Death by Disputation (A Francis Bacon Mystery Book 2)

by Anna Castle

  Tom held her gaze for a long moment, giving her time to tell him what had really happened. She didn’t blink or lose the smirk. He let it go. What could he do if she wouldn’t talk to him? He’d never milked a cow himself, but he had seen the beasts and had never noticed any part of their hindquarters that in any way resembled the shape of a human hand.

  “I’m almost finished,” she said, pulling her chin away and returning to her work. She swept for a minute or two, working a pile of dirty straw down the center of the earthen floor and adding it to a large heap near the open double doors.

  Tom stood and watched, enjoying, as he was meant to, the grace of her simply clad figure. She finished and hung her broom from a rack on the wall. She untucked her skirts, shaking them free, then dusted her hands on her apron. Then she removed that item of clothing slowly, using both hands to untie the laces in back, arching her back to reach them. She smiled at him — a smile filled with promise — and said, “There’s one more little thing you could help me with, Tom.”

  She took him by the hand and led him to the ladder going up to the hayloft. Tom grinned. He knew what haylofts were for. But that wasn’t why he had come.

  Until that moment, he hadn’t thought about his reasons. She’d summoned him, he knew there were matters to settle between them, so he’d come. But in truth, on the long walk here from his college, his mind had been wholly preoccupied with Trumpet and the sense that her cat’s eyes watched his every move. What would she do next? How, and where, could they meet without being seen?

  Now, standing in the sun-streaked barn, looking down into Abstinence’s sky-blue eyes, Tom realized he had come to say good-bye. He’d see her again, of course, but never alone.

  She saw the resolution in his eyes and wrinkled her nose at him, biting her lower lip. “I’m ready, Tom. I want it to be you. Don’t you want me too?”

  “I do, Abstinence. You know I do.”

  Her eyes flashed. She lifted his hand, turned it over, and kissed his palm. He felt the tickle of her tongue.

  He smiled, shook his head, and took back his hand. “We can’t, sweetling. I can’t. You’re a maiden, and a gentleman has rules about that.”

  She twined her arm around his neck, leaned into him, and whispered into his ear. “What if I told you I wasn’t a virgin?” She stood back to look up at him through her thick lashes. “There was a boy, last year. I didn’t really love him — not like you— but I thought I did, and I was curious.”

  Tom took her hand now and drew it to his lips to place a chaste kiss on the back of it. He curled his other hand over it, and took one full step away from her. “I understand, honestly. I don’t know much, but I know enough to know women enjoy loving as much as men do. Which is why I don’t believe you.” He smiled to take the sting from his words. “Your maidenhead is a jewel, a gift you bring your husband on your wedding night. Don’t spoil that sacred event by being too curious and too hasty.”

  She clucked her tongue at him and snatched her hand away. She regarded him through narrowed eyes, her luscious lips pressed tight together. At last she relented and flashed him a wry smile. “You’re a good man, Thomas Clarady.”

  “I try to be.”

  She sniffed and brushed some wisps of straw from her skirts. “Well, I did my best.” She gave him a cool, measuring look, all trace of the love-struck maiden gone. She looked five years older and as self-possessed as a young barrister. She placed her hand on Tom’s cheek and looked him in the eye. “Don’t think I don’t have other options.” She pressed a last kiss on his lips and left.

  Tom watched her walk away, swinging her hips for his benefit. He let out a whistle of admiration mingled with relief and grinned when she tossed her head. He kicked himself for not taking her up on her offer. A gentleman has rules?

  She had a host of options, he didn’t doubt, men lining up with gifts for a chance to win her hand. She’d fooled him, all right. He’d had a narrow escape. She might not have been a virgin, but she was certainly a snare.

  A snare — another test, set by the seditioners. Had he passed this time, or failed?

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Francis Bacon wriggled his toes through the rabbit fur of his coverlet and stretched luxuriously. His body felt delicious: warm, supple, and well used. He and Ben had spent the last hour enjoying a private supper in his rooms at Gray’s Inn. Now, alas, they must return to the never-ending obligations of work.

  He’d heard the door to the outer chamber open and close a few minutes ago. His servant must have brought the Saturday mail. Pinnock was too well trained to interrupt when his master was occupied in the bedchamber. Francis kissed Ben on the shoulder and tiptoed into the other room, hoping the boy had brought fresh drinks and some little tidbits as well.

  Bless you, Pinnock! Francis found a jug of sweet spiced wine, a dish of savory pastries, and a large package wrapped in what looked like a large, dirty neckerchief.

  He gingerly unwrapped the filthy covering, exposing a pillow case stuffed with documents. The first item he drew forth was a receipt for bricks delivered to Corpus Christi College. He knew at once what the rest of the papers must be: the contents of the bursar’s desk he’d been nagging Tom about for months.

  He brought the whole sack of papers to Ben, dropping it on the bed. “A little present from our man in Cambridge. The evidence we’ve been waiting for, I hope. He wrapped them in the most appalling object: what looks like an old woman’s neckerchief.”

  “A neckerchief?” Ben seemed oddly pleased. But he merely shrugged and said, “Probably the only thing handy at the time. I don’t imagine it’s easy for Tom to send packages these days.”

  “I suppose you’re right.”

  Francis went back to the study chamber for the wine and pastries. He chose the Venetian glass wine cups and set them on the tray. Were there napkins? No, of course not; Pinnock never could remember napkins. He found two and added them to the tray.

  When he returned to the inner sanctum, Ben was sitting up against the headboard, a heap of pillows at his back, sorting documents onto the enormous bed. Francis’s father had installed that piece of furniture decades ago, intending all five of his sons to share the house he’d built at Gray’s. The eldest three — far wealthier than Francis — had houses of their own to occupy when they chose to come up to London, so he had the vast expanse of thick feather mattresses and snowy linens to himself as often as not. Unless he found a friend to share them with.

  Ben nodded without looking up as Francis set the tray in the middle of the bed and climbed on to join him. “Anything useful?” Francis asked.

  “I think there may be.”

  Francis poured wine and helped himself to a pastry. He loved watching Ben when he was working, partly because his swift efficiency was a thing of beauty in itself, but also because the man possessed not a shred of vanity. He wasn’t obliged to spend time at court, which doubtless accounted for it. The ever-watchful and competitive eyes of Her Majesty’s retinue made one acutely aware of one’s flaws.

  Ben flipped through a thin leather-bound book and handed it to Francis. “This looks like a book of accounts, but there aren’t as many entries as I would expect for a college, even a small one. What do you think?”

  Francis began with the last page, scanning up the rows of notes and figures. “I think you’re right. I would expect more — much more — especially around the end of Easter term. Students coming and going, fellowships changing hands . . .” He searched backward until he found January 12, the start of Hilary term and the day Tom had arrived at the university. From there, he read forward, watching the daily life of a college unfold on the pages. This many barrels of flour for bread, that many pounds of stockfish for pottage. Stacks of bricks and kegs of nails for maintaining the buildings. Rents from manors were duly logged, though surely not enough to support the expenditures. And he knew from his mother that Corpus Christi had more tenants than appeared on these pages.

  The handwriting changed in A
pril after a month-long gap in entries. Exit Bartholomew Leeds, by means of a hand as yet unidentified; enter Simon Thorpe. Thorpe’s writing was less assured.

  Francis said, “Apart from the gap after Leeds’s death, this book appears to be in order, although I agree, it’s a little thin.”

  “Aha!” Ben cried.

  “What is it?”

  Ben raised his forefinger, his dark eyes intent on the page in a small clothbound book. “Uh-huh,” he murmured. Then he chuckled softly. Then he laughed out loud.

  “Tell me! I command you!” Francis adopted his Stern Monarch face.

  Ben leaned sideways and kissed him on the nose. “I hasten to obey, most lofty Ancient One.” He wrapped his long arm around Francis’s shoulder so they could look at the book together. “This must be the real bursar’s book. That one you’ve got is just for show. But let’s start at the beginning to be certain. Turn the pages if you please, Master.”

  They read together, chuckling now and then at some especially egregious entry. Dr. Eggerley had been spending far more on his own comfort than on college buildings, even dipping into funds endowed for specific purposes. The library stood unfinished, for example, while the gallery in the master’s lodge now rivaled those at Trinity or King’s, colleges with vastly greater resources.

  Embezzlement wasn’t the worst of the headmaster’s manipulations. He’d been forcing tenants to renew their leases early at steeply inflated fines under threat of losing the lands to a higher bidder. Then, instead of sharing those windfalls with the college Fellows as tradition and law obliged him to do, he’d paid the bursar to keep silent and invested under his own name in properties in London.

  “He’s filling a powder keg and twisting a long fuse to put in it,” Ben said. “Sooner or later, one of those tenants will get angry enough to complain to someone with influence. Or a donor’s son will wonder why no work is ever done in the college in spite of the piles of lumber and brick being delivered.”

  “The time has come,” Francis said. “Let’s light the match. My lord uncle will be quite interested in these documents.” He ducked out from under Ben’s arm and clambered off the bed. He pulled a shirt over his head and cast about the room for his stockings.

  “Must you go this minute?” Ben asked.

  “Best not to delay. I wouldn’t want him to learn of this from an alternate source. Storm clouds are gathering in Cambridge. We can expect more leaks as rats abandon the sinking ship.”

  Ben laughed at the nautical metaphor. Francis’s imagery tended to turn toward the sea whenever he got caught up in Tom’s commission.

  Francis stepped into his hose, pulled them to his waist, and shrugged into his doublet. He stepped to the side of the bed and turned so Ben could tie the points in back while he did up the front. “Besides,” he said while they worked, “I haven’t made a report in more than a week, thanks to the vagaries in Tom’s accounts. We may not have proof that Dr. Eggerley murdered Bartholomew Leeds with his own two hands, but we have certainly uncovered a motive, along with a host of financial crimes. This may serve to distract His Lordship from my intelligencer’s lamentable lack of progress.”

  He adjusted his suit, slipped into his shoes, and stood with his arms wide. “All correct?”

  Ben raised his left thumb. “Trim and orderly, fore and aft.”

  “I’ll be back within the hour.” Francis bent to drop a kiss on Ben’s lips. “Don’t get up.”

  Francis collected his second best hat from the outer chamber and set it on his head, checking his appearance in the small mirror hanging beside the door. He combed his moustache with his fingers and adjusted the hat. Then someone knocked loudly on his chamber door, three times, startling him.

  Pinnock never knocked. Another messenger? After supper?

  “It’s a bit late for a delivery, isn’t it?” he scolded. He swung open the door, revealing a mature woman dressed from head to toe in stiff black silk.

  “Mother!”

  Chapter Forty

  Francis stood on the threshold, speechless, staring at the face so like his own: the same intelligent hazel eyes, the same wavy brown hair, the same narrow features. Even their figures were similar, kept trim by delicate stomachs and fastidious diets. Francis had more extravagant tastes in clothing than his austere mother, kept in check only by his purse and the policies at Gray’s Inn.

  He liked knowing he resembled his mother more than his father. Much as he had loved and admired the late Lord Keeper, Lady Anne Bacon descended from better stock. Her great-grandfather had been a member of the landed gentry, while Nicholas Bacon’s father had been a mere sheep reeve at the abbey of Bury St. Edmunds. Lady Bacon’s father had been a renowned humanist scholar, tutor to King Edward VI. Francis liked to think of himself as the scion of that intellectually distinguished bloodline.

  “Will you admit me to your chambers, or are you hiding something in there?” Lady Bacon’s tone was sharp as she tried to peer around him. She meant someone, he knew.

  “Of course not,” Francis said. “I mean, please come in, my lady.”

  He stood back to usher her inside, praying silently she would be content to remain in the study chamber. He took her cloak, threw it on the small bed next to the wall, and guided her into the best chair in front of his desk. He stood beside the desk, resting his hand on a stack of papers, hoping her attention would be drawn to the quantity of work awaiting his attention.

  Instead, she inspected him from head to toe. “You look well, Francis. Very well. Have you been using the electuaries I prescribed for you?”

  “I have,” he said, grasping at the excuse. “I find the flavor not unpleasant.”

  “You place too much emphasis on flavor. It’s the efficacy that matters.”

  “Yes, my lady. I appreciate your advice in these matters.”

  Lady Bacon tilted her head and sniffed the air. She aimed her long nose in several directions, pointing it finally at the desk. “I smell spiced wine but see neither cup nor jug.” She leveled a stern look at him. “You’ve been drinking in bed, haven’t you? You know how that disrupts your digestion, Francis.”

  She rose and marched toward the door to the bedchamber, leaving Francis frozen in her wake. He quick-hopped to catch up, scrambling for a way to stop her. Wine was nothing compared to what else she would discover in his bed. “What brings you to London so unexpectedly?”

  “I’ve come to hear your chaplain preach before I make my final recommendation about his replacement. I wrote to tell you I was coming.” She paused and half turned to frown at him over her shoulder. “Didn’t I? I thought I had.” She dithered for a moment. Her increasing forgetfulness was becoming a cause of concern.

  The door swung open and Ben stepped out, fully clothed, shoes and all, holding the thin account book in his hand. Francis suppressed a gasp of relief.

  “Lady Bacon!” Ben said. “What a pleasant surprise!”

  He had met her on a visit to Gorhambury during the Easter vacation. Fortunately, she liked him, finding him sober and respectable and thus a commendable counterweight to her son’s more frivolous tendencies.

  “If you’ll forgive me, Your Ladyship?” Ben flourished the account book in Francis’s direction.

  She tilted her head to grant him permission to speak past her.

  “I’ve finished sorting the documents, Mr. Bacon,” Ben said. “Thank you for allowing me to use the bed to lay them out. It’s a kindness for my back.”

  “Excellent work, Mr. Whitt.” Bacon grinned at him from behind his mother’s back and mouthed the words thank you.

  “With your permission,” Ben continued, “I’d like to go ahead and write up the inventory.” Not one ripple of amusement disturbed the perfect gravity of his demeanor.

  “By all means,” Francis said. “Best to finish without delay. I appreciate your willingness to work so late on a Saturday.” He reached a hand for his mother’s elbow, turning her back toward the desk, away from the bedchamber. Ben was quick, bu
t not quick enough to get his clothes on and also clear away the evidence of their intimate supper.

  Lady Bacon’s eyes narrowed as she looked from Francis to Ben. Her lips pursed, as if sealing in a tart comment. Francis smiled blandly, pretending not to know what the comment would have been. He had no desire to discuss his personal affairs with his mother out loud, in actual words, ever.

  She cupped a hand to her mouth and whispered loudly in Francis’s direction. “What I have to say is for your ears only.” She sent Ben off to the buttery in the hall to obtain a tisane brewed to her exacting recipe, instructing him to supervise the procedure personally from start to finish. “That will keep him busy for a while,” she said as the door closed behind him.

  “Benjamin Whitt is perfectly reliable,” Francis said, guiding her once again to her chair.

  “No one is perfectly reliable, Francis. I should think you would have learned that much by now. You are too trusting, especially of your clerks and servants. Mark me: I do not want Whitt reading my letters. I write to you, not to him.”

  Francis sat behind the desk. “I gather you’ve reached some conclusions about the Fellows at Corpus Christi. Is there anyone you recommend for Gray’s?” He felt a twinge of guilt for deceiving his own mother in this way, but if she knew he intended to have the most radical Puritans arrested for questioning, she wouldn’t help him. He needed the insights her own sympathies gave her; therefore, he must pretend to share them.

  “I have some thoughts on the subject,” Lady Bacon said.

  She rested her elbows on the arms of her chair and steepled her long fingers. Tapping the ends of them together, she launched into a rapid stream of discourse assessing the morals, behavior, and religious opinions of every man she knew, from her stable boys to the members of the Privy Council.

  Francis had expected this. He sat back in his own chair, fingering a quill, letting the stream of words flow unimpeded beyond the occasional murmur of assent. Every now and then he picked out a bit of flotsam that might prove useful at some future time and stored it in his memory. Sometimes he sat forward to jot down a name or an unfamiliar term. His mother’s grasp of competing Protestant doctrines was unparalleled.