Death by Disputation (A Francis Bacon Mystery Book 2)

by Anna Castle

  “Yes,” Tom called, not bothering to whisper. “I’m here!” A tendril of hope uncurled in his chest.

  “Shhh!” Dilly waved a hand and disappeared.

  Tom whispered, but loudly. “Come back!”

  Now Trumpet stirred. She’d spent the whole night in his lap. She snored, and not like a lady. He would enjoy popping out that little fact in the middle of some argument — assuming he survived the morning.

  “What’s happening?” She tilted her head to look at him, then yawned, her cupid-bow mouth opening full wide. Her teeth were in excellent condition, but her breath stank of sour wine.

  “I don’t know,” Tom told her. “But Dilly’s here, at the window.”

  She struggled out of his lap and got to her feet. She dusted her kirtle and tugged her bodice into place. Tom rose too and stood in the band of light where Dilly could see him.

  Dilly’s face re-appeared. “Look out.” A little hail of objects fell — a leather bottle and some hunks of bread.

  “Thanks!” Tom picked up the bottle, pulled out the stopper, and drank. Spring water, fresh and cool. Bless the boy! Tom’s mouth felt like an army had been camping in it. He took another gulp and passed the bottle to Trumpet. He gathered up the bread, putting it in a little heap against the wall where they had slept. He wasn’t hungry; maybe Trumpet would want it later.

  “I’m so sorry, Tom,” Dilly whispered. “I wish all this didn’t have to happen.”

  “I don’t blame you, Dilly,” Tom said. “Remember that, whatever comes next.”

  “I’ll pray for you.” Dilly stretched his hand through the bars as if to send a farewell touch down twenty feet.

  “Tom!” Trumpet spoke in a strangled whisper. “Don’t let him go! That boy can help us and if you don’t persuade him this minute, right now, I swear by my mother’s seat in Paradise that I will kill myself so I can hunt you down in Hell.”

  Tom raised both hands in a wide shrug. “I was getting there. I’m the one that knows him; let me do it my way.”

  “Is there someone else in there?” Dilly flopped down and pressed his face against the bars.

  “Yes,” Tom said. “My friend, Lady Alice Trumpington. Remember? The one staying with Mrs. Eggerley?”

  Dilly gasped. “Oh, no, Tom! She’s not real! I mean, she’s not a real lady. She’s a thief! Everyone in the college says so.”

  Trumpet stepped into the band of light, setting her hands on her hips and tilting her chin in an unmistakably aristocratic pose. She spoke in her haughtiest, courtly accent. “I assure you, Diligence Wingfield, that I am the daughter and sole heir of the Earl of Orford. If any harm comes to me, my father’s wrath will fall upon this college like a mailed fist.”

  Dilly let out a gasping shriek. “She knows my name!”

  “That isn’t helping.” Tom pushed her back into the shadows and took her place in the light, looking up. “Listen, Dilly, you have to help me get out of here. You know what Mr. Barrow is planning to do to me.”

  Dilly frowned. “Steadfast said you came here to spy on us.”

  “I did,” Tom said. “That’s true. Your brother is an honest man and I respect him for that.” Which was true enough. “That’s why you have to help me, Diligence.”

  “But you deceived us.”

  “That’s true too, but I did it to help you. The Lord Treasurer himself sent me here to catch a very dangerous man. A man who is driving decent people like your family into open rebellion against our queen. That’s treason, Dilly. Do you know what they do with traitors?”

  “Yes.” The answer was barely audible.

  “They hang them,” Tom said. “But all His Lordship wants is that one bad man. The one who’s stirring things up and pushing everyone over the line. Do you know who that man is?”

  “Mr. Barrow.”

  “That’s right.” Tom let that stand for a moment. “He killed Mr. Leeds. Did you know that?”

  “I thought he might have. But I didn’t help him on purpose, Tom. I swear I didn’t!”

  “I know you didn’t, Dilly. You would never do such a horrible thing. Murder is the worst sin of all. Your brother didn’t do it either. He was in church that morning, just like he said. He’s innocent and I can prove it. I will, too. I’ll stand up before the whole Privy Council and say so. I can help you and Steadfast protect your family, but not if you let Mr. Barrow kill me.” Tom clasped his hands together and looked up into Dilly’s eyes. “Help me, Diligence. You’re the only one who can save your family now.”

  “I want to, Tom. Truly.” Dilly snuffled. “But what can I do? Mr. Barrow has the key.”

  That was a problem all right. Tom looked at Trumpet. “What about Margaret? Would she—”

  “Hand her key to the first student who asked?” Trumpet shook her head. “She keeps her keys on a ring on her belt. She won’t give it up, not while I’m in here.”

  They held each other’s gaze for a long moment, thinking together. Then they spoke at the same time. “Catalina.”

  Tom asked, “Can she pick the lock of a door?”

  “I’ve seen her do it with my own two eyes.”

  They grinned at each other. Tom turned back to Dilly. “This is the right thing to do, Diligence. Your family will thank you. Now, here’s the plan.”

  ***

  Tom figured forty minutes for Dilly to walk to the Cap and Bells, roust out Catalina and Marlowe, and bring them back. Neither of those two artful rogues would waste any time asking questions. Kit might even have the sense to send for a constable.

  They heard the chapel bell strike eight. Tom and Trumpet passed the time getting ready. They designated the farthest corner of the cellar as a privy and took turns using it, pretending to be deaf during the process. They ate a little of the bread and shared the rest of the water. Then they stood under the light and helped each other straighten their clothes, combing each other’s hair with their fingers. Tom winced when Trumpet touched the lump on his head, but otherwise, he felt well, almost hearty, his spirits bubbling in anticipation.

  If all went as planned in the next half hour, he would live. If someone stopped Dilly or he wasn’t able to find the others or they were detained at Trumpington Gate or stopped from entering the college or any of a dozen possible hindrances, he would die.

  So be it. Either way, he was ready.

  ***

  The chapel bell tolled the half hour. Tom and Trumpet stood facing one another in the light. He took her by the shoulders and looked down at her. “You are my very best friend, Alice Trumpington. You mean more to me than anyone in the world.”

  “I love you, Tom,” she answered. “I always will.”

  He smiled at her — his very best smile, the one that showed off his dimple — so she’d know what was coming. Then he kissed her soundly, making sure she knew he meant it.

  The lock clicked in the door. They gave each other one last look and took up the positions they’d agreed upon last night. They were prepared to fight to the last.

  The door swung open to reveal Catalina, blinking into the darkness, with Dilly close behind her. “My lady!” she cried in a hoarse whisper. “We are here!”

  The prisoners fairly flew up the stairs, where Trumpet was gathered into her servant’s arms. “I feared for you, my lady.” Catalina looked across her mistress’s shoulder at Tom. “We saw some men in the High Street. Fine men on horses. Mr. Marlowe stayed to speak with them.”

  Tom patted Dilly on the back, said, “Thanks, my friend,” and kept on walking out onto the green grass of the master’s garden. He wanted to get well away from that door. Then he saw Barrow and Steadfast coming through the gate and the blood boiled in his veins.

  He had never felt stronger or more alive. He was Hercules striding victorious up from the depths of Hades. He was Tristan, leaping from the chapel to escape the gallows. He was Samson, braced to pull the temple down. He would knock their heads together like bags of nuts and drag their limp carcasses all the way to the Tolbooth.
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  He stopped where he was and faced them squarely. “You’re too late.” He laughed out loud at their open-mouthed dumbfoundery. He moved to confront Barrow, but the coward side-stepped him to glower down at Diligence.

  “You traitorous little idiot. You have no idea what you’ve done.” He backhanded the boy across the face, knocking him to the ground.

  Steadfast’s fist rocketed into the side of his head. Barrow blinked twice in sheer surprise, then staggered and fell on his arse. His mouth opened, then closed. Then he collapsed flat onto his back.

  Tom nodded in satisfaction. The wily seditioner didn’t look like much, laid out cold on the grass. He turned to help Dilly, but Steadfast had already gotten him up and under his sheltering arm. He glared at Tom with that angry ram expression.

  Tom studied him for long moment, then shrugged. “I told Diligence I would help you and I am a man of my word. You can go, but remember that you owe your brother your liberty, if not your life. Get your family together. Don’t dawdle. Take them across the German Sea and out of my country. I don’t ever want to see you again.” He pointed at the gate on the other side of the garden. “Go now and do not come back.”

  Steadfast scowled and scratched his beard. He had never been a speedy thinker. For a moment, Tom thought he might refuse the gift. But then he nodded once and said, “Thanks.” He ushered his brother away. Diligence called, “Good luck, Tom,” over his shoulder.

  John Barrow stirred and groaned. He elbowed himself up into a sitting position. Tom watched, his lip curled as if smelling something foul, while the man floundered to his feet. When he seemed to be holding steady, Tom said, “I don’t like men who hit boys. Or women.” He smiled — his dangerous smile, the one that showed his teeth — to let him know what was coming. “This one’s for Abstinence.” He balled his right hand into a fist and drove it into the center of Barrow’s broad, freckled face.

  The man went down again.

  Trumpet and Catalina applauded. Tom grinned and bowed. Then he gave Trumpet a sheepish grin. “I’m not sure what happens next.”

  She shrugged. “You could just keep knocking him down until the constables arrive. You did say they could be here any time.”

  “And that time has come.” Christopher Marlowe stepped out of the door leading into the passageway between the hall and the master’s lodge. “You seemed to have things well in hand, so I waited until you were finished.” He clapped his hands. “Good work, apprentice. I’ve taught you well.”

  Tom laughed — he had never felt so much like laughing — and clapped his tutor in a warm embrace. He noticed Marlowe had taken the trouble to change into his velvet doublet. Tom might have been dangling from the roof beam by the time his supposed rescuer finished dressing.

  Marlowe followed Tom’s gaze to the bright buttons and shrugged, unrepentant. “We had loads of time. And I suspected this would turn into something of an occasion.” He looked back into the passageway and added, “Here they come.”

  A swarthy gentleman in a suit of silver brocade stepped into the garden and nodded at Marlowe. Two other gentlemen followed him, only slightly less richly dressed.

  The man in silver pointed at Tom with his neatly shaped beard. “Is this the man we seek?”

  “This, sir,” Marlowe said, “is Thomas Clarady, His Lordship’s agent. The man you’ve come for appears to be stretched out upon the grass. Resting, one assumes.”

  Marlowe made the introductions. The gentleman in silver was Sir Horatio Palavicino. The other two were local justices of the peace. At their request, Tom searched Barrow’s pockets for the letter from Francis Bacon. Then they stood in a tight group comparing letters and instructions from Bacon and Lord Burghley. His Lordship had written to Sir Horatio as the highest-ranking individual of sound religion in the immediate area.

  Tom glanced at Trumpet and caught her edging toward the door. No one had noticed her yet, made invisible by her servant’s garb. But she was too slow. A tall constable loomed into the frame guiding Dr. Eggerley, whose hands were bound before him. Old Eggy shot a glance at Tom and scowled at Marlowe, whom he evidently blamed for his predicament.

  Tom felt a little indignant, but shook it off. His masters knew whose work had brought these crimes to book.

  Another constable, this one shorter, but stouter, came out the door, one large hand firmly clasping Mrs. Eggerley’s arm. “Tom!” she cried. “You must help—”

  Trumpet moved into her line of sight, arms crossed and brows beetled. She cleared her throat. “Good morning, Margaret. Surprised to see me?”

  “You!” Mrs. Eggerley screamed in fury. “Take her into custody, my lords. I warn you, Sir Horatio, she is not who she claims to be!”

  Sir Horatio blinked at the sight of Trumpet in a wrinkled kirtle with neither ruffs nor farthingale. But he hadn’t become the richest man in England by being slack-witted. He bowed, murmuring, “My lady,” then turned to Mrs. Eggerley. “She’s the image of her father, whom I have met on many occasions. Do you think me such a dullard?”

  Mrs. Eggerley gaped at Trumpet, eyes wide, the color draining from her cheeks. She sagged against her constable, who hustled her off after her husband.

  Sir Horatio cocked his head at Trumpet. “My lady, I confess I am at a loss…”

  She drew herself to her full height, which wasn’t much. “You find me thus in the service of our queen. I assure you I have done nothing to tarnish my maidenly reputation.” She held out her hands in supplication. “Now I must implore you, my good, good, Sir Horatio, on your honor as a gentleman, never to ask me about this morning or to speak of it to anyone, ever, for any reason. I place myself in your hands and rely on your discretion.”

  “But of course, my lady.” Sir Horatio swept off his brocaded hat and bowed, head to knee. “Your wish is my command.”

  Tom rolled his eyes and added one more thing to the list of Things Trumpet Got Away With Through Sheer Bravado. Ah, well. He still had that unlovely snoring, ready to spring at the opportune moment.

  Sir Horatio stepped towards her and offered his arm. “Have no fear, Lady Alice. I shall personally see that you are safely restored to your father’s loving arms.”

  Caught in her own trap; it served her right. She glared at Tom as if this were his fault, but had no choice other than to take the proffered arm and allow herself to be led back into the passage. Sir Horatio’s horses and retainers were probably waiting in the stables.

  Tom wondered when he would see her again and whether he would recognize her when he did. He never doubted for a minute that she would find a way to meddle in his life again.

  Two more constables emerged from the passage and took charge of John Barrow, whose senses had revived enough to recognize his absolute defeat. They bound his hands and half-carried him out the gate, trailed by the two justices, still bickering about the precise terms of His Lordship’s instructions.

  Tom had expected them to take him in train. Wasn’t he the one who’d caught their villains for them? Didn’t they want details, circumstances, testimony?

  Evidently not. He watched the gate swing shut, leaving him alone in the garden with Christopher Marlowe. The poet regarded him with a wry smile. “Were you expecting to be knighted on the spot?”

  Tom regarded him with narrowed eyes and pursed lips, wishing he could come up with a retort that Marlowe couldn’t effortlessly cap. Then he shrugged and grinned. Why bother? The sun was shining and he was alive. And not only that — he no longer had to pretend to be a Puritan.

  He wrapped his arm around his friend’s shoulder. “Come on, Kit. Let’s find the nearest whorehouse and drink ourselves wobbly.”

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  The expected knock fell on Francis Bacon’s chamber door. “Enter,” he called.

  Thomas Clarady strode in with more than the usual bounce to his step and plopped into Francis’s best chair without waiting for an invitation to sit. He’d returned from Cambridge nearly a month ago with the absurd idea that they ha
d become fast friends over the course of their shared commission. Tom had indeed poured out his innermost thoughts in his letters, or seemed to, but he had characteristically failed to notice that his spymaster never answered in kind.

  He’d also allowed Francis to labor for more than a month under the illusion that he’d suffered an irreparable transformation of character due to his deceptive role, abetted by Francis’s urgings. Francis had been glad, at first, to discover his error, but Tom found it immensely amusing and seldom missed an opportunity to make another jest about it. Francis had been obliged to ask Ben to intercede. They had managed, after much prodding and clucking of tongues, to stop him from using the nickname Frank in front of other people.

  Francis had interviewed him for three days on his return to get the whole story, or as much of it as he was ever likely to get. He sensed there were gaps, but chose to let them go, reflecting on the many small matters he had withheld in his reports to his uncle.

  Tom had done well under difficult, even dangerous, circumstances. He deserved praise and had indubitably earned his reward. But enough was enough. Francis did not enjoy being serenaded with ill-rhymed ballads whenever he left his house, nor could he bear more than a few minutes of the boisterous revels Tom hosted every third evening in the hall to celebrate their victory, as he termed it. Francis had begun to avoid him, which wasn’t easy, living as they did in the same institution. Fortunately, Tom would soon be riding back to Dorset to spend the remainder of the summer with his family.

  Today they had been summoned together to Burghley House. His Lordship had just returned from his estate at Theobalds and had news to relate concerning the final results of the Cambridge enterprise. Francis was also hoping to receive an answer to the petition he had submitted to the queen some months ago.

  This would be Tom’s second meeting with His Lordship. He could barely contain his excitement. “Has he said anything more about me?”

  “He continues to be pleased with your work, as he was last week and the week before that. Shall we go?” Francis rose and put on his hat. He had dressed with care for this appointment, wearing the sober black suit and crisp linens appropriate for an ancient of Gray’s Inn. Tom, alas, had followed his own inclinations, wearing green broadcloth lined with yellow silk under his open student’s robes. He’d even pinned a jeweled brooch to his hat in clear violation of the sumptuary laws, of which Lord Burghley had been a principal author.