by Anna Castle
He tried again. "Not gracia. I mean the color, like the sky. Gris."
"Grease isn't a color," the canary man said.
"Some places it is," the feather man said. The other men laughed.
"There's the Grease Pot near Aldgate," another man said. "They'll do you an apple dumpling that's as near to grace as you'll come in this life."
"He don't mean 'grease,'" another man said. "He means 'grass.' Like the Grass Harp."
"That's an ordinary," the canary man said. "He's looking for an inn. He wants lodgings."
The gentlemen broke into a heated debate about the merits of various London establishments. They clearly had no idea what he wanted. Perhaps Capitan Clarady had told him the wrong name for the place where his son lived. Or perhaps he had remembered it wrong.
He slipped away from the bickering gentlemen and walked west, steering toward the broken spire of the great cathedral. The sailors had told him the spire had been struck by a bolt of lightning and burned. The English wisely left it in that condition, as a reminder of the swiftness of God’s wrath. But other spires poked up from every corner, as if in defiance of that wrath. They were plainly confused about their role in the universe and their relation to their God.
Dirimara found himself constantly looking up as he walked — at the glass, the spires, the painted signs dangling over doors. At sea, your eyes remained at a level, scanning the horizon, gaze probing the infinite blue. In the dense jungle from which he had come, your gaze shifted constantly up and down, but mostly only a few feet ahead, ever vigilant for snakes, jaguars, or mounds of deadly ants.
He saw a coach roll under an arch and followed it into a square yard surrounded by four stories rimmed with galleries. They had such places on the coast of France as well. They were inns, where a man could find a bed for the night, and sometimes a woman to share it with him. He might try that, but he wouldn’t want one of the devil women. There were women of all colors in St. Jean de Luz. He might go back there one day, perhaps to stay.
He found the public room and made his way to a counter at the back tended by a man in a dirty apron. Dirimara squeezed in between two men. One talked rapidly in staccato bursts, his voice so rough Dirimara couldn’t tell if it was English or not. The other sat on a tall stool staring gloomily into a tankard, as if reading some dire portent within its depths.
The counterman raised his eyebrows at Dirimara to ask what he wanted. Perhaps he'd learned not to bother with speech in this place.
Dirimara placed his hands flat upon the counter and spoke as clearly he could. “I seek Clarady."
The man on the stool shot him a dark look. "Don't we all, mate," he said mournfully. "Don't we all."
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
“I cannot pursue the pursuivant,” Francis told Ben. “I can’t do it, and not solely because he terrifies me.” They were in his chambers discussing his upcoming meeting with the widows of the Andromache Society. He’d sent a message to Lady Russell saying he was ready to deliver a report. He intended it to be the last one.
“I agree,” Ben said. “In fact, I think you should avoid Topcliffe altogether. Tell the Privy Council you’re unable to continue with the commission due to ill health. With all these sick soldiers wandering about, you might easily have caught something. They’ll understand. You won’t mind spending a few weeks holed up in here reading.”
Ben sat in the armed chair in front of the desk. Francis couldn’t bring himself to sit. He paced back and forth across the rush matting, pausing to fidget with the Venetian glass and silver plate displayed on his oak cupboard or to straighten the always tidy stacks of books on his shelves. He’d made his decision while stumbling home from the Tower yesterday, sick in both mind and body. He hadn’t left his chambers or eaten anything since, even though Ben kept sending for tempting tidbits like a cup of warm broth or dish of cool blancmange.
“I can’t risk them learning of my suspicions,” Francis said. “Not even Tom can know. He’ll want to do something, make up some mad plan to expose Topcliffe in the act.”
“I won’t breathe a word. And you don’t need to inform the widows of your speculations. Just tell them you’ve reached an impasse. Your hands are tied and the matter is closed.”
Francis wished it were that simple. He’d wrestled with the decision all night. He knew his reasons were sound, but he couldn’t stop rehashing the argument. He had first accepted the task to please his lady aunt and to gain the debt of one favor. He had wanted Tom to be released without blemish, knowing the lad to be incapable of murder and also intending to make use of him as an intelligencer again someday. The same combination of loyalty and self-interest motivated his desire to help Trumpet. He did not want her to suffer from scandal, both for her sake and for the sake of her future influence.
This was the way the world worked, how the webs that connected people were formed. Similar considerations bound Sir Richard to the Lord Treasurer, from their mutual origins in Lincolnshire to their long-standing service to the queen. Sir Richard’s grandfather had served the queen’s mother with the kind of loyalty Her Majesty never forgot — another strand in the web.
The queen and the Lord Treasurer might believe Francis — or at least not disbelieve him — but never say it in so many words. Nor could he be certain they didn’t already know and in some covert fashion approve. But if they didn’t know and didn’t believe him, the sheer presumption of his proposal was certain to offend, which would have an incalculable effect on his hopes of advancement. Not even the Earl of Essex could redeem him from so grievous an error.
Sometime in the wee hours of the night, Francis had untangled himself from his damp sheets and risen to take a dose of valerian. He’d plumped up his pillows and lain down again. While waiting for the medicine to take effect, he’d remembered another reason he’d accepted the commission from the Andromache Society: his curiosity had been stimulated by the strangeness of the crime. The paralysis in particular had intrigued him. Then, when he learned that more murders had been committed, all with the same ugly signs of religious hatred, his sense of duty had been aroused. Someone must investigate these crimes if the authorities would not.
Science and duty were the two driving forces of his life. They animated his every step, informed every choice he made. They had propelled him forward in pursuit of the murderer until he struck an immoveable obstacle: a villain he feared more than he loved truth.
There was the rub, the reason he couldn’t settle on this decision. He hated knowing that he could be defeated by his own baser nature.
“It isn’t just the fear,” Francis said out loud.
“Of course not,” Ben said. “You could never prosecute him, not without absolute proof. He’s too well respected. You’d need at least two reputable eyewitnesses; better than burglars, even if we had them in our clutches at this moment.”
“That’s true.” Francis stood beneath the portrait of his father that hung over the mantel. The late Lord Keeper, pragmatic enough to flourish under four Tudor monarchs, would doubtless advise him to leave it alone. He turned back to Ben, spreading his hands in supplication. “If we had proof, I could bring it privately to my lord uncle and lay the whole matter in his lap. But all we have are concatenations of unlikely events and a certain harmony — or disharmony — of intent. Sir Richard could have done these deeds. He has the ability, the knowledge, the will, and the desire. But he also has friends among the very highest, including my uncle. Many would applaud his results, if not precisely the methods. The queen herself protects him. His grandfather, Lord Burgh, was our queen’s mother’s chamberlain, did I tell you that?”
“Twice,” Ben said. “And yes, that makes it worse. Neither should you discount your fears. Given what we saw in his library, fear is a sane and sensible response, worthy of serious consideration. What good would reckless courage do you or anyone else? You’ve said yourself that boldness is the child of ignorance. Knowing what we know, the only rational course is to withdraw.”
Francis asked one last question, the only one that mattered. “What if he does it again?”
Ben’s dark eyes met his with a bleak look, but he had no answer.
* * *
Trumpet stared at the painted cloth on the wall in the dining room at the Antelope Inn. The interlocking red and gold shapes had been drawn by two different painters, or by one painter who had been drinking steadily over the course of the day. She’d never noticed how the lines drifted westward before, but then she’d never spent so much time in this room with nothing else to do.
She’d been invited to an irregular meeting of the Andromache Society along with half a dozen widows: Lady Russell, Lady Bacon, Mrs. Palmer, and several relics of merchants whose names she had forgotten as soon as they were uttered. Mrs. Sprye sat ready with her quill and inkhorn to record the report about to be delivered by Francis Bacon, who was now late by a good half hour.
Lady Russell sat to her right, at the head of the table. Lady Bacon’s stern visage faced her from across the board. Trumpet would rather have sat farther down, where she and Mrs. Palmer could chat freely, but as the highest-ranking woman in the room, she was obliged to sit at the top.
Her eyes met Lady Bacon’s by accident, then pride compelled her to hold her gaze in spite of the eerie sensation that she was staring into the eyes of an older Francis Bacon. They had the same unusual amber-toned irises and the same deep well of ceaselessly active intelligence. Trumpet felt a giggle rising in her throat but was saved by Lady Russell, who tilted her head to whisper something to her sister.
“Perhaps he isn’t coming,” Mrs. Palmer murmured. She sat on Trumpet’s left and had also been watching the formidable Cooke sisters.
Trumpet blinked her eyes several times to refresh them. “He would have begged off if he had nothing to tell us. He wouldn’t want to walk all the way here.”
“It’s less than a quarter mile! Is he so very lazy?”
“Not lazy. He doesn’t like to waste effort, that’s all.”
“You reassure me. I would hate to marry a lazy man.”
Trumpet looked directly at her. “Are you truly thinking of marrying Francis Bacon?”
“His connections are impressive. And he is a bencher at Gray’s Inn.” Benchers were the governors of the Inns of Court.
“So he is.” Trumpet bit her lip to keep from saying more. She doubted Bacon would consent to wed, however wealthy the bride, so there was no reason to burden her new friend with details such as chronic debt and a preference for his own sex. “I thought you were interested in my uncle.”
“Oh, I am! I like him. But he is rather old, as you pointed out. And Lady Russell has been very persuasive about considering all my options.”
“She has her own objectives, as you pointed out,” Trumpet said. “I suspect you’d be happier with my uncle. He’s quite fit and not yet forty. Or someone else entirely. Mr. Bacon is . . . well, he . . .” She cast about for something inoffensive yet discouraging. “He studies a great deal. Sometimes to the exclusion of everything else, including his duties at Gray’s.”
“You seem to know him well.”
“Oh! Do I?” Trumpet emitted a small laugh. “Not so very well, really.” She kept mixing up Allen’s knowledge with Alice’s. “My lawyer, Benjamin Whitt, is a student of Mr. Bacon’s. He talks about him, you know, the way men do.”
“Nothing but gossip!” They shared a smile at the absurdities of men.
“Speaking of Mr. Whitt,” Trumpet said, “you seemed to get along well the other evening at supper.”
“He’s very nice,” Mrs. Palmer agreed, but without the note of enthusiasm Trumpet had been hoping for.
Now a servant opened the door to admit Francis Bacon, followed by both Ben and Tom. Why had Bacon brought supporters to this meeting? Had he caught the murderer? She hadn’t heard anything from anyone since Tom had left her at the corner of Bishopsgate Street last Friday night. Being on the outside rankled desperately. Two years ago, she would have been in the thick of whatever was brewing; now she had to sit with a bunch of dreary widows, hands folded in her lap, waiting to be given the same news everyone else would hear.
Bacon gestured the other men to a bench against the wall. Ben sat down immediately, but Tom couldn’t pass a group of women without some flourish. He swept off his hat and bowed, hand across his waist, then winked at Trumpet before taking his place on the bench.
“I do admire that young man.” Mrs. Palmer sounded slightly breathless. “What was his name again?”
“Clarady,” Trumpet said. “He’s a nobody. A mere inner barrister.” She shot her companion a sharp look. She could not allow this tasty widow to develop an interest in Tom. “He’s comely enough, I grant you, but he’s a terrible bore. He can’t talk about anything but clothes.”
Mrs. Palmer hummed doubtfully, but her further response was cut off by the ringing of Lady Russell’s silver bell. The women fell silent and turned attentive faces toward the foot of the table.
“We bid you welcome, Mr. Bacon,” Lady Russell said. “We hope you have good news for us today.”
“I do, my lady.” Bacon bowed to each side of the polished board. “I am happy to report that thanks to my efforts, Lady Surdeval and Mr. Clarady have been released from custody without let or hindrance, with no lingering stain or suspicion.”
Trumpet frowned. This news was neither new nor good enough. Suspicion would linger until the murderer was hanged. She could weather it, though her next husband must die a demonstrably natural death, but the clouds would darken Tom’s path for years to come.
“Then you’ve identified the murderer?” Lady Russell asked. “Well done, Nephew!”
Some of the women began to applaud, but Bacon held up both hands to stop them. “No, my good ladies and gentlewomen, I must admit I have as yet no proof sufficient to bring the murderer to justice.”
“But you know who it is,” Lady Russell said.
Bacon pinched the pleats in his left wrist ruff while his gaze wandered over the tops of the women’s heads. Trumpet recognized the evasive mannerisms. He either didn’t know or he wasn’t going to tell them. He would babble pompously for a few minutes and then run away.
“Suspicions have evolved in such directions as to preclude any definitive verification of culpability.”
“What in God’s name does that mean, Francis?” Lady Bacon snapped.
Bacon sputtered and stuttered, producing a spate of legal terms and Latin aphorisms that furrowed the other women’s brows. Trumpet stopped listening.
Mrs. Palmer murmured, “Does he mean that he knows but doesn’t want to say?”
“I think so. It sounds like he’s afraid to.”
“Can he be such a coward?”
“He’s not a coward,” Trumpet said. “Or, yes, physically, I suppose that’s fair. But if someone threatened him, he would hide in his rooms and send a letter to the sheriff. It must be something else.”
“What sort of something else?” Mrs. Palmer asked. “What could induce him to conceal the identity of a murderous fiend?”
Trumpet shook her head. “He must think it’s someone powerful, or someone protected by someone powerful. Someone too big to bring to justice.” Someone who frightened him, judging by the sheen of sweat on his brow. Ben had told her, with an uncharacteristic whine of jealousy, that Bacon had spoken with the Earl of Essex regarding the Surdeval matter. She could easily imagine Robert Devereux accepting money from stolen goods without a qualm, but she couldn’t see him committing murders in secret. Where would be the advantage?
“Who could be too big for justice?” Mrs. Palmer asked.
Trumpet shrugged. Every member of the Privy Council, for a start. Did Ben know? Did Tom know? She caught his gaze and furrowed her brows. He raised one shoulder slightly and gave his head one tiny shake. He was equally in the dark. Ben refused to look at her.
Lady Russell rang her bell and Bacon stopped babbling. She frowned at him. “You’re repeating yourself,
Nephew. I comprehend that you wish to terminate your commission without presenting a conclusion. I must say I’m disappointed in you.”
“I’m not,” Lady Bacon said. “I never liked the idea of my son chasing violent criminals. That is the sheriff’s job, and Francis has wisely decided to leave it to him.”
“He said nothing of the sort,” Lady Russell said.
“He implied it,” Lady Bacon retorted.
The two sisters glared at one another while everyone else held their breaths. Lady Russell blinked first. “Very well. I will personally make certain the sheriff performs his duties to my satisfaction. And I will have a private word with you, Nephew, immediately after this meeting.” She looked around the table and rang her silver bell. “We are adjourned.”
All of the women rose except Lady Bacon, who crooked her finger at Ben. She liked to interrogate him about her son’s eating and sleeping habits whenever she got the chance. Lady Russell gripped Bacon’s arm on her way through the door, drawing him out with her. Tom rose and bowed as she passed, then remained standing.
“You must introduce me again,” Mrs. Palmer said with a thrill in her voice. “Individually, not as part of a group.”
“What?” Trumpet wanted to follow Lady Russell and Mr. Bacon. She had as much right to know the full story as anyone. But a clot of widows in wide farthingales blocked the doorway, each gesturing politely to the others so no one could move forward.
Tom smiled at Trumpet and nodded once to signal that he meant to speak with her before he left. Good. They needed to plan their next outing.
Mrs. Palmer sighed dramatically. “A little boredom would be endurable with a smile like that to compensate.”
Trumpet turned to her and realized with a start where she had fixed her attention. Tom noticed too. His eyes took on that extra sparkle he gave to beautiful women.
This had to be nipped in the bud at once. “Take my advice and stay well clear of that man.” Trumpet crossed her fingers in her lap. “He’s as skit-brained as a sparrow. He snorts when he laughs and he farts incessantly.” She put her hand beside her mouth and whispered, “And I rather suspect that he prefers boys.”