Death by Disputation (A Francis Bacon Mystery Book 2) (13 page)

He couldn’t stop Marlowe from making shrewd observations — as well try to stop the moon from rising in the east — but he could refuse either to confirm or deny his guesses. And stumble on to the next phase of his commission as best he could.

“What are you going to do now?” Tom asked.

“Are you going to keep looking for Barty’s killer?”

“Yes.”

“Then I’ll help you.”

Tom heard that sardonic smile again. Or was it only a trick of the moon shadows shifting across Marlowe’s face?

Chapter Eighteen

“The university’d be a sight better without the students, sir, wouldn’t it?”

“Next door to paradise,” John Barrow said, grinning at the Tolbooth clerk across the counter. “But then we’d both be out of our jobs.”

He counted out coins for the fine and signed the letter of release with a flourish. He flashed the man another friendly grin and ushered Tom and Marlowe out the front door.

“I hope you’re good for this,” Barrow said to Tom. “I’ve just embezzled from my students’ fees for April commons.” He paused in the street just outside the door.

“Don’t worry, I’ll make good.” Tom was grateful for the pause. He needed a moment to collect himself, as if he had forgotten what city he lived in and why he was there. He’d spent a long night in a small room with a man who was no longer an enemy, but not quite an ally. He’d had a few hours of cramped sleep and been awakened at daybreak by a loud round of barking coughs echoing down the passage.

They’d been among the first to be released. “Thank you for coming for us so early,” Tom said. “I’m sorry to put you to the trouble.”

“You’re not the first student I’ve bailed out of the Tolbooth.” Barrow chuckled. “I’m just glad I didn’t have to write to your father for the fine.”

“So am I.” Tom had no need to feign his relief. He hoped his father never found out he had ever come back to Cambridge. “Will there be any trouble with the headmaster?”

“You’ll graduate, don’t worry. Although it took some doing, I don’t mind telling you. Dr. Eggerley spent hours in consistory court yesterday, getting an earful about the destructiveness of youthful rambunction and how it undermines university goals and functions.” He shook his head at them. “There’s nothing like a set-down from the vice chancellor to get Old Eggy’s dander up. He was ready to make examples of you both.”

“For a minor dust-up in the Schools?” Marlowe was incredulous. “It’s unheard of!”

“You’re hearing it now,” Barrow said. His tone was cool.

They started walking slowly away from the guildhall. The marketplace was crowded with vendors, their stalls and carts squeezing shoppers through narrow, irregular lanes. Wandering ducks, geese, cattle, and dogs added confusion and hazardous splotches of dung. Barrow led the way in a ragged file.

“You said I didn’t have to worry?” Tom called at the Fellow’s broad back. He might not have any real use for a bachelor’s degree, but he’d worked hard for it. Besides, that degree was part of his payment for this commission and he intended to collect in full.

Barrow winked at him over his shoulder. “You’re out of the woods, Tom. Steadfast gave me a full report.” He shot a dark look at Marlowe. “A few of us seniors got together and spoke up for you. Abraham Jenney led the pack, to everyone’s surprise. He said he felt responsible, that he’d goaded you a little, and in front of this one here.” He jerked his thumb at Marlowe, who flashed a grin meant to charm.

The grin faded fast when Barrow’s lip curled as if he’d caught whiff of a foul stench. “What possessed you, Marlowe, to break up Tom’s disputation like that?”

“Dionysius possessed me.” Marlowe shrugged. “What can I say? I was drunk.”

“I think there was more to it than that,” Barrow said. “Why did you go to Schools in the first place?”

Tom didn’t want Marlowe to suffer unduly. “What’s a little fisticuffs between friends when all’s said and done?”

“Friends?” Barrow gave him a measuring glance, as if wondering whether Tom shared Marlowe’s rumored sexual tastes.

They were forced into single file again between a pair of rival pie stalls whose vendors were shouting good-natured curses at each other. Tom got a whiff of gravy and onions that made his belly rumble. He caught Barrow’s sleeve. “I don’t suppose you have enough money left for a bite of breakfast. They got my last farthing last night for pretty meager fare.”

“Your credit’s good.” Barrow handed him a penny. “I don’t see how this lout deserves your bounty though.”

“No harm was done; not to me, anyway.” He offered a mollifying grin. “At least he doesn’t snore.”

“‘First be reconciled to your brother,’ eh?” Barrow said. “That speaks well for you, at least.”

Tom bought two big pies stuffed with minced lamb, onions, garlic, pepper, and a fragrant dash of nutmeg. He handed one to Marlowe, who thanked him with a nod. The pies were too hot to eat fast and too juicy to eat walking. They stepped onto Petty Cury lane to get out of the main press. The lads stood by a wall, leaning forward to keep the gravy from dripping on their shoes. Barrow waited in front of them with a patient air.

A pair of lightskirts nipped out a side door of the Falcon Inn. Their glass baubles and bright skirts were too gaudy for the gray morning. Tom recognized one of them. She’d been a favorite of his group at St. John’s for a month or two last year. Her name was Susan. Or Sally? He felt a flicker of alarm. What if she spoke to him? Should he pretend not to know her?

She met his eyes and her brow creased, but her friend was beaming at John Barrow. Susan-Sally turned her attention to him as well. They dropped shallow curtsies and chorused in a flirtatious sing-song, “Good morning, Mr. Barrow.”

Barrow shot a sidelong glance at Tom before giving them a tight-lipped smile in response. “Good morning. I hope you girls are keeping up your spiritual practice. Have you made any headway with the pamphlet I left for you?”

One of them nodded while the other shook her head. “We need more teachin’,” Susan-Sally said. “We want you to read it to us again.”

“Then you’d best get yourselves over to the church. They’ll be glad to help you there.” He granted them a tight smile. “Go today. Go and pray.” They giggled at him. Susan-Sally winked at Tom as they turned and sauntered off up the lane.

“A little extramural tutoring, John?” Marlowe’s tone was dry.

Barrow lifted his chin. “I offer help where I see the greatest need. For even if those poor wretches have stumbled, they may yet be saved from a greater fall.”

Marlowe guffawed. Tom pretended he’d taken too big a bite of hot pie, turning sideways and smothering his mouth with his hand. He could easily imagine John Barrow in a big rumpled bed with a naked doxy curled on either side, reading
Acts and Monuments
in his lusty baritone.

Barrow made a sour face. “Best look to the mote in your own eye, Marlowe. Your judgment is still pending.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“The Fellows are considering whether or not to sign your supplicat. You put Clarady in an untenable position and embarrassed our college in front of the whole university. Some believe you went to the Schools with the deliberate intention of disrupting Tom’s disputation. I want to know why. Was there something about his arguments that distressed you so profoundly you couldn’t discuss them over a private pot of beer? Or was it important for you to be seen
publicly
opposing certain kinds of opinions?”

Seen by shadowy recruiters, he meant. Barrow was all but accusing Marlowe of working for the Catholics.

Marlowe dusted crumbs from his hands, thoroughly, carefully, as if doing it for the last time. He half turned, adjusting his doublet under his gown and straightening his collar, and shot a wink at Tom. Then he faced Barrow straight on and said, “Someone’s got to oppose them. Or should I say oppose
you
? You, Jenney, and any other master who pushes students out on a limb, practically begging the government to come and saw it off. I’m sick of the righteous rhetoric, the niggardly, hypocritical, pseudo-spiritual self-absorption. Can’t an undergraduate have a little fun now and then without seeing his every slip posted on the screen in the hall?”

“So you did it for fun.” Barrow didn’t flinch so much as an eyebrow.

Marlowe raised both hands palms up in an exaggerated shrug. “Why else do I ever do anything?”

Barrow’s hazel eyes studied him with cold regard. “I doubt your motives are that simple.”

“Well,” Marlowe said, mimicking Barrow’s patient tone, “you may be right. Apart from hating to see young Clarady here turned into another Wingfield, I’m a little upset —” he spat the word, “to see the way Barty’s old friends are taking his death in stride. Alas, poor Barty! Now, what’s for dinner?”

“That’s not at all —” Barrow started, but Marlowe hadn’t finished.

“Barty didn’t like the way the college was leaning any more than I do. He saw it being pushed toward greater extremism, right under the nose of our esteemed headmaster, Dr. Oblivious, who seems to think his role is better played in London than in his own college. Not one of you, panting in your hot little study groups, wasting good lamp oil itemizing every tawdry peccadillo — not one of you stopped to wonder if Barty hadn’t been pushed too far, beyond the bounds of his conscience.”

Barrow’s eyes narrowed. “What makes you think —”

“No! No more questions from you!” Marlowe extended his arm, a long finger pointed at Barrow’s face. “A reckoning is coming! Someone will be held accountable for the murder of Bartholomew Leeds!” He turned full around, his dark gown swirling dramatically, and strode down Petty Cury without a backward glance.

Tom blew out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.
That
was helping?

Chapter Nineteen

“Whew!” Tom grinned at Barrow. “I feel like I’ve just been whacked on the head with a long-handled hoe.” He shook his head from side to side, tongue lolling, as if recovering from a blow. He needed a moment to catch up. Marlowe had given him a gift: a common enemy to oppose, one of the quickest ways for men to form a bond. He only hoped Kit hadn’t paid too much for it. That master’s degree was his only means of raising himself into the gentry. Gray’s Inn might admit a wealthy privateer’s son under pressure, but no shoemaker’s son would ever enter an Inn of Court except to fetch a pair of boots for mending.

Marlowe had thrown Tom a rope; it was his job to grab hold of it. “Is he always so passionate?”

“He does love drama.” Barrow chewed on his lower lip, looking thoughtful. “Marlowe’s a decent scholar when he bothers, but he seems to have no loyalties.” He beetled his brows at Tom. “And some of his tastes are a little unsavory.”

“Tobacco, you mean.” Tom nodded rapidly, knowing perfectly well that was not what he meant. “I’ve smelled it on his cloak. Don’t worry. I have no inclination to fall into any of Marlowe’s vices.”

“Glad to hear it.” Barrow draped his arm around his shoulder. “Let’s go home, shall we?”

They started walking around the Pease Market toward Austin Friars and Corpus Christi Street. After a moment of companionable silence, Barrow said, “I’ll confess, Marlowe wasn’t entirely wrong back there, high drama notwithstanding. Perhaps we Fellows did fail to give Leeds’s death its due respect; publicly, I mean. We’ve talked of almost nothing else in the combination room since that terrible day. But there may be students who feel the lack of ceremony betrays a lack of grief.” He shot a rueful glance at Tom. “Those of us who struggle daily against the tyranny of mindless rituals forget they have their comforting qualities.”

“I don’t need them,” Tom assured him, memorizing the phrase
tyranny of mindless rituals
for future use.

“Yet I’ve seen you going about the college, Tom, asking people what they remember about poor Bartholomew, grinding over the details of his last few days. You seem to be haunted by it.” His freckled face radiated sympathy.

Tom sighed. “I have been troubled.”

Barrow’s hazel eyes, warm with understanding, held Tom’s in a searching gaze. “I fear you may be sinking into a morbid melancholia, my lad, making you vulnerable to Marlowe’s influence. I think I know just the cure.” A twinkle sparked in his eyes.

“What should I do?” Tom hoped he wasn’t going to prescribe some noxious potion. He needn’t have worried. Puritans believed in prayer, not potions.

“Come to church with us!” Barrow grinned. “The Wingfields, me, and a few other university men. We’re planning to go as a group on Easter Sunday to show our color, so to speak. I think you might find the company inspiring.”

Bacon had told Tom to seek an invitation to church and here it was, dropped in his lap. He owed Marlowe a bottle of malmsey. “I’d be honored, Mr. Barrow. I can’t think of better company.”

“Talk to Steadfast; he’s coordinating things.” Barrow shot him a wink as they approached their gate. “I do believe his sister will be there.”

***

Steadfast’s sister. Tom’s mind filled with the vision of breathtaking loveliness he’d held for one shining moment before Marlowe had hooked him into that fight. Tall, but not too tall, curved like an hourglass, blond as the sun and twice as radiant. He would dodge through a pack of ravening wolves for an introduction to Steadfast’s sister.

Tom’s step was light and his humor sanguine as he entered the door of his chambers. The room was warmed by the small coal fire and evenly lit by the four large windows front and back. Pleasant. Peaceful. Familiar.

“You’re back!” Diligence Wingfield sprinted across the room and wrapped his arms around Tom’s middle. “I was afraid they would never let you out.”

“We were terrified for you!” Edgar Bray flung his arms around him too. The son of a Norfolk gentleman, Edgar was fourteen years old and small for his age.

Tom detached himself from his young chums. He tossed a nod at Philip, who had risen from his desk to join in the welcome. Tom perched on a corner of Leeds’s table in the center of the room. He set down his cap and ran his hand through his hair, composing his face in an expression of hollow dread, as if burdened with unbearable memories. He caught each of the younger boys’ eyes in turn and said in sepulchral tones, “Gaol was more horrible than you can possibly imagine.”

They shuddered. Tom repressed a grin. “I shouldn’t tell you. You’re too young to hear about such things.”

“No, tell us!” they pleaded. “We’re university students too. We need to know.”

Tom pursed his lips and turned to Philip with a questioning look. Philip, who leaned against the mantel with his arms crossed, frowned, shook his head, then shrugged and nodded. Tom turned back to the younglings and leaned forward. “It was the worst night of my life, and the longest. All we had was a few tufts of filthy straw, mixed with bits of bone and —” he shuddered, “I didn’t want to know what. Our tiny cell stank of fear and vomit and dead men’s sweat.”

The boys groaned in unison, their pink faces twisted in dismay.

Tom nodded grimly. “And the screams; dear God, the screams! Shattering howls of agony, rising from the cells beneath us, echoing all around us. Tortured cries for mercy.
Mercy! Mercy!
” He lowered his head and closed his eyes, then opened them to catch each boy’s gaze again. “Those harrowing cries will echo in my mind until the day I die. The worst of it was that we had no way of knowing when they would come for us.”

“Oh, Tom!” Dilly’s eyes were round. “How did you ever bear it?”

“We bear up, Dilly. We bear up.”

Philip turned a snort into a cough. Tom bit the inside of his lip. “Eventually, I fell into a fitful sleep. Exhausted by fear, numb with cold. A man’s body can only stand so much.” He shrugged the shrug of a man who endures what he must. “God granted me that much respite. Then in the middle of night, long after the moon set, I was awakened by a huge rat nibbling on my toes.”

The young boys recoiled with cries of horror. Philip chuckled wryly. “Are you sure that wasn’t Christopher Marlowe? From what I’ve heard . . .”

Tom laughed along with him. Well, it was funny, though he worried that Marlowe might have overplayed his role of college scapegrace.

He winked at the boys to show he’d been fooling and ruffled Edgar’s hair. “Stay out of gaol, me boyos. The cell was chilly and the pies were dry. You’d spend a worse night if you got yourself locked in the headmaster’s wine cellar.” To Philip he said, “Marlowe was a good cellmate. He doesn’t snore, and he didn’t hog the straw. Much. Those rumors about him are so overblown he probably makes them up himself.”