease. Margaret made her way down the long room, stopping to speak with each in turn. She seemed more animated than usual but thankfully had not yet demanded anything from him beyond his mere presence. She liked to know he was watching her though; she kept casting glances his way to make sure.

  The door at the lodge end of the gallery opened partway. A maidservant peeked out and wiggled her fingers at her mistress. Margaret fairly danced on her toes as she turned in a semicircle, arms wide, beckoning her guests to lend their attention. “Gentlemen! Gentlemen! Please!” She clapped her hands several times, then clasped them to her bosom. “As you know, I host this small affair annually to honor our upcoming graduates. But this year, I have a very special, most extraordinary, wonderful treat for everyone. I have been honored by a visit from a most esteemed and distinguished personage, a distant cousin of mine, as she so graciously condescends to admit —” She broke off with a nervous titter as the far door opened. “Gentlemen, may I present to you the Lady Alice Trumpington, daughter of one of Corpus Christi College’s most esteemed patrons, the Earl of Orford!”

  She gestured toward the door with both outstretched hands. Tom’s mind had started wandering at the word “personage,” expecting a snooze-worthy speech from a portly Sir Somebody. The name “Trumpington” startled him, but he barely had time to set his comfit dish on the floor and get to his feet before a pretty young woman sallied into the room.

  Her bell-shaped skirts of pink silk shot with silver swayed as she dipped and pivoted, taking each man’s uplifted hand in turn for the briefest touch, cooing and trilling like a songbird fluttering through a flock of crows. Her costume outshone Margaret’s as the stars outshine a tallow flame. She wore lace-trimmed double ruffs around her slender neck. Three ropes of matched pearls emphasized the long line of her stiffened bodice. A crystal perfume holder dangled from a girdle of braided silver thread, accentuating the narrowness of her waist. She’d painted her heart-shaped face white with vermilion smudges on her cheeks and lips, a vivid contrast to her black hair and emerald eyes, which tilted up at the corners.

  Tom recognized those eyes. They belonged to Trumpet, also known as Alan Trumpington, his dear old friend from Gray’s. The last time he’d seen her, she’d been decently clad in the garb of a young gentleman studying the law. She’d made a most convincing boy, complete with a thin moustache. With the help of her wily uncle, a senior barrister at Gray’s, she’d fooled everyone for months. By the time Tom uncovered her disguise, they were deeply embroiled in problems much bigger than the niggling detail of Trumpet’s actual sex.

  The dazzling apparition stopped short in the center of the gallery. She rose to her toes, her graceful hands flying up in amazement. “Tom!” she squealed. She looked like a little doll — a doll in a nightmare where the toys rise up and devour their masters. All the fine hairs on his body stood on end. He could feel his very scalp lifting from his skull.

  “Tom, Tom, Tommykins!” The doll pattered toward him in tiny steps, her dainty feet skipping lightly over the rushes. She held her hands out, palms turned in, fingers flicking eagerly. He shrank back but was trapped by a wall of oak. She swooped in, grabbed his hands, and kissed him on both cheeks. She smelled of civet and jasmine, heady fragrances that clouded his already overstrained wits. The square neck of her doublet was filled by a sheer partlet revealing firm, round breasts that reminded him in no wise of his old friend Trumpet.

  She settled back on her heels and studied him, eyes narrowing, nose wrinkling. He recognized that look in spite of the distracting paint on her face. She lifted her finger in an argumentative gesture that was pure Trumpet, but before she could launch her critique, Margaret caught up with her.

  “Have you met our Thomas before, my lady?” The question ended on a shrill note.

  Tom opened his mouth and closed it. Let Trumpet answer. He had no idea what game she was playing.

  “Oh, yes! Yes, yes, yes, indeed!” Trumpet swiveled in her stiff costume to smile up at her hostess. Her delicate figure and dramatic coloring made her look like a rare butterfly beside a big red duck. “He may not remember me, but I could never forget him. We met at court.” She whirled back toward Tom, batting her eyelashes so rapidly she lost her balance.

  He caught her elbow to steady her, tilting his head in a slow shake. He willed the message with his eyes: Don’t overdo it.

  “You didn’t tell me you had been received at court, Thomas,” Margaret purred. “I’m surprised you never mentioned it to me.”

  Trumpet cocked her head at the hint of intimacy in Margaret’s tone. She had a quick ear for nuance; Tom knew he’d better divert her attention. “I wasn’t actually received. I merely delivered a message. What brings you to Cambridge, Lady Alice?”

  “Love,” she answered, tilting her chin to look straight up into his eyes. Margaret’s ingratiating smile faltered. Tom clenched his teeth.

  She trilled a laugh. “I turned eighteen last month, and my father thinks it time I married.” She smiled sadly at Margaret. “You know I am his only heir.”

  “So I understand, my lady.” She licked her lips at the prospect of being in the good graces of a future countess, one with livings for Corpus Christi graduates in her gift.

  “He depends on me to continue the line,” Trumpet said, “and will brook no further delay. He sent me here to meet two candidates for my hand who live nearby. Margaret is kind enough to offer me the hospitality of her house and her services as an escort when I go to visit them. One is the son of Lord North, the Privy Councilor. The other is a banker named Sir Horatio Palavicino. Do you know them?”

  Tom shook his head. His mind boggled at the concept of a married Trumpet. Would she produce offspring? Would they be boys or girls? Or some unnatural combination of the two?

  A vivid memory filled his mind of a rainy evening spent lounging before the hearth in his chambers at Gray’s Inn. He’d plucked at his lute composing a song while Ben mixed one of his warming potions. Trumpet, at that time still only a boy as far as anyone knew, sprawled on a cushion spitting apple seeds into the fire, cursing like a sailor — words he’d learned from Tom — and arguing the law with informed conviction. She was good company, no question.

  But married? Ben would make a better wife.

  Did Ben know she was here? Did Bacon? Had Bacon sent her to check on him? Bacon hadn’t known her secret at the time Tom left, but that could have changed. Tom hadn’t been allowed to correspond with his chums at Gray’s, in the interest of maintaining his assumed role during the course of his commission.

  Margaret was rattling on about the virtues of Trumpet’s suitors. “Sir Horatio is said to be the richest man in England. He recently purchased the manor in Babraham.”

  “Babraham?” Tom did not want Trumpet anywhere near Babraham. He didn’t want her here at all. Much as he longed for the comfort of a friend, he knew in his gut that his only hope of salvaging his mission was to play the newly converted Puritan zealot for all he was worth.

  He glanced past her at a couple of students who were edging toward them, ears straining. They were probably just eager to meet the daughter of an earl, but who knew what they might spread around the hall at supper.

  “Palavicino,” he said, tilting his head back and wrinkling his nose. “That’s an Italian name. Is he C
atholic? What are his sympathies?”

  “Thomas!” Margaret scowled at him over Trumpet’s shoulder.

  Trumpet’s lip curled at the interruption. She made a small fist and expelled two kittenish coughs into her dainty hand. “I must be thirsty,” she informed the air.

  “Forgive me, my lady! I’ll fetch you some wine at once.” Margaret took Tom’s cup from his hand and scurried off to remedy her lack of courtesy.

  “What are you doing here?” he whispered through a clenched smile.

  Trumpet whispered back, “I’ve come to rescue you.”

  “What?” Now he saw one of Steadfast’s chambermates join the two curious students. One of them nudged the newcomer and he nudged back, as if they were daring each other to be the first to approach the honored guest.

  What would Parson Wingfield say to Lady Alice in this situation? Tom drew himself to his full height and looked down his nose at her, knowing how much she hated it. “I agree with your lord father, Lady Alice. The married state is best, especially for a woman. ‘A virtuous woman is a crown to her husband: but she that maketh ashamed is as rottenness in his bones.’ A good husband will guide you to your proper place in the world.”

  She seemed to wilt before his eyes. “Oh, Tom! It’s worse than I thought.”

  Before he could find out what that meant, Margaret reappeared with a silver cup. She handed it to Trumpet, who peered at its contents and wrinkled her nose in distaste. “Tinto! I can’t drink that in the afternoon. I must have Rhenish, with honey, not sugar, and a splash — just a splash, mind you — of cool spring water.” She held the cup at arm’s length as if it were filled with hot piss.

  “I beg your pardon, my lady.” Margaret’s cheeks flared in embarrassment. “Of course you shall have exactly what you wish.” She bustled off, fairly pushing the students from her path.