Death by Disputation (A Francis Bacon Mystery Book 2) (16 page)

Chapter Twenty-Four

Rain lashed against the diamond-paned window behind Francis Bacon’s desk. The weather had been miserable for days; not a promising start to the month of May. Francis shivered and took a sip from his mug of spiced ale. Delicious and wonderfully warming. Then he looked at the letters stacked on his desk and frowned.

“Too much nutmeg?” Ben asked.

“No, no. It’s perfect.” The dear man had a gift for concocting these little treats. The problem was that Francis had a difficult decision to make about his next instructions to his intelligencer. He’d asked Ben and Alan Trumpington, Tom’s closest friends, up to his chambers after dinner for a hot drink and a consultation.

That wasn’t quite true though, was it? He gazed into his mug, not wanting Ben to read the expression in his eyes. He’d already made the decision. What he wanted now was approval. He wanted Tom’s friends to assure him he was doing the right thing.

“I’ll build up the fire.” Ben rose to fetch a couple of faggots from the basket in the corner.

Francis held the pewter mug under his nose, savoring the mingled aromas of ale and nutmeg, and watched him through half-lidded eyes. Benjamin Whitt, gangle-limbed and saturnine with a melancholy trend of disposition, was far and away the brightest of the students at Gray’s Inn. Tom valued his opinion more than anyone’s, and with good reason. Francis hoped he wasn’t placing that friendship at risk by bringing Ben in on his decision.

He shot a glance at Alan Trumpington and caught the boy watching him with an expectant air. Trumpet, as his friends called him, lay sprawled against the cushions on the narrow bed against the inner wall, his mug resting on the padded belly of his doublet. He had curling black hair and striking green eyes that turned up at the corner like the little imp he was. In spite of a tenderly cultivated moustache, he was a shade too pretty for a boy. Francis had been pretty at that age too, and a bit of an imp at times. He’d grown out of both impediments.

He might have been jealous of Ben’s sharing his rooms with so comely a boy, but Ben showed no inclination of that nature toward him, nor did Trumpet evidence more than merely friendly feelings for Ben. On the contrary, he seemed to be a little in love with Thomas Clarady, who was most definitely not attracted to members of his own sex. Thus the trio of friends functioned harmoniously.

“Do you have news from Tom?” Trumpet asked.

“Not news, exactly,” Francis said. “But there have been, shall we say, developments.”

“You sound worried,” Trumpet said.

“I am concerned, naturally,” Francis said. He smoothed his moustache with a forefinger, wondering where to start. How much should he tell them?

As little as possible, the central guiding maxim of his life.

“Are you worried that he’s in danger or that he isn’t doing his job?” Ben asked. He settled again on the backed stool near the fire where he could manage his ale fixings and warm his chronically cold feet.

“Chiefly the former,” Francis said. “He’s been performing beyond expectations, as a matter of fact.”

“What danger?” Trumpet scoffed. “You said he spends most of his time studying the Bible in little groups of zealots. Are you afraid he’ll die of boredom?”

“Need I remind you that a man was murdered to protect the information Tom seeks?” Francis asked. “Or so we assume. Leeds’s death may have been an anomaly. Puritans are often disruptive, but they rarely resort to violence.”

“I’m surprised they weren’t all arrested after their performance at Easter,” Ben said.

“So am I,” Francis said, grateful for the digression. “I asked my lord uncle about it. He received a dozen angry letters within days of the event, but the local authorities were reluctant to re-ignite controversies they’ve only recently managed to damp down. Parson Wingfield made a shrewd move bringing his children along. No one wants to put little girls in gaol, especially not on Easter Sunday.”

“Once again, Tom is saved by a fair-haired minx.” Trumpet shifted his position, splashing ale on the bedclothes. Francis frowned at him and he shrugged, unapologetic. The nephew of an earl had no need to be tidy.

Ben stuck to the main theme. “The risk was greater than Tom knew when he started, I suspect. But by sharing it, he’s proved himself. Facing a common danger creates a bond.” He studied Francis’s face with his perceptive dark eyes. “Is that what you’re worried about?”

“Where’s the worry?” Trumpet asked. “That’s what he’s there for, isn’t it, to create bonds? Make friends. Flirt with the beautiful women who leap up wherever he goes. Charm everyone. Be Tom, in other words.”

“Therein lies the danger,” Ben said. “There are hazards other than gaol or bodily harm.”

“There are,” Francis said. “A spymaster must serve not only as a rudder, steering his agent toward the desired goal, but also as an anchor, holding him fast to his true self. A spy can become so engaged with his subjects that he loses his mooring in his old life. I fear this may be happening to Tom.”

“What do you mean by ‘lose his mooring?’“ Trumpet asked.

Francis shrugged. “Perhaps I’m overly concerned. I find myself being drawn into Tom’s daily life more than I ought to be. For example, it genuinely offends me that his rhetoric master has twice failed to appreciate work I considered above the average.”

Trumpet looked confused. “Are you worried about Tom’s academic standing?”

“No, of course not.” Francis’s attempt at humor had failed, as usual. “Well, a little. Tom’s performance reflects on me, after all, since I’ve been guiding his studies.” He waved his hand. “Tom’s education has no relevance whatsoever to the task at hand, yet I spend valuable time reviewing his exercises and advising him about his work and his sessions with his teachers.”

They looked at him blankly. He tried again. “My only prior experience in managing intelligence reports has been with my brother Anthony’s correspondence from France. We discuss all manner of subjects, including his health and his daily routine. But it’s only natural I should be concerned about his general well-being since he is my brother.”

“I see,” Ben said. “But now you care about Tom. That seems natural to me as well, given your daily correspondence. Is it a problem?”

“It affects the instructions I give him.” Francis paused. “Loneliness is the greatest hazard for a spy. He daren’t risk exposure, so he can never be entirely himself with anyone. I am now the only person to whom he can express himself freely. He needs me, you see, which creates an obligation.”

“If you let him write to us,” Trumpet said, “that burden would be shared.”

Francis had banned the friends from writing to keep Tom focused on his role. Ben had understood — Ben always did — but Trumpet chafed under the restriction, constantly wheedling for a peek at Tom’s letters.

“He’s lucky to have so conscientious a master.” Ben’s expression was thoughtful as he poured more ale into his pipkin and grated nutmeg over it. He set the little pot closer to the fire and turned back to Francis. “How about a different metaphor? Tom is the worm with which you hope to catch your seditious fish. Are you afraid the trout will swim away with your bait? Or that the worm will wriggle off the hook and escape?”

“That’s close,” Francis said. “I’m using a small fish to catch a larger one and fear mine will slip the hook and join the school, swimming happily away and forgetting all about his assignment.”

“Wait a minute.” Trumpet swung his legs around to sit upright at the edge of the bed, spilling more ale in the process. “Are you suggesting Tom might become one of the people he was sent to investigate? That he might honestly become one of those narrow-minded Puritans?”

“Yes,” Francis said. “I fear that is precisely what is happening.”

“Impossible!” Trumpet waved the idea away with a flap of his hand. “Tom is as sound a middle-way man as anyone I’ve ever met. He doesn’t like politics, especially not the religious kind. Doctrinal disputes make his brains itch.”

“I agree,” Ben said. “Tom hates dogmatic, self-righteous people. That’s partly why he agreed to this commission, you know. It wasn’t only for personal advancement.”

“I know,” Francis said. “That’s to his credit. But neither of you appreciates the true character of a closely knit religious community. They can be warm and welcoming, folding the newcomer into their fellowship. Their close attention is flattering. They place themselves at odds with the rest of us — that’s what they like, that’s part of the appeal — so what we generally see is the scolding and the strictness. But inside the society, there is often great joy and a powerful sense of communion. It can be seductive.”

The friends frowned at each other for a long moment, then shook their heads. Trumpet answered for both. “They wear brown, nothing but brown. A touch of dull black now and then. They don’t dance, they don’t wench, they don’t sit up late drinking, playing the lute, and singing bawdy songs. In short, they are nothing like our Tom. Nothing at all.”

“He isn’t your Tom anymore,” Francis said. “At least I don’t think he is.”

Their skeptical faces demanded proof. He had it in abundance. He leafed through the stack of letters he had put in order that morning, preparatory to this conversation. “I’ll show you some of the evidence. When Tom first went up to university, he sent back detailed descriptions of the men in the college: ages, family connections, who had which scholarship. Under my tutelage, he learned to catch the turns of phrase that reveal a man’s political leanings. He noted who was reading which books in the library, each Fellow’s major area of interest, which students were especially talented in which subjects.”

“That sounds useful,” Ben said.

“It is,” Francis said. “I now have an excellent sense of the persons and the life within the college.”

“No doubt he also sent you details of what everyone wears, what everyone eats, who drinks how much of what, and who’s dallying with whom,” Trumpet said. “Tom’s a noticer; that’s not new.”

“Indeed,” Francis said. “That habit is partly why we chose him. But his letters changed shortly after Easter.” He paused and flipped through a few pages to read a note or two. “He started sending bare lists without introduction or commentary.”

“What sort of lists?” Ben asked.

“Useful ones at first. The churches in Cambridgeshire, for example, with the names of their rectors. Lists of the men who attend his study groups and the colleges to which they belong. Lists of the tracts passed around in study groups with the names of their authors.”

“He’s busy,” Trumpet said, rising to his feet and moving closer to the desk. Francis covered the letters with his hand and the boy stepped back. “He’s learned to be concise.”

“Brevity is good, to a point,” Francis said. “He’s sending me masses of information, which it is my job to analyze. But lately his lists have taken a disturbing trend. Students who fell asleep during the divinity lecture. Men who remove their hats in church. Men who own more than one hat. Men he has met picking up letters at Hobson’s. Here’s a pair in two columns: ‘Men who were impressed that I lived in the Earl of Dorchester’s household’ and ‘Men who were not so impressed.’“

Trumpet frowned. “What does that mean?”

“I don’t know,” Francis said.

That startled them.

“Here’s a diary of the times Tom took the Lord’s name in vain in the past week.”

“What!” Ben looked troubled. “Tom loves cursing. He considers it a form of art.”

“Not anymore.” Francis turned over another page. “Here’s a list of names paired with Biblical quotations, which I believe are judgments on the religious fidelity of the persons named.”

“Biblical quotations?” Trumpet’s mouth twisted as if he’d bitten into an unripe fruit.

Francis nodded. “Yes. Tom has turned his well-tuned intuition to the task of separating the sheep from the goats. He now sees everything in biblical terms.”

“He’s playing a game,” Ben said. “He’s weary of his role and having a little fun with you.”

“I wish I could believe that.” Francis took up the last letter. “This one consists entirely of two lines: Matthew 6:24 and Matthew 12:26.”

Trumpet clucked his tongue. “What does that mean? I don’t know the Bible chapter and verse.”

Francis, who had been schooled in the scriptures from infancy by his strict Calvinist mother, had not needed to look them up. “The first one is, ‘No man can serve two masters, for either he will hate the one and love the other, or he will hold to the one and despise the other.’“

“Who does he mean?” Ben asked. “Which is which?”

“I don’t know. That’s what worries me. The second verse is even more troubling. ‘If Satan casts out Satan, he is divided against himself. How then will his kingdom stand?’“

“Uh-oh,” Trumpet said.

“Which one is Satan?” Ben asked. “You?”

“I don’t know,” Francis said. “Me? My lord uncle? The seditioner? Possibly Tom himself. It may signify nothing. Perhaps he had nothing else to report that day.”

“No,” Trumpet said. “Then he would write, ‘Sorry, nothing to report.’ And add a joke or a sonnet to fill out the page. He wouldn’t send Bible verses.”

“I agree,” Ben said. “The old Tom didn’t know the Bible well enough to play such games. Why did he choose those two verses, do you think?”