by Anna Castle
“Are we finished discussing the one who didn’t do it?” Trumpet asked. “We know Leeds had a ticklish conscience. Surely extortion and embezzlement would bother him as much as seditious plotting. I think he dropped some hint or maybe even threatened to inform the chancellor. That might be worth killing for, don’t you think?” Trumpet folded her arms again, looking pleased with herself.
As well she might. She’d made a strong case. To his shame, Tom had never once considered Margaret for the deed. “Well done,” he said. “Although, it’s pure conjecture at this point.”
She bristled, but she knew the truth of that herself. Tom shook his finger at her. “Don’t do anything until we hear from Mr. Bacon. We should at least know if they have actually committed any of these supposed crimes. And remember, if you’re right, that woman murdered a man she’d known for several years to protect herself. What do you think she’d do to you?”
Trumpet pursed her lips and shifted her shoulders in a gesture that could be construed as a sign of understanding, if not quite compliance. Still, she couldn’t go back to the college until tomorrow afternoon. Tom would have another letter from Bacon by then, so they’d know where they stood.
“Best to wait, my lady,” Marlowe agreed. “And don’t do anything to let her know we suspect her. How long will it take your Mr. Bacon to analyze the bursar’s accounts?”
Tom and Trumpet traded shrugs. “A couple of hours?” Tom ventured.
“One, if Ben helps, which he will,” Trumpet said. She laughed at the doubting frowns on the others’ faces. “You don’t know these men. I’m surprised Tom hasn’t had an answer already.”
“I don’t get my regular daily delivery until around three,” Tom said. As he spoke of the time, a bell tolled somewhere outside. The half hour, but which hour? He’d forgotten to count. Tom glanced out the small window but couldn’t see any shadows from up here to help him judge. “I must go.”
“Wait,” Nashe said. “A few minutes more won’t hurt. I haven’t had my turn.”
“You proposed Simon Thorpe,” Trumpet said.
“That was an accident,” Nashe said. “And we ruled him out almost immediately. With all due respect for your brilliant argument, Lady Alice —” He paused to bow to her from across the table. “If we’re reviewing the evidence, shouldn’t we consider the most obvious candidate? One of those fractious, fault-finding, seditious zealots Tom was sent to catch?”
Tom was beginning to feel a pressing need to get back, like a big church clock ticking loudly in the back of his mind. But fair was fair; besides, he also believed the seditioner and the murderer were the same man. He poured himself one last cup of wine. “Let’s hear your case.”
“I propose Steadfast Wingfield as the murderer of Bartholomew Leeds.” Nashe held up his hand to count off the questions. “One: he could have stayed behind in his room, which is handily located beneath Leeds’s. Two: his brother Diligence delivered the wine jug. He could have distracted him on the way upstairs somehow and added whatever he liked. Three.” He stopped and shrugged his thin shoulders. “I have no answer for the knot. Could he have learned it from a member of his father’s congregation? His motive is obvious, to stop Leeds from informing on the seditioners.”
“That’s good,” Tom said. “The only problem is that Steadfast was at the sermon. Three students saw him there the whole time.”
“Which three students?” Marlowe asked.
“Three of Barrow’s boys,” Tom said. “They were certain about it. They said he sat right in front of them the whole time.”
“John Barrow’s students are not reliable witnesses,” Marlowe said. “They worship him. They’d say anything he wanted them to say. I wonder . . .” He pursed his lips. “One of Steadfast’s chambermates is on his way home soon, I believe. He may be thinking more about his future, growing less attached to his tutor and his college friends. Mark Graceborough is the one I’m thinking of.”
Tom nodded. “He’s nothing like as fervent as the rest of Barrow’s crew.”
“No,” Marlowe said, “he’s not fully under the spell. He asked me for some pages from the Art of Love once. Perhaps you could talk to him again.”
“I will,” Tom said. “Tonight, if possible.”
“Steadfast would have been acting on someone else’s orders,” Nashe said. “He’s the fist, not the brain. I suspect his father, Parson Wingfield, as the center of the conspirators.”
“He’s at the center,” Tom said. “Every thread I’ve picked up has led me to Babraham and his church. But the parson isn’t the brain either. He hasn’t any wits to spare.”
“John Barrow has the wits,” Marlowe said, “and the will, or so I believe.” His lip curled in distaste as if his wine had gone sour. “I’ve always hated that man. Something about him sets my teeth on edge.”
“I like him,” Tom said. “Although, I’ll grant you he can be fairly unpleasant about men who—” He broke off, uncertain how to mention buggery in front of Lady Alice, even though he’d heard Alan use the term himself. Lines which had once been clearly drawn were now smudged.
“—prefer men?” Marlowe shook his head. “That’s not the only reason. Haven’t you seen that thunderous look he fires at anyone who contradicts him? There’s menace in it.”
“He’s always been friendly to me,” Tom said. “You know, he claps me on the shoulder and asks me how I’m doing. He’s the one I complain to about Jenney or some overly argumentative churl in my study group. And don’t forget those whores.”
“What whores?” Trumpet asked. She’d been peeling a small orange, taking her time about it. She didn’t know the men they were discussing and so had nothing to contribute.
Tom told her about the pair of lightskirts they’d met on their way home from the Tolbooth. “He seems to wear his godliness less weightily than the others.”
“They make up their rules as they go along,” Nashe said.
“Not to that extent,” Tom said, feeling a need to defend them. “They’re mostly just people of faith, that’s all. Besides, Barrow’s the one who always helped me get a few minutes alone with —” He broke off again with another swift glance at Trumpet.
“Abstinence?” she asked, drawing out the name. She gave him an impudent smile. “Mrs. Eggerley told me all about her. She saw you with her somewhere and drew her own conclusions. She knows all the gossip. I think she gets it from her astrologer.” Trumpet stabbed an orange segment at him. “I’ll tell you, Tom. She thinks that girl is no —”
Tom cut her off with a wave of his hand. “I know what Margaret thinks. And she’s right, at least in part. I’ll admit it, Abstinence had me fooled for a while. Fortunately, I grasped the truth before —”
“You grasped her?” Nashe asked.
Tom grinned at him. “Her virtue — what I thought was her virtue — defended her. And that name. If she’d been a widow named Frivolity . . .”
“Desist!” Trumpet flipped an orange pip at him with her spoon.
“I’m admitting that you were right, Lady Alice.” Tom flicked a hazel nut at her, making her duck. “She’s one of the seditioners, I think, every bit as committed as Steadfast is.” Then he slumped his shoulders as another realization sank in. “And Barrow’s the one who aimed her at me.”
“He had your measure,” Marlowe said, grinning. “Can anyone vouch for his whereabouts that Monday morning?”
“Yes,” Tom said. “His boys, again, but the porter saw him leave the college too, along with everyone else. They joked about how the porter never got to go anywhere. Barrow would have had to leave the church well before I did and not return through the gate.”
“The rear windows,” Trumpet said.
Tom shrugged. “I did my best to find someone who could say yea or nay about persons in the lane. No joy.”
The bell outside tolled again.
“I must go,” Tom said. He gazed sadly at the remnants of their feast, wishing they could order more wine and tidbits and spend t
he whole afternoon around this table. Bacon had been right. Taking a respite, however brief, made going back all the harder. He met Trumpet’s eyes and smiled his thanks. “We’ll have to find a way to meet again; here, perhaps. I’ll send you a message as soon as I get word from Mr. Bacon about the Eggerleys. In the meantime, do nothing.”
She tilted her head. “I can wait.”
Which didn’t mean she would, but it was the best Tom could expect. Trumpet was not biddable. He rose and stretched and looked around for his hat. He found it in a corner and dusted off bits of hay, taking his time about it, reluctant to leave the warmth of friendship to go back out into the cold of deceit.
He looked at Marlowe. “What am I going to tell them if anyone asks how it took me three hours to walk six miles? The best I can think of is a sprained ankle.”
Marlowe nodded. “Ankles do turn. Put a rock in your shoe; it will help you remember to limp.”
Chapter Forty-Three
Tom limped back to his college, wishing he could pack up and go home the minute he got there. Let the authorities arrest every pribbling Puritan in Cambridgeshire and haul them off to the Tower, where Lord Burghley could sort them out.
But no, they’d sent him here to avoid that very thing. And in honesty, he couldn’t live with himself if he caused the innocent to suffer along with the guilty.
He stopped in at Hobson’s stables and found a letter from Bacon waiting for him, along with a bill for express delivery. Tom slit the seal with his thumbnail, not bothering to check for a hair, and glanced first at the date. May 31. Bacon must have written it early yesterday morning. He wouldn’t have sent it on a Sunday if it weren’t urgent.
Tom felt a small thrill, a rising sense of things coming to a head at last. He couldn’t wait until he got back to his desk., but read the as he walked up the street.
“Clarady:
I received the documents. Thank you. They did not include the sort of notes I had hoped for concerning our central matter, but they do contain ample evidence of other crimes. Your Dr. Eggerley is up to his bald pate in financial malfeasance. He had a powerful motive for murdering Bartholomew Leeds.
As for the central matter: through the study of your reports and a key piece of information from another source, I have deduced the identity of the man we seek. I have as yet no certain proof, but I am convinced in my own mind that my reasoning is correct. I withhold the name in case this letter is intercepted, but it is one of the men you have been watching closely.
Direct proof of conspiracy is hard to come by. A letter in a clearly identifiable hand, naming names and stating intentions explicitly, or better yet, a diary, would serve us best. Puritans are addicted to diary-keeping. The time has come for a bold move: steal one if you can. The diary of any of your chief candidates, or possibly even of that boy, Diligence, would likely contain sufficient information for our purposes.
I have one more small question to ask of my other informant to settle my last doubt. Then I will seek an immediate audience with our mutual friend to urge him to alert the authorities in Cambridge to arrest both the murderer and the seditioner. I will dispatch this letter first so that you will not be caught unawares. I hope you will also have time for the one last task.
Justice will be served. This result could not have been achieved without your sacrifices, which I know have been painful. Good work, Tom. Time to come home.
From Gray’s Inn, 31 May 1587
Fra. Bacon.”
Home! A dozen thoughts tumbled over one another in Tom’s mind. He’d have to send a note to Trumpet first thing. No reason for her to come back to the college now. She’d been right — almost. One of the Eggerleys was responsible for Leeds’s death.
Should he pack? How soon would the authorities arrive? He assumed that meant the sheriff and some of the justices of the peace. If Bacon met with Lord Burghley Sunday morning, and His Lordship dispatched a message immediately with all possible haste, constables could be arriving in the yard at any moment. On the other hand, official bodies tended to work slowly. He could imagine the sheriff and the justices wanting to meet and debate before acting, especially in so grave a matter as the arrest of the head of a college. That could add a whole day.
Jenney most certainly kept a diary, though Tom had never seen it. It would probably be on the shelf behind his desk with his stacks of commonplace books. Tom had never been in Barrow’s rooms and couldn’t think of an excuse to gain entrance. He could steal Dilly’s diary though. He was pretty sure the boy kept it on his person during the day but slipped it under his pillow at night.
Tom greeted the porter as he limped through the gate into the courtyard, folding the letter and tucking it into his pocket. He would be glad to get this cursed rock out of his shoe. He could sit at his desk and get his papers in order, ready to go home.
Then Dr. Eggerley burst from the hall and strode across the corner to Tom’s door, trailed by Simon Thorpe. Their rigid backs and rapid pace spoke of urgency. Tom followed them, necessarily, entering his rooms to find them standing beside Thorpe’s table, staring down at the bursar’s desk. Thorpe opened the lid, folding it all the way back. He closed it, then opened it again. “You see? Empty.”
“I can see that,” Dr. Eggerley snapped. But he repeated the process himself, going so far as to lock the desk with the key and unlock it, as if observing the proper sequence would somehow restore the missing contents.
They glared at Tom as he slid past them to his own desk. He pretended to notice nothing as he sat on his stool and opened his Bible out of habit.
“Where have the papers gone?” Dr. Eggerley demanded in a hoarse whisper.
“I don’t know,” Thorpe whined. “If I knew, they wouldn’t be missing.”
“Don’t be clever. I mean, who could have taken them?”
“How should I know?”
Tom got out a quill and trimmed it slowly, turning on his stool so he could watch them out of the corner of his eye.
“When did you last open this?” Dr. Eggerley opened the lid again and stared down into the open box.
“Thursday evening,” Thorpe said, “when I entered the payments for the Feast of Corpus Christi.”
“Didn’t you keep it locked?” Dr. Eggerley closed the lid with a thump.
“Yes, sir. Always.” Thorpe pulled a leather thong from under his clothes and flourished the key. He must have had a copy made. He bent to point at the lock. “And look at this, sir. There are scratches all around the hole.”
Dr. Eggerley bent beside him to peer at the box. “You’re right, Simon. This lock’s been picked.”
They straightened up and glared at Tom, who quickly dipped his pen into his inkpot and scrawled his name on a piece of paper. Thorpe said, “I don’t know how this could happen, sir. Surely none of my students would be interested in our account books.”
“Not an ordinary student, no,” Dr. Eggerley said.
Tom could feel their eyes on his back and started copying verses from his Bible at random.
Dr. Eggerley interrogated Thorpe about everyone who might have entered this room during the past week. Had any Fellows come to call? Any visitors from other colleges? Thorpe insisted that there had been no one besides his four students, unless they counted the bed-makers.
Then Dr. Eggerley asked, “Why now? What has changed?”
Tom cast a quick glance over his shoulder and saw them nodding their heads at each other. “That girl,” Dr. Eggerley said.
“The earl’s daughter,” Thorpe said.
“If that’s what she really is.” Dr. Eggerley tapped a finger on the top of the bursar’s desk. “I’ve had my doubts from the start. Why should so grand a lady visit my wife and lodge in our humble home? Why wouldn’t she bring her own governess and stay with Sir Horatio in his fine manor house?”
“I wondered the same thing, sir,” Thorpe said. “With all due respect. She didn’t seem quite . . . quite. And she asked me a lot of questions about Thomas Clarady.”
“Did she?” Dr. Eggerley asked. “Why would she do that, I wonder?”
Silence followed that question apart from the rapid scratching of Tom’s quill. He seemed to be copying the whole book of begats and sincerely hoped they didn’t come to look over his shoulder.
The chamber door squealed open. Margaret Eggerley, in a wide red gown, filled the frame.
“Margaret!” Dr. Eggerley cried. “You can’t come in here!”
“Oh, pish! Never mind that now. Those papers are nowhere to be found. We’ve turned my bedchamber inside out. But my little guest took all her boxes with her, including her large chest, which I would not expect, not for one night.” She noticed Tom now. “Hello, Thomas. You missed dinner.” She cocked her head, her expression calculating, but then turned back to her husband. “That’s not all, Husband. I’ve just received a most courteous note from Lady North wondering when Lady Alice might be free to come for a visit.”
“I thought she was with Lady North now,” Dr. Eggerley said.
“So did I,” Mrs. Eggerley said.
“If she isn’t there,” Thorpe said, “then where is she?”
“More importantly,” Dr. Eggerley said, “who is she?” He scowled at his wife. “You receive a letter from a woman you’ve neither met nor corresponded with, then you take her at her word and let her move right into our house.”
“She sounded so sincere,” Mrs. Eggerley said with a little whine in her voice. “Her style was so elegant. And her clothes are so beautiful.” Then her tone changed. “Tom knows her. He met her at court.” She pointed at him as if he were an evidentiary exhibit.
“Clarady again,” Dr. Eggerley said.
All three turned toward Tom. He slid off his stool to face them, his mind racing for something he could say about Trumpet that wouldn’t make things worse. They peppered him with questions, speaking over one another. “When did you meet this so-called Lady Alice?” “Why did she ask questions about you?” “When did you last see her?”