Death by Disputation (A Francis Bacon Mystery Book 2)

by Anna Castle

  Francis opened the door and went down the stairs. Tom bounded after him like a large, cheerful dog. The July sun beat upon them as they walked across Holborn and on toward the Strand. Francis felt damp sweat under his clothes and hoped he wouldn’t look too wilted when they arrived.

  “I can’t believe I’m going to meet the Lord Treasurer of England again,” Tom said for the third or fourth time. “That’s twice! I hope he’s pleased with me — with us. Do you think he’ll be pleased? I hope he gives us another job. What do you think it will be this time?”

  “That’s a matter for negotiation,” Francis said. “Please leave any such arrangements to me. This audience is a courtesy, nothing more.” He paused as they reached the gate to Burghley House and caught his companion’s gaze. “A wise man listens more than he speaks.”

  “I know that.”

  The servant who met them at the door led them back outside, across the garden, and up to the top of the snail mound, where they found Lord Burghley sitting on a bench in the shade. Fragrant eglantine twined through the boughs of the trees, the white flowers bright against the glistening green leaves, backed by an azure summer sky. The grass beneath their feet had been cut to an even half inch with every twig and stray stone removed.

  Francis made a half bow, appropriate to the setting. Tom swept off his hat, extended a leg, and pressed his forehead to his knee. Francis sighed. How could a man with so little sense of subtlety have performed so well as an intelligencer?

  “Thank you for coming,” Lord Burghley said. “I hope you don’t mind meeting out of doors. My physician tells me I need more fresh air.” He smiled at Tom. “So, Thomas Clarady. You caught my Cambridge seditioner for me. Well done.”

  Tom bowed again. “I am honored to serve you, my lord.”

  “Indeed,” Burghley said. “You will be pleased to know that I made arrangements with the governors of Gray’s Inn this morning, as per our agreement. Your membership is assured.”

  “Thank you, my lord,” Tom said with another bow. “I’m forever in your debt. Forever in your service.” He bobbed up and down like a giant parrot.

  Francis bit back a reproof. His uncle seemed to enjoy the unfeigned enthusiasm. “Is there news about commencement?” he asked. “Did all go well?”

  “Yes,” Burghley said. “If any secret synod did take place, it was sparsely attended. All of the men implicated in your reports have been questioned and reprimanded. They are well aware they’ve had a lucky escape. My observers said they made a point of participating visibly in every university event.”

  “If I may ask, my lord,” Tom said. “Have you heard anything about the Wingfield family?”

  “They were gone when my men reached their village,” Burghley said. “There were signs of hasty packing. I have been informed, however, that the parson preached a sermon in the Netherlands, in Middelburg, about a week ago. I assume their friends helped them cross the sea.”

  “Thank you, my lord.” Tom seemed relieved.

  Francis knew he’d grown attached to some of the children and suspected he’d had a hand in their timely escape. The eldest son, who had been much more than a mere follower, ought to have been restrained. Well, no matter. The hot ones had a way of coming back, finding the lure of extremism irresistible. They’d have a chance to catch him again.

  “John Barrow’s diary gave us the names of several other radical separatists,” Burghley said, “as well as implicating himself in the production and dissemination of blatantly seditious publications. He should have burned it. I’d like to make an example of him, but he refuses to recant, not even with the shadow of the gallows looming over him.”

  “You’ll have to hang him at night,” Francis said. “Or very early. Even then, we risk making a martyr of him.”

  “That is the difficulty,” Burghley said.

  “He’s a murderer!” Tom cried. “I beg your pardon, my lord. But he’s a common criminal. He should be left hanging alone in a cold room, the same as he did to poor Mr. Leeds.”

  Francis frowned at him with a meaningful glare: the wise man listens. Tom grinned. He was irrepressible.

  “Let the punishment fit the crime?” Burghley nodded. “You’re right, my boy. But we won’t wait for a cold day.”

  “If I may ask another question, my lord,” Tom said, with another short bow. “What will happen to the Eggerleys?”

  Burghley said, “Dr. Eggerley’s trial will take place soon after Michaelmas. The evidence against him is overwhelming. He will reside in the Clink until he fully repays his debts, which I suspect will be for many years.”

  “Mrs. Eggerley should be in there with him, my lord,” Tom said. “She’s every bit as guilty.”

  “A woman is rarely held responsible for her husband’s crimes,” Francis said, “however complicit she may have been in their commission.”

  “She has taken lodgings in Southwark to be near her husband,” Burghley said. “One supposes she is working to collect funds to aid in his defense.”

  Tom grunted a short laugh. Francis shot him a quelling glance. A short silence grew while they enjoyed the breeze, which was fresher even at this slight altitude.

  Lord Burghley cleared his throat and looked at Tom. “Any further questions?”

  Tom startled, but took the hint. “No, my lord. Thank you, my lord. I’ll, ah…” He glanced at Francis, then bowed to Lord Burghley. “I’ll take my leave, with your permission, my lord.” He started to go, then turned back. “It’s been an honor to serve you, my lord. If there’s ever anything I can do for you or Her Majesty or England, at any time, please call on me. Anything at all.”

  Burghley nodded graciously. Tom bowed again and left. Francis heard him break into song as he passed through the gate and winced.

  “I like him,” Burghley said, without a trace of irony in his voice.

  Francis kept his tone level. “He’s likeable. That was one of the reasons we chose him.” He sensed the approaching end of his audience as well. “Has Her Majesty had time to consider my request?” He had asked to be named Clerk of the Council of the Star Chamber, a suitably low position from which to begin the long climb up to a place of real power.

  “She has.” Burghley pursed his lips. “The queen’s opinion is that you are yet too young for so ponderous an office.”

  “I see.” Francis was twenty-six years old. What excuse would they find to make after he turned thirty? “Please thank Her Majesty for her trouble.”

  His uncle nodded. “I am pleased with your work as well, Nephew. You’ll be happy to know I have another commission for you. My agents have discovered shipments of Jesuit pamphlets urging English Catholics to support Spanish soldiers should the threatened invasion come to pass. They’re being urged to hide stores of food and arms in preparation. Every recusant on my lists will have to be brought in for questioning.”

  There were hundreds of names on those lists. “Will you want Clarady to assist me?”

  Burghley smiled. “I believe I can find better uses for his talents.” He regarded Francis with a dry twinkle in his gray eyes. “Nor do I believe your mother’s aid will be required.”

  Francis bit his lip. “Did she write to you?”

  “Almost daily,” Burghley replied.

  How had he ever thought he could keep her involvement a secret? At least this new commission would not require him to play upon his own relations to achieve his aims.

  Francis’s gaze drifted up and toward the east, past the broken spire of St. Paul’s. Interviewing recusants meant being pent up with anxious householders in the dark rooms of the Tower, teasing out specific words and phrases suggesting specific documents had been read. Long hours of tense work, with neither pay nor position, nor even vague promises of such. He’d accepted the last commission as a way to stay close to his powerful uncle. This new one would also serve that purpose. Access was everything in a royal court. And in truth, he was young. Next time his petition might be granted.

  Francis smiled th
rough his teeth. “I am ready to serve, my lord, as always.”

  THE END

  Historical Notes

  The astute reader will have noticed that I used the somewhat anachronistic term “nonconformist” to refer to my radical Protestants. This word was not generally used for Protestant Dissenters until well into the seventeenth century. I chose it because rebellious sixteenth-century Protestants didn't have a single handy name, like Catholics. They called themselves the “godly folk.” Others called them “Puritans” for their repeated assertions of purity of worship, or “precisians” for their vaunted preciseness in interpreting the Bible. Neither term was meant in a friendly way. “Precisian” irritates my mind’s ear, so I eschewed it. “Puritan” works, but it tends to conjure images of Thanksgiving and pumpkins and all that good stuff.

  So I relied upon “nonconformist,” which captures the vital essence of the problem. The irksome extremists refused to participate in the normal round of religious affairs, creating fracture lines through every town and hamlet, disrupting the peace of the realm. In those days, that was a serious crime. I ended up choosing lexical precision over historical purity and can only hope it didn’t grate too harshly on anyone’s ear.

  Many real persons found their way into this book. I include the regular cast for completeness.

  Francis Bacon.

  William Cecil, Lord Burghley and the queen's Lord Treasurer.

  Lady Anne Bacon, Francis's mother.

  Christopher 'Kit' Marlowe, poet and playwright.

  Thomas Nashe, poet, playwright, satirist, and pamphleteer. He and Kit really were friends, going back to their Cambridge days. Some scholars think they co-wrote Marlowe's first known play, Dido, Queen of Carthage, probably while at university.

  Sir Horatio Palavicino, merchant and banker. I love this guy and really wanted him to have a bigger role, but there just wasn't room for him. Another book!

  William Perkins, Puritan clergyman. Both his preaching and his books, of which he wrote many, were enormously popular in his time. He was one of the radicals, although he managed to conform outwardly and thus escape direct conflict with the authorities. My notes say he was extremely anti-intellectual, believing that intellectual curiosity led to witchcraft. We can imagine what Francis Bacon thought of him.

  Dr. Eggerley wasn't a real person, but he was based on Roger Norgate, who was headmaster of Corpus Christi College from 1573-1587. Norgate embezzled college funds, spending the money on luxuries and houses. He also had a wife, famous for nagging. Their fights could be heard throughout the college.

  John Barrow was based two real people, John Greenwood and Henry Barrow, both radical Separatists who got their necks stretched by the government in the early 1590s. Greenwood was at Corpus Christi while Marlowe was there. Kit bought him a few treats at the buttery — generous for a scholarship boy. Greenwood must have been a little older, though. He commenced B.A. in 1581.

  Mark Graceborough gets a walk-on mention towards the end. He was a student at Corpus Christi when Marlowe was there. No special distinction. I just like his name.

  The title Earl of Orford was first created in 1697. It went extinct and was re-created twice thereafter. I don’t think there’s a present Earl of Orford. If there is, my humblest apologies for appropriating the title. I chose it because I like the word and because there’s an Orford Castle, built by Henry II, on the beautiful coast of Suffolk, which I would love to go and explore someday.

  I only changed one tiny bit of history, moving Sir Horatio Palavicino into Babraham Hall in 1587 instead of 1588. I spent quality time figuring out Christopher Marlowe's known schedule for the first half of 1587 to make sure he could be where I put him, when I put him there. No one knows where he was, but he didn’t consume food in his college for seven or eight weeks between January and May. Most people think he was off intelligencing somewhere for someone.

  Most of the places in this book are real too; in fact, the only place I made up is the Cap and Bells. Of course Cambridge is real, and the university, and all the colleges. Gray’s Inn is real and full of lawyers to this day, although they don’t live there. Burghley (Burleigh, Burley) House was real too, on the north side of the Strand just south of Covent Garden, where the Strand Palace Hotel now stands.

  I mention several villages on the outskirts of Cambridge, all of which are real: Trumpington, Grantchester, Dry Drayton, Sawston. The latter two had Puritan preachers in their churches in the sixteenth century. Cambridgeshire really was a hotbed of religious agitation, spread by the argumentative precisians at the university.

  I picked Babraham as the home of the Wingfields mainly because it was about five miles from the university so my characters could easily walk back and forth. Babraham Hall is no longer inhabited by gentlepersons who might object to my revising their history; it has become the Babraham Institute, a research center for molecular biology. Francis Bacon would love the whole idea of a research institute and be enchanted by molecules. I have no reason to believe the village church, St. Peter’s, was ever a Puritan stronghold, but the vicar in 1556, John Hullier, was hanged by Queen Mary for refusing to renounce the Protestant faith.

  If you're interested in reading more about these people and places, come visit my blog at www.annacastle.com/blog. I review history books and write posts about the fascinating things I learn that can't be put in the books, where Story is King. If you have questions or complaints, please feel free to let me know at castle@annacastle.com.

  Thank you for reading my book.

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  Acknowledgements

  As always, I must thank my critique group, the Capitol Crime Writers, whose comments always make my books better and whose conversation has made me a better writer: Russell Ashworth, Jerry Cavin, Will Chandler, and K.P. Gresham. This book was further improved by the sharp eyes and excellent taste of my editor, Jennifer Quinlan of Historical Editorial.

  I must also thank Professor Victor Morgan for writing the invaluable History of the University of Cambridge, Volume 2: 1546-1750 (series edited by Christopher Brooke, published in 2004 by Cambridge University Press.) His chapters about the Elizabethan period, while chiefly concerned with a clear and beautifully-written exposition of structure and politics, are also liberally sprinkled with lively anecdotes of the sort that set a novelist's instincts buzzing. I read those chapters several times and may read them again for pure pleasure.

  About the Author

  Anna Castle holds an eclectic set of degrees: BA in the Classics, MS in Computer Science, and a Ph.D. in Linguistics. She has had a correspondingly eclectic series of careers: waitressing, software engineering, grammar-writing, a short stint as an associate professor, and managing a digital archive. Historical fiction combines her lifelong love of stories and learning. She physically resides in Austin, Texas, but mentally counts herself a queen of infinite space.

  Where to find me:

  Website & newsletter signup: www.annacastle.com

  Email: castle@annacastle.com

  Blog: www.annacastle.com/blog/

  Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/anna.castle.104

  Twitter: @annacastl

  Books by Anna Castle

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  The Lost Hat, Texas Series

  Book 1, Black & White & Dead All Over

  What happens when the Internet service provider in a small town spies on his clients' cyber-lives and blackmails them for gifts and services?

  Murder; that's what happens.

  Penelope Trigg moves to Lost Hat, Texas to open a photography studio and find herself as an artist. Things are going great. She's got a
few clients, some friends, even a hot new high-tech boyfriend. But when Penny submits some nude figure studies of him to a contest, she gets hit with a blackmail letter in her inbox. "Do what I want or your lover's nudie pix get splattered across the Internet." The timing couldn't be worse, so Penny is forced to submit to the blackmailer’s demands. Then people start dying and all the clues point to her. She has to rattle every skeleton in every closet in Lost Hat to keep herself out of jail and find the real killer.

  Book 2, Flash Memory

  Nature photographer Penelope Trigg has landed the job of her dreams: documenting the transformation of over-grazed rangeland into an eco-dude ranch and spa, owned by her boyfriend Tyler Hawkins. Then a body is found on the ranch and Ty is arrested. The victim was an aggressive real estate developer with his greedy eyes on Ty’s land and Ty’s sister Diana, who is almost engaged to the senior deputy sheriff. Clues put her at the center of the puzzle.

  Determined to prove Ty’s innocence, Penny stirs up Diana’s old flames, trying to shed enough light to develop an alternative suspect. She mainly learns how to lose friends and annoy people, until she realizes someone has been manipulating the evidence. But is Ty the framer or the framee? Penny uses her eye for detail and her camera's memory to put the picture together and reveal the killer.