Death by Disputation (A Francis Bacon Mystery Book 2) (5 page)

Chapter Five

Claiming to hear a noise below stairs, Margaret fairly pushed Tom out the door. He had to finish lacing his doublet as he hurried through the gallery. He didn’t mind. It wouldn’t do to fall asleep in her bedchamber, and now he was in sore need of a nap.

He ought to go to the astronomy lecture in the Common Schools, but he didn’t have the strength to go out. He had lost his tutor today to violent death; surely he could take one afternoon off. He decided to grab a copy of Aristotle’s
De Caelo
on his way up to the cockloft and read it lying on his bed. Entering his chambers, he crossed the room to the bookshelf leaning between the front windows. While scanning the neat stacks of leather-bound volumes, he heard a scrape and a thump behind him in the vicinity of Diligence Wingfield’s desk.

“Dilly?” Tom had thought he was alone. Usually, his chambermates would speak up whenever someone came in. Any distraction from study was welcome.

A wet snore arose from the corner. Dilly’s desk was tucked under the stairs to the cockloft in the rear corner of the room.

“Diligence?” Tom took a few steps and spotted the boy lying sprawled on the floor behind his overturned stool. He seemed dead to the world but for the noise issuing from his open mouth.

Tom bent to shake the boy’s shoulder. “Wake up!” No joy. He shook harder and shouted louder. “Wake up, Dilly!” Diligence slept on, like the princess in the story, only vastly less attractive.

Tom stared down at him, scratching his beard. What the devil was this about? Why wouldn’t he wake? He looked at the desk for some explanation and saw a green jug and Mr. Leeds’s pewter cup. Diligence must have taken them while cleaning up his puke. Finding wine left in the jug, he’d hidden them behind his books for an after-dinner treat. He’d drunk it too fast and knocked himself out.

Tom picked up the jug and jiggled it. Empty. But it only held about four cups when full. If Leeds drank one and Marlowe another, that left two at most for Diligence. Was that enough to lay a boy his size out cold? Tom’s small friend Trumpet could drink three times that amount and still walk and talk. Not well and not clearly, but still. He sniffed the top of the jug gingerly, trying for a whiff of spirituous liquor. He smelled cheap sack with plenty of honey and ginger, and something bitter underneath.

The snoring shifted into a strangling sort of gargle, raising the small hairs on the back of Tom’s neck. The thought of poison leapt into his mind.
Not another death. Not today, may it please you, God.

He needed to rouse this boy at once. He slid his left arm under his torso and hauled him to his feet. He started walking him around Leeds’s table, around and around in a circle. “Come on Dilly, you silly old billy. Wake up! Wake up! Wake up!” He accompanied each command with a little shake.

The chamber door squealed. Steadfast Wingfield walked in with a bag over one shoulder. His other arm was laden with linens and blankets. He gaped at Tom and dropped his burdens to the floor. “What are you doing to my brother?” His hands clenched into fists as he strode across the room.

“Help me get —” Tom started, but Steadfast drove an iron fist into his jaw, sending him sprawling across Leeds’s table. Then he caught his brother around the chest and scowled at Tom with the exact expression of a ram guarding his cote.

“What have you done to him?”

“Nothing!” Tom righted himself and held both hands palms out. “I found him like that, you crack-brained nidget! I was trying to wake him.”

“What?” Steadfast looked from Tom to Diligence and back again. His temper slowly cooled. “What’s wrong with him?”

“I think he’s been drugged. I found him on the floor beside his desk. I think he drank some wine from Mr. Leeds’s jug. What was in it, I couldn’t say.”

Steadfast chewed on that for a while. He and Diligence looked much alike. They both had clear blue eyes and white-blond hair, thick and straight, cut square above the brow and below the chin. Dilly’s cheeks were bare, but nineteen-year-old Steadfast wore a trim blond beard and moustache. He was three inches shorter than Tom’s six feet but stockier through the chest with powerful limbs. His angry expression suited his round face less well than his usual hearty good cheer.

“I don’t like it,” he said at last.

“I don’t either.” Tom worked his jaw and flexed his neck, tilting his head from side to side. All in working order. He wouldn’t forget that punch in a hurry, but for now, there was work to do. “Help me walk him.”

They hoisted the boy up between them, each with an arm around his trunk. It worked better with two; they could hold him so his feet landed flat on the floor. Steadfast began to sing a psalm and Tom joined in. They sang all six verses of “In Thy Wrath and Hot Displeasure” and were halfway through “A Mighty Fortress Is Our God” when Dilly moaned and rolled his head from side to side. They walked him around the desk a few more times. Then Tom held him up while Steadfast slapped him lightly on the cheeks.

“Diligence Wingfield!” Steadfast’s voice was stern. “Hear me!”

Diligence’s eyes opened, closed, then fluttered open again. “Steadfast?”

Steadfast held his brother’s face in both hands and looked straight into his eyes. “God is calling you. Wake up!”

The boy drew in a deep breath and yawned it out. His breath stank. “I’m awake, Steadfast.” His eyes slowly focused. His voice was weak but clear. “Don’t tell Father.”

Steadfast smiled at him. “You’ll tell him yourself. He’ll help you wrestle with your gluttony.”

Diligence nodded. Then a thick retching rumbled in his throat.

“Uh-oh,” Tom said. “Quick! The window!”

He hustled the boy to the back of the room. Steadfast thrust a window wide open. Together they tilted Diligence out as far as they could without dropping him and held him while he emptied his belly.

“Poor Dilly,” Tom said as they drew him back inside. “You’re not getting much good from your food today, are you?”

“What do you mean?” Steadfast asked.

Diligence pulled his shirttail out of his hose to blot his mouth. “Yuck.”

“That’s twice,” Tom answered. “He puked upstairs too, when he saw Mr. Leeds.”

“Ah, yes. Poor Mr. Leeds.” Steadfast closed his eyes. Diligence followed suit. Tom assumed they were praying; they prayed a lot.

“I still can’t believe he did it,” he said when they opened their eyes again.

“He must have come to recognize that he was reprobate,” Steadfast said, “and let himself fall into despair. He should have talked to someone. Mr. Barrow is always willing. Or my father. He’s reconciled many a reprobate to God’s will.”

“Maybe that was it.” According to John Calvin, God had foreordained in the beginning of time who would be saved and who would be damned. Nothing you did during your life could alter this predestination — not prayers, not good works, nothing. If you were among the damned, you could mitigate the torments of hell by living a virtuous life. But maybe Leeds had decided that hell was hell and if that was where he was going, he might as well get on with it.

Tom couldn’t blame him. He found the philosophy unfathomable. How could being good not be good for your soul? That was another reason he wanted to catch the seditious zealot. He did not want these fault-finding, fun-hating, hair-splitting Puritans controlling his church or his country.

“How’re you feeling, Dilly?” He smiled at the boy.

“Better. Empty. My mouth tastes sour.”

“Let’s go over to the buttery and get you something.” Tom glanced at Steadfast. “My treat.”

“I’ll toss my things upstairs and join you.” Steadfast settled his brother on Leeds’s stool. “Can you sit up?”

The boy nodded. Tom kept a hand on his shoulder in case of wobbling.

Steadfast went back and picked up his bag, draping its long strap across his back. He scooped up his armful of bedding.

“You’re moving in?” Tom asked.

“Mr. Barrow sent me to look after the young ones. He thought they might be afraid to sleep in a dead man’s room.”

“You’re going to sleep in Leeds’s bed?” Tom wouldn’t have done it — unless he was drunk and there was money riding on it. A lot of money, after a lot of drink.

“I’m not afraid of spooks and spirits,” Steadfast scoffed. He paused at the foot of the stairs and shot Tom a queer glance. “Once, my father made me spend a whole night in the churchyard to prove to me there were no ghosts wandering about, like those popish fantasists would have you believe.”

“Sounds like fun.” Tom imagined spending a night in a churchyard with his father, Uncle Luke, and a couple of the sailors. “A roaring fire, toasted sausages, those tart little apples roasted with slivers of cinnamon.” He chuckled. “My Uncle Luke tells the scariest stories! He’ll raise the hair on your head straight up.”

Steadfast looked at him as if he were brainsick. “I was ten years old. And alone, with nothing but my cloak to shield me.”

Tom goggled at him, horrified.

Steadfast held his gaze for a moment, his face wooden. Then he cracked a broad grin. “God was with me!” He laughed heartily. “I sang all the psalms in order, over and again. Before I knew it, the sun was up and my mother was fetching me home to breakfast. Now I know in my soul that the spirit moves on to its reward or punishment. It doesn’t wander about moaning and rattling old chains. I’ve got fresh bedding here. We’ll say a few extra prayers at bedtime and sleep the sleep of the righteous.”

It wasn’t until he heard footsteps clomping over his head that Tom remembered how groggy and dazed Marlowe had seemed when he’d first risen up from behind the bed. Then another thought struck him like a blow. How could Leeds have tied those clever knots and balanced himself on a stool after drinking a draft from that jug? He couldn’t have done it, which meant someone did it for him. And that meant Bartholomew Leeds had been murdered.

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.”