by Anna Castle
He shot an amused glance past Tom’s shoulder. “Mr. Bacon asked Tom to steal our diaries, Steadfast. I believe Abraham Jenney’s runs to several volumes. That would keep the authorities busy for weeks, long enough for our commencement meetings to go forward. I do believe Abraham would welcome the opportunity to demonstrate his commitment.”
Steadfast asked, “Shall I fetch them for you?”
“Not yet,” Barrow said. “Who else is on your list, Tom? Parson Wingfield, I suppose.”
“He did seem to be at the center of everything,” Tom said. “Everyone came to see him, everyone met with him, everyone talked about him. All that coming and going on Rogation Day. He was my favorite right up to that dinner a couple of weeks ago. You were there. He started rambling about the rock and the harbor and how thirsty he got. I knew then he couldn’t possibly be the center of any conspiracy.”
Barrow laughed. “Just as I planned it! My shields, as well as my deacons. Jenney with his powerful need to confess his sins in public, Wingfield with his equally powerful need for an audience. Both so easily led.”
Steadfast chuckled. “I love my father, but he’s the voice, not the mind. Another soldier, like me.”
“Yes,” Barrow said. “We each have our part to play. I am the sword of light and Steadfast is my hammer of truth.” His eyes gleamed with excited zealotry. “What did you tell Francis Bacon about me, Tom?”
“Not as much as I should have,” Tom said. He wondered if Bacon and Lord Burghley knew that some of the justices in Cambridgeshire were Puritans. He devoutly hoped they did. Even so, someone ought to be coming to arrest Dr. Eggerley. He hoped they’d been told to ask for him by name — and loudly. He coughed to cover the long pause. “I honestly didn’t suspect you until today. You were always so friendly. And there were the whores, and Margaret.”
“Ah, poor Margaret! Her fine gallery will probably have to be sold off piece by piece to pay for her husband’s crimes. Where will she go, I wonder, after he’s hanged for Leeds’s murder?” Barrow cocked his head. “You came looking for a saint but found a man, eh, Tom? God chooses us for who we are and sets us on his chosen path.” He smiled. “Your masters don’t know about me yet. That’s a little disappointing, but good; very good. I need one more month.”
“You won’t have a month,” Tom said. An idea struck him, one last attempt. “Unless I send a letter right now to the sheriff, explaining who I am. I could frame it as an addendum to whatever letter is arriving from Lord Burghley. An introduction to the local intelligencer, offering my services. I could say Dr. Eggerley is responsible for everything I’ve seen so far.” He paused, not liking the look of weary amusement on Barrow’s face. “I could identify Mr. Jenney as the seditioner.”
“You could,” Barrow said. “But then the sheriff would come and ask you questions. You’re not a good liar, Tom, not face-to-face like this.” He scratched the side of his nose and thought for a moment. Then he pointed his finger at Tom. “I know how to salvage this situation and even turn your treachery to my advantage. Francis Bacon’s mother is one of us, or nearly so. She’s a God-fearing woman and not without influence.” He rose and began to pace as he talked. “If I could speak with her myself — make a personal visit — I feel certain I could persuade her to help me. I’ll bring Parson Wingfield; women love him. Surely Lady Bacon could prevail upon her own son to hold his peace until my meetings are concluded and my messengers dispatched. My followers stand ready. My courage is undaunted and my purpose unblunted. I will prevail. My words will be heard. I will bring about a Reformation in England.”
He stopped pacing and set his hands on his hips. “I had hoped you would become one of my soldiers, Tom. You have so much to offer. It grieves me that you chose the wrong side of this historic conflict.” He bent to lean forward, his hazel eyes now hard as agates. “There can’t be any more letters, Tom. I’m sure you understand that. I need that month. But we couldn’t hold you for a month, could we?”
“I can keep silent for a month,” Tom said. “I’m a man of my word.”
Barrow shook his finger at him. “No, Tom; that you are not. You’re a spy, a deceiver. A viper in my nest. You’re a traitor. And what do we do with traitors?”
Steadfast chuckled and Tom’s stomach clenched as if a fist had been driven into it. What would they do with him? What could they do in a crowded college? They couldn’t keep him bottled up here much longer. Barrow’s boys would want to get into their chambers by nightfall.
Five quick knocks rapped against the door. Steadfast went to open it the merest crack, blocking it with his foot. “Diligence.” He turned to Barrow. “Is he wanted?”
“Oh, yes,” Barrow said. “Let him in.”
Dilly shuffled past his brother into the room. He looked askance at Tom, sitting with ankles tied and hands drawn down behind his back. He blinked and turned to face John Barrow, pressing his hands together over his belly.
Barrow smiled at him, all warmth and geniality again. “Don’t worry about those ropes. Tom and Steadfast have been practicing some maneuvers I’ve devised for my senior soldiers.” He shot Tom a warning glance.
Tom could see no advantage in frightening Dilly. He couldn’t very well give the youngling a message under these circumstances. Besides, who would he send for? Marlowe? The porter wouldn’t let him in the gate. So he mustered a grin, wincing only a little. “I’m all right, Dilly. And it’s Steadfast’s turn next.”
Barrow said, “You have courage, Tom. A trait I admire.” Then he spoke to Diligence. “I want you to get the keys to the wine cellar from the buttery and bring them to me right away.”
“I don’t sweep the buttery until after supper,” Diligence said.
“You can sweep early today. Tell the butler Mr. Thorpe wants to review your commonplace book after supper.”
“He does?” Dilly squeaked.
Barrow chuckled. “You’ll do fine. Now go, and be quick.”
“Yes, Mr. Barrow.” He left.
Tom said, “You won’t be able to keep me in the cellar for a month. Someone must go down there every day.”
“Not in this college,” Barrow said. “But I only need to hold you overnight. Tomorrow morning, everyone will go to the sermon at St. Andrew’s. The college will be as empty as it was the morning I took care of Bartholomew Leeds.”
The blood drained from Tom’s face and he shivered.
Steadfast’s hand tightened on his shoulder. “A traitor’s death.”
“Exactly so,” Barrow said. “With a pleasing symmetry. The verdict will be suicide again. Everyone will say poor Tom never fully recovered from his tutor’s death. He went about asking all those sad questions. Everyone heard him. Many of the Fellows remarked upon it.”
Steadfast said, “And my sister refused him a few days ago, after months of wooing.”
“That’s right, she did, in a way.” Barrow chuckled. “Her work wasn’t useless after all. Let that rumor get about, Steadfast.” He cocked his head. “Perhaps I can find a note about Abstinence in your commonplace book, Tom.” He shook his head. “No, that isn’t necessary. I was too elaborate last time. Simple is best.” He pursed his lips for moment, then said, “I just need a way to get you down there without creating a stir.”
Steadfast grunted. “I can think of two, if we wait until after dark.”
“Good man,” Barrow said. “My hammer of truth. I can always count on you.” He went to his desk and picked up the cup he’d prepared earlier. He swirled the contents as he carried it back to stand directly in front of Tom, catching his knees between his sturdy legs. “Hold his head, Steadfast. He won’t want to drink this.”
Chapter Forty-Five
Trumpet paced across the floor of her room at the Cap and Bells, her hands behind her back. Pacing was harder in a skirt than in her Inns of Court garb — she had to give a little twisting kick with her foot at each turn — but her wits worked better when her feet were moving.
She needed a plan. She needed to do so
mething better than wait. Tom had gone back to the college to push events to their conclusion. He’d probably gotten a letter from Francis Bacon spelling out the solutions to both his puzzles and wrapped it all up by now. Why not? He’d had a good three hours. He was the official intelligencer, the mighty hero, with all his months of dark experiences. He could probably do it in his sleep.
Marlowe had gone off to some closet in the upper reaches of the inn to write. She hadn’t heard a peep from him since Tom left. She and Nashe sat in the tavern playing primero for an hour or so, but then he’d gone back to his own college for supper. He’d apologized profusely for leaving her, but she could tell he’d been bored. Why not? She’d been bored herself. It wasn’t fair for her to be left out of whatever Tom was doing, especially when she knew in her bones that she was right about the Eggerleys.
She paced faster, turning on her heel when she reached a wall. Those vexatious men had ignored her theory, even though her argument had been exemplary — exemplary! Point by point, better than any of the others. “No, no,” they said, “there’s no evidence.” Evidence, ha! Nobody had any evidence; nothing you could stand up and display in court anyway. Who would hang a man on the strength of one peculiar knot?
What they needed were witnesses, and she knew where to find them.
She rousted Catalina and they walked the quarter mile to Corpus Christi College in a brisk fifteen minutes. They found their quarry right where she expected, in the washhouse behind the master’s lodge, folding napkins. Once Trumpet convinced the quivering laundresses that she was indeed the Lady Alice they had seen before and that she meant them no harm, she led them to a bench near the back wall where they would not be seen right away if anyone should happen to come inside. She and Catalina stood in front of them to prevent them from bolting. Rose and Hyacinth sat leaning against each other, clutching each other’s hands for support.
Trumpet sighed. At five foot two, in menial’s garb, she was scarcely terrifying. Never mind; best to get straight to the point. “I think you know something I need to hear, but you’re worried about losing your jobs.”
Rose and Hyacinth grimaced and shook, but didn’t answer.
Trumpet had come prepared for this response. The first time she’d tried to talk to them, they’d scurried away at the first question. Her original plan had been to threaten them further, to outdo Mrs. Eggerley in authority. Nashe, of all people, had suggested a better solution. The way to get these women to talk was to remove the cause of their fear. Offer them a safe harbor.
“My father’s cook at Orford Castle has a clubfoot,” she said. Or something like it — she’d never seen the thing itself. He wore a big ugly boot and walked with a limp, like Rose.
Rose cocked her head, her interest piqued.
“We can always use a good laundress,” Trumpet said. “It’s a big household.”
Rose pressed her lips together. Hyacinth gave her mother a hopeful glance.
“Orford is miles away from here. Clear to the other side of Suffolk. And my father is an earl, not a college headmaster’s wife. He would never allow Mrs. Eggerley to interfere with any of his staff. You’ll be safe there.”
“How would we get there?” Rose asked, and Trumpet knew she had won.
“We’ll wrap you in veils and put you in a cart with this letter of introduction I’ve written to our steward.” She unfolded the paper she’d tucked into her bodice and displayed it for their inspection. She knew they couldn’t read, but they could see the swirly signature and the big red seal. They leaned forward together to study it carefully.
“And here’s a purse for your expenses.” Trumpet opened a small bag of pennies. Catalina had polished them, the clever wench. They gleamed enticingly.
“What do you want to know?” Rose asked.
“Do you remember the day that tutor was found hanging in the cockloft?”
Both pairs of eyes went wide, then both pairs of brows creased, more in puzzlement than fear. They weren’t afraid of that particular event.
Trumpet began to doubt her theory. “Someone saw Mrs. Eggerley standing on the threshold of the door to the hall right about that time. Where had she been?”
Rose and Hyacinth exchanged a long look. This was the crossing point. Trumpet jingled the pennies in the purse. Rose bit her lip, then said, “She goes to the gatehouse, my lady, every Monday morning when the college empties, to gossip with the porter. She brings a bottle of wine and they swap news; him from the front, her from the back. That day, she’d dallied and had to step quick to get to the lodge before the boys came back.”
“She didn’t go into the rooms in the east range?”
“No, my lady! Why ever would she?” Both women seemed dumbfounded by the idea.
“You didn’t see anyone going in there?”
Another round of worried looks and creased brows. They had seen something.
“Where were you at that time?” Trumpet asked.
Rose shook her head.
Trumpet jingled the pennies again.
“We were bringing out sheets to dry in the fields, my lady,” Rose said.
“I’ve seen you doing that,” Trumpet said. “Those are the fields across Lutburne Lane, aren’t they?”
“Yes, my lady.”
“Who did you see in the lane?”
Rose glanced at her daughter, biting her lip again. “No one in the lane, my lady.”
“Where, then?” Trumpet had to grit her teeth to keep from shaking the woman.
“At the window, climbing in.”
“What window? Who? Spit it out, woman!”
“Mr. Barrow. Him with the red hair and the freckles. The one with all the messy boys and those terrible creatures in his rooms. He didn’t see us, we was just coming around the corner.” She pointed in the direction of the brick wall separating the master’s garden from the lane and the service yard. “He was just pulling himself up onto the sill when we poked our heads around the wall.”
“Which room?”
She shrugged and looked at her daughter, who also shrugged. “The first one, I think. First from here.”
The one beneath Tom’s chambers; Steadfast Wingfield’s room. Trumpet asked, “Did you see him leave again?”
“No, my lady, and we would have. It takes us an hour to lay out the sheets. It wasn’t till later we learned what had happened.”
“And you didn’t think to tell anyone about Mr. Barrow?”
“Oh, no, my lady! It’s not our place to speak about a master.” They grimaced and shook their heads at one another. “Besides, no one asked us.”
A strike against Tom. Or had he put them on their guard when he asked about Mrs. Eggerley? Either way, she had succeeded where he had failed, a triumph that made up for her theory being demolished. The Egg was not the murderer. She was guilty of something, however, and Trumpet meant to find out what.
She smiled at the laundresses. “You’ve done very well. I thank you. And now my maidservant will help you gather your things. We’ll go directly to an inn where you’ll be safe and snug as a pair of kittens and can have a nice, hot supper. In the morning, you’ll tell your story before a judge’s clerk, and then I’ll send you on your way.”
She handed the letter and purse to Catalina. Best not to leave them alone for a minute; they might persuade each other to change their minds. Meanwhile, Trumpet wanted to have a look at the windows along the back of the east range.
How hard would it be to climb into them? How much time would it take? She strode through the yard to the lane, sticking close to the wall around the master’s garden. She didn’t want to get caught, especially not in this unexplainable costume. She untied her neckerchief, wrapped it around her head, and retied it under her chin.
She walked down Lutburne Lane almost to Bene’t Street, then turned and walked slowly back, studying the east range out of the corner of her eye. The windows were barely three feet from the ground. All but a few were open to catch the breeze on this evening in mid-Ju
ne. She could easily hop into one of the rooms right now and give the occupants a scare. Assuming a window had been left unlocked on that March morning, John Barrow could have whisked himself up and into Steadfast’s room in the blink of an eye.
Or four eyes. It was the sheerest luck those laundresses had come around the corner at precisely the right moment.
Trumpet noticed that the sun had dropped below the roof of the college on her right. Time to get back to the inn. She could write a letter to Tom; show him what effective intelligencing could produce. True, she’d been wrong about Mrs. Eggerley, but he hadn’t gotten it right either. And now she’d solved the murder once and for all, with two witnesses ready to give depositions.
As she passed the small gate to the master’s garden, a hand reached out and grabbed her arm, yanking her inside. The gate slammed shut and the bar fell with a clunk.
Strong arms grappled her to a pillowy chest. Her nostrils filled with the cloying smell of Mrs. Eggerley’s perfume. The woman’s voice grated in her ear. “I’ve caught you now, Mrs. Cozener. I know you stole the papers from the bursar’s desk. I don’t know what you thought you could get from us, but you won’t go prying into our affairs again anytime soon.”
Trumpet struggled and kicked, tangling her heel in the madwoman’s skirts. “Let go of me, you cow!” The Egg outweighed her by at least two stones.
Mrs. Eggerley hefted her off her feet and lugged her across the yard, muttering furiously as she went. “You tricked me from the start, didn’t you, my fine Lady Prance-About? All those pretty letters with those pretty words and your oh-so-fine relations. Lord This, Lady That — ha! You humiliated me in front of half of Cambridgeshire, you and your handsome henchman. To think I trusted him! Thomas Clarady, with those long legs and that dimple. Oh!”
She paused and shook Trumpet so hard her teeth rattled. The woman had gone insane. Trumpet tried to shout, but Mrs. Eggerley clutched her tight against her muffling bosom and shuffled on.
