Trumpet paused, a grape seed poised on her tongue, and counted the bells ringing from St. Andrews. Seven o’clock. She spat the seed at the copper chamber pot near her chair, only missing by an inch this time.
“Tom’s late,” she said to Catalina, who sat by the window, wrapping wooden buttons in black silk thread.
“Only that he is not early, my lady.”
Trumpet grunted. She would willingly wait an hour, though she would never let Tom know that. But this small dining room on the first floor of the Antelope Inn in Holborn had come to feel like her private parlor, a sort of sanctuary. She and Tom, with Catalina as chaperone, often met here on Sunday evenings after Lady Russell went to bed. They talked and played cards, sometimes even venturing into the public room to chat with the proprietress, Mrs. Sprye. In this slow season between legal terms, there was little risk of Trumpet being recognized from her year at Gray’s in the guise of Alan Trumpington, her imaginary cousin.
Mrs. Sprye had been Trumpet’s second-best ally in that deception, after her uncle, with whom she had lodged. The innkeeper had given Trumpet a place to change clothes when necessary. The Antelope Inn was a favorite retreat for members of the Inns of Court. Mrs. Sprye had learned a great deal of the law from her patrons, especially concerning its injustices toward women. She generally chose to make her own rules. She and Trumpet had found natural allies in one another.
Mrs. Sprye trusted her young conspirators to behave within the bounds she defined, and so they did, restricting themselves to opposite sides of the table. It wasn’t enough, but they had learned that they could not merely kiss and hold hands and be content. Anything further courted disaster. Trumpet must be a virgin when she married, especially after last year’s near-catastrophe.
She chewed another grape and spat the seed, winning a satisfying clink to reward her improving aim. A handful of grapes later, a knock sounded on the door, which opened to reveal Tom’s cheerful face, grinning directly at the seat he knew she’d be in.
She threw a grape at him but caught the shorter man who followed him instead. Still, she’d hit a mark, square on the forehead. And no one deserved it more.
“Nashe!” she cried. “I wasn’t expecting you.”
“Do you remember each other?” Tom asked, sliding into his customary seat.
“Who could forget so beauteous a lady?” Nashe said.
Trumpet waved that away. “We met Thursday afternoon, at the Black Bull in Shoreditch.”
“This Thursday?” Tom asked.
Trumpet enjoyed the procession of emotions marching across his beloved features. First, confusion, as he tried to put people in places three days past. Second, outrage, that a secret had been kept from him. Third, a narrow-eyed suspicion of collusion between two friends. Finally, his shifting glance settled on Trumpet’s face, and the angry lines smoothed away like wrinkles fleeing a warm iron. He rolled his eyes and grinned, rueful, surrendering with a shrug.
“He’s told me everything,” Trumpet said. “All about your great new commission from Lord Burghley.”
“From who?” Nashe’s mouth opened wide in surprise.
“He can’t have told you everything,” Tom said. “He doesn’t know everything.”
“Only because he doesn’t know Mr. Bacon, which I do.” Trumpet smirked. “I filled in the gaps.”
“She’s implacable,” Nashe said by way of apology. He swept off his hat and made a courtly bow to Catalina, earning pleased smiles from both servant and mistress, then helped himself to a seat near the window. He licked his lips as he surveyed the dishes scattered about the table.
“Have you supped?” Trumpet asked. “Please help yourselves. There’s wine in the red jug and beer in the green one.” She waved a hand invitingly toward the small feast. Her uncle had taught her that generosity in such small things often paid for itself with loyalty in larger ones.
“I had a few bowls of pottage,” Tom said, pouring wine for himself and Nashe. “But this is better than what we get at Gray’s.”
The men heaped plates with cheese, slices of cold ham, olives, boiled carrots, and pickle sauce, tearing chunks of warm bread to go with the rest. Sliced fruit and sweetmeats waited their turn. Catalina rose and poured another cup of beer for herself and her mistress and then returned to her work. Two candles had been lit and two others were set ready, but for now the soft evening light slanting through the windows was enough.
“How much did this clatterfart tell you about our investigation so far?” Tom asked.
“Next to nothing,” Nashe said.
“Practically everything,” Trumpet said, “but I’d rather hear it from you. He was vague about the wheres and whens.”
Tom summarized the details of the two murders. “Both strangled in alleys in Norton Folgate in the dark of the night.”
“I don’t think so,” Trumpet said. “It couldn’t have been all that dark. There was a full moon last week.”
Tom paused with a hunk of bread stuffed with cheese and ham halfway to his mouth. “That’s right, it was. But faces look much alike by moonlight, especially under any kind of hat. Both men were about the same height as Nashe, and they were caught almost on their doorsteps. I assume the villain followed them from a tavern or someplace to be sure they were going into the right house before making his attack.”
“Why does he want to kill you?” Trumpet asked Nashe.
“He wants to stop the Mar-Martins before they reveal too much,” Tom said. “Why else? I imagine he’s also furious with what they’re publishing.”
“In the latter case,” Trumpet argued, “why haven’t we seen a general slaughter of clowns? This fiend would have to strangle half the population of Shoreditch to achieve that aim.”
“Both specious and an exaggeration,” Tom said, his blue eyes sparkling. Their friendship had begun in just this way, taking opposite sides of some legal question or, more often, something absurd, like the putative charms of a barmaid or the relative merits of vendors of hot pies. “No one thinks the anti-Martinists are being murdered to stop them writing doggerel. Martin’s minion must be afraid that Nashe learned something that can point the finger at the secret press. Enough hints were given in Martin’s Mirror to raise the alarm.”
“Pasquill’s latest should be out tomorrow,” Nashe said, “though since I’m in captivity, I suppose I won’t get to see it. It’s called A Countercuffe Given to Martin Junior.”
“More of the same?” Tom asked.
“Worse, from Martin’s point of view. I gave more details about the villages where Martin could be hiding, or his press anyway.”
“That sounds vague,” Trumpet said.
“Not if you’re Martin’s minion,” Tom said.
“If I were Martin,” Trumpet said, “I’d pack up and move. I wouldn’t send my minion to London to strangle men at random.”
“It isn’t random,” Tom said. “We’ve established that. Mr. Bacon believes it.”
Trumpet grunted her acceptance of that proof. “But according to Nashe, your best suspect is one of the canon’s pursuivants, Anthony Munday.”
“He’s an unpleasant, scowling sort of rascal,” Nashe said.
Tom caught her gaze. “He used to chase Catholics for Sir Richard Topcliffe.”
She grimaced. Neither of them wanted any further dealings with that odious gentleman. “Unpleasant, I agree, but that association is purely circumstantial as evidence.”
“It’s the strongest argument against him, for my money.” Tom dusted crumbs from his hands and leaned forward, setting an elbow on the table to wag his finger at her. “The leopard doesn’t change his spots.”
Trumpet chuffed at that response. “Which one is the leopard? Martin or his pursuivant?”
“Both,” Tom said, grinning. “From what I’ve heard, this Munday is a slippery sort of eel.”
“Eels don’t have spots,” Nashe said.
“Nor are leopards slippery,” Trumpet added. They grinned at each other, in perfect accord, and turned skeptical faces toward Tom.
“Fair enough,” Tom said. “My metaphors are not of the best. But hear me out. Munday is a clever cat. Peace!” He flapped his hand at them. “Although a leopard is a kind of cat. But leave out the animals. Munday is sly enough to play both sides. He hates Catholics enough to hunt them down and send them to the gallows. Well, nobody hates Catholics more than a Puritan. They can’t even stomach the faint whiff of incense on old robes found in Grandmama’s garret. Munday is more likely to support Martin than oppose him.”
Trumpet had started shaking her head halfway through that weak argument. “My Lady Russell supports Martin too, in a general sense, but she doesn’t prowl the liberties outside the wall hoping to get her long white hands around a pamphleteer’s neck.”
That image was too much for everyone, including Catalina, who bleated a small laugh.
“Of course not,” Tom said. “But if I were Martin, I’d do my uttermost to get an informant into the opposing camp. What simpler way than to bribe one of the archbishop’s pursuivants? You’ll notice no one’s been caught who knows anything about anything. What better way to ensure that than to have your own man directing the pursuit?”
That silenced her next objection. Tom’s idea was not beyond the bounds of the possible. Lady Russell had loyal friends and servants of all stations in every county in which she owned land, which was most of them. She earned that loyalty not just with the generosity of small things, but also by defending her tenants’ rights almost as hotly as her children’s. And she was devious enough to nudge Canon Bancroft toward hiring the man of her choice, indirectly, of course, through a chain of acquaintances. She would never countenance murder, but she hadn’t known about them at dinner on Sunday. Maybe they’d stop, now that she did.
Trumpet chewed on her lip while thinking this through, noticing after a few moments the look in Tom’s eyes as he watched her mouth working. She stopped abruptly, pressing her lips together. He gave her an audible sigh.
“What does Mr. Bacon think of your idea?” she snapped, pushing thoughts of lips and their uses out of her mind.
“He thinks it’s too complicated.”
“Hmm.”
“It makes sense to me, my — Mr. Trumpet,” Nashe said.
Tom mouthed the words Mr. Trumpet with a comical expression on his face.
Trumpet clicked her tongue at him. “He has to call me something.” She turned politely toward Nashe. “Please tell me what you think of this deranged and convoluted notion.”
“I’m not sure it’s too convoluted,” Nashe said. “There’s only one twist, or rather, a turning back. Munday pursues himself, as it were. I don’t know him well, but my friends Dando and Oatmeale do. They think he’s capable of small deceptions. Laying claim to another man’s work or bragging about offers from publishers that far outshine the usual fees, which fall through at the last minute owing to someone else’s fault. That sort of thing.”
“So he’s a braggart and a liar,” Trumpet said. “That’s a far cry from a murderer.”
“It shows the man’s character,” Tom said, “which supports my idea. But leave Munday aside and let’s look at it from another angle.” He pointed his cup at Nashe. “You must have learned something vital, something more than a list of villages in Northamptonshire with Puritan-leaning churches.”
“Alas, I don’t know what I know.”
“You haven’t found anything in your notebooks?” Tom asked. “You’ve had nothing else to do during the day, unless you’ve been plucking at my lute, which I forbade you.”
“He’s staying in your room?” Trumpet asked, a flame of jealousy licking at her heart. “Does Mr. Bacon know?”
Tom shook his head. “He doesn’t notice things like that. He doesn’t hear anything when he’s reading or writing. If I stood on my desk and danced a sailor’s jig, I’d bet you a shilling it would take him a full half minute to look up.”
“I won’t take that bet,” Trumpet said. She’d witnessed Bacon’s powers of concentration at first hand.
Tom sighed. “I’ll be glad when term starts. Then I’ll be in the hall or in court or anywhere but Bacon’s chambers most of the day.”
Trumpet hummed in false sympathy for his plight. He could walk out the door and go anywhere he liked during his free hours. She couldn’t even do that small thing without careful planning and subterfuge.
“I have another question,” she said, turning back to Nashe. “Munday can’t be the only pursuivant. They’ve been chasing Martin and his accomplices for nearly a year. How could you learn something in one month that they failed to discover in all that time?”
Nashe grinned. “I have my ways, Mr. Trumpet. People take pity on me; I’m a peculiar sort of fellow. I make people laugh, which they like. They buy me drinks to keep me talking and then tell me their own stories in return. I’m not an official of any kind, you see. Not a pursuivant, a feodary, a constable . . . not even an assistant to the deputy clerk of the deputy sheriff.” He laughed at his own wit. “I’m too shabby, for one thing. Anyone can see at a glance that I’m harmless. So they tell me things they would never tell a man like Munday, with his royal writs and his glowering glare.”
“I can see that,” Tom said. “I can’t imagine anyone telling Munday anything. You saw the way all conversation stopped whenever he walked up to a table at the Goose.”
Nashe said, “You don’t have to be likable to find Catholics. You don’t eavesdrop in alehouses or charm the village gossips. You pay a visit to the local vicar or the justice of the peace and show him your writ. You say, ‘I’m from the queen’s appointed somebody-something’ and demand a list of families who aren’t attending church.”
“That wouldn’t help you find Martin’s minions,” Tom said. “Protestant hotheads go to church Sunday morning and then on to their Bible study groups at home. The more church, the merrier, if I can use that word for those unmerry folks.” He shuddered.
Trumpet shuddered with him. He’d come very close to joining their ranks in truth during his months in Cambridge. She and Ben had brought him back to himself with great effort, dragging him out to taverns every night, plying him with drinks and dancing until he stopped spouting Bible verses in answer to everything.
Nashe nodded at his objection. “That’s probably why the bishops haven’t found anything. They need a fresh approach. They can’t study old court records either, like feodaries and their agents who spy out orphans and widows with lands owing feudal duties.” He pointed at Tom. “That’s probably what happened to you.”
“No,” Tom said. “I brought my misery on myself. I remember bragging, more than once, about my father’s lands after supper in the hall, trying to prove that I belong at Gray’s as much as the men whose fathers are real gentlemen. Stupid!”
“Lots of us bragged about lots of things,” Trumpet said. “Everyone was trying to prove something. You couldn’t know how it would turn out.”
“They’d have found you out anyway,” Nashe said. “It’s a miracle anyone escapes, the game is so profitable. I bumped into one of them in Northamptonshire. A clerkish-looking cove who said he’d been straining his poor eyes studying ancient deeds of sale, searching for parcels that once belonged to a church or a great lord. He said he could earn ten pounds for one good find.”
Trumpet and Tom gawked at him. Tom said, with a touch of awe in his voice, “That’s an enormous sum of money.”
“Tempting, isn’t it?” Nashe said. “He caught my interest, I’ll warrant you. I asked him how a man could make so much for doing so little. He scoffed at the ‘little’ and admitted that he’d only earned that sum once, for a widow with an estate worth a thousand per annum. He was nice enough to throw me one crumb. He said even a quick note sent to your county feodary could earn you a pound or two. They’re always on the alert. Or you could get your pound directly from the widow by warning her about what you’d discovered. It would be worth it to her to buy your silence.”
“That’s blackmail,” Trumpet said with authority. A useful tool in its place, but not to be used for trivial purposes. “And low, in this case. Lower than informing on recusant Catholics.”
“I agree,” Nashe said, “in spite of my empty purse. I did let the churl pay for my supper.”
Tom’s eyes narrowed, doubtless imagining some varlet making such an offer to his mother. “Who would inform on a widow and her children in their darkest hour of grief? If that had happened to us, I would’ve hunted the bastard down and strangled him myself.”
“No, you wouldn’t,” Trumpet said.
“I might.” Tom squared his jaw. The yellow light of the nearest candle caught the ruddy tints in his beard, making them glow like polished bronze.
Trumpet loved that brushy rill. He’d never grow it an inch longer if she had anything to say about it. Which she did. “I meant you would never strangle anyone. You would challenge the knave to a fair fight with his choice of weapon and then trounce him justly.”
“True. And thanks.” Tom treated her to a full-dimple grin. Then he turned back to Nashe. “I’ll grant that your clerk was a scoundrel, but you won’t find lists of radical Presbyterians in old land records either.”
“No,” Nashe agreed, “which is why your average pursuivant will get nowhere in your average village. Those folks won’t betray their masters to any passing stranger. You can’t dance jiggery-joggery into the local alehouse and start asking questions. You have to tell stories, the funnier the better, especially ones that hint at scandals in the neighboring parish. Then you’ll be treated to their stories in return. Lots of stories, endless stories, stories utterly bereft of wit or purpose.” He rolled his eyes to heaven. “But eventually someone says something about the new men up at the manor who never come to town. Once I heard that one such unknown varlet had been seen hanging small sheets in the barn.”
“Sheets of paper?” Tom asked.
“That was my guess,” Nashe said, “though I kept it to myself. The simpleton who told me thought it was a nefarious plot to frighten the washerwomen.”
“That’s very interesting,” Tom said, refilling Nashe’s cup.
“And very vague,” Trumpet said. “Unless your simpleton also gave you a description of the paper-hanger detailed enough to pick him out of a crowd. That might be enough to alarm our villain, but it doesn’t help us identify him. We need more. We need something definitive.”
“We should set a trap,” Tom said. “Like we did last time, remember?”
Trumpet whistled. “You nearly lost that gamble.”
“It was close, I’ll grant you,” Tom said, “but the result was definitely definitive. And frankly, I can’t think of another play. I’ll keep looking for witnesses, but I’ll bet you the next round of spiced wine that the best I’ll get is” — he shifted into a falsetto — “welladay, my good sir, all I can tell you is he was a tall man with a black hat and a hook instead of a hand.”
They laughed, but not for long. Trumpet pointed her chin at Nashe, who was stuffing bread and cheese into his pockets. “I suppose we’ll use this one as bait.”
“He’s all we’ve got,” Tom said.
“Wait!” Nashe cried. “Can’t we steal a scarecrow from a field or a tailor’s form? I’m too young for such a fate.”
“Don’t worry,” Trumpet said. “We’ll be watching. At worst, you’ll have a sore throat for a few days.” She winked at Tom. “I suppose you have a plan?”
“I do. I’ve been thinking about this since we got here. We were so unconscionably late” — he gave Trumpet a wry look — “because we stopped to make arrangements with Mrs. Sprye for Nashe’s meals. He can’t eat in commons, of course, and neither one of us has any money. She agreed to feed him twice a day in exchange for some fair-copying and sorting out some old accounts. It’ll only be for a few days, if my plan works.”
“Let’s hear it.” Trumpet popped a dried cherry into her mouth and chewed it with a saucy snap.
“It’s simple,” Tom said. “Nothing can go wrong. Our strangler likes to grab his victims in a narrow alley close to their destination. Our friend Nashe will be walking from the Antelope here to my room at Gray’s every evening. He can’t pass through the gatehouse and walk across the central yard to the front door, so he has to take the shortcut through Fulwood’s Rents and climb in the back window. I’m thinking the most likely point of attack will be at the end of that passage. It’s like a bottleneck. After that there’s a short, open stretch to get to my window.”
Trumpet walked the familiar route in her mind. Fulwood’s hadn’t been completely built in her year, but she knew the general lay of the land. “That should work. We three” — she nodded toward Catalina to include her in the plan — “can hide before and aft, so to speak. When the villain strikes, we leap out and grab him. The three of us should be able to overpower him easily enough.”
Tom grinned, but did not utter so much as a chuckle. He knew her qualities. “The moon was full last week, which might be why our strangler chose to strike then. If this weather holds, it should be bright enough for the next few nights to tempt him out again.”
Nashe’s face still held a pained expression, but he seemed reconciled to his role. The others were either too tall, too small, or too curvy. “How will we lure our prey into this trap?”
“We’ll have to put the word out,” Tom said. “We must make sure Anthony Munday hears about it, which should be easy enough. From what I saw at the Goose and Gall the other night, all you have to do, Nashey, is spend an hour or two at your regular table gossiping with your blabber-mates, Dando and Oatmeale.”
“John Dando and Oliver Oatmeale?” Trumpet cried. “You didn’t tell me you’d met them. They’re Ben’s favorites! I buy everything they write to send to him so he can keep up with their doings.”
“I haven’t had much chance to tell you anything,” Tom said. They traded forlorn looks. What kind of cruel world kept friends like them apart? The rank injustice nagged at each of them, all day, like a hole in a stocking that rubbed blisters on your foot.
“There’s no trick to meeting those muddy rascals,” Nashe said, oblivious to the undercurrents. “I’ll take you there next Thursday afternoon, if you like.”
Tom opened his mouth, but Trumpet talked right over his predictable objection. “I accept. This strangler business may be over by then.”
“If we’re lucky,” Tom said. He met her eyes. “Do you think I should tell Mr. Bacon first?”
“I don’t know,” she answered. “What do you think he’d say?”
He laughed and she nodded. “We have a plan. We each have our role to play. We have a moon.”
“When should I start spreading rumors?” Nashe said.
“Why wait?” Trumpet answered before Tom could come up with another objection. “Let’s do it tomorrow.”