Murder by Misrule: A Francis Bacon Mystery (The Francis Bacon Mystery Series Book 1) (24 page)

"Ah," Tom said. "And this oniony puttock would be — let me guess — His Lordship, the earl? Your father?"

"In a nutshell. He's a greedy tyrant, a money-grubbing brute, and a foul pustule."

Tom chuckled. The lad had a gift for cursing.

She wasn't finished. "He married my mother for her money and stole it all away from her. As much as he could get his hands on, anyway. Her first husband did a good job of tying up the bulk of it in uses and trusts. But my father gave her nothing, no allowance, barely clothes enough to keep her warm. He squandered what should have been her allowance on mistresses and harebrained schemes. And he was cruel to her. He never laid a hand on her, not that I ever saw, but he belittled her at every turn. He broke her heart. I know that's why she died."

"I'm so sorry." Tom couldn't imagine it. His father was away at sea for months on end, but he and his mother loved each other deeply. They delighted in each other, more even than in their children, on whom they doted full well. His home life had been sometimes chaotic, what with his father's hazardous adventuring and the peculiar folk drifting in from ships for periods ranging from days to years. Their fortunes had risen and fallen like a ship in a heavy sea. But he had always been safe and loved.

"Thanks," Trumpet said. "I know you don't understand. Be glad you don't. Then my father did the same thing again to his own sister. When her husband died, he sent in a phalanx of lawyers and stole her estate right out from under her feet. She lives with us now in a corner of the old wing, creeping about like a mouse, grateful for crumbs."

"That's awful." Tom's aunties' chambers were every bit as gracious as his mother's. They were authoritative persons, to be respected and obeyed. Or charmed and wheedled, depending on the occasion. Together with his Uncle Luke, the one-legged boatswain who had saved his father's life back when Tom was a baby and lived with them thenceforward, they formed a sort of household Privy Council.

He spied a fat almanac on a high shelf and took it down, thinking to consult his horoscope. He could use all the advice he could get at this juncture. He called out, "But what can you do? He is your father after all." He wanted to keep her talking. Talk was safe. Talking was far, far better than coping with scantily clad virgins who used to be boys.

"I can learn the law, so I can defend myself. With knowledge and a trustworthy lawyer, I can lock up my mother's hidden assets in unbreakable trusts. I won't be cheated by my father or my husbands."

"How many husbands are you planning to have?"

She didn't answer.

Tom laid the almanac on Trumpet's desk and lifted the cover. The book fell open in two halves, the pages glued together with a square cut out of the center of each side. One half held a set of six disks made of hard clay. He was only mildly surprised. The season of Misrule had infected the whole Chain of Being. Naturally, a book would not be a book.

Curious, he picked up one of the disks and examined it. It was shaped like a thin, flat cup, with a design etched into the bowl. A design exactly like that on an English shilling.

"Trumpet?"

"It's a mold for counterfeiting." Her voice came from right behind him. He spun around, ready to defend his — or her — virtue.

But she had reverted to boyhood, complete with moustache. The transformation was remarkable. Tom breathed a sigh of relief. "Much better."

"I know." Even her voice sounded different. He detected no trace of musicality. At least he wasn't that much of a fool.

"So, your uncle is a coiner?" He was grateful to have a fresh topic ready to hand. "How long have you known?"

"About the coins? Not long. That he's a crypto-Catholic and has been working with the Jesuits to distribute pamphlets and smuggle priests into England?"

Tom gawped at her.

She nodded. "Since last summer. I came across a stack of pamphlets in his house when I stopped on my way to court to become a lady-in-waiting. We reached an agreement and my plans changed."

"You've been blackmailing him."

She shrugged. "Blackmail is such a strong word. Some might say an ugly word. But not, in this case, an incorrect word."

"How could you keep this to yourself? Especially since Smythson was murdered. Did you never think to tell someone, like the queen, perhaps? Or at least Mr. Bacon."

Trumpet clucked her tongue. "Tom, Tom, Tom. You do not understand how blackmail works. I keep your secret —" she tapped him on the chest, once for each word. "— And you give me what I want. If I told anyone, I would have to go home."

"But these pamphlets are dangerous! Even Ben thinks so."

"Fie! You read one of them. They're the most pathetical piffle. Besides, they were meant to go straight to Derbyshire, where, I assure you, everyone is already a Catholic. They won't convert a single soul."

"What about the coins? You saw them the other night at the gaming tables. Those people have been cheated."

She shrugged. "A few gamblers won less than they thought. The losers lost less, so it evens out."

"That actually sounds almost logical."

"Thank you, sir." Trumpet executed a tidy half bow. When she straightened, her face was sober. "There's worse, though, Tom. I'm afraid my uncle killed the Fleming. I found a shirt with bloody cuffs wadded up behind the cupboard."

"How did you —"

"I looked because he's gone. His saddlebags and most of his clothes are missing."

"Since when?"

"Last night sometime. We were up so late, remember? With all the gaming and dancing in the hall. He wasn't here when I dragged myself in. When I woke up, I realized that he hadn't slept in the bed."

Tom bristled. "You share a bed with your uncle?"

"No, I have a trundle bed. He goes out before I get up. My clothes are tailored so I can dress myself and my laundry goes to the Antelope."

"Mrs. Sprye knows about this?"

Trumpet tilted her pretty head and laughed. "It was her idea in the first place. Well, we thought of it together, all three of us. That's irrelevant. The point is that Uncle Nat killed the Fleming. And now he's flown."

"Why didn't you tell me about this before? It's slightly important, don't you think?"

Now Trumpet folded her arms, tapped her foot, and glowered. "When precisely was there time? It's been
Clara, Clara, Clara
since we met you outside the gaol this morning."

Tom chose to ignore the unmistakable whine of jealousy in her voice. He swiftly vowed to ignore that particular bramble patch for as long as possible. "Do you think your uncle killed Mr. Smythson? And Shiveley?"

"No, I don't believe he did. He seemed genuinely grieved by their deaths. One evening, he went on and on about how nothing was being done to bring Smythson's killer to justice. I was the only one here, his only audience. Why would he bother to put on a show?"

"We have to tell Mr. Bacon."

"I know." Trumpet sighed. "It's all ruined. I'll have to leave Gray's and go home or to court. No more wandering the streets of London with you and Ben, going where we please and doing what we like. Eating pies outside a stall. No more going to the theater without a guardian. No more taverns, no more moots. Nothing fun."

He felt a surge of sympathy. Trumpet was a born lawyer, every bit as good as Ben. If she'd wanted to be a soldier or a sailor or something requiring manly strength, that would be a different matter. But the law was a sedentary profession. The Westminster courts were full of women, pressing suits and answering warrants. By the winds that filled his father's sails, the queen herself was a woman. Why shouldn't Trumpet argue cases if she wanted to so badly?

Tom didn't like to see his friends cast down. He'd have to think of a way to help her, after he freed Clara from Newgate, got Mr. Bacon well again, and sent the Gray's Inn murderer to the gallows.

***

By the time Tom had finished changing into dry clothes in his own chambers, the horn was sounding for supper. As they sat in their usual places, Trumpet's eyes drilled into him, willing a message into his mind. No need. He nodded to show he understood: Stephen must not know about her deception.

They ate in silence. Stephen seemed to assume their glum mood was the result of Bacon's accident and left them to it, chatting gaily with the men on his other side.

Which suited Tom perfectly. He couldn't cope with conversation tonight. Trumpet kept his eyes riveted on his bowl as he picked through his pottage with his spoon. Tom found his brain unable to form thoughts of any kind. He ate four bowls of pottage and three loaves of bread, chewing his food with as little heed as a weary mule turned onto a grassy sward.

The meal ended and everyone rose to begin the evening's entertainments. Tom wanted nothing more than the peace of his own chambers. He murmured to Trumpet under cover of the general hubbub, "Will you be all right alone tonight?"

"Of course."

Tom went to bed at the unheard-of hour of seven o'clock and slept the dreamless sleep of an exhausted man.

CHAPTER 40

Clara sat in a huddle in the straw, shivering in her thin smock, her bare arms wrapped around her bare knees. She'd slept for a while curled up on her side but had been woken by a clanging somewhere deep within the gaol. One whole day and one whole night in hell: whatever sins she had committed in her life, she had surely paid for some portion of them here.

She shut her eyes. They were useless anyway; the cell was so gloomy and so vile to look upon. Would she ever see beauty again or raise a brush to paint it? She remembered the first time she had taken her father's easel outside to paint the bridge over the Groenerei canal. It had been a glorious day, fine and clear with a lovely light. That was when she knew with perfect clarity that this would be her work. Then the sky had darkened. A clap of thunder stood her hair on end. Rain poured from the sky, drenching her clothes and ruining her painting. She ran all the way home, where her father had rubbed her wet hair with a towel, chuckling at her dismay.

"
Oh, mijn lieveling
, sometimes it rains. We get wet and run home. We dry ourselves by the fire and go out again the next day when the sun is shining again."

Her father remembered the sunshine. She remembered the rain. Tom was like her father in that way. Would he remember her? Would he help her? He was her only hope of rescue. She bade her mind's eye to visit his open face, his golden curls, and his sun-kissed skin. She sighed at the memory of his warm caresses and shivered again. So cold; too cold.

The heavy door groaned as it swung open, a band of golden lamplight widening in its wake. In the beam of light stood Tom, her golden lover, his arms heaped with parcels. Clara pinched at her cheeks with both hands, whimpering anxiously. Was she dreaming with her eyes open now? Had her mind broken?

But then she noticed one of the objects the vision of Tom held around one arm: a wreath of green holly sprinkled with bright red berries. She could never have imagined that; no one could. Only Tom would bring a Christmas wreath into Newgate Prison. The vision was real. He had come for her.

He stood blinking at the gloom for a moment then dropped his burdens on the floor and whipped off his cloak, reaching her in two short strides. He wrapped the thick wool around her, tucking one end firmly under her arm as if she were a child. Then he wrapped his strong arms around the bundle he'd made of her, sheltering her head under his chin. He rocked her gently where they stood, murmuring shushes and sweet words.

Tears rolled down her cheeks. Not since she had grown too large for her father's lap had she felt so warm and safe. It wouldn't last — nothing good ever did — but she would store the feeling up against future troubles.

As her tears subsided, she told him about the poisoned wine and cheese and the deaths of her tormentors. Tom hugged her tighter and spoke to someone over her shoulder. "Our villain is cleverer than we thought." For the first time, Clara realized he hadn't come alone.

She buried her face in his chest again for one last breath of pure comfort then raised her head. Looking over his shoulder, she saw the short, dark boy who had been with him on the day he'd found her in the surgeon's house. The boy stood on the threshold. He had a handkerchief tied under his nose as a defense against the stink.

The boy nodded and turned toward the jailer, who stood just outside the door. He snapped his fingers and spoke sharply, in tones that reminded Clara of the way Lady Rich spoke to her servants. Soon a bustle enveloped her and Tom as servants scuttled in and out, sweeping away the foul messes, scrubbing the floor and walls with buckets of sudsy water, and building a new bed of clean straw. Tom released her to rescue his gifts and soon her arms were filled with soft linens, blankets, and pillows. His arms were strung with baskets of hard rolls, sausages and cheese, a cask of beer and a wooden cup, candles and a tinder box. She even saw a sheaf of rolled papers — more poems, no doubt, to beguile the lonely hours.

The smell of tansy and lavender rose through the little room. Clara felt a fresh alarm rising with it. She met Tom's eyes. "How long do you intend for me to stay in here? I could live for a month on all this bounty."

"I'll free you as soon as I can, my darling. A day or two, I promise. No more than a week. They'll deliver the gaol before Christmas. I'll pay anything to get you out. It's my fault you're here at all."

"No, it isn't," his friend said. He'd had a disagreeable expression on his pretty face since they'd arrived. It looked more like jealousy than distaste for the gaol. Now he pulled the handkerchief from his face, ruffling his moustache. "It's Stephen's fault."

"I should have known he would spill the beans," Tom answered him. "I should have shut his mouth up faster."

Clara frowned. "What beans are these?"

Tom explained what had happened at the scene of Caspar's death. He had told her none of this on Saturday night. Why not? When he finished, she said, "Now many people know that you think me a witness to that terrible murder on Queen's Day."

"Were you one?" The boy faced her with his hands on his hips. "Did you see anything at all?"

Clara studied the little figure, noting the fineness of the facial bones and the balanced proportions of the lithe body. The wispy moustache was no longer quite straight. This person was not a boy, waiting for time to thicken his jaw and broaden his shoulders. This was a woman: young but fully grown. Did Tom know? Men could be very stupid.

But his eyes were fixed on her. "I am abased with sorrow that you must endure this nightmare, my dearest darling. I beg you, by my love for you, tell us what you saw that day. The slightest detail could help."

"And then what happens?"

"Then we catch the murderer and bring him to justice so he can't murder anyone else."

"I mean, what happens to me?"

"Why, nothing. Or anything." Tom looked confused. Hadn't he thought about this part? "You can go on about your life." He favored her with a dimpled smile. "Only now with me in it."

The smile was not so persuasive here in this cell, which was still dark, if not as wretched. Tom would leave soon, taking his smile, and then all these nice gifts would be taken away from her. "I cannot go on about my life while I am in this horrible dungeon."

"Well, no, of course not. Of course you'll be released."

"But only if I tell you what I saw. If I saw anything, that is."

"No, no," Tom said. "You'll be released no matter what. They're holding you for questioning in the matter of the death of the Fleming — your husband. But we think we know who killed him."

She blinked at him. "You know who killed Caspar and still you leave me in this dark hole?"

"No! I mean, yes, we think we know, but we can't be sure. We have no proof." He shot a desperate glance at his friend for support and got nothing but half a shrug. The friend did not care if she were released or not. Clara couldn't imagine why this woman would go about dressed as a young lord, but she was obviously very self-willed and equally obviously possessive about Tom. She was no ally for Clara.

Tom gave it one last try. "It's not that simple, sweetling. Nobody will believe us, anymore than they believe you. The man we suspect has disappeared. We'll have to put the whole story together, all the murders, with evidence and testimony from witnesses, like you. Then we can make a case to set before the judges. That's why you must tell us what you know."

Clara shook her head. "I cannot think in this horrible place. First you must get me out. When I am home in my room, safe and clean, then I will try to remember for you."