by Anna Castle
Tom groaned. Now he had to write another report to Bacon and pay extra for express delivery.
Chapter Six
Francis Bacon walked across the fields of Covent Garden to the back gate of Burghley House on the Strand. He was known there, of course; the porter admitted him without question. He saw a cluster of visitors emerging from the portico and made a slight detour to climb up the snail mound in the corner of the large garden. The grass was putting forth shoots of green, bright on this overcast morning. The spiral path winding up to the circular bench at the top was inviting and pleasingly symmetrical. When Francis had a garden of his own, he would build such an ornament, but his would be glimpsable through rows of tall trees. Elms, for the yellow leaves in autumn, or beeches, for the whiteness of their bark.
He wasn’t looking forward to this meeting, though he had news at last. Unfortunately, his first result after six dull weeks was a negative one. The Cambridge enterprise had suffered a major setback. The only positive aspect to the situation was that blame could not by any interpretation be assigned to him. Blamelessness was not necessarily a shield against consequences, however.
Francis sighed. His dreams of gardens receded ever farther from his reach. Perhaps someday he could at least do something about the untidy fields behind Gray’s Inn.
He and his uncle shared a love of gardens and a delight in designing them. Or more precisely, they each individually felt such a delight. Nothing was truly shared between them but scraps of family history, the constraint of wants obstructed, and that mutual sense of ease one feels when speaking, for a rarity, with someone of similarly high intelligence.
Seeing that the small group had gone out the gate, Francis returned to the central path. He passed through the marble pillars of the portico and was admitted to the anteroom by a sharp-eyed servant. Every member of Lord Burghley’s staff was possessed of spotless livery and blameless manners. The footmen were also tall, muscular, and ever alert for unauthorized intruders. Many a foreign potentate would find his schemes more easily advanced if England’s Lord Treasurer were removed from his accustomed seat at the queen’s elbow.
He spoke with the footman briefly and was directed to a bench, well polished by the garments of those who awaited an audience with His Lordship. The larger group had gone, but Francis was not alone. A merchant’s wife sat upright with her hands in her lap and her eyes on her hands. A man with a travel-stained cloak and mud on his boots snored softly in the corner, his head resting awkwardly against a marble bust of Cicero.
Francis was summoned first. As he entered the short corridor, he exchanged courteous nods with a gentleman on his way out. The thought of eggs popped into his mind at the sight of thin legs, rounded belly, and the bare white dome of his head rising under an inadequate hat. Given the context of his own news, he recognized the man as Dr. Eggerley, headmaster of Corpus Christi College. He smiled in spite of the tension curling in his stomach. His intelligencer had a greater talent for description than he’d given him credit for.
Lord Burghley’s study was on the ground floor, fronted by a bank of windows looking onto the spacious gardens. The rest of the walls were lined with shelves and chests, specially built to house his famed collections of books, maps, and coins. Burghley sat at his desk, reading a letter from a tray on his right heaped high with unsealed documents already vetted by his secretaries. He looked up, peering over his narrow spectacles. “Come in, Nephew.”
“My lord.” Francis removed his hat and bowed. When he righted himself, he saw that his uncle had returned to his letter. No matter. He was in no hurry now, though he was fairly sure he still had a surprise to deliver.
He allowed his gaze to rove across the contents of the richly furnished room. His envy was submerged by admiration for his uncle’s unparalleled good taste. If Francis were to be imprisoned and allowed to select his gaol, he could choose this room and scarcely miss his freedom. His eyes lit on a new treasure.
“A globe! Did Mr. Mercator send it to you?” Delighted, he moved toward it, reaching out his hands. “May I?”
Burghley’s eyebrows twitched and he smiled slightly. Permission granted.
Francis turned the globe slowly under his palms, absorbing the details. He loved globes; he longed for one, but they were so expensive. He marveled at the extent of the southern continent, Terra Australis. It seemed to have more surface than the rest of the continents combined. Could that be accurate? A proper expedition should be mounted to map the coasts and explore the interiors. Perhaps with camels . . .
His reverie was cut short by the whisking sound of paper as his uncle refolded the letter and dropped it into the tray on his left. He flicked his fingers to dismiss his secretary and the footman and turned his attention to Francis.
“My man said your message was urgent.”
Francis bowed his head apologetically. “Less urgent than I thought, perhaps. Was that Dr. Eggerley who just left?”
“It was.” Burghley’s brow wrinkled. “Have you met him?”
“No, never. I recognized him from Clarady’s description. I had thought his descriptive sketches merely irreverent, but his turns of phrase are surprisingly evocative.”
“I noticed that myself, in the letter you forwarded to me as an example of his work. Old Eggy? I suppose undergraduate wit is inescapable in a case of this nature. We bear up, eh?”
Francis recognized the quote. They rolled their eyes in wry amusement, uncle and nephew alike in so many ways. Had Burghley been granted only daughters, Francis would be employed in this very house today, being groomed for higher office in his cousin’s place. Instead, Francis was left to scramble for position on his own, with no father to guide him and smooth his path.
“I assume Dr. Eggerley came to report the same information I received,” Francis said, “that Bartholomew Leeds is dead.” He’d gotten a letter from Tom only half an hour ago, ostensibly sent by special messenger but evidently delayed along the way. Tom had written it a few hours after the letter he sent with his headmaster, which Francis had not yet received. What a tangle! He wished there were a more efficient means of communicating urgent messages.
At least he’d arrived on his own initiative with fresh news to report instead of being summoned in a state of ignorance to account for events of which he had as yet no knowledge.
Burghley sighed. “He committed suicide. A tragedy.” He now seemed deeply wearied. “It grieves me. I fear I may be responsible, in part.”
“Clarady felt the same at first. But none of us bears any guilt. Bartholomew Leeds was murdered.” Francis was gratified to see surprise widen his uncle’s eyes.
“Are you certain?”
“Beyond a doubt. Clarady has determined that the wine Leeds drank before he died was drugged. He could not have hanged himself.”
“Eggerley said nothing about wine.”
“He wouldn’t have. I don’t yet have the full details. Tom sent a longer report with Dr. Eggerley, whom I presume is on his way to Gray’s to deliver it now.” Francis realized he might have escaped an awkward conversation with the man. “He sent the second report a few hours later, after finding a boy insensible on the floor after drinking the remains of the wine. Tom observed signs that Leeds had drunk from the jug. He concluded the man could not have balanced on a stool and put the rope around his own neck. I find his argument sound.”
Burghley stroked his long gray beard. “I’ll confess you’ve relieved my mind, Nephew. I’ve sent many men to their deaths to preserve this kingdom. Necessity — and Spain — may drive me to send more. But taking advantage of a man’s pangs of conscience to wring more information from his troubled mind . . .” His mouth twisted with distaste. “Intelligence work sometimes bears bitter fruits.”
“The work is necessary,” Francis said. “How else can we learn what we must know to govern effectively and protect the realm? From Clarady’s description, I believe the scene was deliberately staged to suggest suicide. For instance, a page from a translation of
Seneca that Leeds had been working on was dropped beneath the body.”
“Seneca?”
“One of the Epistles. Number fifty-eight. It is about suicide, if memory serves.”
Burghley waved his hand. “I’m certain your memory is correct. I suppose the page was taken from Leeds’s desk.” Burghley’s gaze passed over the stacks of letters waiting for his attention. Then he blinked and met Francis’s eyes. “Wouldn’t any of the senior Fellows recognize its source? A poor choice for a subterfuge.”
Francis pinched the pleats in his left wrist ruff while he considered the problem. Then he shrugged slightly. “It’s plausible enough, I think. If Leeds were drinking wine, translating that melancholy text, and overcome by despair for some reason, he might choose that page rather than struggle to compose an original note.”
“Hm,” Burghley said, “I’m surprised Eggerley didn’t mention the wine or the letter. Perhaps he didn’t see them? He doesn’t seem to be particularly observant.”
“‘Blind as a bat in a big black hat’ was Clarady’s phrase. Eggerley couldn’t have seen the letter. Tom took it. Another man was on the scene, one Christopher Marlowe, a junior Fellow. He snatched at the letter and tore it in half.”
“That name sounds familiar.” Burghley reached for a scrap of paper kept handy in a small basket and jotted a note. “I’ll have my secretary look into it.”
“The question,” Francis said, “is how this affects our enterprise. Our chief informant has been murdered. Although he hadn’t been much help thus far, we had hoped he would overcome his reticence in time.”
“Do you advise a retreat? Does Clarady want to abandon the enterprise?”
“No, no.” Francis shook his head and both hands to deflect that suggestion. “Not at all.” This commission was the best he had in the way of service to his powerful uncle. It gave him an excuse for regular visits, but better still, he could perform all his functions in the comfort of his own chambers at nearly no expense. He had allowed Clarady to assume he was expected to bear the costs, especially the sending and receiving of letters. Managing an intelligencer who desired honors rather than money was a role Francis would gladly continue to play. A successful conclusion to this affair might lead to other such assignments.
“Clarady is determined to remain at university until he qualifies for his degree. He said he wanted to ‘stay the course until his harbor was in the offing.’ And I believe he’s worried about his compensation.”
Clarady had accepted this commission in exchange for full membership in Gray’s Inn, a handsome reward. Francis was certain no other Inn of Court had ever admitted the son of a ship’s captain. Although, these days, almost anyone with a suit of silk could call himself a gentleman.
Burghley nodded. “As he should be. I need solid results, not a job half done.”
“I understand. And I suspect Leeds’s murderer is the man we sent Clarady to identify — our Puritan zealot.”
“I’m inclined to agree. If Leeds was killed to keep him from writing to me again, Clarady’s intelligences are all the more urgent. Our man has moved from covert plotting to an act of murder. He has taken an irrevocable step and placed himself beyond the law. That in itself may spur him on to more aggressive acts. I can’t afford to be patient with these rebellious Puritans, not in this troublous year.”
Burghley’s face was drawn as he looked again at the trays heaped with letters. He placed his hand atop the stack on his left. “All of Catholic Europe is in a furious boil over the execution of Mary Stuart last month. I have here a letter from a reliable Venetian merchant warning me that King Philip’s armada will sail for either Ireland or England in either June or July. Over two hundred ships carrying more than 36,000 Spanish men-at-arms.”
Francis was stunned. He’d heard rumors about plans for a Spanish invasion; everyone had. He’d dismissed them as tales meant to frighten the credulous. He’d had no idea any of the rumors were true or that such a monstrous force could actually descend on England’s naked shores in a matter of months.
His uncle watched him register the awesome truth, then shook his head. “My merchant could be wrong. Another equally reliable source says Philip’s ships can barely keep themselves afloat and he hasn’t enough grain to feed his army for a month. But our defenses are in a shambles. We couldn’t meet a fraction of his might. With the King Catholic pounding at my front door, I cannot afford a Protestant rebellion in my back garden.”
“Indeed not.” Francis was stricken anew by the overwhelming weight of his uncle’s responsibilities. He had dreams of rising to a position of power in government, but was this really what he wanted? He glanced out the window at the greening garden bright with daffodils and blossoming plum trees. He thought of the shelves laden with books in kidskin and velvet bindings. When was the last time his uncle had sat in his garden and read a book for pleasure?
“We’ve pushed our Reformation as far as the queen will allow,” Burghley said. “Men must learn to be content with that. We need unity now, more than ever before in our history. Our coastlines, our commerce, our very independence as a people are threatened. We do not have time to bicker over the Book of Common Prayer.” Burghley paused for a moment, gazing sightlessly at his trays of letters. Then he shook himself and returned his attention to Francis with a tight smile. “Catch me that zealot, Nephew. Perhaps seeing their leader hang for the murder of Bartholomew Leeds will cool his followers’ fervor.”
Chapter Seven
On Thursday afternoon, Tom walked across the High Street to Hobson’s livery stables. Thomas Hobson had a near monopoly on deliveries between Cambridge and London, thanks to Lord Burghley’s patronage, and knew better than to jeopardize that profitable relationship by allowing anything to interfere with the chancellor’s mail bags. Tom was well known here by now since he dropped off a letter every morning at nine and picked one up every afternoon at three. He and Bacon each wrote daily, creating a sort of stuttering, extended conversation. Tom had grown accustomed to the odd rhythm over the past six weeks. A letter Tom sent on Monday would arrive at Gray’s on Tuesday afternoon. Bacon’s reply, posted Wednesday morning, would reach him Thursday afternoon.
And so today, at last Tom would receive the first letter sent post-homicidium. He expected Bacon to tell him to investigate Leeds’s murder along the lines of what they’d done last Christmas, but he wasn’t sure exactly where to start and would rather not put a foot wrong.
Tom paid the carrier and brought the letter back to his desk to read in private. His chambermates were still at their lectures in the Common Schools. He checked the seal to be sure the hair was in place, then slit it with his penknife. There were two sheets of foolscap: one covered in Bacon’s confident script, the other in Tom’s own hand. He’d copied out part of Marlowe’s English translation of Lucan’s Pharsalia to exhibit his Latin tutor’s poetic talents.
Bacon had marked corrections all down the page in red ink, with nary a comment on the meter or the imagery. Trust Francis Bacon to quibble about the minor notes and ignore the melody.
Tom turned to the first sheet.
“Clarady:
I agree with your conclusions and so does our mutual friend. Bartholomew Leeds was most certainly murdered. The evidence of the insensible boy is compelling, and I believe the page of Seneca adds substantial further support.
Leeds would not have chosen that passage to express his reasons for taking his own life. Epistle fifty-eight does not treat of suicide undertaken to evade consequences or avoid discovery. The Romans would have considered such an act as cowardly as we do. Seneca wrote from the perspective of an elderly man suffering ill health who chooses to dispatch himself rather than wait for disease to devour both life and dignity. Barbarous, but he lacked our spiritual advantages.
See what you can learn about the wine. Trace it from cask to cup if you can. As for the knot, I’m afraid I’m out of my depth. Can you find some sailor to consult on that topic?
It is probable th
at the murderer is the individual we seek on other grounds. However, we must not allow our preconceptions to color our observations. Other candidates with other motives must be considered.
First and most obvious is this Marlowe you found present at the time. Investigate him thoroughly. Examine his background, his standing in the college, and any details you can discover concerning his relationship with Bartholomew Leeds. Do not underestimate jealousy as a potent motive merely because both parties are men. On the contrary, where there is greater affinity, there we may also find deeper antagonism.
Furthermore, you described a scene so carefully designed it could be regarded as an exercise in stagecraft. That suggests a man with a taste for the dramatic.
I would beg a favor, Clarady. If you can, would you obtain a copy of Conrad Gesner’s Historiae animalium (Histories of the Animals) and send it to me? It was recently published in Zurich. You may find it already at a Cambridge bookseller’s.
From Gray’s Inn, 4 March 1587
Fra. Bacon
P.S. In re the enclosed: We know this Marlowe is capable of wanton destruction, for here he has most cruelly tortured the poet Lucan.”
Chapter Eight
Tom sketched the noose as best he could, then packed it snugly in a box and went back to Hobson’s to have his package added to the cart that left once a week for the West Country. He couldn’t expect a reply from Uncle Luke in anything less than a month. The whole commission might be over by then, but his curiosity would be satisfied.
He decided to speak to the butler next to find out what he could about that jug of wine. The buttery was in the screens passage beyond the hall. Against the wall to the left was a long bench; on the right was a tall, narrow table where the butler set jugs and pitchers to be picked up. Fellows also stood at that table to review their students’ expenses in the account book.