Murder by Misrule: A Francis Bacon Mystery (The Francis Bacon Mystery Series Book 1) (17 page)

Tom thought he saw a flash of bright hair inside the topmost window. He called up to it, "
Angela luminosa
!"

Trumpet laughed. "She can't hear you from this distance, fool. You'll have to knock on the door."

Ben simply walked up and opened it. "It's a surgery." He pointed up at the sign. "No need to knock." The others followed him in.

They found themselves in a square room crowded with cupboards and narrow worktables bearing bottles of colored liquids, bowls of herbal stuffs, and instruments of unknown function. More herbs hung in sheaves from the roof beams. It smelled like an apothecary — pungent and woodsy — with the addition of the metallic scent of blood. A sturdy woman of some thirty years bent over a man lying in a wide chair with his feet raised on a cushion. She held a copper bowl to catch the steady trickle of blood running from a neat cut on his arm. The man's eyes were half-closed and his expression was dreamy.

The woman's head snapped toward them and then back to her patient. "I am busy, do you see? Come back in half an hour."

Tom took a step closer and cleared his throat.

She glanced at them again, this time registering the quality of their clothing. "
Vas ist
? Your tooth?"

"No, Surgeon." Tom bowed slightly. "We wish to speak with your lodger, Clara Goossens."

She shrieked incomprehensibly, "
Lijskin
!" causing her patient to jerk. "Sshh." She patted his leg. She wrapped a strip of white linen around the wound and tied it in a neat bow. "That is
gut
," she murmured. "Eyes close, please. Now you rest."

A girl of about twelve came in from the back of the house. She stared at the lads as she dropped a shallow curtsy. "Madam?"

"Fetch Clara. Quick, quick, quick! Gentlemen do not like to be kept waiting."

The girl scooted past Tom and pattered up a steep flight of stairs.

The surgeon rolled the remainder of her bandages into a ball and tucked them into a box on the table. She stood and faced the lads, folding her arms under her bosom. "You want portraits, yes?"

"No," Tom said. "Or rather, yes." He would love to sit day after day, watching Clara paint him. Unless they would have to sit here in front of this formidable individual. She couldn't very well come to Gray's; women under forty were not allowed in any capacity.

"Yes or no?" The surgeon was plainly a woman with no tolerance for ambiguity. She frowned, drawing her eyebrows into a sharp V. "Do you play with me?"

"Never, Surgeon Moulthorne," Tom vowed. He had seldom met a less enticing playmate.

A clatter on the stairs spared him further explanations. The maid skipped back to where she'd been. Behind her, Clara descended slowly in a plain woolen gown. Its simple lines displayed her lithe yet womanly figure to advantage. The dove-gray color seemed demure until she lifted her face to reveal the brilliant depths of her sapphire eyes. A linen coif set off the perfect pallor of her cheeks and the gleam of her golden hair. She moved with the unconscious grace of a doe.

Ben said, "Unh." Stephen gave a low whistle. Trumpet whispered, "Limner, limn thyself."

Tom ignored them, looking up at Clara. Their eyes met and held in an unbroken gaze of mutual wonderment. Tom let himself be absorbed by her gaze, explored by it. He felt that she was seeking something inside his very soul. He hoped she found whatever it was that she wanted.

She reached the bottom of the stair and stood with one hand on the newel post. "You're Tom."

He nearly suffered a rapture watching her pillowy lips wrap themselves around the single syllable of his name. He stood dumbstruck.

Trumpet cleared his throat, breaking the spell. He bowed shortly. "Allow me. I am Allen Trumpington. My companions are Lord Stephen Delabere and Mr. Benjamin Whitt."

At the mention of Stephen's title, the surgeon grabbed a cloth and starting polishing everything within reach.

"At your service, Goodwife." Ben offered her a quarter-bow. Stephen merely smiled and tilted his head in a condescending way.

Half of anything was never enough for Tom. "I am Thomas Clarady, son of Captain Valentine Clarady and a member of the Society of Gray's Inn. I place my life and my service at your command." He swept off his hat and made a full bow, forehead to knee, toe pointed.

He heard a gentle laugh and glanced up. Clara's eyes shone with delight. He had pleased her with his extravagant gesture.

He rose and took one bold step toward her. Her eyes grew rounder. He looked down at her, thrilling to the sense of her size and shape, so near he could almost feel the warmth of her body. She was almost as tall as he was, almost up to his nose. Perfect for kissing her on the forehead. But he wanted to gaze forever into her lushly lidded eyes. He could see old sorrows in the slight shadow about their edges. Yet her sensuous lips promised a deep capacity for joy.

"Clara," he whispered.

She smiled hesitantly. She glanced toward the surgeon then back at Tom. She pursed her lips and he felt himself pulled helplessly toward them.

Ben chuckled softly. He used his long arm to turn Trumpet, who had been standing blatantly gawking, toward the surgery. He cleared his throat meaningfully at Stephen, who quirked a lip and turned as well. Ben said, "Might I inquire as to the services that you offer here, Surgeon Moulthorne?"

Tom let the others fade into the background, focusing his full attention on his lady love. "Clara. May I call you
Clara
?"

"No." Her answer came with a coquettish grin that poured hot oil on Tom's ardor. Then her expression darkened. "You've come about that man. The one who was killed that day."

Tom reached for her hand and stroked it comfortingly. "No, my angel. That's all over. The murderer has been caught. Or, rather, discovered. He's dead."

"The murderer is dead?"

"Yes. Yes. It's all right. It's all over."

"How came he dead?"

"God punished him," Tom said. "He fell down the stairs and broke his neck."

She raised her eyes. "Merciful heaven." Tom could barely catch the whispered words.

"I've been searching for you." He kissed her hand lightly. She had calluses on her fingers, from her brushes, he supposed. He planted a kiss on each one, savoring her indrawn gasp. He raised his eyes to meet hers. "I've thought of nothing but you for weeks. I wrote a song for you."

"I would like to hear your song."

"I'd like to play it for you. I'll call again, if you'll allow it." She nodded, but Tom saw something wary in the back of her azure eyes. "We could go for a walk. Have you seen the bears in Southwark? Or, or — perhaps a cockfight?" She didn't seem tempted by blood sports. He racked his brains for some gentler diversion. "The theater? Or we could go watch the madmen in Bedlam?"

She laughed. Angelic trills that chased the reserve from her eyes. "A walk would be nice."

He dared to ask, "May I kiss you?"

Her eyes flashed. He knew she wanted him to, but she withdrew her hand, glancing toward the surgery. Tom heard the rumble of Ben's voice. His friends were still covering for him. He captured her hand again, drawing it to his breast. He bent his head, slowly, and kissed her once, lightly, on the lips.

She sighed and closed her eyes. He kissed her cheek and was about to return to her lips for a deeper touch when he heard a throat clearing sharply behind him.

Stephen stood two feet away, an expression of mock concern on his angular features.

"Go away, Steenie."

"The surgeon's coming. We can't distract her forever, you know."

Clara withdrew her hand, her cheek, her whole shimmering person to a spot beyond Tom's reach at the foot of the stairs. He sighed dramatically and she favored him with a smile.

"May I come again?"

"In one week," she said. "Let us see if you can remember me for that long."

"Oh, he'll remember," Trumpet said, joining them in the entryway. "He's talked of nothing else for weeks. We're glad to know he didn't imagine you."

Tom watched Ben separate himself from the surgeon with a short bow. She then ostentatiously took up a position at a table from which she could keep an eye on both her patient and her lodger and began to measure ingredients into a stone bowl.

Stephen winked at Tom and then treated Clara to his best lordly smile. "We did have one small question, Goodwife Goossens. Or is it Widow Goossens?"

Clara's face turned to marble.

Tom glared at him. "Not now, Stephen." He reached toward Clara, but she took a step away from him. "It's not important,
Angela
. We can talk about it later. But only if you want to."

Stephen clucked his tongue. "I know you're too delicate to ask, Tom, old chum. Or perhaps you're not quite at that stage of your, em, negotiations, shall we say?"

"Ignore him," Tom said to Clara, but the wariness had returned to her eyes.

"We met this fellow outside, you see." Stephen was having all kinds of fun, kicking holes in Tom's romantic moment. "Or nearly met. Big blocky churl? We followed him here, but he ran away from us. We couldn't imagine why. Except that garrulous old sexton at your church told us the knave actually claimed to be your husband."

Clara blanched and took a step backward up the stairs, laying a trembling hand upon the rail.

Ben had gone back to ask the surgeon about the simple she was preparing. Now he returned, oblivious to the tension of the moment, and spoke directly to Clara. "Forgive me, Goodwife, but I find myself still a little curious. Did you, or did you not, see the second barrister in the lane on Queen's Day? I'd like to set the record straight."

"Ben." Tom shook his head. "Not now."

Clara looked doubtfully from one to the other. "Barrister. They are those that wear the velvet welts on the sleeves?"

She pronounced it "welwet welts." Her accent softened all the hard corners of the English language. Tom could watch her plush lips roundly pronouncing the phrase "welwet welts" for all eternity and know himself to be in paradise.

Trumpet plucked at his sleeve. "Tom, you do need to know: is she a widow or a wife?"

He smiled at Clara over Trumpet's head to show that he was on her side. Although, if he was honest, he did want to know and didn't mind being spared the asking.

Clara looked down at Trumpet and a half smile curved upon her lips.

Stephen sauntered forward. "You see,
Clara
, we're finding this all a bit odd because your patron, Lady Penelope Rich, with whom I spoke only a few days ago — so gracious, really, a true lady — is under the impression that you are a widow. It was she who gave me your name. I hardly think Her Ladyship would appreciate being deceived."

Clara's eyes went wide. Her hand flew to her mouth. She took another trembling step backward up the stairs.

Trumpet reached toward her. "We would never —" But Clara shook her head, holding out a hand to forestall him.

Tom growled, "Stephen, if you don't march straight out that door, I will thrash your lordly arse from hell to Holborn."

"Stephen doesn't mean it," Trumpet said, giving Clara a wink. "Lady Rich terrified him. She terrified us all! We wouldn't speak to her again if our lives depended on it."

Stephen sneered at Tom; his job was done. He strolled to the door and pulled it open. Trumpet followed him, scolding, "That was completely unnecessary."

Tom reached again for Clara, but she shook her head, eyeing him as if he had turned into a menacing stranger. He'd meant to defend her. How had things gone wrong so fast? He clasped his hands to his breast in supplication, but again she shook her head. She said, "Go. Please."

He placed a kiss on his palm and blew it to her. Then he turned full around and bared his teeth at Lord BeetleBrain. Stephen cackled and skipped out into the street. Trumpet pressed his hand against Tom's chest. "No, Tom, it isn't worth it."

"Out of my way, Pygmy." Tom pressed forward. "I'm going to pound him so deep into the kennels he'll be washing shit out of his hair for a month."

Trumpet gamely kept himself one step ahead.

As he approached the door, Tom heard Ben say, "Don't fret about Stephen, Goodwife Goossens, I pray you. He'll say nothing to your patroness. But about Queen's Day. The murderer was another barrister. Did you see him? A tall, redheaded man."

"But, no," Clara said, sounding puzzled. "He was neither."

The door swung shut.

CHAPTER 24

Clara lifted her skirts and raced up the stairs, all four flights, to her own room. She clambered up onto her worktable, bare knees against the worn wood, and peered out the window at the street below. There he was: his golden curls spilling out from under his hat, his shapely legs bright in their green stockings. He shook his fist at the young lord, but his other friends clutched his jerkin, pulling him back. The lord skipped backward, laughing tauntingly, until he stumbled over a rooting piglet and fell smack on his bottom in the filth.

Clara plopped wide-legged on her table, heedless of the drawing paper crumpling under her rucked-up skirts. She curled a fist to her mouth to smother a scream. She kicked her heels and laughed until tears spurted into her eyes.

In less than one incredible hour her world had been torn to shreds, as if a cannonball had blown through her chamber window. First comes the golden youth, the beautiful young man who had called to her beneath her window. She'd dreamt of him, she'd sketched him, but she had never expected to see him again. And yet here he came to Mrs. Moulthorne's door. He'd remembered her. He'd searched for her. He loved her.

He'd kissed her.

She touched her lips with a wondering finger. Such tenderness. She'd never felt anything like it. For a moment — a brief moment — he had given her courage. It flowed from him like wine from a barrel. He was bold and kind and foolish and frank and far more handsome than any man she had ever imagined would hold her hand in Mrs. Moulthorne's surgery.

But the moment had vanished, ripped apart by the thin-lipped lord. He was angry with Tom, that much was clear. Then why not fight with him? Why threaten her?

She cried aloud then smothered the cry with her hand. She'd be ruined if he went to Lady Rich and accused her of lying. It mattered not if she were married or widowed; what mattered was that she had not told the truth from the outset. The faintest breath of scandal and her days of painting wealthy women in clean chambers would be over. She'd be forced to go back to scrounging odd jobs from printers or painting cloths for merchants' wives to hang upon their walls.

"Clara!" A deep voice thundered far below stairs.

Clara clutched both hands tightly to her chest as if to keep her heart from pounding out of her body. She slid from the worktable to her feet.

Caspar!

She'd forgotten about him. Fool! She should have run.

When her father died, Clara had been left with no dowry other than her beauty and her talent. So she had accepted the proposal of Caspar Von Ruppa, a sculptor who pretended to admire her painting. For a while, the marriage worked. Until Caspar hit a dry patch with no work and was forced to ask Clara for drinking money. Or when he had a job, but things went badly and the patron chided him for some fault. Any insult, any grievance, called down a storm upon Clara's head. And her face and her body. Once he had beaten her so badly she hadn't been able to show herself in the village for three weeks. She'd lost a client because of it.

She’d fled to Antwerp to live with an aunt. Too near. She'd crossed the German Sea and made a life for herself in London, calling herself
Goossens
, her mother's maiden name. Gradually, her reputation as a limner had grown until she was painting some of the most famous faces in the realm. Now all of that would be destroyed.

Heavy footsteps pounded closer, shaking the whole house. The door burst open and her hated husband filled the frame. No escape: not even a window large enough to fling herself from, four stories down to the street.

She was trapped.

She cowered against the farthest wall, hating herself for cowering but too fearful to stand and take what was coming.

Caspar stood inside the door holding a cask on his massive shoulder and a sack in the other hand. He looked her up and down, then his eyes roved around the room, taking in the stoic furnishings. "Clara," he sang, in a mocking tone. "Mine
lieveling
. Your loving husband has found you."

She willed her hands to her sides and forced composure onto her face. She could feel her lower lip trembling.
Grant me rage, my blessed Savior. Not fear.
Rage gave her strength.

That, and the sound of excited voices rising from the floors below. She was not alone in this house of sturdy craftswomen.

"No sweet kisses?" Caspar smacked his puckered lips at her. Dropping the sack, he lowered the cask to the floor and gestured at it with hands spread wide. "Look! I have brought a present for you!"

"I do not drink wine by the caskful." Clara struggled to speak in a steady voice. "What is in the sack?"

He grinned. "Not for you. A special delivery. You know the Jesuits and their politics. The money they spend! Work in England pays me double."

Smuggling. Caspar always carried a little something extra when he traveled abroad for a job. That sack looked too heavy for lace. Probably banned books or religious pamphlets. Nothing that concerned her. Why couldn't they be content with the books they had here already?

She studied his face, noting the grayness of his skin and the hardness of his features.
He's becoming like the stone he works.

"You can't escape me," he said. "I always find you. I found you here. It was easy."

That gossiping sexton! But she couldn't blame him. How could he forestall an act of God?

"Come,
lieveling
," Caspar said, beckoning with a meaty hand. "Come give your man some loving. I have been so lonely."

He puckered his lips again. The gesture turned Clara's stomach. "If you touch me, Caspar Von Ruppa, I will kill you where you stand."

"What?" He tucked his chin in surprise at her ferocity. He pretended to be afraid. "Will you strike me with your little fist?" He leered at her. "Will you spank me?"

Fury boiled through Clara's veins. "Out! Out of my room! Out of my life!" She thrust her hand out to push him back.

Her fury was hot enough to scorch him — at first. He did step back. For a moment. She smiled. A mistake. His eyes narrowed and she saw his powerful hands curl into fists.

Then she saw her landlady — no small woman — and all of the other lodgers, streaming up the stairs armed with pans and brooms and pokers. They stormed into the room, flowing around Caspar like an angry river roiling around a great gray rock, and ranged themselves in front of Clara.

"You will leave my house," Surgeon Moulthorne said. "You are not welcome here."

"She is my wife." Caspar glowered down at them.

"Leave!" Clara, emboldened by her defenders, reached past them to push Caspar with her open hand against his chest. He gaped down at it in amazement.

"Out!" she cried.

He grabbed her wrist. She wrenched it from his grasp and pushed him again. This time the other women stepped forward also, brandishing their implements.

Caspar looked from one to the other, shaking his head like a bear baited by snapping dogs. Clara pushed him back another step. Two of her neighbors got behind him and began to pull. He growled at them; one whacked him on the shoulder with her broomstick. Caspar flinched and flailed a fist at her. Another woman cracked her poker down on his wrist.

They surrounded him and forced him down the stairs. Clara stood on the top step, vibrating with anger. She raised a fist in the air and screamed at the top of her lungs, "I'll kill you before I let you strike me again!"