Death by Disputation (A Francis Bacon Mystery Book 2)

by Anna Castle

  Trumpet watched her go, then flashed a grin at Tom. “Rank has its uses. That will buy us a few more minutes.”

  “More than a few,” Tom said. “She’ll have to get the Rhenish from the butler personally.” He felt bad for Margaret. “Go home, Trumpet. Go back to Gray’s. Tell Bacon I don’t need any interference, especially not now.”

  He looked past her and saw the three edging closer again. “And remember: a talebearer revealeth secrets, but he that is of a faithful spirit concealeth the matter.” He caught her gaze and flicked his eyebrows, hoping she’d understand his message.

  ***

  Trumpet watched in dismay as Tom babbled Bible quotes at her, a suspicious gleam in his eyes. The changes she saw in him shocked her to the marrow. His hair was chopped short to defeat the curls and his chin coarsely barbered. He’d grown thinner and the dismal color of his clothes made him look bilious.

  She’d dressed to impress him, to amuse him. To show her how she looked in woman’s garb, which he had never seen. She’d expected a laugh and the extra sparkle that warmed his eyes when he talked to women he admired. She’d hoped to get that dimpled grin that turned her spine to butter.

  This Tom had no sparkle and no grin. He kept looking around him as if he feared he was being watched and he spoke too loudly, as if he wanted to be overheard. This was how they acted, these Puritans, wanting to make a display of their vaunted plainness as a rebuke to ordinary folk trying to enjoy a bit of fun. And when had he acquired that infuriatingly superior air? He’d looked down his nose and spouted a Bible verse at her. Twice! Those zealots he’d been sent to chase had caught him, right enough.

  Or was it her? Because she was dark instead of fair? Short instead of willowy? No, she refused to believe it. Tom liked all kinds of women. He liked that Eggerley cow, she could tell. And the cow had designs on him. She had looked at him the way a hungry woman looks at a cake.

  “Don’t worry about Mr. Bacon.” Trumpet kept her tone light. She’d pressed too hard before, too soon. “I just wanted to see you, that’s all.”

  He smiled crookedly and shook his head. Then he winked at her — or twitched — and spoke to the room at large. “The wicked watcheth the righteous, and seeketh to slay him.” He smiled at her through his teeth, flicking his eyebrows madly up and down. “Psalm 37.”

  Trumpet’s heart sank in despair. She’d come too late.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Tom stuck close to his desk for the next few days, waiting for the axe to fall, not knowing from which direction it might come. It had occurred to him that if Bacon had discovered Trumpet’s gift for disguises, he might very well have sent her to monitor his progress. He could feel her eyes boring holes in his head through the squints in the master’s lodge as he sat in the hall or the chapel. He’d seen her at the window in the master’s parlor too, looking into the yard. She’d waved at him, but he’d ignored her. She’d sent him three messages; he’d ignored those too. He didn’t dare acknowledge her.

  No one had said anything about Thursday afternoon — not a hint. Steadfast met him for classes and study group in the usual way, though Tom thought he seemed a trifle smugger than usual, if that were possible. Tom had made a vague excuse about a sore foot and missed Sunday services in Babraham for the first time in many weeks. No one said anything about that either, which seemed suspicious in itself.

  He didn’t even feel safe inside his chambers, where Dilly watched him day and night with his worried eyes and Simon Thorpe paced pompously around the room, pretending to direct their studies. Tom knew Dilly must be a member of the Babraham conspirators, if the least of them. He felt sorry for the boyling, but didn’t trust him. Not after the letter-tampering incident.

  And Thorpe — what did he want? Even when he was supposedly working on college business, slipping papers in and out of that cursed impenetrable bursar’s desk, he would shoot a glance at Tom every few minutes. Did he suspect something? Or perhaps the snuffling knave had simply found a new target for his affections since Marlowe went away.

  Tom sincerely hoped not. He had enough troubles.

  By Monday afternoon, he couldn’t stand it anymore. He jumped to his feet, said to nobody in particular, “I forgot that I promised Mr. —” and dashed out. He needed air and his wits worked better when his feet were moving.

  He found his way to the Granta and turned south down the riverside path. He let himself walk for a while without thinking, working his limbs and filling his lungs. A flock of greylag geese flew overhead, traveling north. Their distant honking made him think of seasons changing, time fleeting past. Today was the first day of June; summer had arrived. Tom could smell it rising from the river and wafting across the fields of sun-warmed grass. Commencement was only a month away. The time for resolution was at hand.

  He turned his thoughts to his current predicament. When he’d left the Round Church last week, he’d been certain he’d been exposed as a spy. But then nothing had happened, nothing at all. Everyone had treated him the same as before. What could that mean?

  He applied the education he’d won from university, Gray’s Inn, and Francis Bacon, and reasoned it out. Either no meeting had been scheduled or the message was a test which he had failed.

  He could easily have misinterpreted the terse note. Conspirators arranged many things in advance, relying on writing only for last minute details. Thursday, three, might have meant third Thursday, for example. Or Thursday plus three, meaning Sunday. The meeting might have been canceled or postponed, on account of the weather, perhaps, the word spread by means unknown to him.

  In any such case, those footsteps would have had nothing to do with him. Some visitor or church member going about his business, too shy or too busy to make himself known. Tom had not been exposed, his commission had not been compromised, and he could simply go on as if nothing had happened because, in fact, nothing had.

  He turned at Small Bridge Street, deciding to walk down to Newnham Mill, circle around the pool, and then head back up. The track at this juncture was always wet. He had to pay attention for a short stretch to avoid slipping in the mud or bumping into people coming off the bridge over the mill stream.

  When his feet found firmer ground, he forced himself to face the more calamitous alternative. If he had interpreted the note correctly and the meeting it implied had not been somehow canceled, then the message had been aimed at him. The butcher in Dry Drayton must have been in on the game, which is why he’d given Tom such a sharp look. Perhaps he’d detected tampering through some trick Tom had missed and alerted the others; perhaps the watcher in the Round Church had simply waited there on the chance that Tom would come.

  Either way, the message had been a trap and he’d been caught in it.

  What did that mean for his commission? Either the seditioner now knew he was a spy, in which case the jig was up and he might as well run on home or —

  Tom stopped in his tracks, fresh hope rising in his veins. Just because he had failed one test did not conclusively condemn him, not in a small world populated chiefly by teachers and students. And Puritans loved the struggle as much as the goal. They might view his behavior as a lapse to be remedied with prayer and fellowship.

  He laughed out loud, sharing his joy with a flock of ducks paddling in the stream beside the path. The game wasn’t over, not yet. He might still be able to brazen it out.

  The path wound through a lush pasture bordering the mill pool. Cows grazed on the bright grass, tended by a boy and a dog. A punt with a lone boatman moved upstream, drawing Tom’s eye. Two gentlemen in velvet caps and academic gowns opened to display their fine clothing strolled toward him, engaged in lively conversation.

  He passed them, nodding politely, and turned to cross a small footbridge. He sensed movement behind him and looked over his shoulder. One of the gentlemen had turned back. Tom started to ask if he needed directions when the man rushed at him and pushed him, both hands thrusting hard against his chest, knocking him off the bridge. Tom
felt himself falling backward, helpless, arms flailing, into the water.

  The seditioners! They’ve caught me!

  He thrashed and heaved, struggling to get his feet planted in the weedy muck of the streambed so he could stand and defend himself. He feared they would jump in after him, hold him down, and drown him. Stupid! Strolling along like a great gray goose while the minions of a murdering seditioner stalked him openly.

  He hauled himself up from the ooze with a roar and staggered through the bulrushes to the solid bank. He turned to face his attackers, fists raised and ready. No one there.

  He heard laughter and turned again, full around toward the path. The velvet-capped men were clapping their knees, pointing at him, and howling with laughter.

  He gave them a closer look. One of them had brilliant green eyes. That one nodded his chin at Tom, laughing in big hiccupy gulps that gradually stuttered to a halt.

  Trumpet.

  “You little —” Tom stepped toward her, shaking his fist.

  She stood her ground, stabbing her finger at him. “You’re tumbling that stupid, preening, overbuilt doxy!”

  Tom was dumbfounded. This was not the reckoning he’d expected. “What doxy?”

  “Margaret Eggerley, of course. How many doxies are you juggling?”

  Tom had the unsettling sense she knew the answer was two, although he meant to give them both up, as soon as he could manage it gracefully. He ran a hand through his hair and came up with a fistful of soggy sedges. He lifted each foot in turn. “My shoes are ruined!”

  Trumpet shrugged. “I’ll buy you a new pair.”

  “You never have any money.”

  “As it happens, I have lately acquired a new source of revenues.” She grinned at him.

  He didn’t grin back. “The Italian banker, I suppose.”

  “He’s rich, he’s generous, and he likes me.”

  “That makes one,” Tom said. Her grin disappeared. Well, that had been a little harsh. He brushed a trailing reed from his shoulder and straightened his sopping robes as best he could, shaking the folds free of his legs. He cleared his throat and spat river water. “I’m soaked to the skin. I can’t go back to the college like this.”

  “No, you can’t, can you?” Trumpet’s expression was all sympathy, but there was something else in her tone. She’d planned this prank for a reason.

  “What are you up to?” he asked. “How do my alleged romantic affairs justify your pushing me off a bridge?”

  Trumpet shrugged again. “You threw me into a duck pond last December.”

  “That’s true.” He hadn’t known it was her at the time, but a dunking had occurred. He rubbed his face, drawing a trail of slime from his stubbled chin. “Fair enough.” He gave her a wry smile. “At least my moustache stays on when I get wet.”

  She laughed, but he didn’t join her. This assault had turned to nothing, but the next one might not be so harmless. He must keep his wits about him at all times.

  Trumpet pressed her lips together and regarded him somberly. Then she stuck out her hand. “I apologize.”

  He shook it and nodded. “Apology accepted.” Tilting his head at her companion, he asked, “And who might this be? Is he, er —”

  “A she? Yes.” Trumpet waved her hand at the person beside her. “This is my new maidservant, Catalina Luna.”

  Tom wasn’t sure about the protocol for meeting a maidservant dressed in gentlemen’s garb, so he offered a short bow. She returned the gesture with limber grace. Her hair was a rich dark brown, like her eyes. Her nose was unusually sharp and prominent, somewhat masculine, and thus an aid to the illusion.

  “Catalina’s a gypsy from Spain, via Italy,” Trumpet said. “She was an actress in the commedia dell’arte.”

  “I see.” Tom never wanted to hear any of those words issuing from Trumpet’s mouth, singly or together. They could herald nothing but trouble. “Does she speak English?”

  “Of a certainty.” The gypsy’s voice was low and thickly accented.

  “Welcome to England.” Tom couldn’t think of anything else to say. “How did you —”

  “My uncle sent her to me as a present.”

  “Ah. And how is Mr. Welbeck?” Trumpet’s uncle had been a senior barrister at Gray’s Inn until his love of clever deceits led him into trouble. He’d gone into hiding just before Christmas, leaving Trumpet without a cover for her masquerade.

  “Still at large,” Trumpet said. “And still feeling pangs for disrupting my legal education. Hence, the gift. He met Catalina through the actor she was living with in Bishopsgate. The actor died and she had nowhere to go, so he sent her to me. She’s a genius with disguises. My own mother wouldn’t recognize me, if she were alive to see!”

  “I almost didn’t.”

  “You absolutely didn’t. You walked right past me with that pompous nod you give to gentlemen you don’t know.”

  “I am never pompous.”

  She clucked her tongue. “The fact remains you didn’t know me until I laughed right in your soggy face. It’s the new beard, see?” She tilted her head from side to side to show the stippling around her jawline, like a boy’s first beard trying to come in.

  Tom nodded, examining her face. “The moustache is thicker too. Are your eyebrows darker?”

  “More ragged,” she said. “More masculine.”

  “Impressive.” Tom bowed his head briefly, and not the least bit pompously, toward the gypsy, acknowledging her skill. “What are you doing out and about in these costumes? I thought you came here to meet suitors.”

  “What do you think I’ve been doing all week?” She grimaced. “Sitting in stuffy parlors with that odious Egg woman at my side. I pretend to giggle at the gentleman’s inane compliments while fending off his roaming fingers. It was the best idea I could come up with on short notice. At least they give me gifts I can pawn.”

  “So,” Tom said, “the suitors are a ruse?”

  “Not entirely.” She made another sour face. “My father needs money and I’m the best thing he’s got to barter. But I’m really here for you, Tom.” She peered up at him with a searching gaze. “I’m here to help you.”

  Tom held her gaze, trying to read the thoughts behind the bright green eyes. Why was she studying him so intently? How on earth could she, or Francis Bacon, imagine she could help him? It had taken him months to worm his way into the godly community and learn to play the Puritan with conviction. Did she think she could jump in with no preparation?

  On the other hand, he had missed Ben and Trumpet fiercely. He normally kept that feeling bottled up so he could do his work, but now the longing for a trusted friend in whom he could confide bubbled through his veins like an alchemist’s liquor. She might not be able to attend sermons and study groups to watch for signs of secret exchanges, but she could help him think through whatever he learned.

  If Ben were standing here offering assistance, he wouldn’t hesitate. But Trumpet was a law unto herself. Taking her into his confidence had its risks. Still, she was as clever as a Jesuit; she’d spot any argument he had missed.

  “I do have things to tell you,” he said. “Let’s go somewhere quiet, with a fire so I can get dry.” He glanced around to see if anyone was watching them or approaching closely enough to overhear. The coast looked clear, but better safe than sorry. He grinned down at her. “Arise, go forth into the plain, and I will there talk with thee.”

  “Oh, Tom,” she said and clucked her tongue.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Trumpet watched the expressions on Tom’s face change from irritation to wary interest, then from the warmth of friendship to something more calculated. He’d sounded like the old Tom up until the calculation started. Then he’d fallen back on the Bible quotes again.

  At least he wasn’t resisting her. She must take advantage of the moment. He’d granted her one smile — one genuine grin, complete with dimple. She’d had to dress as a boy to get it, but never mind that either. First restore him to h
is old self, then acquaint him with her womanly side.

  She wrapped her hand around his arm, nodding at Catalina to take the other side. “Come on,” she said. “I know just the place.”

  He fell into pace with them willingly enough, although he kept casting wary glances left and right as if worried about pursuit. “Tell me about Sir Horatio Palavicino,” he said. “What sort of a man is he?”

  Not the topic she’d expected, but it seemed safe enough. “He’s about forty, but not fat or saggy-faced. He looks Italian; not in a devious way, just dark hair and eyes. He dresses well.” She prattled on, describing the house in Babraham and its vast collection of art objects. Tom didn’t care much about the art. He wanted to know more about Sir Horatio’s relations with the village and the church.

  All she had on that theme was gossip from Mrs. Eggerley. Apparently, Babraham was blessed with an abundance of fair-haired folk, including a particularly striking woman in whom Tom had shown an interest. The preacher’s daughter, as it happens, but he would have found her if she’d been the daughter of the village hermit. Trumpet had fully expected to find an angelic beauty somewhere in the mix.

  She’d deal with that problem later too. The first thing was to get Tom alone in a safe place where they could talk in peace. Let him tell her about his months in Cambridge. Let him look at her in her familiar guise and remember their friendship, remember that he’d trusted her before and could do so again. Then slowly, gently, turn the talk toward old times, good times, things he used to love. Help him remember himself.

  She led him to Trumpington Road and on south through the gate past Pembroke and Peterhouse to a large inn set back in a shady grove. The sign over the door displayed a jester in a cap and bells. They entered a low-ceilinged tavern and found a table near a hearth. Only a few banked embers smoldered under the ashes on this sunny afternoon. Catalina went to roust a servant while Trumpet settled Tom on a bench.