The Widows Guild: A Francis Bacon Mystery (The Francis Bacon Mystery Series Book 3)

by Anna Castle

  “It might take some time,” Francis said. “Perhaps we should have dinner first? There’s a rather good ordinary across from the Guildhall.”

  “Let’s go now,” Ben said, “and at least find the dates of the other murders. That might be enough to get Tom out of gaol. He’d never forgive us if we left him in there for one more night just because our bellies were grumbling.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Sheriff Skinner was a large man, both tall and portly, his girth evidence of his substance as a citizen. His dark red doublet set off the burnished gleam of the thick chain of office draped around his shoulders. He wore his yellow hair short, trimmed straight across the brow, and his six-inch beard cut square across the bottom, emphasizing the blocky shape of his face.

  The windows in the spacious office stood wide open, yet still the room felt stuffy. The city was too cramped to admit breezes. A banner with the arms of the City of London, with dragons sinister and argent, hung limply against the plastered wall beside another banner displaying the arms of the Worshipful Company of Clothworkers, the sheriff’s guild. That one had lions in place of dragons, with a teazel beneath and a ram on the crest.

  Two clerks worked in this chamber; one seated at a long desk near the windows, the other poised nearby to run and fetch. That one was dispatched after Francis introduced himself and asked to see all records relating to doubtful deaths and burglaries of houses in the past two months. He explained that his aunt, Lady Russell, had asked him to look into Lord Surdeval’s death.

  The sheriff snapped his fingers at the waiting clerk and cocked his head to send him out for the files. Lady Russell’s name had power. She lived in the city, in Blackfriars, and had made it clear over the years that she expected swift service from all city officials as her due.

  Francis said, “I have recently learned of two other deaths that have some features in common with the Surdeval matter. Baron Hewick and Mr. Rouncey, a silk merchant. Did you notice any similarities among the three cases?”

  “Similarities such as religious allegiance?” The sheriff’s tone held contempt.

  He had noticed, then. And done nothing? “I meant, more specifically, the manner of their deaths. For example, did the coroner notice any unusual marks on the bodies?”

  “He did indeed, Mr. Bacon. Same on all three. I suppose you already know or you wouldn’t even ask — a small cross cut into each man’s chest.”

  “Then the murders must have been done by the same man,” Francis said.

  “It might be one man, or it might be several. It could be a secret society, sending out a different man for each victim.” The sheriff smirked at his own cleverness.

  That idea had never occurred to Francis. Although highly improbable, it wasn’t impossible. Even so, he would reserve it until all other options had been ruled out.

  A third clerk appeared on the threshold, displaying a sheet of paper. The sheriff beckoned him over and scanned the document. He handed it back to the clerk. “Put the lot of them in Bridewell. Tell the gaoler to make room.”

  The clerk hurried off and the sheriff turned back to Francis with a weary air. “I’ve got clerks doing the work of marshal-men and barely a third of my usual complement of bailiffs. Now the city’s filling up with men returning from the war, some trying to get home, some who never had homes to begin with. There’s confusion in all directions.”

  “I understand,” Francis said. He and Ben traded dark looks. They couldn’t expect much help from this office. “Even so, the murders of three prominent men surely demand some attention.”

  “Attention!” The sheriff tilted his chin at the clerk behind the desk, who nodded, dipped a quill, and held it ready. The sheriff walked over and signed something with a flourish. “My attention’s spread pretty thin these days. Unless a witness turns up with a name, there isn’t much I can do.”

  The first clerk came back with a wire loop holding a set of documents. He handed it to his master and resumed his post beside the door. The sheriff handed the file to Francis. “These are the felony crimes committed from June to the present date.”

  “So many!” Francis passed the file to Ben, who began perusing the documents in order.

  The sheriff lifted his beefy shoulders. “It’s a big city, Mr. Bacon. Mind you, most of these cases are simple enough. A tavern brawl that goes too far, goods stolen by servants or apprentices. We do a good job of apprehending those responsible.”

  “And your work is appreciated, Sheriff. But whether there is one murderer or several, I think we can agree that these particular murders were instigated by the same motivating force. And since there are at least three victims, unrelated other than through their religion, it’s extremely unlikely that my student, Thomas Clarady, had anything to do with them.”

  “Would that be the fellow we arrested at Surdeval House?”

  “Yes. You must see now that he is innocent.”

  “I don’t know about innocent,” the sheriff said. “His excuse for being there at that hour of the morning sounded pretty feeble to me.” He emitted a rumbling laugh. “If he wasn’t entertaining the young bride, he must have had another reason for spending the night in the house. Why not burglary? His father’s a ship’s captain, you know. He could smuggle those fancy goods out to where they’d fetch a handsome price.”

  Francis could see the validity of that reasoning. Add to it a clever bride with a maidservant who knew about unusual poisons and the case was nearly made.

  “Mr. Bacon?” Ben had his fingers laced through the file of documents, holding four places at once. “I have the dates for the Rouncey and Hewick murders, as well as two other burglaries of private chapels that don’t seem to be associated with any deaths.”

  “Two other burglaries?” Francis reached into the string of files to turn up a page without interfering with Ben’s fingers. He tilted his head to read the sheet upside down. “This is dated August tenth. That was the day before the recusancy commission was appointed. I remember that evening well because I spent it wondering if I’d be named or not.”

  Ben nodded. “I remember it too. I believe that’s the first related incident. Another burglary occurred on the sixteenth. Mr. Rouncey was killed on the twenty-fifth and Baron Hewick on the twenty-eighth.”

  “The first recusants were tried at the Old Bailey on the twenty-fifth,” Francis said. “You and Tom both went with me.”

  “I remember,” Ben said. “We had a long discussion in the hall after supper about the trials. Everyone went to bed later than usual that night.”

  “The convicted men were hanged on the twenty-eighth,” Francis said. “I didn’t go. Sir Francis Drake came to court that day to beg permission to sail against Spain. Another long discussion.” A heated debate, standing before the throne. Francis had much admired Drake’s courage in the face of a stubborn queen, even though he agreed with her that the plan was pure madness.

  “I didn’t go either,” Ben said. “Nor did Tom. He drilled the Gray’s Inn militia that afternoon, twice as hard as usual. Everyone was angry that day, thinking about how close we came to losing everything. He made them practice in the yard after supper with slingshots, as I recall.”

  “I remember that. They broke a window!” Francis shook his head. “The hangings were meant to give the people a sense of completion, of victory achieved. I’m not sure it worked as intended. The mood at the benchers’ table had as much bitterness as satisfaction.”

  Ben held up the ring of files, fingers still entwined. “Sheriff, I can vouch for Mr. Clarady’s whereabouts on every one of these dates except the last. We share chambers at Gray’s Inn. He could not have been gone long enough to commit these crimes without my noticing.”

  The sheriff grunted, pushing out his fleshy lower lip, doubtless pondering the additional work it would make for his overburdened clerks.

  Francis tapped his foot. “I could ask my lady aunt to —”

  “No need for that.” The sheriff waved at the clerk behind the des
k. “Write a letter for the gaoler at Newgate. Have him release one Thomas Clarady at his earliest convenience.” He turned back to Francis with a tight smile. “Sir William insisted on that arrest. Let him argue with Lady Russell about the release, if he wishes.”

  Francis doubted he would. Sir William’s objective would be better achieved in the bishop’s court by annulling the Surdeval marriage, leaving him in full possession of the estate. He had no need to keep Tom in gaol in the face of any kind of opposition. It would help both Tom and Trumpet to have a better suspect take their place.

  “I do have one other question, Sheriff. Has there been any attempt to trace the objects stolen from the chapels?”

  “That Catholic trash? They won’t be able to sell it in England.” He held up a beefy palm. “And before you ask, no, I have not posted watchers on every quay along the Thames. I’m shorthanded, as I’ve told you.”

  “Three prominent Englishmen have been murdered,” Francis said. “You can’t let that go unpunished.”

  “Three Catholics,” the sheriff said. “They might have been born in England, but they’re not like you and me, Mr. Bacon, not by a long chalk.” He moved toward the door, ushering them before him with his bulk. “Good riddance to them and their popish fripperies. Why should I waste my time chasing after a man no jury in England would convict?”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Trumpet and Catalina leaned on the windowsill of the bedchamber on the second floor of Chadwick House, watching the endless parade passing up and down Bishopsgate Street. They liked to study the clothes and accoutrements of the people — all manner of people — going about the business of the busiest city in the world. They’d gotten lots of ideas for improving their various disguises and they’d seen the most famous actors in London riding out to the theaters in Shoreditch.

  Trumpet had whiled away most of the hours since she’d come back from the Tower at this very window, too restless to read and too itchy with worry about Tom to sit chastely in the parlor like a proper gentlewoman. At least Aunt Blanche had better sense than to expect her to do needlework. She could sew well enough when she wanted to, which was never, but considered it a spectacular waste of her capacities.

  Not that anyone required either her intellect or her hard-won training these days. Ben had told her to be patient, as if she had any option. Well, all right, she had one. She could pace back and forth like a caged bear. Apart from that, she could dangle out the window waiting for news to be doled out to her in ladylike portions.

  She hated being separated from her closest friends. Ben could come and visit whenever he wished, if he had the time, which he didn’t, especially now that Mr. Bacon no longer had Tom to run errands for him. Ben had other concerns too, of course. He’d be called to the bar in a few months, assuming things went well, which he never believed things would. So he made himself study more and spend more time with the other men at Gray’s, new-made barristers with perhaps a client or two they could spare. He’d need more money — lots more — once he was admitted as a barrister, because his parents would expect him to marry and establish a household. Trumpet could visit him then, but his wife would doubtless make a horrible fuss. They couldn’t lounge by the hearth in their shirtsleeves spitting apple seeds into the fire.

  And Tom — poor Tom! Trumpet’s stomach clenched whenever she thought of him lying in a heap of stinking straw, cold and hungry, with vicious criminals lurking all around him. Ben had assured her his conditions were not that dire, but even so. He’d worked so hard to bring honor to his name with that commission in Cambridge. This past year, she’d hardly seen him; he’d been so busy taking charge of the Gray’s Inn militia, culling the more egregious flounces from his wardrobe, and attending every session of the Queen’s Bench. She wished more than anything that she could have spent another year at Gray’s to watch him rise, and possibly even help.

  She’d planned to work him gradually into her social circle as a newly married viscountess, always in the company of others at first, like Ben and maybe even Mr. Bacon, and always in the presence of her aunt and other respectable persons, if she could think of any she could tolerate. She could invite him for dessert or to musical entertainments, that sort of thing. Tom could be relied upon to be personable. In time, he could have charmed even her poor Lord Surdeval. He’d have had Aunt Blanche in his pocket after the first visit.

  Now that lovely plan lay in ruins. She couldn’t risk being seen in his company, not in her guise as her actual self, not for weeks. Months, possibly! She’d ordered gowns with Tom in mind, in the rich colors he loved, including an especially lustrous green satin she’d planned to wear with pink-and-green-striped sleeves. Now Tom was in jail, not that she could see him even if he weren’t, and she was restricted to widow’s black for who knew how long.

  Forever, if the women in the Andromache Society were to be her guides.

  The bell at St. Ethelburga’s tolled the hour. Trumpet sighed and turned to her maidservant. “We’d better get me dressed.”

  She had been summoned to attend upon Lady Russell at her home in Blackfriars to receive the latest news about the murder from Mr. Bacon. He could have come to Chadwick House or sent Ben, but Lady Russell had arranged the meeting. She liked to get her news early and at first hand. Old friends of the queen tended to get what they wanted.

  Bacon would undoubtedly deliver a carefully edited report. Trumpet wouldn’t be able to press for details about Tom’s well-being or hear any of the tentative theories, the tenuous threads that hadn’t yet been followed. Still, it would be better than sitting here completely in the dark.

  She hopped on the bed and extended each leg in turn so Catalina could slide on her fine black stockings and tie the garters. Then she stood again, raising her arms to let her farthingale be pulled over her head. While Catalina laced it to her bodice, she turned her thoughts to the upcoming meeting.

  Mr. Bacon’s news would be brief. If Tom were here, she’d bet him a pitcher of ale that Bacon would find an excuse to slither out as soon as he’d said his piece. Lady Russell’s note had also said they would discuss Trumpet’s forthcoming annulment suit, if she were so inclined. Indeed she was. These women knew more about marriage law than half the men at Gray’s Inn. There must be strategies, some preparations she could make.

  The essential question was whether or not the marriage had been consummated. If it had, it was legal, and she was entitled to her jointure as specified in the marriage contract. If not, the best she could do was sue for the return of her bride’s portion, which would go back to her father. She’d get nothing for all her months of laborious negotiations.

  She had to win. She wanted that house on the Strand or something comparable. She wanted an income she controlled herself. And she wanted to stop being treated like a child.

  “How do they decide whether or not you’re a virgin?”

  “Mmm.” Catalina took a pin from her mouth. “The women examine you within, my lady.”

  “When you say ‘within,’ do you mean —”

  “Yes, my lady.” Catalina gathered up the black satin kirtle and held it ready. “The matron feels inside to see if the maidenhead is whole.” She cocked her head, her dark eyes moving as if searching the air for an explanation. “It’s like a bit of waxy linen stretched over a soft bottle.”

  “Linen?” That description didn’t help much since linen cloth ranged from gauze to canvas. “Is there any way to break the thing without, uh — without assistance?” Trumpet raised her arms again to receive the kirtle.

  Catalina gently worked the skirt into place around Trumpet’s hips. “Some say it may be broken by the riding of horses.”

  “Ha!” Trumpet snapped her fingers. “I rode every day at Orford, galloping as often as not. Wearing boy’s clothes, as often as not. Perhaps mine’s long gone.”

  Catalina shrugged, her mouth once again full of pins. She busied herself attaching the black-and-gray-striped forepart to the kirtle.

  “Is it possible t
o have an intact maidenhead and not be a virgin?” Trumpet asked.

  “No, my lady.” Catalina paused in her work to look up at her mistress with a twisted sort of smile. “I do not know about the horses, my lady, but in the usual way, it works like this.” She demonstrated the general form of action with her curved left hand and the index finger of her right hand.

  Trumpet mapped the shapes to her own anatomy, remembering a drawing she’d caught a glimpse of once in Tom’s chambers and adding other scraps of information she’d garnered here and there. “Oh,” she said at last. And then again, “Oh! Ow.”

  “Only the first time, my lady.” Catalina added the partlet and tied the bit of sheer linen under Trumpet’s arms. Then she said. “Gown, please.” She gathered up the folds of the fine black wool and pulled this final layer over Trumpet’s head.

  As her face emerged, Trumpet said, “That doesn’t sound particularly delightful.”

  Catalina flashed a wide grin. “It is, my lady. Trust me. As much as you enjoyed the kissing, you will like this even better, after the first time.”

  Trumpet clucked her tongue. “Curse that Thomas Clarady! I could be pregnant at this very moment if he weren’t so stubborn.”

  “It does not always happen on the first time. Nor even often, I think.”

  Trumpet moved to stand in front of the mirror over the dressing table and glared at her reflection. She couldn’t rely on the chance of the horses; she needed something certain. “I must find a way to make Tom do the deed before this examination.”

  “I do not think he will, my lady.” Catalina worked the partlet into place under the neckline with deft fingers. “He has honor, that one. It is why you love him.”