Death by Disputation (A Francis Bacon Mystery Book 2) (28 page)

Marlowe looked at him the way you look at a favorite dog that keeps digging up your favorite rose bush. “Why didn’t you tell us this before, Nashey?”

“Nobody asked me,” Nashe said with an oversized shrug. “And I didn’t know about the safflower.”

“It’s still good,” Tom said. “Very good. Nashe, could you stop by that limner as soon as you can? Find out when exactly Old Eggy was there and for how long? Then we can rule the Eggerleys out.”

“No, we can’t,” Trumpet said. “There are two of them, remember? I can rebut your objections concerning insufficient strength. Mrs. Eggerley is not a small woman. She might well be able to hoist a man into the air with the rope tied around the rafter to help support the weight. Catalina and I tried it one night. She could lift me. I couldn’t get her all the way off her feet. But that Eggerley cow is bigger than either of us.”

Tom winced at the word
cow
but said nothing.

She flicked him a knowing glance and continued her argument. “She might have been able to do it alone, but I think she had help. She has two servants completely under her thumb — the laundry women, Rose and Hyacinth. Mother and daughter, I think. One of them has a clubfoot, and the other is dreadfully pockmarked.”

“I’ve seen them,” Marlowe said. “They scuttle about like mice with their heads down. They came with the wife, I think, when Dr. Eggerley married.”

“Further proof!” Trumpet crowed. “Who else would hire them with such defects? Nobody. They’re stuck with the Egg. They’re strong from their work and they use lines to hang towels and things to dry. One or both of them could have helped your Margaret do the deed. I further postulate that the unusual noose you saw is some sort of laundry woman’s knot.” She nodded once. Done.

“Good,” Tom said, “but what about the bursar’s desk? Why would Margaret need to steal the key? Dr. Eggerley has always had his own.”

“The key!” Marlowe cried. He reached into the collar of his doublet and pulled up a leather thong with a small brass key suspended from it. “I took it.”

“What!” Tom was outraged by this second revelation from these unhelpful helpers. “Why didn’t you give it to me before you left?”

“Until Lady Alice told us about your commission, I didn’t know what had brought you into Barty’s life so soon before his death. I took the key because —” Marlowe shrugged and made a sour face. “For no reason, really. Because it was his. I slipped it off when you weren’t looking. Later, it was fun to see the fuss being made. And then I forgot about it.”

Tom held out his hand. “Let’s have it. I’ll open that cursed desk tonight.”

“Ah. Er.” Trumpet grinned at him, the apologetic grin that meant she’d just spilt wine into his new hat or left his cloak at the fencing master’s all the way back in the City. “I’m afraid the contents of the bursar’s desk are no longer available for your perusal.”

“They’re not?” Tom asked.

“Catalina can pick locks. We snuck into your chambers last week dressed as bed-makers and emptied the desk. I sent the contents to Mr. Bacon. He should have gotten the package Saturday, I think. Haven’t you heard from him?”

“No,” Tom said, “not about that. Not yet.” He glared at Trumpet across the table, scratching the stubble on his cheek. The gypsy extended her skills considerably; for better or worse, he couldn’t yet say. “Can your maid teach me to pick locks?”

Trumpet shrugged. “Why not?”

“What else did you do in my rooms?” Tom asked.

“Not much. I knew Mr. Bacon wanted those documents, so that’s mainly what we went for.” She smiled a virtuous smile, batting her thick black lashes at him.

Tom knew she was lying through her pearly teeth. She’d undoubtedly rifled through everything he owned: clothes, books, bedding, the secret drawer at the bottom of his writing desk. The worst of it was he hadn’t noticed a thing out of place. He popped another almond into his mouth and chewed it with deliberate care, showing her his teeth.

She stuck her tongue out at him, the unrepentant little minx.

“Children,” Marlowe said, “if you don’t mind, we are trying to identify a killer. A more important question begs an answer. Why would either of the Eggerleys need to murder my Barty?”

“Ha!” Trumpet pounded her fist on the table. “That’s the best part. That woman lives far, far,
far
above her means. You can’t have failed to notice the lavish display she makes in that garish gallery or the silks and tassels and expensive perfumes she splashes around in her bedchamber.”

She glared meaningfully at Tom. He knew what she wanted, but he refused to apologize for his affair of convenience with Margaret. She had asked, he had willingly complied, and no part of their activities had anything to do with anything — or anyone — else. He said simply, “I noticed.”

“Where does the money come from?” Trumpet demanded. “It can’t all be credit. Not that much, not for a headmaster’s wife.”

Marlowe nodded in agreement. “Everyone suspects Dr. Eggerley of embezzling from the endowments to pay for his domestic improvements.”

“There’s always grumbling of that kind in a college,” Nashe said. “Even heads without wives are suspected. Proof is another matter.”

“One person would know for certain,” Trumpet said. “The bursar. Whether or not Leeds was a partner in their schemes, he must have known they were clipping the college coins, so to speak.”

“And pressuring tenants for stiffer rates,” Tom added. He told them about the day he’d seen Simon Thorpe arguing with the yeoman.

“They actually appointed Simon to be the new bursar?” Marlowe sounded baffled, caught completely by surprise. Tom savored the moment.

“Maybe Thorpe killed Leeds,” Nashe said, earning a rude bleat from his friend. “Hear me out,” he went on. “You think he’s a buffoon, and he is. He indisputably is. But he’s also been hopelessly in love with you for many long and bitter years. We keep forgetting about you being there in that bed, also drugged. That scene could have been staged to implicate you if the suicide story failed.”

“That’s true,” Tom said. “I did suspect you until my master told me you were a known quantity, as he put it.”

“Never that.” Marlowe had recovered his normal sardonic composure. “I suppose if the killer caught Barty out of bed, he — or she — might not have known I was there, dozing behind the curtains.” He gazed at a dish of fresh strawberries for a moment, then chose one and ate it slowly, licking the juice from his fingertips. “It is also true our Simon has been kissing Old Eggy’s arse with relish twice a day for months. He might well have known he would be appointed interim bursar, at least.”

“No, no, no,” Tom said. “Forget about Thorpe. Much as I would love to convict him of something, I saw him entering Great St. Andrew’s myself. And three men complained about his snuffling and sneezing during the sermon. We can rule him right out.”

“Are we finished discussing the one who
didn’t
do it?” Trumpet asked. “We know Leeds had a ticklish conscience. Surely extortion and embezzlement would bother him as much as seditious plotting. I think he dropped some hint or maybe even threatened to inform the chancellor. That might be worth killing for, don’t you think?” Trumpet folded her arms again, looking pleased with herself.

As well she might. She’d made a strong case. To his shame, Tom had never once considered Margaret for the deed. “Well done,” he said. “Although, it’s pure conjecture at this point.”

She bristled, but she knew the truth of that herself. Tom shook his finger at her. “Don’t do anything until we hear from Mr. Bacon. We should at least know if they have actually committed any of these supposed crimes. And remember, if you’re right, that woman murdered a man she’d known for several years to protect herself. What do you think she’d do to you?”

Trumpet pursed her lips and shifted her shoulders in a gesture that could be construed as a sign of understanding, if not quite compliance. Still, she couldn’t go back to the college until tomorrow afternoon. Tom would have another letter from Bacon by then, so they’d know where they stood.

“Best to wait, my lady,” Marlowe agreed. “And don’t do anything to let her know we suspect her. How long will it take your Mr. Bacon to analyze the bursar’s accounts?”

Tom and Trumpet traded shrugs. “A couple of hours?” Tom ventured.

“One, if Ben helps, which he will,” Trumpet said. She laughed at the doubting frowns on the others’ faces. “You don’t know these men. I’m surprised Tom hasn’t had an answer already.”

“I don’t get my regular daily delivery until around three,” Tom said. As he spoke of the time, a bell tolled somewhere outside. The half hour, but which hour? He’d forgotten to count. Tom glanced out the small window but couldn’t see any shadows from up here to help him judge. “I must go.”

“Wait,” Nashe said. “A few minutes more won’t hurt. I haven’t had my turn.”

“You proposed Simon Thorpe,” Trumpet said.

“That was an accident,” Nashe said. “And we ruled him out almost immediately. With all due respect for your brilliant argument, Lady Alice —” He paused to bow to her from across the table. “If we’re reviewing the evidence, shouldn’t we consider the most obvious candidate? One of those fractious, fault-finding, seditious zealots Tom was sent to catch?”

Tom was beginning to feel a pressing need to get back, like a big church clock ticking loudly in the back of his mind. But fair was fair; besides, he also believed the seditioner and the murderer were the same man. He poured himself one last cup of wine. “Let’s hear your case.”

“I propose Steadfast Wingfield as the murderer of Bartholomew Leeds.” Nashe held up his hand to count off the questions. “One: he could have stayed behind in his room, which is handily located beneath Leeds’s. Two: his brother Diligence delivered the wine jug. He could have distracted him on the way upstairs somehow and added whatever he liked. Three.” He stopped and shrugged his thin shoulders. “I have no answer for the knot. Could he have learned it from a member of his father’s congregation? His motive is obvious, to stop Leeds from informing on the seditioners.”

“That’s good,” Tom said. “The only problem is that Steadfast was at the sermon. Three students saw him there the whole time.”

“Which three students?” Marlowe asked.

“Three of Barrow’s boys,” Tom said. “They were certain about it. They said he sat right in front of them the whole time.”

“John Barrow’s students are not reliable witnesses,” Marlowe said. “They worship him. They’d say anything he wanted them to say. I wonder . . .”  He pursed his lips. “One of Steadfast’s chambermates is on his way home soon, I believe. He may be thinking more about his future, growing less attached to his tutor and his college friends. Mark Graceborough is the one I’m thinking of.”

Tom nodded. “He’s nothing like as fervent as the rest of Barrow’s crew.”

“No,” Marlowe said, “he’s not fully under the spell. He asked me for some pages from the
Art of Love
once. Perhaps you could talk to him again.”

“I will,” Tom said. “Tonight, if possible.”

“Steadfast would have been acting on someone else’s orders,” Nashe said. “He’s the fist, not the brain. I suspect his father, Parson Wingfield, as the center of the conspirators.”

“He’s
at
the center,” Tom said. “Every thread I’ve picked up has led me to Babraham and his church. But the parson isn’t the brain either. He hasn’t any wits to spare.”

“John Barrow has the wits,” Marlowe said, “and the will, or so I believe.” His lip curled in distaste as if his wine had gone sour. “I’ve always hated that man. Something about him sets my teeth on edge.”

“I like him,” Tom said. “Although, I’ll grant you he can be fairly unpleasant about men who—” He broke off, uncertain how to mention buggery in front of Lady Alice, even though he’d heard Alan use the term himself. Lines which had once been clearly drawn were now smudged.

“—prefer men?” Marlowe shook his head. “That’s not the only reason. Haven’t you seen that thunderous look he fires at anyone who contradicts him? There’s menace in it.”

“He’s always been friendly to me,” Tom said. “You know, he claps me on the shoulder and asks me how I’m doing. He’s the one I complain to about Jenney or some overly argumentative churl in my study group. And don’t forget those whores.”

“What whores?” Trumpet asked. She’d been peeling a small orange, taking her time about it. She didn’t know the men they were discussing and so had nothing to contribute.

Tom told her about the pair of lightskirts they’d met on their way home from the Tolbooth. “He seems to wear his godliness less weightily than the others.”

“They make up their rules as they go along,” Nashe said.

“Not to that extent,” Tom said, feeling a need to defend them. “They’re mostly just people of faith, that’s all. Besides, Barrow’s the one who always helped me get a few minutes alone with —” He broke off again with another swift glance at Trumpet.

“Abstinence?” she asked, drawing out the name. She gave him an impudent smile. “Mrs. Eggerley told me all about her. She saw you with her somewhere and drew her own conclusions. She knows all the gossip. I think she gets it from her astrologer.” Trumpet stabbed an orange segment at him. “I’ll tell you, Tom. She thinks that girl is no —”

Tom cut her off with a wave of his hand. “I know what Margaret thinks. And she’s right, at least in part. I’ll admit it, Abstinence had me fooled for a while. Fortunately, I grasped the truth before —”