The Monday morning after the incident, Tom made his usual attempt to gain entry to Bacon’s chambers and received the usual rebuff. Pinnock had embraced his new role as King of the Castle, taking it upon himself to wad up the note Tom tried to thrust through the crack in the door and pitch it down the stairs.
“I give up,” Tom said. “Tell him I intend to spend the whole day, today and every day henceforward, boozing and playing cards at the Antelope.”
Pinnock shrugged. “Anyone could guess that.”
Offended at that gross injustice, Tom dusted his hands together. “So be it.” He gathered his dignity and stalked down the stairs.
He had no desire to spend the day squandering money he didn’t have. He couldn’t enjoy himself while wondering which poor scribbler would next be found dead in an alley with finger marks around his throat. Martin’s minion had to be stopped and if Francis Bacon wouldn’t do it, he would.
He could kill two birds with one stone, after a fashion, by sending a letter to Peter Hollowell inviting him to supper at the Antelope. In fact, he’d be killing three birds, or even four. If Hollowell were guilty, Tom ought to be able to catch a whiff of it — a hesitation, an overly hearty laugh, a shifting of the eyes. Better yet, an inability to account for his whereabouts on any of the crucial dates, which would be suggestive, if not definitive.
If Hollowell were innocent, which he most likely was, Tom stood to gain a new friend who happened to know a great deal about the Court of Wards. He had every reason to cultivate the man’s acquaintance. Similar age, similar circumstances. Both bachelors. Both clerks in the service of influential courtiers. Well, not Bacon so much, but he sometimes had the ear of persons with influence. Forming a cordial alliance with Mr. Hollowell made sense given their mutual concerns and interests.
Furthermore, if Hollowell were innocent, or even if he weren’t, sooner or later Tom would be obliged to report the attack on Mr. Bacon. In fact, Mr. Cecil might already know and be angry that he hadn’t dashed straight over on Wednesday morning to inform him.
That had not occurred to Tom until this very moment. Now that it had, the need to correct the fault possessed him with a powerful urgency and an even greater reason to request a meeting away from Burghley House. Tom considered his phrasing for a moment, then wrote the invitation. He kept it short — less chance of offending — only hinting at news to be delivered.
He had his reply by midafternoon. He dressed with almost as much care as he would for an afternoon at the theater with Trumpet. At the last minute, he remembered that he had two things to discuss with his supper guest, assuming he turned out not to be a murderer. He ruffled through the box in which he kept everything pertaining to his wardship and stuffed the scroll with his proofs of age into the deep pocket of his hose.
He found Nashe at his usual table, even inkier than before, and hustled him out to spruce himself up in the scullery. He refrained from mentioning his suspicions. Let Nashe provide an objective view in the forthcoming conversation.
Mrs. Sprye willingly provided a handsome repast in her smallest private dining room. “Your friend Mr. Nashe has saved me a pretty penny, I don’t mind telling you. He’s caught two errors in bills from tradesmen and discovered four unpaid bills from lawyers who stayed in my rooms during Trinity term. Those varlets! See if I’ll let them into my house again!”
Nashe returned with fresh cuffs and neatly combed hair. He entertained Tom with his adventures in innkeeping until Dolly, the serving wench, opened the door to announce their guest. Peter Hollowell strode in with a smile on his face and his hand already extended to shake Tom’s. He’d trimmed his beard to a slightly sharper point and wore the dark red suit again. That was a useful color that ought to be allowed by Gray’s Inn’s restrictive dress regulations. Now that Lady Russell enforced his compliance, Tom was limited to “sad colors,” meaning black, brown, gray, and puke.
When Nashe rose to be introduced, Hollowell’s genial expression transformed into one of delight. He clasped Nashe’s hand in both of his, exclaiming, “So you’re the famous Thomas Nashe! The cause of all our toil and strife!”
He winked broadly at Tom, who couldn’t help but chuckle at the man’s infectious enthusiasm. He would swear before the Lord Chancellor and the Archbishop of Canterbury together that Hollowell had never laid eyes on Thomas Nashe before this moment.
They sat around the table and Tom poured wine, passing the water jug and sugar bowl around so each could adjust it to his taste. Hollowell shoveled in a heaping spoonful and stirred it in vigorously, grinning happily at Nashe all the while.
“I am a great admirer of your work, Mr. Nashe.”
“I haven’t got much to admire,” Nashe said, pink-eared with pleasure. “I haven’t found a publisher for my Anatomy, but I’m still hopeful. There’s a few who haven’t yet had a chance to turn me down.”
“I can’t imagine any bookseller worth his salt turning down a sample of your lively wit. If only you could tell them you were the author of Martin’s Mirror Mar’d. That would change their tune, I’ll wager.” Hollowell sampled his wine and added more sugar. “Anatomy of what, if I may ask?”
“It’s an Anatomy of Absurdity,” Nashe said. “I wrote it at Cambridge, but I’ve freshened it up quite a bit.”
“Absurdity!” Hollowell crowed. “I can’t wait. But I hope that won’t prevent you writing another one of your delicious Mar-Martin pamphlets? They’re so engaging, and you know, I agree with my master. I think they’ve helped turned the tide of public opinion against that pernicious troublemaker.”
Bacon had implied the opposite, that Cecil had agreed with him. Reckless and irresponsible were the actual words he’d used, but Tom kept that to himself. Hollowell was probably just being polite.
Nashe shrugged. “I suppose we’ll stop when Martin is caught or, if that never happens, whenever Canon Bancroft gives up and closes his purse.”
“Oh, he’ll be caught eventually,” Hollowell said. “Though I must confess I’ve enjoyed the ‘battle of the wits,’ if I may so declare it. It’s all the more fun when you know the true names of some of the contenders, isn’t it, Mr. Clarady?” He nodded at Tom to include him in the conversation. “One of the advantages of posts like ours, inside the halls of power. We’re privy to secrets other men can only speculate about.”
“That is an advantage,” Tom said. “I’ll confess to you in my turn that I’ve had a bit of fun lately in commons, when people start guessing about Mar-Martin’s identity. I like to hint at someone untouchable, like Sir Walter Raleigh.”
They all laughed at that idea. “He would do it for the mischief alone,” Hollowell said. “Although of course he’s far too honorable a gentleman.”
“Of course,” Tom agreed.
Dolly came back with another server to unload trays of food. A third servant set out a bowl where the men could wash their hands, handing them towels embroidered with a row of prancing antelopes. Once the other men were seated again, Tom carved the joint of lamb, doing an expert job. Lady Russell had insisted he learn the art, one of the essential skills of a gentleman and hard to practice at Gray’s Inn.
The talk revolved around the food as they passed around plates of lamb, mackerel pie, and other dishes, friends among equals. Once they’d taken the edge off their appetites, the conversation expanded again into matters of greater concern.
“I understand you spent a fair amount of time in Northamptonshire, Mr. Nashe,” Hollowell said. “I myself hail from that fair county, though I live in London now. I have part of a house in Blackfriars, convenient to the wharf. But my family’s still in Northampton, and I know the county well.”
“Do you?” Nashe said, casting a questioning glance at Tom, who merely smiled blandly. The place name had pricked his ears as well, but he didn’t want to lead the discussion in any way. Let it go where it would, then he’d see where it brought him.
“Oh yes,” Hollowell said. “My late wife was from a village called Little Everdon. Did you happen to pass that way in your ramblings?”
“Little Everdon? That’s near Fawsley, isn’t it?”
“It is.” Hollowell nodded slowly, his expression turning grave. “I’m sure you remember that name. You mentioned it in your Countercuffe. Which I enjoyed at breakfast this morning, thank you very much.”
Again, Nashe glanced at Tom before answering, but Tom happened — not by accident — to be lifting his cup to his lips.
Nashe kept the topic rolling. “I heard some gossip about a rumor about someone saying they’d heard of a printing press hidden in an outbuilding at Fawsley Manor a year ago, or perhaps longer.”
Hollowell whistled noiselessly. “Vague.”
“You never mentioned that before,” Tom said. “It may be vague, but it could be worth following up on. If it had been a three-horned devil in the road, no, but people don’t go around having visions of printing presses.”
“I told you about that before,” Nashe said. Then he cocked an eye at the ceiling. “Didn’t I?”
“No, you didn’t,” Tom said.
Hollowell chuckled. “You couldn’t possibly remember everything you heard or everyone you met. A lot of wild stories circulate in those country alehouses. It’s the only form of entertainment people have, apart from reading month-old broadsides. You must have been a popular man, Mr. Nashe, with your lively wit and your friendly manner.”
“People do tend to tell me things,” Nashe said. “But by the time I get back to my little nest in the worst room at the top of the oldest house, I’ve had too many ales and heard too many tales to get it all written down.”
“Then you kept a notebook,” Hollowell said. “Wise man. Tell me, do you ever use a pencil?”
Nashe blinked at the sudden shift in topic. “Do you mean those little sticks of black lead?”
“I use them,” Tom said. “Mr. Bacon told me about them. Very handy for writing standing up or in tight spots where you can’t set out your inkpot.”
Nashe wrinkled his nose. “I know the things you mean. But you get black stuff all over your fingers, and next thing you know it’s on your nose and your cuffs . . .”
Tom and Hollowell laughed together. “You use a little holder made of wood,” Hollowell said. “I’ll send you one, as a gift in thanks for the pleasure you’ve brought me. And for the service you’re doing for our queen.”
“That’s very kind of you,” Nashe said.
Tom had to agree. Would a murderer send small gifts to a victim he’d failed to murder three times now? His suspicions had fairly well evaporated.
Hollowell’s smile faded as he leaned in toward the others and lowered his voice. “But you know, Mr. Nashe, between you and me and Mr. Clarady here, I believe that particular rumor is worth pursuing. I don’t personally know anything about printing presses at Fawsley Hall, or I would have spoken up long ago, but I can tell you that Sir Richard Knightley, the master of that hall, is one of the most outspoken Puritans in Parliament.” He gave Tom a knowing look. “Your Mr. Bacon will know all about him. He’s a hot one, I can tell you that much. He’s been censured on more than one occasion. I’m not sure how these things are managed, but now that you put Fawsley Hall on the table, perhaps someone ought to give it a closer look.”
“Sir Richard Knightley of Fawsley Hall,” Tom said, committing the name to memory. “I’ll keep my ears open. You know, everyone I’ve spoken to thinks Martin Marprelate is a member of Parliament. Sir Richard might just be our man. And if that’s so, then Martin’s minion will probably turn out to be one of his retainers or workmen. You don’t have to be educated to run packages back and forth.”
“Or to lurk in an alley waiting for your victim,” Hollowell added darkly. “Let us both pass our suspicions on to our masters. As for Mr. Nashe, I didn’t mean to suggest that you should rush right back out into harm’s way. I pray that you are keeping yourself under Mr. Clarady’s watchful eye and not exposing yourself to any more risks.”
“Speaking of risks,” Tom said with a stab of guilt, “you’ll think me the most unfeeling of monsters, but we’ve been so amiable here this evening, I completely forgot. I have some news that might distress you, though now I must hasten to assure you that all is well, more or less.”
He told Hollowell about the trap and its unexpected result. The man’s eyes and mouth rounded in horror at the description of the attack on frail Francis Bacon. At the end, he let out a great sigh of relief. “God’s mercy, what a narrow escape! I don’t blame him for staying in bed. Such frights are a serious hazard, very unbalancing to the humors, very dangerous. Has he consulted a physician?”
“I don’t think so,” Tom said. “He hasn’t chosen to confide in me. Although I did accompany his servant to the apothecary on Wednesday morning.” In truth, he’d followed Pinnock there and back, nagging him fruitlessly for details all the way.
“Good, good, good,” Hollowell said. “I hope he’ll be back on his feet soon.”
They traded frowns, establishing their mutual concern for Francis Bacon’s health and well-being. Tom refilled cups and pushed a dish of sweetmeats toward his guest. “I had an ulterior motive for inviting you this evening, Mr. Hollowell, if I may be so bold now as to declare it.”
“How so?” Hollowell paused in the act of popping a sugared almond into his mouth.
“I did as you suggested and asked my guardian if she would find the money from my rents this year to pay my special livery. She refused, as you predicted. She said it would be too great a drain on the estate and that I ought to be grateful to have a wise head managing my lands while I complete my education.”
Hollowell hummed sympathetically, then turned to Nashe. “I’m the feodary of Northamptonshire, did Tom tell you that?”
Nashe blinked, caught off guard. “He doesn’t tell me much of anything.”
“Well, that is the first requirement of a confidential secretary,” Hollowell said, casting a wink at Tom. “You can expect him to ask more questions than he answers.” He tilted his head and asked, “Do you know what a feodary is?”
“Of course.” Nashe pointed his thumb at Tom. “He’s not reticent on that subject, I can assure you. The feodary is the officer of the Court of Wards responsible for squeezing every last farthing out of the poor widows and orphans in his county.”
Hollowell winced and held his side, pretending to be deeply wounded. “A hit! And a most feeling one. We squeeze only the rich widows, I promise you. The queen must have her penny, you know, and someone has to collect it. Then she locks it up in her treasure chest and is loath to let it out again. My Lord Burghley has many demands on his purse, as I’m sure you can imagine, with little help from the state.” He leaned forward again, lowering his voice. “Confidentially, the Court of Wards supports everything in Burghley House, from the pot boys to the secretaries’ salaries. Including mine” — he grinned — “which is why my master granted me the office. I try to be fair, but the law’s the law.”
“I don’t blame you,” Tom said. “In fact, I see it as something to aspire to somewhere down the road. I’m certainly learning a lot about wardship from the orphan’s side of the coin.”
“That’s a healthy attitude,” Hollowell said. “No sense in wallowing. Will you try for the general livery, then? A piecemeal suit, as it were?”
“What else can I do? I have my proofs of age, if you wouldn’t mind . . .” He pulled the scroll out of his pocket and shoved it across the table.
“Let’s have a look.” Hollowell took the roll of paper and read it, unrolling a few inches at the bottom with one hand while re-rolling the top with the other in the practiced manner of a man who spent his days handling such documents. He hummed here and there as he read, finishing with a final, “Hmm.”
Nashe flicked his fingers eagerly for a turn. “May I?” Hollowell glanced at Tom, who shrugged. Nashe might play the fool, but his magpie mind contained any number of odd facts. He might have something useful to offer.
Hollowell spoke to Tom, though his eyes remained on the scroll in Nashe’s hands. “That might serve, Mr. Clarady. It just might.”
“Might? Why only might?” Tom asked, dismayed. He thought he’d cleared this first hurdle with room to spare. “What’s wrong with it?”
Nashe had been blurting out small bursts of laughter as he read. Now he rolled the scroll up again and tossed it to Tom, shaking his head, a wide grin on his face. “Ah, Mr. Clarady, my good friend! It must be gratifying to discover how well-loved you are amongst the residents of your birthplace.”
“How not?”
“Well, let’s see.” Nashe held up two fingers. “Two of your witnesses remember the day of your baptism because each one had a sister die on the same day.” He added two more, counting them off with his other hand. “One of those along with two others marked the day because they both broke their arms falling out of a cart. The same cart, one feels compelled to ask? Perchance the very cart in which the bodies of the fallen sisters were being carried to the churchyard?”
Tom narrowed his eyes to slits, pressing his lips together tightly.
“Last and most convincing,” Nashe said, but in a kindlier tone, “four of your witnesses said they saw a great comet blaze across the sky on the day of your birth, confusing you, perhaps, with our Lord and Savior, although I fail to see the resemblance myself.”
Tom groaned, defeated. “I paid nearly two pounds for that document, all things considered.”
“It’s a problem for everyone, Mr. Clarady,” Hollowell said, “unless your parish church keeps extraordinary records, which few of them do. Special livery is the only sure course. You’ll just have to find the money somehow.”
“How?” Tom asked without hope of an answer. He took a long drink of wine, which tasted more bitter than it had before.
“Well,” Hollowell said, still smiling that congenial smile in spite of dashing Tom’s plans to pieces, “have you thought about marriage?”
Tom choked on his drink. Nashe laughed, wagging his finger. “An innkeeper, Clarady! What was I telling you?”
“I think you can look a little higher than that,” Hollowell said. “You have a handsome income and a handsome face, if you don’t mind my saying it.”
Nashe rolled his eyes. “He hears it everywhere he goes. Women stand on rooftops crooning to him, like the sirens of Ulysses.”
“I’m not ready to marry,” Tom said. “I plan to wait until I pass the bar.”
“That’s sensible,” Hollowell said, “although your guardian may have other plans. And your wardship problem could be solved without cost to you if she arranges a good match. You have friends in the legal profession. They could insist that a portion of your bride’s dowry be paid in cash, sufficient to obtain your livery. That’s especially likely if your wife is a merchant’s daughter, for instance, with her wealth in goods and money rather than lands, although I should think a young man with your prospects could look as high as a knight’s youngest daughter, assuming there’s enough money there to satisfy your needs.”
Tom slumped in his chair, hiding his face behind his cup, stunned by the whole unreasonable, unlooked-for prospect of acquiring a wife. Who, for the love of a merciful God? He didn’t know many women, unless you counted whores and Trumpet, who was as far above him as the strumpets were beneath.
Trumpet or a strumpet? That would make a clever sonnet . . . but one he would have to burn the minute after he wrote it for fear that it would somehow fall into her hands.
Nashe and Hollowell chatted cheerfully about the sorts of women a man like Tom could expect to wed. They agreed on the virtues of widows with property and without children, if any such could be found who were young enough. Tom ignored them, lost in his own turbulent thoughts on the subject.
A server came in to ask if they wanted more wine. Only Nashe said yes, but there was enough left in the second bottle to satisfy him. The server removed a few plates and left.
Hollowell glanced out the small window. “I’d best be going home soon if I want to get there before dark. There’s such a crowd on the river every evening; I’ll have to wait forever for a wherry.” He gazed across the table at Tom, plainly wanting to broach another topic. Then he cocked his head and said, “You haven’t asked me . . . Well, if it were me, after what happened to Mr. Bacon on Tuesday night . . .” He waved his hand to erase that. “I’ll simply be direct. You must have asked yourselves who knew about your plans? About that trap?” He pointed at Nashe. “The men you wanted to know, the ones you told, yes, but there is another.” He turned his finger toward himself. “Me. And Mr. Cecil, of course, but you wouldn’t dream of suspecting him.”
Tom pointed at him too, shaking his finger as if at a slightly naughty joke. “Since you mention it, Mr. Hollowell, I did wonder. And now that you bring it up, I suppose I’d better go ahead and ask. Where you were on Tuesday night?”
Hollowell nodded like a schoolmaster pleased with a bright pupil. “That would be about nightfall, didn’t you say?”
“Right on the cusp between day and night,” Tom said.
“Well, I was at home, in my library, with my feet on a cushion and a book in my lap. Tacitus’s Histories, if you care to know, though I’m afraid he can’t vouch for me.” He laughed, but broke it off. “Not a laughing matter. Unfortunately, I only have one servant, and I had sent him off to bed. But —” He shifted onto one buttock to reach into his pocket and drew out a small commonplace book, which he held up as if displaying a piece of evidence. “I keep a diary of daily events, important matters at work, anything noteworthy. I recommend the practice. You have no idea how impressed your master will be when you can conjure up the precise date and time of something that happened weeks ago.”
“Did you note the dates of the other attacks?” Tom asked. “Stokes and Little?”
“And Greene’s tumble down the stairs,” Nashe put in.
Hollowell frowned at him. “Well, I didn’t note that one since it wasn’t clear whether it was an accident or not. But the others, yes, certainly. Let’s see.” He flipped a few pages. “Yes, here’s Edgar Stokes, murdered on the twenty-second of July, under a waxing half-moon. That was a Friday. I noted the murder in its place when we learned of it. But I can prove where I was that night.” He licked his lips and glanced at the two other men. “If I can rely on your absolute discretion.”
“Absolutely,” Tom said. “And I’ll warrant Nashe’s discretion as well.”
Hollowell’s gaze wandered a little, then settled on the tabletop. “I was with a woman. A — well, you know the sort of woman I mean.”
Tom shot a quelling glance at Nashe and nodded somberly. “We understand, Mr. Hollowell. There’s no need to explain. A man in your circumstances . . . Can you tell us her name?”
“Of course! I mean, I wouldn’t want you to think I didn’t know the woman’s name!” Hollowell shook himself a little. “Well. You’re men of the world, and I’m being overly nice. Her name is Moll Tiploft. She has a room in a house not far from the one where Edgar Stokes — where you used to live, Mr. Nashe. Your landlady may know her. She’s a striking woman, Moll is. Red hair, round figure.” He sketched her shape with his hands. “Find her. Ask her. She’ll remember me. She’s squeezed more than a few coins out of this old feodary, I don’t mind telling you!”
They all laughed.
Tom had to ask one more question. “Do you really note your, ah, assignations in your diary?”
“Not as such,” Hollowell said with an embarrassed grimace. “I make a little dot, large enough for me to know, but no one else would notice it. To be honest, I’m not sure why. I mark the phases of the moon too. Things to keep track of, I suppose.”
Tom promised to find the redheaded whore and verify Hollowell’s story when he went to question Stokes’s landlady, which he ought to do tomorrow. Hollowell rose, declaring it time to venture downriver toward home. The others rose and shook hands all around, although Tom and Nashe were in no hurry to leave since they could walk home together tonight.
Hollowell paused on the threshold to cast a speculative look at Tom. “Speaking of women, Mr. Clarady, if you’ll excuse my boldness. You really ought to be looking about you for a wife. Better to choose your own than wait for your guardian to do it for you. If she offers you a suitable match who doesn’t happen to suit your tastes, you’ll owe her twice the value of the marriage, meaning the girl’s dowry, and be stuck in wardship until that sum is paid.”