by Anna Castle
“I wore black because I knew everyone else would. I conceded my case. The marriage is annulled.”
That created a small stir as Ben and Tom expressed varying degrees of dismay or approval. She lifted her chin as she accepted their responses, a prideful gesture meant to cover her evident disappointment.
What made her change her mind? Ben must have finally persuaded her of the futility and risk of pressing an impossible suit. It must have been a bitter deed though; Allen Trumpington had hated to lose, even the informal mock trials after supper.
Welbeck said, “I am sorry, Alice, but you made the right decision. And you spared yourself a thoroughly unpleasant examination.”
“I insisted on the examination.” Trumpet lifted her chin a notch higher. “To put an end once and for all to rumors about what might or might not have happened on my wedding night.”
“Ah, Trumpet,” Tom said. “You didn’t have to go through that.”
“It’s done.” She waved it away with a black-gloved hand. “And now the world knows without a shred of doubt that I am a virgin. Why the world cares remains a mystery.”
Blood would tell; she had her father’s courage. Francis admired her in that moment. He wouldn’t willingly submit to so intimate an examination of his person by eight matrons, or eight gentlemen for that matter. He had almost rather be racked.
Welbeck chuckled at her composure. “Well done, my lady.” He then turned a steely gaze on Tom. “Let’s be certain you continue in that condition until your next marriage.”
Tom met the gaze with steel in his own blue eyes. He seemed to have aged overnight. He’d regained some of his balance since the funeral feast, but his mood remained volatile.
“Perhaps we should turn to the reason for this meeting,” Francis said. “We know you’re responsible for the chapel burglaries, Welbeck. We know enough to have you arrested, and I believe we know enough to convict you.” He didn’t, but one always opened a negotiation with the strongest possible statement of one’s position.
Welbeck regarded Francis with a half smile, then turned again to his niece. “You’ve betrayed me, Alice. Again. I thought you didn’t care about the chapels.”
“I don’t. But they do. And it’s got to stop, Uncle.”
“By ‘they,’ I suppose you mean Bacon and his long shadow, Benjamin Whitt. I can’t imagine Clarady here posing any objection. My little venture is no worse than what his father’s been doing these many years.”
Tom was off his stool and pointing his knife at Welbeck’s throat before anyone else could frame a response. “One word about my father — one word, Welbeck — and I’ll cut you to the bone.”
Welbeck quailed, leaning as far back as he could, raising his hands, his eyes riveted on the blade. “I meant no disrespect.”
Ben rose and gently steered the knife away, then guided Tom back to his stool. He stood behind him with a hand on his shoulder, more to comfort him than restrain him.
Francis said, “Tom’s father died in a powder explosion at Dieppe a few days ago.”
Welbeck’s shoulders sank. “Ah, lad, I’m truly sorry. I wish I could have known the man. His name had weight in the West Country.” He shook his head, his brown eyes filled with seemingly genuine sorrow. “That’s a grave loss, especially for a man your age. You’re too old to go home to your mother’s comfort, but not yet launched in a life of your own. You’ll miss your father’s guidance, but you’re a man of parts, Tom. I know you’ll stay the course.”
The perfect speech. Tom’s expression showed how well it struck him.
That was the trouble with Nathaniel Welbeck. He was a scoundrel, calculating and artful, a flouter of authority and believer in nothing, but he had the gift of fellow feeling. He liked people, he understood them, and they liked him. Skills Francis had never mastered.
Tom answered him gravely. “Apology and condolence both accepted.”
Welbeck said, “I truly meant no disrespect, Tom. All I meant was that robbing those secret chapels is much like raiding Spanish ships at sea. We take from the Catholics to give to the English. A large portion of the proceeds from my ventures goes to feed the sailors and soldiers who fought off the armada.”
“He has a point,” Trumpet said. “Strictly speaking, the goods they steal are illicit. It’s like taking booty from pirates.”
Welbeck folded his arms across his chest, a smug smile on his almost handsome face. “You can’t argue with that, Bacon.”
“Of course I can. Your analogy is specious at its core. Privateers are licensed by the queen. They disable ships and take supplies from our enemies; ships and supplies that would or could be used against us, whether here or in the war in the Low Countries across our sea. Yes, they make a profit, but they hinder our enemies in so doing. You, on the other hand, steal family heirlooms from the homes of loyal Englishmen. There is no comparison whatsoever.”
“I agree,” Tom said. “And I retract my acceptance of your apology, though your neck is safe for now. From me at least.”
“That qualification is pertinent,” Francis said. “Your actions are felonious and can lead to only one result: hanging.”
“Except that you have no proof of my involvement,” Welbeck said. “Not a scrap. Jack Coddington told me about these two rascals’ caper at the Dolphin. You have no proof of my supposed retainers’ involvement either. All you have is a couple of men making idle boasts in a tavern. No jury in England would convict on such evidence, if you could even bring so frivolous a case to court.”
Unfortunately, he was right. They couldn’t threaten him; he knew the ways of the law too well. Time to begin the bargaining.
Francis said, “Lady Alice has stated the central theme: these crimes must stop. You evidently feel no remorse about the burglaries you’ve abetted. Very well; let that remain between you and your conscience. But for all your many flaws, I do not believe you would condone, abet, or otherwise knowingly facilitate cold-blooded murder.”
Welbeck’s smug expression turned sour. “I had nothing to do with those.”
“But you know who did,” Francis said.
Welbeck pursed his lips, then relaxed them; purse, relax, and again. “Know is too strong a word. We men of the law learn to choose our terms more carefully, don’t we, Bacon? Rather say that I believe I may know, or that I suspect, or that I fear . . .” His eyes were shadowed by sadness or disillusionment, as if his suspicions had shorn him of something valuable.
That was not what Francis expected. No one would spare any such feelings for Sir Richard Topcliffe or his clerk. “You must give us the name, Nathaniel. These murders are the work of a lunatic. You know it as well as I do. They must stop.”
“What good would the name do you? I’ll wager you have less evidence against the killer than you have for the burglaries.”
Another indisputable fact. “Then tell us the name of the next victim,” Francis said. “We know you bought a copy of the list of recusants my commission has been interviewing, probably from one of our clerks. We also know that you have another source.”
“God’s bollocks, Bacon! Your underlings are more effective than I thought.”
Francis smiled. His underlings would not appreciate that term, but they managed to suppress their objections. “You’ve chosen your victims deftly, Welbeck, I have to grant you that. But Sir James Lambert wasn’t on our list, nor was his house beside the river. I confess I am unable to predict your next target with confidence. If we knew, we might be able to apprehend the murderer in the act.”
“I see.” Welbeck picked up his penknife and tapped it on his desktop in an irritatingly irregular rhythm. After a long moment, he said, “I want immunity for me and my men.”
“Not if I discover that you had any part in the killings.”
“Naturally.”
“And the burglaries stop now, Welbeck. From this day forward, I will pursue.”
“Understood.”
Francis had known from the day he had talked to
the sheriff that the chapel burglaries would be hard to prosecute in this year, of all years. Sending the coins and the note to the Earl of Essex had been a clever ploy; now a peer of the realm could attest that the profits were meant for the poor. Much as he loathed to see a crime go unpunished, he must sacrifice the lesser evil in order to end the greater one. “Agreed.”
Welbeck’s swift grin betrayed his relief. He hadn’t been sure he’d win that round. “That’s the first thing I want. The second is a lifetime lease on practicing chambers on the first floor of Ashton’s Building.”
Francis laughed out loud. “Please limit your demands to those that can be achieved in this world.” Ashton’s Building, like Bacon’s own, was backed by green fields and orchards, so that one’s chambers — especially one’s bedchamber — received wholesome breezes free of the dust of Gray’s Inn Road and the noise from the courtyards on the other side. A bencher had to die for chambers to become available in Ashton’s. And Bacon owned his building, which his father had built, together with his brother Anthony. He leased the ground floor rooms but was extremely particular about his tenants.
Welbeck shrugged. “It was worth a try. Then the first floor in Stanhope’s Building.”
“Not the first,” Bacon said. “Possibly the third.”
“Never.”
They dickered for a while, working through every building at the Inn. Good practicing chambers — those suitable for entertaining clients — were hard to come by. The first floor was the most desirable, being situated above the dust and bustle of the yard, but with only one flight of stairs to climb. Ground floor was next, second floor a distant third, and all other options out of the question for a man with a flourishing practice.
They finally settled on ground floor rooms in Ellis’s Building in Coney Court. It backed onto Gray’s Inn Road, noisy some days, but handy for a man who might need to abscond in the middle of the night.
“Now,” Francis said, “who is your second source?”
“I won’t give you a name.”
“Then what have we been bargaining for?”
“My cooperation,” Welbeck said, “to be provided on my terms. I can’t just supply you with the name of the next victim and wave you down the stairs. That choice is a matter of discussion between me and my, shall we say, consultant. We consider the options together and choose the best available at the time projected.”
“My cooperation with the bench with respect to your preferred chambers is contingent on that name.”
“I know. I’ll give you better than a name, but not today. Tomorrow afternoon, Monday at the latest. Then I’ll give you the victim’s name, the place, and the date.”
“That date had better be soon,” Francis said. “I suspect your consultant has begun operating independently since the last murder did not coincide with a burglary. We cannot allow another man to die.”
“I agree. Two days at most. We had tentative plans already. But what do you have in mind? If you post extra guards around the property, you’re liable to scare the individual off. I don’t know how this person gains entrance, nor even exactly when.” Welbeck placed a hand on his chest. “I never intended harm to anyone, Bacon. I swear it on all that I hold sacred.”
As if there were any such thing. Francis had vaguely planned to enlist the Westminster constables to watch the house once they knew which one it would be.
“Constables are no good,” Tom said as if Francis had spoken aloud. “They’ll talk or whistle or wander off to take a piss. We’ll have to set a trap.”
“What do you have in mind?” Francis asked.
“Let Mr. Welbeck and his consultant set up their usual game. Let Coddington and crew show up on schedule, pick their locks, and slink on into the chapel the way they’ve been doing. Let it all look the way it’s supposed to look so the murderer will feel safe enough to come in.”
“It’s too dangerous,” Francis said. “I grant you catching the killer in the act is the surest means of obtaining a conviction, but this one kills with the touch of a poisoned blade. We’d be putting the householder’s life in terrible jeopardy.”
“Not the householder,” Tom said. “Me.” He gave them a smile so cold it sent a chill up Francis’s spine.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Tom peeked out the windows of Baron Strachleigh’s bedchamber in Lambeth one last time, pretending to bid good night to the sliver of moon rising over the walled orchard. He wore a flannel nightshirt and a snug coif tied under his chin, doubtless looking the veriest fool close up. From outside the windows, he hoped he looked like an old man getting ready for bed.
He hobbled to the bedside table and pretended to pour a few drops of something into a cup of wine, then pretended to drink, not trusting any cup filled by another hand in this house. Then he knelt by the bed and said a genuine prayer, asking God to preserve his life that night.
He climbed into the bed and snuffed the candle, then lay on his back in the dark, waiting. Somewhere out there in the depths of the house, Jack Coddington and William Buckle crept toward the chapel. Sam Pratt, the boatman, rowed silently up and down the river, waiting for their signal to return. The thieves were playing out their regular roles, only this time they’d be leaving with sacks stuffed with twigs.
Tom felt the change in the air before he saw the shadows shift across the windows. He tensed, ready, but still flinched when he felt someone crawl onto the bed. Someone lighter than he’d expected.
Then the whispering started, barely audible, but chilling in its intensity. “You filthy, murdering Catholic swine. Where were you when my husband’s life was riven from his body?”
Moonlight glinted off a silver blade and cold fingers grasped at Tom’s collar. He shouted, “No!” Panic lanced through him so sharp he feared for a moment he’d been cut. Don’t touch that blade!
His hand shot out to grasp the wrist, gripping it with all his strength, forcing it away. His assailant screamed — a high, feminine wail of pure frustration. Tom bucked her off and leapt from the bed.
Every inch of his skin prickled with fear of that knife. Where was it? Where was she? Had the bed curtain shifted? Was she there, sidling behind it, reaching for him?
He took a step toward the window and felt something brush against him. He cried, “Light! Light!” as he leapt aside, stumbling into a chair, nearly falling. Why hadn’t they cleared this chamber and taken down those cursed, flapping curtains?
Ben and Trumpet burst through the door, each bearing a large candle. Ben put his on the nearest table while Trumpet held hers in front of her like a blazing sword. The three of them spread out, blocking the exits, and slowly backed the woman into a corner while she hissed her curses and slashed her gleaming knife at them.
“’Ware the blade!” Tom cried unnecessarily. They couldn’t get near her.
Then Ben snatched a cloth off the bedside table, sending its contents crashing to the floor. He threw the cloth around the knife, flipping it over to cover it twice. Tom nipped in and grabbed the woman’s arm, twisting it until she let go her grip with a cry. Ben bundled up the cloth, the knife safe within its folds.
Now the murderess lunged for the window. Tom caught her around the waist and dragged her back. She kicked and shrieked, but the game was over. He held on tight and carried her down the corridor to the baron’s library, where Mr. Bacon and Mr. Welbeck had been waiting in the dark.
They were lighting their candles with long splinters of wood as Tom kicked open the door, hoicking his captive onto his hip. His pains that night were paid in full by the look of perfect astonishment on Bacon’s face. He dropped his spunk and cried, “Mrs. Palmer!”
She ignored him, turning her face to her collaborator. “Why, Nathaniel? Why?”
Welbeck offered her an apologetic shrug, holding his hands palms up. “It had to stop, Sarah.”
“They’ll hang me. You’ll lose me.”
“You’re lost already.”
She wilted in Tom’s arms. He let her go a
nd she ran straight to Welbeck. He hugged her close, his eyes shining wetly, then set her aside, stepping away from her. Tom and Ben planted themselves in front of the door, although she seemed to have given up hope of escape.
She pulled off her knit cap and shook out her hair. Her doublet and hose fit her to perfection; she must have had them tailored to her form. She studied the faces of her captors one by one. Bacon got a wrinkle of the shapely nose. Tom got a wry half smile. Trumpet got a blink of surprise and a nod of approval for her boys’ costume. The survey stopped at Ben. She tilted her head. “I thought you liked me.”
He didn’t answer.
She sniffed at his rudeness and turned back to her confederate. “Those men had to die, Nathaniel.”
“No one was supposed to get hurt, my sweet. We agreed on that from the start.”
“No one of us. No one of us, Nathaniel. But these . . .” She gestured vaguely at the rich furnishings and the gilded oak paneling. “These people are our enemies. These are the ones who killed my husband. They must pay for what they did to him.”
“They have paid. We emptied their chapels and sold the goods abroad, as we planned. We rid England of those Catholic gewgaws. You gave your share to the sailors; I gave some of mine too. Our plan worked perfectly, Sarah.”
She shook her head and kept shaking it. “Not enough. Not enough. We took away their instruments of idolatry, but they have more. They still have their houses and their priest holes. They have their lives. They should suffer, as my husband and my brother did.”
Welbeck spoke to the others. “She lost her husband to the Inquisition, you see. Then her favorite brother was killed in a skirmish with the Spanish off the coast of France. I knew she grieved for them — too much, for too long — but never realized the grief had strained her wits.”
“How did she help you choose the victims?” Bacon asked.
“Her mother’s diary,” Welbeck answered. “That woman knew every Catholic family in England, I believe. She was part of the secret community who smuggled priests, passing them from house to house.”