Read Murder by Misrule: A Francis Bacon Mystery (The Francis Bacon Mystery Series Book 1) Online
Authors: Anna Castle
Murder by Misrule: A Francis Bacon Mystery (The Francis Bacon Mystery Series Book 1) (22 page)
The stench of Newgate Prison was overwhelming. Clara's eyes burned and watered, adding the shame of tears to her misery. She wanted to appear confident that her powerful friends would soon secure her release. She wanted to hold tight to what shreds of dignity she could because she feared that if she wailed and whimpered, the guards would think her friendless and treat her with cruelty as well as contempt.
She felt screams rising from her belly, tasted bile in the back of her throat, and swallowed both down.
She feared to weep, but she was helpless to stem the water streaming from her eyes. The stink was like a force, a gale, a
hurricano
of foulness. Countless years of human waste and sweat and sickness lay heaped in rotting piles of straw. The stench made the privy shared by the members of Clara's household and the other houses around their yard seem like a garden in June.
One night of abandon in all her careful, cautious years — one single night of love — and down came her punishment, swift and absolute. From paradise to perdition in a stroke. This was Caspar's doing. Even in death, he found a way to reach out and torment her.
The guards were not kind, not in any tiny way, but they did not molest her. They barely spoke to her. They took her mother's ring for their entrance fee. Clara did not understand how they could charge her a fee for putting her in prison, but they could do as they liked with her now. Her ring was by far the least terrible price she could imagine paying.
They led her into a cell no larger than her room at home, but this place held no bed, no chest, no sunlit worktable. One small barred window kept the cell from utter darkness. Layers of filthy straw covered the floor, heaped up in places to form beds. One sodden corner apparently served as the privy. Two women sat in the straw, blinking at the sudden light from the open door. Clara could not begin to guess their ages. Their faces were ravaged by pox and poverty, but their limbs seemed sound, and they were agile enough as they rose to their feet. They leered at Clara with gap-toothed grins.
"Oooo, what's this, then?"
"What 'ave ye brought us, Jarman, me love?"
Clara shrank back, unwilling to step across the threshold. The guard pushed her forward, hard enough to send her stumbling into the arms of her new cellmates.
"Don't muss 'er up too much, dearies," the gaoler said with a chuckle. "I'll wager she's worth a shilling or two."
"What'll be our share, eh?" the darker one asked. She got no answer. Whether she was swarthy from birth or from layers of dirt, Clara did not care to guess.
The door swung shut, leaving her in a gray gloom.
"’Er looks a lady, Millicent, don't ’er?"
"Nar, Gracie, ’er's no lady. ’Er's a shopkeeper or a smith's wife or the like."
"Clean," Millicent said. Clara felt thick fingers crawling through her hair, plucking out the pins that Tom had helped her place that morning.
"Nice shoes," Grace said. Clara felt her shoes being tugged from her feet. She tried to pull her legs back and got a sharp pinch on the thigh. "Be still, or pinches ain't all ye'll get."
"This hair's worth a penny or two," Millicent said. A ragged fingernail scraped Clara's ear as her hair was pulled back. "Reckon Jarman'd lend us a scissor if we split the take?"
"Shoes're mine," Grace said. "Warm, they are. An’ look: they fit me perfect."
Clara closed her eyes and willed herself into the nowhere that had been her refuge when Caspar beat her.
Tom spent the better part of an hour alternately pleading, bribing, and threatening the officials at Newgate to let him at least visit Clara to see how she was housed. No one would listen to him. He went outside and prowled the perimeter, hopping up to peer through barred windows, craning his neck. Hands were thrust out at him, waving and grasping. Inmates pressed their grimy faces against the bars to jeer at him or whisper coarse promises. He had to leap aside to avoid a stream of piss that one brainsick prisoner launched at him.
"Tom!" He whirled around. Ben and Trumpet jogged across the street.
"We're going to St. Paul's to hear the sermon." Trumpet looked him up and down. "Your shoes are a disgrace."
Tom gaped at him like a man bereft of human speech.
"What's wrong?" Ben asked.
He told them everything from the moment he'd left Gray's the night before, leaving out the private bits. He handed Ben the letter, which he had carefully stowed in his purse.
Ben clasped his arm. "Tom, hear me. Newgate is filthy and verminous and the other inmates may be fairly nasty, but they'll not harm her. Neither the prisoners nor the guards. Not seriously. There's time to negotiate."
"Are you sure?" Tom eagerly grasped at the straw.
"Nearly sure." Ben rubbed his dark beard. "Let's go talk to Mr. Bacon."
"No. Mrs. Sprye," Trumpet said. "She'll want to know what her dear Sir Avery has been up to."
"Mrs. Sprye." Tom allowed himself to breathe again. "She'll know what to do, and she'll make Fogg do it."
"This is all wrong," Ben said.
"No, it's exactly right." Tom felt strength returning to his sinews. "We need to talk to Mrs. Sprye at once. And then Mr. Bacon. Between the two of them —"
"No, this letter is all wrong," Ben said. "It's not Fogg's hand, for one thing. You've seen it yourself on those endless notices the benchers post about not wearing velvet shoes and getting a shave every three weeks."
"I knew there was something wrong with it!" Tom crowed.
"And the language is too simple." Ben handed the letter to Trumpet, who had been tugging on his sleeve. "Fogg uses more Latin. I tell you, Tom, Treasurer Fogg did not write this letter."
"Then who did?"
Clara sat, head bowed, on the dank floor, wearing only her shift and underskirt. The rest of her clothes had been stripped off by her fellow inmates.
The cell door groaned open and the guard stood in the sudden frame of light. "Hoi! I told you to leave 'er be."
"'Tis only 'er clothes," Millicent whined.
"She's got friends, I tell you. Look — they sent’er a basket already."
Clara's eyes snapped open. Tom! He hadn't forgotten her.
"Mine!" Millicent and Grace scuffled forward, hands outstretched and fingers grasping.
"No, no, no! It's’er present. She orter get first dibs." The guard shoved the whores aside and set the basket in Clara's lap. Her hands curled around it protectively, though she knew it would be snatched away from her the minute the door closed.
"What'd they tip you, then, eh Jarman? Somethin' 'andsome?"
"Wouldn't you like to know?" Jarman chuckled as he left.
"Gracie," Millicent breathed. Clara recoiled from the black stink that flowed from her rotten mouth. Even as she turned her head, she registered surprise that she was becoming able to distinguish degrees of foulness. God help her when this hellhole no longer stank!
"A bottle o' tinto, by all me dead 'usbands’ sufferin' souls!"
Millicent's arm plunged into Clara's basket and withdrew a bottle with a long cork. "Ahhhh," she sighed. "'Ere's me lovely."
She took her prize over to the largest heap of straw and pulled the cork with a resounding pop. She sat back against the oozing wall, stretched her legs before her, and took a long draught.
"A cheese! A 'ole cheese! An' bread, Millie, by your 'usbands’!" Grace snatched the largest lump in the basket and retired to her own tuft of straw.
Clara was left alone, mercifully, in the middle of the cell with the basket in her lap. She didn't mind the thefts; on the contrary, she was grateful for the distraction. Her undressers had not been gentle. Her body was bruised and scraped from their pinches and rough hands. She had feared they would strip her stark naked, leaving her to freeze in the night.
She turned her eyes to the basket, letting her vision adjust to the sparse light. She ran her hands over the contents: hard rolls, a sausage, apples, even a napkin. A hearty meal under other circumstances. She couldn't imagine being able to eat in this place. She hoped she wouldn't be here long enough to learn otherwise. She was surprised to find no note. It wasn't like Tom to send her a gift without one of his foolish sonnets to go with it. She smiled bitterly. The sight of his writing, even in light too dim for reading, would have given her some sense of him, some comfort.
She lifted an apple and turned it in her palms. It felt so ordinary, so simple and sane. It didn't belong in this nightmare. She felt a twitch under her thumb and held the apple up to catch the meager light. A worm poked its head out of the wholesome fruit.
That is wrong.
Her Tom would never send her a piece of wormy fruit. He would have examined every apple in the fruiterer's stall, selecting only the most perfect ones for her. And he would have written her a poem comparing her cheeks to apples or, knowing Tom, to leeks, because
cheeks
rhymes with
leeks
and he would find no rhyme for
apples
.
This basket was not from Tom. She knew it in her very soul. Then who had sent it?
She heard a coarse retching from Millicent's corner and saw the bottle fall from the woman's palsied hand as she clutched her throat, writhing in agony. Grace lay sprawled on her back, tongue lolling, the half-eaten cheese on the floor beneath her limp hand.
Poison!
Clara sprang to her feet and began pounding on the door with both clenched fists.
The chapel bell tolled nine. Francis Bacon groaned. Why did that accursed bell have to be so infernally loud? He rolled over and covered his ears with a pillow. He felt as though his brains had been baked in a kiln. His head was too hot and his feet were too cold, and he was ferociously thirsty.
Why did his wretched boy have to choose this week to visit his family? What great need could his parents have of him when Francis was lying here sick and unattended? And where was Whitt? Why was there no one to care for him? His father's house had employed more than seventy servants. Now he had not so much as a pot boy to fetch him a cup of beer. He felt utterly abandoned.
He struggled out of bed and managed to dress himself sufficiently for a brief foray across the courtyard to advise the butler of his needs. He pulled his door shut and stood on the landing for a moment, pressing his palm to his forehead. He was quite certain he had a fever. He'd need a sudorific tonic, laced with poppy juice, administered hourly. A noise opposite assaulted his ears. He glanced toward the library.
"Oh, it's you. A bit early for research, isn't it?"
"It's nearly nine of the clock. Not everyone spends the whole morning in bed."
Francis huffed. "I'm ill. Besides, it's Sunday." He hesitated. "Isn't it?"
A laugh. A rather unfriendly one. Francis felt a shiver run up his spine. He did have a fever. He must get back into bed immediately.
"Yes, it is Sunday, Your Readership."
Francis waved a limp hand to deflect the sarcasm.
"Actually, I wanted a word with you."
"It will have to wait," Francis said. "Tomorrow. Or the next day. I'm quite ill. Can't you see that I'm suffering?"
"That will soon be over."
How would he know? Francis took a step down the stairs. Then he felt hard hands pressing against his back, driving him forward. His feet lifted from the floor. He fell, tumbling, limbs banging against the age-hardened oak of the balusters.
Merciful God, he thought. I understand it all.
And the rest was silence.
Tom marched up Holborn Street, setting a punishing pace with his long legs. A church bell had just tolled nine of the clock. Clara had been arrested one whole hour ago. Time was of the essence.
"First we talk to Mrs. Sprye, and then we pound Treasurer Fogg to a bloody pulp." He threw a glance over his shoulder and saw Trumpet jogging along behind. Even Ben was panting slightly. He slowed his pace.
Ben said, "Mr. Bacon first. He'll know for certain if this is Fogg's hand. He'll also know how to post bail."
"Yes, yes, Mr. Bacon knows everything." Tom was in no mood to humor Ben's hero worship.
"Well, he does," Ben said, unfazed. "Besides, I want to check on him to see if he needs anything. He was up too late last night. It doesn't agree with him."
"Doesn't agree with him," Tom muttered. Then he shouted, "The love of my life has been thrown into the foulest, most dangerous prison in Christendom and you're worried that your tutor might have a little hangover?"
Ben looked abashed, which made Tom feel even worse.
"We'll get her out, Tom," Trumpet soothed. "Maybe not today since it's Sunday, but tomorrow. You'll see. Mrs. Sprye knows every judge in Westminster and the gaol delivery justices too. Half of them owe her their positions."
"Don't forget that Mr. Bacon wants to talk to Clara too," Ben said. "He'll help us, I promise you."
"Fine. Mr. Bacon first, then." Tom cut recklessly across Holborn and stormed up Gray's Inn Road and through the gateway, waving impatiently at the porter as he passed. "He'd better be awake."
They marched across the yard. Tom flung open the door. He nearly stepped on him, the frail figure splayed on the floor at the foot of the stairs.
"Francis!" Ben cried. He knelt beside him, his face white.
"Is he dead?" Tom's heart clenched with dread.
Trumpet knelt on the other side and placed trembling fingers on his neck. "He's alive." He moved a hand under the man's nostrils. "He's breathing." His voice quavered with tears of relief.
Tom breathed in then out. Tears stung his own eyes. "Thanks be to God in his heaven."
"We must get him upstairs," Ben whispered.
Tom nudged Trumpet aside and bent to gather the slender form into his arms. He took the stairs as quickly as he could without jarring. Ben kept pace beside him, his hand on Bacon's forehead as if that would somehow help. Trumpet ran ahead to open doors.
They passed straight through the outer chamber. Tom barely noticed the opulence of the furnishings as he hurried in to lay his burden gently on the wide bed. Ben removed Bacon's ruff, cuffs, and doublet. Tom slipped off his shoes and unfolded the lambskin coverlet that lay across the foot of the bed, drawing it up over the still figure. Trumpet arranged pillows, taking the opportunity to run light hands over his head.
"A bump — a big one — but no blood. Not too bad." He smiled at Ben, who was weeping openly with fear.
Tom heard a soft boom from the stairwell. He nipped into the outer chamber and peered out the window. He went back into the bedchamber. "Someone went out, I think, but I missed him. The court is full of men, walking here and there. It could have been any of them."
Mr. Bacon groaned softly. His eyes fluttered open. Ben took his limp hand and patted it. "My bed," Bacon said. "How?"
"We found you at the foot of the stairs," Ben said.
The lads exchanged worried looks. Tom knew they were all thinking the same thing: Bacon had been pushed, like Shiveley. Thanks be to God they had come straight to Gray's instead of stopping first at the Antelope. If they had arrived even a few minutes later, he was certain they would have found Bacon's neck snapped.
The murderer that was loose at Gray's was growing bolder. "Thank you, Gentlemen." Bacon's eyes closed. His lashes lay black against his too-white cheeks. He lay still, breathing soft, regular breaths. A minute passed; another.
"Should we go?" Trumpet whispered. "Let him sleep?"
"Not sleeping. Thinking." Bacon opened his eyes and looked sideways at Ben. "Mr. Whitt, would you be so kind as to fetch my desk and take dictation? I may never have another opportunity to describe the effects of a blow on the head from the perspective of the victim."
Tom was nonplussed, but Ben rose without comment and went into the study. He returned with a portable writing desk decorated with the Bacon coat of arms. He drew a stool to the side of the bed and sat, placing the desk at his feet.
"Mr. Bacon," Tom asked, "shouldn't we send for a physician?"
"Yes, please do. But not yet." Again his eyes closed, but briefly this time. "I can't remember." He sounded nettled. "I went out on my landing, meaning to go down to the buttery. I spoke with someone. I can almost see his face and hear his voice, but I cannot form a name in my mind."
"You must rest," Ben said. "Don't strain yourself."
Bacon looked at Tom. "Have you brought the limner? Does she have the tools of her trade? Perhaps she can help me remember."
Tom shook his head. "I'm afraid I have bad news." He told him about Clara's arrest, glossing over his reasons for being on the scene first thing on a Sunday morning.
"If Fogg sent that letter, then he is our killer," Bacon said. "Conversely, if he is not the killer, he did not send the letter. There is no reason for the limner to be questioned in the matter of the Fleming's death."
Tom pulled the letter from his pocket and unfolded it. He started to hand it to the prostrate man, hesitated, and gave it to Ben instead. Ben held it so that Bacon could see it without moving his head.
"Well," he said, after a brief perusal, "that is not Fogg's hand. His clerk might have written it, but it doesn't seem his style either. I would expect more verbosity. Perhaps with some thought . . ."
"You must rest," Ben insisted. He folded up the letter and tucked it into the desk. "You've had a very narrow escape."
Bacon turned his hazel eyes toward Ben. He suddenly looked very young and very vulnerable, lying injured and helpless in his vast bed. "Will you stay with me?"
"Every minute." Ben took his hand and clasped it firmly in both of his own.