Death by Disputation (A Francis Bacon Mystery Book 2) (25 page)

She tried to put herself in Tom’s shoes. What would he do with letters from his spymaster?

She got up, flopped onto her belly beside the bed, and wriggled underneath. Blowing cobwebs from her face, she squiggled around, inspecting the ropes supporting the mattress and looking for tears in the mattress itself.

Nothing.

She wriggled back out and let Catalina dust her fore and aft. Then she climbed up on the bed and felt around the frame and the headboard.

Nothing again.

She stood between the bed and the chest with her hands on her hips and turned slowly in a circle, looking up and down. This was the last bed in the row, only a few feet from the end wall. The top of that wall wasn’t very well plastered; she saw a breach filled with messy twigs way up where it met the thatching of the roof.

Trumpet smiled. Tom was taller than average. That high corner would appeal to him as a hiding place.

“Come here, Catalina.” She walked to the corner and pointed at the floor. “Bend over and let me stand on your back.”

The gypsy looked down at the spot and up at the ill-plastered wall above it and smiled. “I see it! Very clever.” She supplied her back as a platform without complaint. She’d been part of a company of actors, after all; she must have performed such tricks on a daily basis in the town squares of Italy.

Trumpet clambered up, using the wall for balance. Standing on her toes, she could reach up under the wattles. She felt about, hoping not to catch a spider. Then she felt crisp edges. “Ha!” She pulled out a packet of papers and hopped down. “Got ‘em.”

Catalina straightened up. “Shall we take them?”

“No, we can’t risk his noticing they’re gone. I’ll read through them as fast as I can. Go stand by the front window and keep watch. Listen for the bells. We must leave when the clock strikes the three-quarter hour.”

“Yes, my lady.”

Trumpet took the letters and tucked herself into Tom’s bed. Catalina pursed her lips at the sight. “You should marry the handsome Tom, my lady, not the fat banker.”

“I can’t, not yet. My father would kill him and I do not mean figuratively.” She half turned to tug the pillow into place behind her back so she could sit up. “Not even with his father’s money as a sweetener. He’s a nobody. Besides, I need a title of my own. People listen to you if you have a title, even if you’re a woman. My father is an earl and my son will be an earl, but if I want to be a countess, I have to marry another cursed earl. There aren’t many to choose from, especially since I need one who is very rich and very old. Or very sick. A wealthy dowager countess, that’s what I want to be.
Then
I can marry Tom.”

“If he hasn’t married another woman.”

“I’ll just have to make sure that doesn’t happen,” Trumpet snapped. “Now let me read.”

He must have been burning most of the letters or hiding the rest elsewhere because this stack wasn’t big enough to include a letter a day for four months. She untied the twine holding the packet together, set the fat stack on her lap, and started opening them, careful to keep them in order. The one on top was dated last week. Perhaps these were only the most recent ones. Or the most important ones?

Unfolding each sheet, she scanned it quickly, running her finger down the page. Then she refolded it and stacked it in order on her right. She’d learned to read fast at Gray’s and was well familiar with Bacon’s handwriting.

Some letters had to do with Tom’s studies, but most contained explanations of various aspects of nonconformist doctrines and practices. The letters were revealing even at speed, both of Tom’s struggle to sustain his complex role and of Bacon’s firm guidance leavened with patient support. She liked them both the better for this glimpse into their strangely crafted partnership. Too bad she could never say so to either of them.

The chapel bell tolled the half hour. Trumpet didn’t bother to look up. If anyone were coming, Catalina would alert her. She set the last three letters on her left and returned to the three before those. One of them had two pages; she hadn’t noticed in her haste. The second page was a long postscript, reminding Tom of questions that remained open concerning the murder.

“This is it!” She read the postscript again, murmuring the words under her breath to memorize them. “The drugged wine, the knot, Dr. Eggerley’s safflower and blanchet, above all, the bursar’s desk. You must get inside that desk, Tom. Break it open if necessary.”

She refolded the letter, assembled the packet, and retied the twine. She slid out of the bed and smoothed the covers more or less into place. “Ready.”

Catalina bent again with her hands on her knees and Trumpet climbed up to replace the packet. When she hopped down, she said, “We must take the bursar’s desk. I’ll send it to Mr. Bacon straightaway with a note to Ben to share whatever they learn with me. With luck, we’ll have something specific for Marlowe in a few days.”

“Which man is bursar?”

“Thorpe,” Trumpet said. “That oily one that follows Dr. Eggerley everywhere. His desk will be the one in the middle.”

They climbed down the ladder and stood together, gazing down at a large, solidly constructed writing desk. “It’s bigger than I expected,” Trumpet said, daunted. “We’ll have to carry it together. I’ll wrap it up.” She took off her kerchief.

“Oh, no, my lady. He is too heavy. And how can we hide so big a thing?” Catalina gave her that sly smile that usually meant she had a better idea. She plucked two long pins from the thick coil of her hair. “Is it not better just to open him up?”

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Steadfast met Tom in the courtyard at Common Schools. “Where were you, Tom?” His tone held an accusation. “You weren’t in the divinity lecture.”

Tom had the perfect answer ready — the truth. “I decided to attend the lecture in civil law. Thorpe suggested it.” He laughed at the disbelief on Steadfast’s face. “My uncle did too. It’s dry as dust but useful.” Now inspiration struck him like a splash of fresh water. “If I ever find myself on the Continent for some reason —”

Steadfast smiled through his teeth, taking his meaning. Radical nonconformists fled to Protestant strongholds in the Netherlands whenever they overstepped the bounds placed around them by English authorities. There was a regular traffic of religious persons and books across the German Sea.

Tom echoed the grim smile. “If I have to make a living over there someday, it wouldn’t hurt to know something of their law so I can support my wife, if I have a wife.”

“That’s not a bad idea.” Steadfast stroked his chin. “Perhaps I should learn a little civil law while I have the chance.”

“I think you should.”

“Speaking of wives,” Steadfast said, “my sister wants to talk to you. You’ll find her in the barn this afternoon. You needn’t stop at the house to greet my parents. My father is away this week, visiting a preacher in Essex.”

Tom smiled blandly and let his gaze wander to the passersby on the High Street. So the parson was away from home, was he? That would explain the lack of response to the incident in the Round Church. The others were waiting for Parson Wingfield to come back before deciding what to do. Did that mean he was the leader after all?

***

Tom walked into the big barn that stood across the yard from the Wingfield house. He heard scraping noises and followed them to the back room, where he found Abstinence sweeping out the animals’ stalls.

She was filthy, streaked with dust and striped with bits of straw, but still beautiful — more beautiful. Tendrils of golden hair escaped from a long braid and curled around her neck. Her sweat-soaked bodice clung to her lush body, the shape emphasized by the lines of her apron. She had hitched her skirt clear of the floor, tucking the excess into her waistband. He could see her ankles, wrapped in thin wool stockings. Tom suspected there was nothing under the thin woolen skirt but her damask legs and her maiden’s treasure.

She looked up when he came in and stopped sweeping. She stood with the broom in one hand, running the other over her disheveled braid in a vain attempt to tuck in some loose strands. When she lifted one lock from her neck, Tom saw an ugly bruise darkening the line of her jaw.

Three long steps and his hand gently cupped her chin. “Who did this to you?”

“Hester.”

“Who’s Hester?” he demanded.

“Our cow.” Abstinence smirked at him. “I was too clumsy the other day and received a correction. Which I deserved. Then she kicked over a bucket of milk, which is why I’m on stable duty all week. Skill is required, you know, even for women’s work.”

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 April 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!”