Death by Disputation (A Francis Bacon Mystery Book 2) (34 page)

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 had 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.

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 through his teeth. “I am ready to serve, my lord, as always.”

THE END