Death by Disputation (A Francis Bacon Mystery Book 2) (3 page)

Chapter Three

Shortly after the bell tolled ten, the chaplain came up with the coroner and two servants. Dr. Eggerley left, trailed by Thorpe. Tom told his story for the last time. Then Leeds was wrapped in one of his own sheets and carried away, leaving Tom alone in the cockloft at last.

The first thing he wanted to do was retrieve that pink thing Marlowe had kicked under the bed. He bent to look and caught a noseful of Dilly-puke. Gagging, he went around to the other side and lay flat on his belly to squirm underneath. The dregs of the rushes drifted under the bed smelt moldy. How long had they lain here, getting damper by the day? Diligence wasn’t much of a sweeper. He was better at things like taking cloaks and fetching beer from the buttery.

There, near the far side, was a pink strip. Tom stretched his fingers to grasp it and wiggled back out. A silk garter, far too pretty for a godly man like Bartholomew Leeds. It wasn’t Tom’s, and he was fairly certain it didn’t belong to any of his chambermates. That left Christopher Marlowe. His everyday garb might be shabby academic, but Tom had seen him about the town in a velvet doublet sparked with bright buttons. He was exactly the sort who would treat himself to fancy garters whenever he managed to scrounge an extra shilling. Tom wore them himself under his dull brown scholar’s gown to remind himself he was still a man of fashion.

As he stood up, he nearly stepped on a cup lying by the bedpost. This one was plain wood, worn thin around the rim, brought from the college buttery. Further proof, if he needed it, that Marlowe and Leeds had enjoyed a tryst while everyone was out. That was nothing strange in a university town where there were lots of vigorous young men and precious few women.

At least they’d been discreet about it. Tom had seen such liaisons cause all manner of trouble in his previous college: sly jabs and subtle torments behind the masters’ backs, brawls in taverns, scuffles during lectures. Personally, he didn’t mind what men did with themselves as long as they left him out of it. Tom preferred women; happily, they preferred him too.

Perhaps they’d had some sort of lover’s quarrel. Add that to the melancholy book and the pressure of secrets, and it was little wonder Leeds had chosen to end his life.

He had no real doubts about what happened here, but the shape of that noose still nagged at him. His gut was telling him it ought to be kept, and Tom was a man who listened to his gut. He decided to send it to his Uncle Luke to satisfy his curiosity.

He fetched an old linen towel from his chest and laid the knot flat to preserve its shape. He folded the towel over it and laid it carefully in his chest. He’d have to buy a box to pack it in and find someone traveling to Dorset to deliver it.

Another twinge in his gut prompted him to put the garter into the chest for safekeeping too. He had half of the letter, which he would copy into his report. He couldn’t think of anything else to do. He was finally free to leave the cockloft. He’d been up here for only half an hour, but it felt like an eternity.

The study chamber downstairs was empty. Looking out the window, he saw the college residents streaming across the yard into the hall, even though dinner had been put back. Habit drew them anyway, that and the chance to trade gossip about Leeds’s death.

The room was meant to accommodate four students, with a desk in each corner tucked into a shallow cubicle set into the wall. This gave each student a modicum of privacy without blocking the light from the windows or the tutor’s ability to keep his students in view. Leeds’s large table stood in the center of the room underneath a round wooden candle-branch.

Tom’s desk was near the fire in the corner opposite the chamber door. Too near for his tastes, especially since Leeds had been cold-natured and kept a roaring blaze in the evening. He must have spent a fortune on coal. Tom could turn his head and look out the front window into the yard though, which was useful for an intelligencer.

Tom sat on his stool and scooted it forward, reaching for his writing desk. He pulled a fresh sheet of paper from the drawer, then took out a quill and pared it a bit. He opened his ink bottle, dipped in his pen, and closed his eyes, thinking himself back to the start of the morning. He opened his eyes and began to write quickly. He’d learned over the past six weeks that agonizing over his prose style did him no good. He was never praised for his flights of rhetoric; on the contrary, Bacon preferred a straightforward accounting of events from beginning to end. Tom had to admit the task was easier if all he had to do was be factual.

He’d nearly finished when the chamber door squealed open. John Barrow stepped into the room. “Here you are,” he said. “I didn’t see you with your chums in the hall, so I thought I’d better come and check. You’re not brooding, are you, Tom?”

“No, sir. Not brooding. I’m just writing a quick little letter. I just wanted to . . . ah . . .” Tom faltered. He hadn’t prepared an excuse, thinking he’d be done and walking into commons before anyone noticed his absence.

“A letter?” Barrow took a few steps closer, his gaze angling down toward Tom’s desk. “Who could you be writing to at such a time?”

“My uncle,” Tom said. He laid his hand casually across the half-written page. “The one at Gray’s Inn. I heard Dr. Eggerley say he was going to Westminster to inform the chancellor, and thought I might send my letter with him.” He offered a sheepish grin. “My uncle worries, and you know how gossip flies . . .”

“I do indeed.” Barrow’s gaze was cool. “Letters get sent before anyone has time to review the facts and make considered decisions about spreading the news.”

“Ah—”

“How did you happen to be the first one back this morning?”

Tom blinked at the change of subject, then told the story again about slipping out of church early to fetch money for the letter carrier.

“Another letter,” Barrow said. “You do seem to write a lot of them.”

“I have a lot of relations.” Tom smiled, relieved to be on safer ground. All of his letters went to Gray’s but with wrappers bearing different names, drawn from a list he and Bacon had prepared in advance. That way, anyone who happened to take an interest would see a variety of recipients, accounting for the somewhat larger than normal number. Although, he wasn’t that far from the norm. Everyone wrote lots of letters. “My mother, two aunts, three sisters, assorted cousins. My uncle is kind enough to forward my letters with his. It saves me the expense, you see, while I’m in school.”

“Hm.” Barrow cast another glance at the unfinished page. Tom hoped he couldn’t read it from where he stood. He usually prepared himself with something to cover his page, like his commonplace book. “Well, don’t linger long,” Barrow said. “It isn’t good to be alone at a time like this.”

He turned to go, pausing beside Leeds’s table. He pointed at the large writing desk sitting in the middle. “That shouldn’t be left lying about.” He frowned at Tom again. “We’ll see you in hall, then. Don’t tarry.”

“Two more minutes,” Tom said. “A quick note.”

He had scarcely half that time. Shortly after Barrow left, the door squealed open again. Dr. Eggerley, alone for a change, let himself into the room. He glanced up the stairs and cocked his head as if listening. He then strode toward Leeds’s desk, almost reaching it before noticing Tom sitting on his stool, watching him.

He stopped in his tracks. “Claremont! I wasn’t expecting —” He frowned, dragging deep creases into his face. “You mustn’t sit here and brood all by yourself, my boy. You want to be with friends at times like these. Comfort in numbers. Everyone else is in the hall.”

“I’m not brooding, Dr. Eggerley, but thank you. I heard you mention to Simon Thorpe that you were planning to ride to Westminster, and I thought perhaps I could send a letter with you, if I were quick about it.” He usually sent his reports by means of the regular service that carried messages between the university and Lord Burghley. The official bag was the safest means of delivery, but His Lordship’s post had already gone.

“A letter?” Dr. Eggerley asked. “Who do you need to write to so urgently?” He sidled toward Leeds’s table. His eyes flicked from Tom to the tabletop, surveying its contents.

“My uncle,” Tom said. “I’m afraid he’ll hear rumors about Mr. Leeds and worry about me.” He expected that answer to be sufficient. Old Eggy liked to ask questions but seldom paid much heed to the answers. He’d pat you on the shoulder and say something like, “That’s great, Cheesemaker,” and move on.

“Uncle.” Eggerley placed both hands atop Leeds’s larger writing desk. He’d had two: a small one like Tom’s for paper and quills, and a big, finely decorated one with several small drawers and two central wells. He’d always kept that one locked.

Eggerley frowned down at it for a moment, then looked at Tom again. This time, Tom felt the full force of his attention. It surprised him enough to raise the fine hairs on the back of his neck.

“You came up from Gray’s Inn, I believe.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You had a letter from the late Lord Keeper’s son, as I recall. The Bacons are important benefactors of this college, first the father and now the eldest son, Sir Nicholas of Redgrave. It was the youngest son who wrote your letter. Francis, was it?”

“Yes, sir. Francis Bacon.”

Eggerley cocked his head. His fingers tested the lid of the writing desk. It remained shut. “I believe you referred to him as your uncle. Which of the Bacons is your father?”

“Ah—” Tom had caught his foot in it this time. No one had asked him about his so-called uncle before. “None of the Bacons, actually, sir. My uncle is Benjamin Whitt, also of Gray’s Inn.” He crossed his fingers behind his back. Ben, one of Tom’s dearest friends, had been his chambermate at Gray’s.

“I see. And he’s a friend of Francis Bacon’s?”

“Yes, sir. A very good friend.” A very, very good friend, as it happened. The sorts of friends that Leeds and Marlowe had been.

Eggerley turned the writing desk so he could see the lock. He fiddled with the cover plate and tried lifting the lid again without success. “The Bacons are connected to our chancellor, Lord Burghley, by marriage.” He sounded as if he were reciting a lesson to himself. Francis Bacon’s mother was the sister of Lord Burghley’s wife, although the connection didn’t help him as much as one might expect.

The headmaster studied him for a long moment. His lips were curved in a small smile, but his gaze was hard and glittery. Tom felt that he was being examined from the inside out. “As I recall,” Eggerley said, “you left Gray’s to return to university to finish your degree and pursue a clerical career.”

“Yes, sir.”

Bacon had devised that story to explain Tom’s otherwise inexplicable preference for monkish Cambridge over fashionable Gray’s Inn, the largest and most prestigious of the legal societies known as the Inns of Court. Tom had entered Gray’s in the train of the Earl of Dorchester’s son, whose companion he had been since they were twelve, first at the earl’s seat in Dorset, then for three years at Cambridge University. They’d lived at St. John’s College, which was larger and more prestigious than Corpus Christi. Like most members of the nobility, Stephen left the university without taking a degree. He’d spent a year twiddling his thumbs at home until his lord father sent him on to Gray’s to acquire a bit of social polish.

Tom spent that intervening year with his own father, joining Captain Clarady on a voyage to the Spanish West Indies to hunt for treasure ships. He’d loved that life — the salt spray, the sailor’s pipes, every landfall an adventure. But his destiny lay not at sea; the captain intended his son to rise through the ranks of society. They’d come home with enough profit to send Tom to Gray’s as Stephen’s retainer. He could never otherwise have been admitted, not being a gentleman’s son. The captain bought an extra measure of security by paying the debts of one Mr. Francis Bacon, thus obliging him to take an interest in Tom’s success.

Stephen, as bored with the law as he had been with the liberal arts, left Gray’s after one term. Tom wanted to stay. He liked the law, as it turned out; besides, the Inns of Court were the surest route up the ladder for a lad from a humble background. He’d feared the governors would cast him out in Stephen’s wake. But then Bartholomew Leeds wrote his letter and Lord Burghley found himself in need of a spy. Francis Bacon needed a commission that would keep him in regular contact with his powerful uncle. And Tom needed a guarantee of membership in Gray’s Inn on his own recognizance. A deal was struck, and here he was.

Dr. Eggerley asked in a friendly tone, “Did you find the law too difficult?”

“No, sir. Well, yes, sir, somewhat. That Law French — it’s barbarous.”

Eggerley laughed. “Indeed it is. Better good solid Latin, eh?”

“Yes, sir. Much better.”

“Still, I should think your father would have been pleased that you’d achieved enrollment at an Inn of Court. Better chances for advancement, you know. Visits to court, people with influence.”

“Yes, sir. I mean, no, sir. I mean, it wasn’t that, sir. My father —” Tom cleared his throat. He hated this part of the story. “My father had a change of heart. A spiritual conversion. Now he wants me to follow the path of righteousness, become a clergyman, to serve the Lord and uh…”

“I see.” Eggerley nodded, apparently satisfied. “Well. He’s to be commended. A worthy objective.” He smiled.

Tom smiled back, striving to project a godly demeanor. He sent a prayer of apology to his father, wherever he might be. Captain Valentine Clarady was an honorable man by the standards of his trade, but not devout by any stretch of the imagination. He’d grown rich fleecing Spanish ships and would spend every penny to hoist his only son into the gentry. If he thought Tom were pursuing a career as a clergyman, he would descend on Cambridge like a tropical Tornado and haul him out by the ears.