Death by Disputation (A Francis Bacon Mystery Book 2)

by Anna Castle

  “Where are we?” He scanned the tavern, which meandered through the whole ground floor, branching into shallow side rooms. Only a few tables held patrons at this hour and none were close enough to overhear them.

  “A place where no one will pay any attention to us.” She smiled brightly at him. “This inn is a favorite of traveling actors. Catalina knew about it.”

  A wench in wide skirts with a thickly painted face brought them a jug of beer and two cups, then stirred up the fire, adding a few sticks to make it blaze. Tom glanced at her askance but said nothing. Trumpet helped him off with his doublet, which Catalina spread on a tall stool where it could dry. Trumpet tilted her head at her and the maid slid off to sit at the counter.

  Tom stretched his sodden shoes toward the warming blaze and sat for a while, soaking up the heat. Trumpet let him gather his thoughts. After a minute or two, he sighed and shot her a sidelong glance. “A lot has happened since I saw you last, Trumpet. I’m not sure where to start.”

  “Anywhere you like, Tom.” She filled a cup and handed it to him. “Take your time.”

  He took a long draught from the cup. “Ah. This is good.” He looked around the room again, checking for whatever it was he was worried about. Then he said, “Everything’s changed, you see. I’m no longer sure who I —”

  The front doors banged open and two men strode in like conquering heroes returning from a long campaign. One wore shabby academic garb; the other vaunted a velvet doublet with shiny brass buttons. The latter spread his arms wide and addressed the whole tavern in a resounding cry. “Holla, my stout contributory kings!”

  Half a dozen voices chorused, “Kit!”

  The pair laughed and joked and slapped men on the shoulders as they passed through the room. When they spotted Tom, they clapped their hands in delight and veered at once in his direction. Trumpet glared at them, willing them to go away, but they ignored her.

  The one called Kit said, “Thomas Clarady, you old son of a salty sea dog! What brings you to my favorite pothouse?”

  Tom flinched away from them. “Marlowe!”

  Trumpet’s ears pricked at the name. Bacon had once considered Marlowe a suspect in the murder of Tom’s tutor. Then he’d become a sort of ally for a while, and then he’d left. Tom admired him, Bacon had said. Maybe he could help her now.

  “Am I invisible?” the shabby one asked. He was a scrawny youth with straw-like hair and a gag-tooth. Not ugly, exactly, but far from impressive. He pulled up a stool and sat beside Trumpet. “Thomas Nashe,” he said, helping himself to one of the cups. He reached for the jug. “What are we drinking?”

  “Not that,” Marlowe said. He called at the counterman. “Wine, Albert! The best in the house. Put it on their bill.” He grinned at Tom, grabbed a stool from another table, and sat. “What’s the matter, Tom? Cat got your tongue? No cheery greeting for your old friend Kit?”

  “What are you doing here?” Tom folded his arms across his chest.

  “That’s a mite unfriendly, after all we’ve been to one another.” Marlowe winked at Trumpet. “We spent a memorable night together.”

  “In gaol,” Tom said. “Which was your fault.”

  Marlowe shook his head sadly. “I’ve been away for two months, risking life and limb for — well, for perfectly good reasons — and this is the welcome I receive? I was especially looking forward to seeing you, Tom. I was planning to send you a note this very afternoon, wasn’t I, Nashey?”

  “He was,” Nashe said. “After we had a little drink. He only got back last night.”

  The wench brought them a tall bottle and fresh cups.

  “I thought you were gone for good.” Tom leaned back, arms still folded, his displeasure at the new arrivals clear. But Marlowe seemed to think they’d parted as friends. There was a subtext here, but she couldn’t read it.

  “We’ve surprised him,” Nashe said. “But we’re the ones who ought to be surprised. Why would Thomas Clarady be here, of all places? You won’t find any religious crack-brains at the Cap and Bells.” He turned toward Trumpet. “Perhaps his friend can explain. Who have we the pleasure of meeting?”

  “Alan Trumpington.” She shook each of the proffered hands. “A friend of Tom’s from Gray’s Inn.”

  “Trumpington, eh?” Marlowe cocked his head. “Any relation to the street? Or the gate? Or the town?”

  Trumpet waved her hand to deflect that topic. “One of my uncles.”

  “Uncles!” The pair traded clownish grins.

  Marlowe leaned in and lowered his voice to a conspiratorial murmur. “Precisely the topic I wanted to discuss. Tell me, Tom. How are your, shall we say, non-academic activities coming along? Any news for me?”

  “I have nothing to say to you.” Tom’s eyes darted around the tavern. He sat up straight, feet planted as if ready to take flight.

  Trumpet could feel antagonism rising from him like the steam from his woolen stockings. She must repel these intruders before she lost him. “Tom had an accident on the bridge this afternoon. He’s soaking wet, as you can see. Why don’t you give us some time alone here to dry off and recover?”

  “He doesn’t mind being wet,” Marlowe said. “He’s been to sea, and he’s a hardy lad, immune to the elements. He owes me an explanation. He made me a promise, didn’t you, Tom?”

  “Not exactly.” Tom frowned.

  “I understood it that way. A quid pro quo. A tit for a tat. An exchange of services.”

  Tom pressed his lips together. He shot a glance at Nashe and said, “Or what shall a man give in exchange for his soul? Mark eight, verse thirty-seven.”

  “Oh, no,” Trumpet groaned. Bible verses. “Leave us alone, I beg you. Tom’s not himself today.”

  “He looks like himself,” Nashe said, “if a bit soggier than usual.”

  Marlowe peered at him. “He is thinner. And his eyes are different somehow. Nevertheless, he owes me an answer. I helped you earn credit with those religious extremists your uncle is interested in. Remember, Tom?”

  Tom shook his head. “I remember the day of my disputation. ‘Surely the serpent will bite without enchantment; and a babbler is no better.’“

  “What does that mean?” Marlowe said.

  “Go away, I beg you,” Trumpet said.

  A commotion arose at the counter, where a group of men in academic gowns had come in, already arguing about something. Tom’s head snapped around. He scanned their faces, then snapped back again. He jumped to his feet, crying, “Get thee behind me, Satan!” Then he pushed Marlowe off his stool, sending him sprawling into the rushes, and ran out of the tavern.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  “Well, that was helpful.” Trumpet wiped her brow with her sleeve. She knew better than to chase after Tom. He was faster than she was on an ordinary day and he’d raced out of the tavern like a man pursued by bat-winged demons. She feared they had sent him howling back into the arms of the zealots.

  She bowed courteously to her remaining companions. “I want to thank you gentlemen for making my task easier this afternoon.”

  “That’s called sarcasm,” Nashe said, nodding. “It’s a form of ironical derision. I’m fond of the device myself.”

  Trumpet glared at him. He shrugged in a semblance of an apology. The man evidently had no shame. She rolled her eyes in resignation, then held out a hand to help Marlowe up from the floor. “How do you put up with this dizzard?”

  “Nashe is an acquired taste.” Marlowe dusted bits of broken rushes from his melon hose. “What’s happened to Tom?” he asked. His tone was friendlier than before; she’d passed some test by accepting his peculiar friend. “That’s not the eager, young intelligencer I left behind in April.”

  “No,” Trumpet said. “It’s not the Tom I knew either. I’m afraid he’s been converted by the very people he was sent to investigate.”

  “If the godly folk have gotten him,” Nashe said, “best say adieu; he’s lost to us.”

  “A pity,” Marlowe said. “The la
d showed promise.”

  He righted his stool and sat. Then he reached for the wine bottle, but Trumpet grabbed it first and clutched it to her chest. “Not yet.” She stood for a moment, pondering the two men. Arranging a meeting with Tom was far more difficult than she’d anticipated. First the ban on women inside the college, then the constant company of Mrs. Eggerley. And Tom had clearly been avoiding her.

  She doubted she’d be able to catch him by surprise again. She needed help. Bacon had hinted that Marlowe was in the employ of Lord Burghley or someone on the Privy Council. The man was obviously intelligent and equally obviously not restrained by conventional standards.

  What choice did she have? She sat on the bench at the end farthest from the fire. She placed the bottle on the table but kept her fist curled around its neck. “I want the old Tom back. I refuse to believe he’s lost forever. He can be saved, but I can’t do it alone. I want the two of you to help me.”

  “Us? Kit and me? Me and Kit?” Nashe grinned at Marlowe.

  He wasn’t laughing. “What do you think we can do?”

  “I’m not sure yet,” Trumpet said. “You’re Christopher Marlowe, aren’t you? Tom’s Latin tutor?”

  Now he did laugh, but not unkindly. “If that’s my only claim to fame, I must count myself a failure. But yes, I had that dubious honor for a while. He wasn’t a very good student.”

  “He is when he wants to be,” Trumpet said. “He trusted you, I think. He even admired you.”

  “That’s gratifying,” Marlowe said. “Mildly.” He pointed a long finger at his empty cup.

  Trumpet smiled but held on to the bottle.

  Marlowe smiled back. “We can be very resourceful, Nashe and I. We certainly know Cambridge and environs well enough by now. And we know all sorts of people.”

  This time, Trumpet filled all three cups, placing the bottle in the middle of the table. “No one will end up in gaol. Especially not me.”

  Marlowe chuckled and took a long drink before speaking. “I want to know what Tom’s job here is, exactly. Or was, since you seem to be suggesting he’s abandoned it.”

  “I’ll tell you if you agree to help me.”

  “What you’re asking sounds complicated and possibly risky.” He shrugged. “Too much trouble for a mere story.”

  “He means money,” Nashe said. “We’re always a little short.”

  “I’m short myself,” Trumpet said. Which was not a lie. The innkeeper here had taken the gold bracelet Sir Horatio gave her for three weeks of bed, board, and laundry services. Robbery, but what could she do?

  Marlowe raised his eyebrows.

  Trumpet clucked her tongue. “I might be able to manage a shilling or two next week.”

  “A pound,” Marlowe said. “Each.”

  She blew a lip fart at him. “Impossible.”

  She folded her arms across her chest. He mirrored the gesture. They eyed each other across the table.

  Nashe reached for the bottle and filled his cup to the brim. “Never fear, Kit. She’ll tell the tale and pay us as well.”

  “How can you be so —” Marlowe whipped around to face his friend, then whipped back to stare at Trumpet. “Wait a minute. She?” He leaned across the table to study her closely.

  She met his gaze with a stiffened jaw.

  Nashe giggled. “You’ve been too distracted by all the Tom-foolery to notice the signs.”

  “I think you may be right,” Marlowe said, his eyes still probing her features. “How did you know?”

  “Men who look at you the way she looked at you usually look at me to see if I look at you that way too. She liked you, at least she thought you comely. But she looked at me the way women who talk the way she talks always look at me.” He gave her a mournful puppy-dog frown. “Perhaps if I had a nicer doublet . . .”

  “Tush!” She flicked her hand at him and asked Marlowe, “Does he ever make any sense?”

  “Yes, once you learn to speak Nashery.” He wagged his finger at her. “It’s very good work, your face. Really exceptional.”

  “I like the stippling along the jawline,” Nashe said. “What did you use? Soot?”

  “It’s not quite perfect though,” Marlowe said. “That dewy glow on the cheeks — impossible to fake — disappears when the beard comes in.” He raised his hand, circling thumb and forefinger like an expert appraiser. “There’s that exquisite moment between youth and manhood when the body is ripe but the face still untouched by time’s ravaging hand.”

  “She needs the beard,” Nashe said. “Look how fine her bones are — like a little bird. Without the facial hair, she’s a girl in a doublet.”

  Trumpet bit her lip. She was in their power now. What would they do?

  “The shoe’s on the other foot now,” Marlowe said. “I think a pound is a reasonable fee for our services — and our silence. Don’t you agree, Mr. Trumpington?”

  “Not at all.” Trumpet rose and grabbed the wine bottle, emptying it into her cup. She took a long draft and smacked her lips. “I can change clothes and return to my hostess with no one the wiser. You don’t know who I am, but trust me, no one would take your word over mine.”

  “But then you wouldn’t get Tom back,” Marlowe said.

  They folded their arms again and traded glares.

  He had the upper hand and they both knew it. Trumpet sighed and sat back down. “What do you want?” She would promise anything and scramble to make good later.

  Marlowe’s smile turned icy. “I want to watch the murderer of Bartholomew Leeds swing from Tyburn Tree.”

  “And I want something nasty to happen to Steadfast Wingfield,” Nashe put in. He rubbed his jaw. “It doesn’t have to be permanent, but it should be painful.”

  Trumpet grinned. Both of those things were already on her list; at least, the hanging was. “Done,” she said and waved at the counterman to bring them another bottle.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  “What do you think?” Trumpet turned in a circle for Catalina’s inspection. “Do I look like a bed-maker?”

  “Mmm . . . allow me, my lady.” The gypsy wrapped a frayed length of thin wool around Trumpet’s head and tied it under her chin. “That’s better.”

  “It’s itchy.” She tucked the kerchief behind her ears so she could see around it. “Can’t I wear my cambric neckerchief?”

  “No, my lady. Real bed-makers have fifty years of age and are ugly. You are young and pretty, as am I.” Catalina was not precisely pretty — her features were too dark and strongly drawn. She was striking, however, taller than Trumpet by several inches and stronger of build.

  The chapel bell tolled nine. Time to get to work. On Fridays, Mrs. Eggerley had a regular appointment with her astrologer, which always lasted two full hours. Trumpet meant to make the most of every minute. She and her maid were going to search Tom’s rooms to find anything that would help her identify the murderer and fulfill her part of the bargain she’d made with Christopher Marlowe.

  She’d only gotten free on Monday by pretending to be sick. She’d locked the door of the bedchamber, where she and Catalina had changed into their gentlemen’s garb. They’d snuck out of the lodge with their hearts in their mouths for fear of being caught. Exciting, yes, but also time consuming.

  The Eggerley followed her everywhere like a lumbering red dog, yapping endlessly about Her Ladyship’s most honorable lord father and his imaginary generosity. In actuality, Lord Orford cared about exactly three things: gambling, investing in ships, and scrounging up more money to pay his gambling debts and fund his seafaring adventures. If he could sell his daughter to a rich Italian banker, he’d be good for another year or two.

  Trumpet lifted her skirts and started toward the chamber door. Catalina gasped. “Oh, my lady! You may not wear those shoes for the making of beds! No, no, no, no, no, no, no!”

  “I like these shoes. They’re my oldest Alan shoes.”

  “Yes, my lady, but they are boy’s shoes and very fine ones. Please.” Cat
alina gestured at the bed.

  Trumpet growled under her breath but hopped up and stretched out her legs, leaning back on her hands to keep from sinking into the deep feather mattress. While the gypsy changed her shoes, she surveyed the lavish furnishings of her hostess’s bedchamber with a critical eye. “If we run out of money before we rescue Tom, we could sell some of these tassels. They’d keep our game afloat for a month.”

  Tassels hung from everything that could support them, from the scarlet bed hangings to the silken ropes holding candle wheels aloft. Smaller tassels adorned embroidered scarves draped around the bow window and over the gilt-framed mirror. Even the Turkey carpet lying atop a large and richly carved chest bore an edging of tiny tassels.

  “This woman lives better than my mother did,” Trumpet said. “A vicar’s daughter and the wife of a college headmaster!” The only thing she liked about this overstuffed, over perfumed chamber was the knowledge that Tom had spent time in it, although she didn’t like his reason for being there. Still, Tom was Tom; when women beckoned, he obliged.

  Except for her, it would seem.

  The gypsy laughed and patted her freshly shod foot. “That is more better. Never forget the shoes, my lady.”

  “Yes, yes. Now let’s hurry. We only have an hour before the students come back.” The college schedule never varied. The yard would be empty at this hour, all the men in classes at the Common Schools.

  They slipped down the back stairs and went through the garden, walking quickly down the corridor outside the hall with their heads bent. The Egg woman had given Trumpet a visual tour of the college from the window in the master’s parlor, so she knew which stair was Tom’s. A few short steps and they were inside his front door.

  After the luxury of the master’s lodge, the east range of this venerable college looked like a pig man’s hovel. Cracked clay tiles covered the floor under a skimpy layer of dirty rushes. The oak stairs sagged in the middle, the bannisters scarred by centuries of rough use. The thick doors had seen little in the way of polish. Tom and Ben had lived in the oldest building at Gray’s Inn, notorious for its state of advanced decay, but it was a palace compared to this ancient hole.