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

by Anna Castle

  The gasps had been provoked by row upon row of files, strung on wire rings and hung from pegs, each bearing a label in Sir Richard’s clerk’s neat hand. Francis glanced over his shoulder to be sure the servant had not returned, then stepped inside the closet. Ben followed him.

  Beginning at opposite sides, they quickly examined all the files within reach. Ben asked, “Do you recognize any names?”

  “I recognize all of them. Fitzherbert, Neville, Manners: all part of his cousinage; some on his side, some on his wife’s. Some of these families are Catholic by tradition, though none have ever been charged with anything specific. It looks as though Sir Richard has been collecting notes about them for decades.”

  Francis leafed through the pages strung on one file, careful not to pull at the holes. “Look, he seems to have made a note of every place this Fitzherbert has ever been and everyone he’s ever done business with. It’s appalling — even a little mad.”

  “Here’s a ring with all known recusants with residences in the London area.” Ben thumbed through the documents. “This is bad, Frank. All our victims are here, with notes about the commission’s interviews. This one has writing in the margin in a different hand, saying ‘Should have racked him, the lying turd.’”

  “That’s Sir Richard.” Francis frowned at the vulgarity. “Still, nothing here is evidence of crime; at least none of Sir Richard’s doing. What’s in those chests, I wonder? Can you take a quick look?”

  He went back out into the library and jogged to the window. The shutters were still closed in the house opposite. Francis looked down into the street and almost laughed out loud to see two men running pell-mell in one direction while two women skittered shrieking in the other. A man in an apron tiptoed across the lane with a stick raised in one hand. He bent double to peer beneath an overturned bushel basket, as if expecting to find a tiny Spaniard huddled beneath. Sir Richard’s servant was nowhere in sight. The silent house felt empty.

  He returned to the closet to find Ben holding an iron ring with a thick chain dangling from it. A manacle.

  “God’s breath,” Francis said. “Why would anyone keep such a thing in his house?”

  “There are three more, of different sizes, inside that chest. And look at this.” He put the manacles back and lifted up another instrument made of oak and iron, shaped like a small vise with two screws. “If I’m not mistaken, this one is called a thumbscrew, or pilliwinks.”

  “Pilliwinks? It sounds like a children’s game.” Francis touched it gingerly. His thumbs ached at the mere sight of it. “Is it possible he uses these cruel devices here, in his own home?”

  “One more thing.” Ben pointed into the chest.

  Francis peeked inside, fearing to see an even more terrifying instrument of torture. What he saw was worse: the colored beads and crosses of a pair of rosaries, tangled among the iron chains of the manacles. Articles of faith entwined with the instruments of torture. Was this what their religious Reformation had brought them to?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  They let themselves out of Sir Richard’s house and walked quickly to Tower Hill. Ben said, “I don’t like the idea of you going back to work with that man. I could file Trumpet’s papers tomorrow without postponing her hearing more than a day or two.”

  “No, no. Don’t delay on my account.” Francis summoned a brave smile. “I’ll be all right. And don’t forget to add the five pence for the wherryman to your expenses.” He watched Ben’s tall figure disappear into the crowds on Tower Street, then turned to walk down Petty Wales.

  Ben assumed Francis would be afraid to meet Sir Richard now, after what they’d learned. And he was, a little. He had known the man enjoyed threatening the prisoners and relished the idea of torture. He had not known that Sir Richard enjoyed it so much as to collect the devices in his own library. The thought of the man applying those thumbscrews to someone right there in his home appalled Francis so deeply his chief fear was that he wouldn’t be able to face him with his usual manner.

  What if Sir Richard suspected that Francis knew about his secret cache? What would he do? Francis’s thumbs twitched. He drew a deep breath to calm himself.

  Underneath the riffle of fear, however, lay something else — something buoyant, almost a sense of exhilaration. That puzzled Francis until he traced the sensation to its source. He had just successfully completed his first act of subterfuge. He had learned something pertinent to his investigations and he had not been caught.

  Francis bounced a little on his toes as he waited for the guard to pass him through the gate. He smiled as if in cheerful greeting, but the smile was for himself. It would seem he had a bit of the spy in him after all.

  He found Sir Richard and his stoop-shouldered clerk standing outside Wakefield Tower talking with one of the liveried guards. After exchanging greetings, Francis asked, “Are we waiting for Sir William Waad?” He doubted it; the Privy Council secretary used every excuse to avoid the actual work of the commission.

  “Come and gone,” Sir Richard said. “Another engagement. You’re late, Mr. Bacon.”

  “I do apologize. There was a commotion in the street.”

  “Begging soldiers, I’ll wager.”

  “I heard a shot fired,” Francis said. “It caused a bit of a panic.”

  “There are even more of them this week,” the clerk said. “With no money to pay their wages, some have no way to get home.”

  “Sad but true, Mr. Kemp. Sad but true.” Sir Richard had the air of a man waiting patiently for some pleasurable event. “Pity we can’t use the top of my list in our commission, isn’t it, Mr. Bacon? The fish we net in the prisons are poor lot as a rule, yet we’re obliged to let the great whales swim free. If I had my way, we’d stuff my good queen’s coffers so full of coin she’d cry my name out again and again.”

  He and his clerk shared a round of chuckles while Francis struggled to mask his disgust. The man was even more vulgar in a good humor. Still, he did seem inclined to chat. His servants would be sure to mention Francis’s visit; best he said something about it himself first.

  “I took shelter in your house, Sir Richard, as it happens. During the disturbance.”

  “How’s that?”

  “I dropped by to leave you a book. The Genevan Book of Common Order, which my mother sent me. I thought you might find it interesting.”

  “Why, Mr. Bacon! That’s very thoughtful of you. Do thank Her Ladyship for me. I hope my servants treated you well.”

  “In every way,” Francis said. “You’ll find the book on your desk when you get home.” He wanted to ask Sir Richard about arrow poisons but couldn’t think of a way to introduce the topic.

  A guard strode across the yard, handed a letter to Sir Richard with a short bow, and returned to his post. Sir Richard unfolded the letter, read it with a grunt, and tucked it into his sleeve. He cocked his head toward Francis, a measuring look in his eyes.

  “Is anything amiss?”

  “Perhaps,” Sir Richard said. “Perhaps not. Some accidents turn into strokes of luck.” He clapped his hands together, making Francis jump. “Let’s get to work, shall we? Mustn’t waste the whole morning.”

  Francis turned toward the door, ready to go upstairs.

  “Not that way, Mr. Bacon. We’re in a different venue today.”

  “How is that?”

  “The prisoner we meant to question died of a fever in gaol last night. God’s judgment precludes ours — and saves us a bit of work.” Sir Richard gestured toward the White Tower, looming in the center of the castle enclosure. He started walking, so Francis fell into step beside him. The clerk followed at a pace behind.

  Sir Richard smiled, deep wrinkles creasing around his eyes. “It’s just as well. Now you can join us in the second round with Amias Fenton. You remember him, don’t you?”

  “Of course.” Fenton was the snarling priest who had first told him about the other victims. This could be an unexpected opportunity. “Do you think he knows more ab
out the recusant murders?”

  “I think he knows more than he’s told us about many things,” Sir Richard said. “Let’s probe him to the marrow, shall we?”

  Francis didn’t like the sound of that. Nor did he like the door Sir Richard now opened, leading down to the basement instead of up to the administrative chambers. He hesitated on the threshold, but Sir Richard grasped his elbow.

  “Come along, Mr. Bacon. It’s time you took a full part in our examinations. Who knows? You may find you have a talent for it. The cool ones usually make the best practitioners.”

  Francis met his hard black eyes, then blinked and tried to turn around, but the clerk closed in behind him, pressing him forward. He swallowed hard and let himself be herded down the stairs.

  Wooden vaulting supported the high ceiling of the windowless basement. Widely spaced torches threw shifting shadows across the vast space. Huge barrels were stacked three high against the walls. A rectangular contraption with ropes and large spools, like a bed frame with no canvas, leaned against one of the stone walls. The rack, most dreaded of the instruments of torture, was roughly made of unpolished wood and pitted iron. What craftsman could take pride in constructing such a machine?

  Two men in workman’s garb fiddled with the ropes, testing the play of the metal pegs that supported the spools in the iron frame. A liveried guard held Amias Fenton in his meaty grip. The recusant’s hands were bound before him. He stood with his eyes closed while his lips moved rapidly and soundlessly.

  “I can’t —” Francis tried to turn back toward the stairs, but Sir Richard used his bulk to block his way.

  “First time’s the hardest. You’ll get used to it.” He turned Francis back to face the rack. “You know that this is done, Mr. Bacon. You know it must be done. An honest man would want to know how it’s done.”

  That shamed Francis. How could he sit smugly in his comfortable chambers, never giving another thought to the men he had recommended for “further questioning”? This was where they went, he’d always known it. Perhaps he did have a moral obligation to face the result of his judgments, at least once.

  The workmen lifted Fenton up and laid him on the rack, arms over his head. They secured his wrists and ankles to the rollers. “Silence!” One of the men slapped him hard across the face to stop his praying. The crack echoed into the dark corners.

  “We’re ready, Sir Richard.”

  Francis pressed his lips together and willed himself to stand still, though he couldn’t bring himself to watch directly. He kept his eyes open but tilted his face toward the floor.

  Sir Richard handed his hat to the clerk and stood at Fenton’s head. He bent to look his prisoner in the eyes. “This doesn’t have to take long, Amias. The sooner you answer my questions, the sooner these men will return you to your cozy cell.”

  Fenton spat in his face. Sir Richard laughed. “I thought that might be your answer. Good! Let the game begin!”

  The men set to work. Sir Richard wanted the names of any householders who had sheltered Fenton and other seminary priests. Sometimes he shouted the question, sometimes he crooned it. “Names, priest. I want their names.”

  Fenton’s only answers were groans of agony and muttered Latin prayers.

  Francis’s stomach roiled in disgust and pity. This man would never yield. They should hang him and be done with it. He tried to speak, but his voice sounded thick. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Let him go, I pray you. Take him back to his cell.”

  “This obstinate cur? Not yet, Mr. Bacon. Not until he gives over at least one of the juicy widows who succored him while loyal Englishmen died.” He rapped his knuckles on the iron frame. “Tighten it up! Let’s make this man a little taller. Maybe that will loosen his tongue.”

  Metal slid across metal and ropes creaked. The prisoner’s moans rose in pitch, broken by the fleshy pop of a joint being pulled from its socket.

  “That’s got it!” Sir Richard crowed.

  The prisoner’s screams filled the cavernous chamber. Francis doubled over and vomited into the straw.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Dirimara Montoya de la Torre stepped off the gangway onto the wharf east of the fabled bridge of London. Sailors had told him about it, but he'd never seen the like. It looked like a town suspended over the water on mighty pillars, tall buildings with glass-filled windows covering every inch from end to end. Clearly, it had been built by powerful people. He hadn’t thought the English capable of such monuments before.

  He inhaled deeply, savoring the rich stink of the city. The smell of life, invigorating after months at sea. London: great capital of Inglaterra, the native land of his dearest friend in all the world, Captain Valentine Clarady. If only his friend were still alive to share this occasion.

  Dirimara stood for a while watching the cranes on the wharf load bales of wool onto a ship. He much admired the efficiency of the cranes but was grateful not to be the man trapped inside the wheel, walking the same short course all day to keep the mighty engine moving. He felt sorry for that man, but he had an even crueler job to do himself today, if he could find the boy.

  One of the sailors clapped him on the shoulder as he passed. They'd become friends on the long voyage from New Spain last year and had fought side by side during the recent battles in the British Sea. "I hope you're going to be all right here, my friend. The English don’t much like strangers." He looked Dirimara up and down, his gaze lingering on the waist-long braid of blue-black hair and the shark's-tooth earrings. "And you're a sight stranger than most."

  Dirimara grinned, showing the gap between his teeth. "I have been in worse places than Inglaterra."

  "England." The sailor shook his head. "You could let someone else deliver the bad news."

  “No,” Dirimara said. “The duty is mine. When we came here and entered the battle with the Espaniards, my captain said to me, if I die, go find my boy. My Tomás. Tell him what happened, and he will look out for you."

  "All right," the sailor said. "May God protect you, then."

  "Vaya con Dios," Dirimara replied. He turned away from the sea, his home for more than a year, and faced the enormous city. He decided to start with the dockside taverns. Someone there would surely know of the famous Captain Clarady and where to find his son. And they might be less alarmed by his strange appearance.

  The first place was nearly empty at this late hour of the morning. Dirimara smelled something savory cooking and decided to eat a meal. He had enough coins, thanks to his captain, and needn't worry about food or lodging in this cold city of stones beside its broad, gray river.

  The wench brought him a bowl of fish stew, a chunk of dark bread, and a mug of ale. She was pale as a ghost and her hair was a demonish red. Were all the women in this country descended from devils? The thought frightened him more than the caged man under the crane.

  The food tasted wonderful after meals of stale biscuit soaked in sour beer. When he finished and she returned for his plate, Dirimara said, "I seek a place called Grace Inn. Do you know it?"

  She screwed up her face, as if squeezing the thought from her brain. Then she shook her head. "Up toward St. Paul's? The big church with the broken spire?" She pointed toward the north.

  Dirimara thanked her and left. San Pablo, the grand cathedral of London. The sailors had told him about that place as well. They said a man could learn anything there, but he must be wary of thieves. He had a large knife in the scabbard on his black belt and knew how to protect himself.

  He turned his back to the river and walked up through narrow lanes shadowed by overhanging houses. He could barely sense the location of the sun and had to navigate by pure instinct. At least the people gave him space to walk, sometimes crushing each other against a wall to avoid him. Dirimara appreciated their generosity. Their bodies stank of sour milk.

  Men worshipped animals here. He had learned as much from his shipmates, who told him there were more sheep than people on this small island. They ate their God on feast
days in the form of bread, which Dirimara found both mystifying and disgusting. It made more sense to feed your gods than to eat them.

  He came to a broad street and saw a tavern fronted with wide windows filled with gleaming glass. He'd seen quantities of glass on almost half the houses, sometimes even on the upper stories. He wondered why these Londoners wanted so much glass when there was nothing to see but other houses and the dull gray sky.

  The tavern was filled with gentlemen, richly garbed in round hose and padded doublets. One wore a shade of bright canary yellow that Dirimara found irresistible. Perhaps when he found the son of Captain Clarady, he could buy such a doublet with puffed-out hose to match. His long striped slops made sense on board a ship, where a man spent as much time climbing ropes as walking and met few people who were not members of his own crew. Here in London and on the Continent, when he continued on his way, he would rather look more elegant, like a grandee.

  The men turned to stare as he entered their domain. He met their unfriendly gazes without offense. "I seek the son of Captain Valentine Clarady. He abides in a place called Grace Inn."

  "Grace Sin?" The canary man frowned beneath his long moustachio. "Those are contraries. Is it a riddle?" His eyes narrowed as he looked Dirimara up and down. "We don’t want Spaniards here, sirrah."

  "I am no Espaniard." Dirimara drew himself up to his full four feet ten inches. "I kill the Espaniard, many of them, to help the English. I sail on an English ship, but I am Yagua. You would say, an Indian of Peru.”

  The canary man tucked his chin in surprise. "Are you, now!" The other gentlemen displayed equal portions of bafflement and curiosity. Curiosity won.

  "You won't find grace in a tavern," said a man with a fluffy white feather in his high-crowned hat. Dirimara determined to buy himself exactly such a feather once he had found the boy.

  The others laughed, and Dirimara realized they did not understand him. They thought he meant gracia, like the favor of a god or a gift for music. He sighed. His shipmates had told him his English was perfect. It seemed they had been more polite than factual.