by Anna Castle
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Trumpet sat in Lady Russell’s private garden, struggling not to fidget. She was being subjected to an examination more intense, and more consequential, than any of the legal exercises she’d undergone at Gray’s.
Lady Bacon fixed her with her penetrating hazel eyes. “Then it was melancholy that took you away from the court.”
“I feel so foolish talking about it now.” Trumpet dropped her gaze to her hands, which lay demurely in her lap. At least she’d chosen the right costume. The other three widows also wore black, relieved only by white cuffs and ruffs, even young Sarah Palmer, who had lost her husband years before. Widowhood defined them and their places in the world.
Their somber garb created a blot on the sunny flower garden. Their small table stood beneath an arbor shaded by a wide-leafed vine. More vines bearing white and yellow flowers climbed up the high brick walls. The late summer sun warmed the gravel paths that wound through an intricate pattern of clipped herbs. Lady Russell’s garden defined the pinnacle of modern horticulture, or so Trumpet had heard. She added it to the list of things she would do with Surdeval House when she took possession. She wanted to sit in such a garden in the evening, sipping wine cooled in the river and listening to Tom play the lute.
But the battle for the house had hardly begun, which was why she sat here letting herself be interrogated by Francis Bacon’s implacable mother. So far, however, she hadn’t received any advice she couldn’t have given herself. Instead, the two elderly sisters had pried into every corner of Trumpet’s history, starting with the terms of her marriage contract and working their way back. Whenever Lady Bacon detected some inconsistency, she pursued it with the tenacity of a well-trained hound. The woman had a nose for half-truths and evasions as keen as a dog’s for sausage. No wonder Francis Bacon was so devoted to the truth!
Was this how the recusants felt when facing their interrogators in the Tower? The queen should have assigned these sharp-witted women to the commission — there’d be no secrets left in England. Trumpet would cast Lady Bacon in Topcliffe’s role as the Fervent Believer. Lady Russell would then play Francis Bacon, the Staunch Realist. Funny how a man could look so much like his mother yet in character be so much more like his aunt.
Lady Russell blinked at her like an owl contemplating an uncooperative mouse. “I remember hearing at the time that you were leaving the court because your father objected to the expense.”
“That was part of it.” Trumpet drew the words out, desperately trying to remember which lies she’d told to whom. “Court is so expensive, as you know, Madame. The clothes, the gifts, the tips for the servants . . . it adds up so quickly.” She sighed as if at a painful memory. “Then when the melancholy descended, I simply wanted to get away from all the commotion.”
“I loathe the court myself,” Lady Bacon said. “I wish my son could spend less time in that unwholesome environment, but without title or office, what choice has he? I consider it an especially unhealthy place for a girl. How did you treat your melancholy?”
“Ah.” Trumpet batted her lashes while her mind raced. She had no personal experience of that malady, having always been more inclined to the choleric. Fortunately, she knew someone who frequently suffered from that complaint: Francis Bacon. “Regular sleep at the proper hours is the most important, and of course, a moderate dietary regimen. Then, I find an infusion of fennel, ginger, and licorice very soothing. If such simples are ineffective, I take a dose of poppy juice — the juice, not a decoction of the dried herb — mixed into a cup of wine.”
“Exactly what I would prescribe.” Lady Bacon’s eyes narrowed.
“The episode came and went two years ago, Anne,” Lady Russell snapped. “It has no relevance to the case at hand. I do think it was unwise of your father to remove you from court for such a minor complaint. There is no other marriage market of any worth in England.” She shot a glance at Mrs. Palmer. “For a noblewoman, that is.”
Mrs. Palmer smiled blandly into the middle distance. Trumpet admired the way the woman had perfected the art of seeming to hear only that which she ought and otherwise appearing to be contentedly absorbed by her comfit or the flowering vine.
Lady Russell persisted. “Who suggested Lord Surdeval? It isn’t an obvious match.”
Trumpet smiled humbly. “My father proposed it. He thought I would benefit from the steadying influence of an older man.” In truth, she had been keeping her ears open for widowers who met her requirements. When Lord Surdeval had let it be known that he would pay in cold coin as well as in lands for a young virgin of good lineage, she had passed the news to her father. The earl leapt at the chance to barter his last unmortgaged asset. He’d set his price and left the negotiations to Trumpet and her counselor.
The sisters exchanged knowing glances. “No wonder you were so poorly suited,” Lady Russell said.
Trumpet bristled. She thought she’d done rather well for the first time out.
Mrs. Palmer patted her hand. “Sometimes love may bloom where it’s planted.”
“That’s right,” Trumpet said, grateful for the idea. “My lord and I shared many things. A love of books and learning, for example.”
“Oh?” Lady Bacon asked. “Who supervised your education? I understand your mother died when you were a baby.” Her eyes gleamed. This was her domain of expertise.
“I was ten,” Trumpet said, lifting her chin. “My father provided me with an exemplary range of tutors.” He’d paid for them anyway. Her aunt and uncle had helped her hire complacent companions who let her do as she pleased and creative tutors who encouraged her expanding interests. Trumpet had essentially raised herself and she was proud of the job she’d done.
“Anne,” Lady Russell said crisply, “we do not have time to review her entire curriculum. The issue at hand is her marriage.” She returned her piercing gaze to Trumpet. “I should think you would have preferred a younger man.”
“There were no younger men available who met my father’s requirements.” None willing to hand over a thousand pounds in silver with another four thousand in land. “Besides, my mother’s first husband was much older than she — Mr. Joseph Dusteby of the Merchant Adventurers.”
“My late husband was older as well,” Mrs. Palmer said. “I admired him and found his guidance invaluable, especially in our early years.”
“Mr. Dusteby and my mother were very happy,” Trumpet said. “My aunt and uncle both say so. I think they must have been because he left her a portion large enough to attract an earl and another fortune bound up in trusts for any children she might have.”
“Trusts?” the sisters asked in unison. They leaned forward, nostrils twitching, like hounds catching an alluring scent. “What are the terms? Who are the trustees?”
Trumpet smiled. Safe ground at last. Each of these widows had undergone lengthy battles in court after their husbands died. According to Ben, Lady Bacon had fought like a tigress to preserve estates for her son Anthony against the claims of his older stepbrothers. She hadn’t been able to get much for Francis and had soured relations with the stepbrothers, but she’d held on to Gorhambury and learned a great deal about property law.
Lady Russell had brought many a suit to Chancery, having been widowed twice, with children from each marriage. She had ongoing disputes with her neighbors in Bedfordshire, zealously guarding and secretly expanding the boundaries of her estate.
But Sarah Palmer topped them both. Along with other widows of merchants murdered by the Spanish, she was suing the King of Spain himself, seeking compensation for the ships and goods he confiscated when he closed his ports and took their husbands captive. They could never win, but one felt bound to salute their faith in the law.
Trumpet explained that lands worth some thousand pounds a year had been enfeoffed to three trustees for the use of Trumpet’s mother and the heirs of her body. Nathaniel Welbeck, her mother’s younger brother, was one of the trustees. The other two were Mr. Dusteby’s eldest sons f
rom his first marriage. No lands could be sold without the consent of all three. Thus far, the income had been directed toward additional purchases. She had not received so much as a penny for herself.
“You could hardly do better than Mr. Welbeck,” Mrs. Palmer said. “I have found him to be a wise and reliable counselor.”
“So have I,” Trumpet said. “I mean to consult with him soon, in fact. Now that I’m nineteen, I want to be given direct control over at least some of my property.”
“No, no,” Lady Bacon said, raising a long admonitory finger. “You mustn’t do that.”
“It would be most unwise,” Lady Russell added. “You’ll marry again within a year, I should imagine. We’ll do better for you this time. But you must not expose those trusts to view. Let them remain hidden.”
“Perhaps you don’t fully understand how blind trusts work,” Lady Bacon said. “Let us explain.” She folded her hands on the table as if preparing to deliver a speech.
“I understand it perfectly,” Trumpet said before the senior woman could open her mouth. She’d gone to great lengths to learn her law, after all. “Trusts such as mine are based on the doctrine of separate estate. My mother’s first husband, in his wisdom, transferred ownership of the properties to three trustees to manage on my behalf — long before I was even born. Those three are the legal owners, but they have an obligation to act in my best interests. And so they have done; they’ve been exemplary trustees. Since the trust was established before my mother remarried, my father knows nothing about it.”
Lady Bacon regarded her with a sour expression. She plainly did not like having her prerogative usurped. She sniffed and said, “If you understand the construction of the trust, then you must respect the intentions of its creator and your exemplary trustees.”
“You have no need for an independent income at this time,” Lady Russell said. “Leave your estates to grow.”
“Save them for your widowhood,” Mrs. Palmer suggested.
“I’m a widow now!”
Mrs. Palmer pursed her lips. The two sisters exchanged dubious glances.
Lady Russell said, “Sir William will certainly succeed in having your marriage annulled, my dear. By your own account, it was never consummated.”
“But it was,” Trumpet said. At last, the moment had arrived to present her revised story.
Lady Bacon said, “You told the sheriff’s men that you spent the night alone in your room with your retainer outside the door.”
“Yes, but I didn’t tell anyone about what happened when I took my lord husband in for his nap. I was —” She ducked her head and batted her lashes, resisting the urge to peek at their reactions. “I was too embarrassed. It isn’t something one talks about, is it? I didn’t know at the time that anyone had any right to know. How could I?”
Sarah Palmer patted her hand again. “Of course you couldn’t.”
“What happened?” Lady Russell asked.
Trumpet lowered her eyes again and spoke in a girlish voice. She told them the story she’d rehearsed, but in stilted words and unfinished phrases, twisting her hands in her lap and never once raising her eyes. When she got to the end, she fluttered her hands in a helpless gesture and produced a sort of whimpering sniff.
“That will suffice.” Lady Russell flicked her fingers at the servant standing in the corner of the arbor. The woman — tall, slender, and clad in somber gray — refilled their cups and moved a plate of comfits closer to Trumpet. She chose a square of painted marzipan and ate it in tiny bites, waiting for the response to her performance.
A long silence followed, broken finally by Lady Bacon. “She has no witnesses.”
Lady Russell shrugged. “None could be expected under the circumstances.”
“My maidservant preserved the petticoat,” Trumpet said. “Wouldn’t it show —” She broke off and dropped her gaze to her lap again.
“It might help,” Lady Russell said.
“Sir William will insist that your claim be verified,” Lady Bacon said. “Prepare yourself for the examination. It won’t be pleasant.”
This time, Trumpet’s maidenly grimace was not faked. Mrs. Palmer offered her another comfit.
“If the consummation is confirmed,” Lady Russell said, “the annulment suit evaporates. Then you face the contest over the will.” Her expression was grim, but the fire of battle blazed in her eyes.
A footman clad in blue and gold entered through the wrought-iron gate and strode across the path to stand beside his mistress. “Mr. Bacon has arrived, my lady.”
“Bring him to us here. Along with more wine, please.”
Lady Bacon added, “Bring something savory for my son. Not too salty. Something dry, with no cheese. Or better, a cup of broth.”
The footman bowed and departed. He returned shortly with a chair, followed by another servant bearing a tray of provisions. Francis Bacon followed them, waited patiently while they distributed the things they had brought, and then approached the table. He removed his hat and bowed deeply to the older women. “My lady mother, my lady aunt, I am happy to find you in good health.” His lip twitched as he shifted his gaze to Trumpet, but he offered her a short bow. “Lady Surdeval.” The glimmer of amusement faded as he turned toward Mrs. Palmer, but he inclined his head courteously. “Mrs. Palmer.”
Trumpet admired his skill in executing four perfectly calibrated greetings without apparent thought — the benefit of a lifetime at court.
“Please be seated, Nephew.”
Francis sat and accepted a cup of wine. His mother pushed a small bowl toward him. He lifted it, sniffed its contents, gave her an exasperated look, and set it down.
Lady Russell said, “Your note said you had good news concerning our commission.”
“I do.” Bacon smiled at Trumpet. “My Lady Surdeval may be relieved to learn that her counselor’s assistant, Thomas Clarady, is being released from gaol today.”
“Thank God!” Trumpet snatched up a napkin to cover her smile and coughed to excuse the napkin. Then she painted a demure expression on her face. “I apologize for my outburst, my ladies. But it pained me to know that gallant young man had been unjustly imprisoned on my account.”
“We understand.” Lady Russell’s dry tone suggested she understood all too well.
“Have you apprehended the murderer?” Mrs. Palmer asked. Her lip trembled, as if afraid Mr. Bacon had brought the evildoer with him.
He gazed past her shoulder at the sun-streaked garden wall as he answered. “I confess we have not, but I have learned of two other murders so similar they must have been performed by the same hand. Chapels in each victim’s house were robbed as well. These crimes were committed on nights when Mr. Clarady’s whereabouts can be attested with certainty.”
“More murders!” Mrs. Palmer turned even paler. “How horrible! Who were they?”
“Baron Hewick and a silk merchant named Rouncey,” Bacon said.
The widows exchanged a round of glances and then a round of shrugs. Trumpet had never heard of either of them.
“What do you mean by ‘similar’?” Lady Russell asked. “The men, or the methods?”
Bacon shot a glance at Mrs. Palmer, then another at his mother. “The methods employed appear to have been the same.”
“Then you’ve learned something about the poison?” Trumpet asked. “And why is this the first I’ve heard about the chapel being robbed?”
“In regards to the second question: I don’t know,” Bacon said. “I only learned about it myself yesterday.”
Then he should have sent her a note last night. Trumpet fumed inwardly. She hated being left out of things. The way he kept hesitating before answering told her he had information he didn’t want to share in present company, probably similarities among the victims. They’d all been Catholics, she’d wager. What else could it be?
If he wasn’t even going to send Ben to keep her apprised of developments, she’d have to learn what she could here and now, and a pox upon h
is hesitations! “With more victims, there should be more evidence. What steps will you take now, Mr. Bacon?”
“Francis’s work is done,” Lady Bacon said. “His charge was to obtain the release of Lady Surdeval and Mr. Clarady. That has been achieved.”
“Quit now, with no real answers?” Trumpet let her displeasure show.
“I would also consider that unsatisfactory,” Lady Russell said. “You should at least visit the other victims’ houses yourself.”
Lady Bacon sniffed at her sister. “I should think my son would be best qualified to determine when —”
“Did you speak to the coroner?” Lady Russell cut her off, earning an indrawn hiss.
“No,” Bacon said. “It wasn’t necessary.”
“Not necessary?” Lady Russell’s agate eyes sparked with impatience. “In a matter of death by unknown causes?”
Bacon frowned and began pinching the pleats of his wrist ruff.
“Stop that, Francis,” his mother said. “You’ll soil your cuffs.”
Trumpet’s patience wore thin. “You must have learned something to indicate why these particular men were murdered in so peculiar a fashion.”
“The burglars must have done it,” Mrs. Palmer said. “Dastardly brutes, who knows what reasons they might have had?”
Bacon looked skeptical but refrained from comment. He seemed perfectly willing to leave the whole matter unresolved.
“You can’t leave it like this,” Trumpet said. “Won’t the wondering drive you mad?”
He met her eyes briefly, his expression opaque. “Many things cause me wonder, my lady. I’ve done what the Andromache Society asked me to do.” He turned to his mother, who nodded at him with approval.
“I disagree,” Lady Russell said. “Lady Surdeval may be at liberty in the literal sense, but as long as these crimes remain unsolved, suspicion will cling to her like a bitter smoke.”
“That’s true,” Trumpet said. And it would be worse for Tom, who had no title to shield him. “Besides, the murderer will probably kill again. Why stop at three?”