Tom stuck close to his desk all day Monday, partly to get caught up on his fair-copying, which Bacon had unreasonably scolded him about once he’d managed to drag himself out of bed. He’d been abstracted, then peevish when interrupted, unwilling to discuss the investigation so far. He seemed to find any question on the subject impertinent. Then he’d been summoned to a day-long meeting of the benchers. On his way out, he’d admonished Tom not to go running around the town spreading rumors.
That choice of phrase would have been disturbing from a more alert master since Nashe had sneaked out shortly before noon to go to the Goose and Gall to spread their carefully crafted rumor to their carefully selected audience.
Tom was glad for the excuse to stay in. He didn’t want to risk disturbing the bait Nashe was setting out by accidentally contradicting some minor embellishment. The trail through the back streets of Norton Folgate would grow a few day’s colder, but it was already fairly cool. It might even be an advantage to let the strangler think they’d given up.
He considered telling Bacon about the trap for almost a minute before deciding it would do more harm than good. First, there was no point in suggesting anything to a man in such an ill humor. Second, the whole thing might be over before anyone at Gray’s noticed Nashe climbing through his window. And third, Bacon would surely note that the plan required more than one lookout and ask about the other members of the party. Tom hadn’t broken his promise not to tell Trumpet about this commission, but that nicety might be buried under the other objections to her involvement.
On Tuesday, Bacon refused to emerge from his bedchamber before ten o’clock. He greeted Tom with a grunt as he settled into the commodious chair behind his spacious desk, surveying the documents laid thereon with a disgruntled curl of the lip. He acted like a man with an unresolvable problem weighing on his mind.
It didn’t take a genius to figure out what that problem was. Tom was neither witless nor deaf. Bacon and Lady Russell had been talking about Robert Cecil and his father, Lord Burghley, after dinner on Sunday with all their “old persons” and “advisory bodies.” They’d come within a hair’s-breadth of accusing the most powerful man in the kingdom of perpetrating a year-long masquerade aimed at dismantling the established church.
The wisest course would be to make some excuse and bow out of this commission, but what excuse? The courts were adjourned for another six weeks, so Bacon could hardly plead press of business. He could throw himself down the stairs, hoping to break a leg or an arm, but Tom would have to do the same. How plausible would that be?
Somehow Bacon had to think of a way to catch a villain without identifying the villain’s master. Ticklish, any way you looked at it.
Bacon heaved a weary sigh, then dipped his quill and began to write. Whatever he was working on seemed to settle his inner turmoil. Tom could see the lines on his brow smoothing and the tightness around his mouth relaxing. Then the chapel bell tolled the quarter hour. Bacon returned his pen to its holder and asked, “Have you finished a complete copy of the Maxims?”
“One more and this is done.”
“Good. Go ahead and finish it up. Then after dinner I’d like you to go to the Stationers’ Hall and examine their record books. Make a list of every master printer still living, noting his place of origin and current place of employment, if that can be determined.”
“What!” Where had that come from? Tom’s heart sank at the prospect of spending a hot afternoon in a stuffy closet at the Stationers’ Hall. “There must hundreds of printers, not to mention journeymen.”
“Not so many as that,” Bacon said, unruffled by the heated response. “There are only about fifty presses in all of London. Add a few for Cambridge and Oxford. I doubt you’ll find more than a hundred men still young enough to work. It seems the logical place to start when searching for an illegal press, but no one else seems to have though of it. Although I didn’t ask.” He frowned out the window. “Perhaps I ought to.”
He wrote a short note. “Before you go into the city, take this note across to Lambeth Palace for Canon Bancroft. I’m asking for permission to spend an hour or two in the library this evening, but what I really want is an invitation to supper. I might learn more after a good meal and a few glasses of wine. Tell whoever takes your message that I would be honored to invite the canon to supper at Gray’s. Tell him that even between terms, we usually manage to set a respectable table. Frown when you say that, so the footman understands that any guest can expect day-old pottage with the odd lump of mutton.”
Tom chuckled. “I understand. I’ll make it clear that you desire a private, informal meeting but that dining at Gray’s would be the worst way to accomplish the goals of both conversation and nourishment.”
“Precisely.” Bacon petted his moustache with his index finger, gazing down at his manuscript, then looked up again with a smile. “That’s enough for today. We’ll see what we learn. One cautious step at a time, that’s the safest procedure.”
The door swung open and Pinnock bounded in, holding a square letter with a large red seal on his flat palm as if bearing a plate of jelly. Bacon took it and scowled at the seal.
“Oh, this is really too much!” He waved Pinnock out and waited until the door closed before showing the page to Tom. “It’s from the pygmy — my cousin. He wants me to drop whatever I’m doing and rush down to his house to deliver a report. He’s confusing me with one of his servants!”
Tom rose to accept the letter, then sat down again to read it. He bit his lip to keep from laughing. Mr. Cecil’s note seemed scrupulously polite to him, merely suggesting that his cousin pay a visit, at his convenience, to discuss the progress of his commission, if he should be inclined to do so.
But Bacon wouldn’t hear it. Cecil’s mere name seemed to prickle him like a coarse shirt on sunburnt skin. He spread his hands wide to indicate the two or three unanswered letters neatly squared on the corner of his largely empty desk. “It’s impossible! Anyone can see that I’m overwhelmed with work!”
“I’ll go,” Tom said. “It’s my job, after all. I can stop at Burghley House after taking your note to Lambeth.” With luck, they’d keep him waiting long enough to rule out a visit to the Stationers’ Hall that day. With more luck, something else would turn up tomorrow. Or their trap might be sprung tonight.
“Tell him as little as possible,” Bacon said, eyes flashing. “No, he’ll see through that. Tell him about your man Munday. He’s plausible; play that up. Make it clear that we’re searching high and low, which happens to be the literal truth. He can’t complain about the truth, I shouldn’t think.”
* * *
Tom set out on his errands shortly after dinner. Sure enough, he returned from his jaunt across the river with an invitation to supper for Mr. Bacon and the warm assurance that the barrister was most welcome to avail himself of Lambeth’s library at his pleasure.
He had the foresight to equip himself with a copy of Robert Greene’s Pandosto, a romance featuring an adventurous princess — the sort of tale Trumpet favored. She’d want to meet Greene too, presumably, now that she knew Tom knew him. Things would be easier if she had her own house with a dead or absent husband, but that dream wasn’t likely to come true. Sooner than he could bear to think about, she would marry a handsome young lord, move off to some enormous manor miles from London, have half a dozen babies, and forget all about her old friend at Gray’s Inn.
But that hadn’t happened yet, and the gallery on the first floor of Burghley House was a pleasant place to read, cool and shady with a rosemary-scented breeze rising from the interior courtyard. He read a couple of dozen pages, envisioning Princess Fawnia as a black-haired, green-eyed beauty in a filmy, one-shouldered gown, before Peter Hollowell poked his head out of a nearby door and crooked his finger at him. “Mr. Cecil can see you now.”
Bacon had sent a crisp note acknowledging the summons, advising the summoner that Tom would be performing the duty in his place.
Tom had seen Robert Cecil once or twice when he’d accompanied Bacon to court, but he had never been introduced. Now he swept off his hat and made a half bow to show his respect and hopefully mollify any offense that might have resulted from his master’s ill-tempered note.
No offense appeared to have been taken. Cecil smiled and gestured him to a chair not far from Hollowell’s tiny desk, barely sufficient for note-taking, but then he had his own decently sized and well-appointed office nearby.
Cecil remained seated, as was his prerogative. His stature appeared almost normal behind his desk. His chair had probably been specially built to create that illusion. His coloring was much like Bacon’s, pale skin and brown hair, but his eyes were darker and his chin longer, an effect exaggerated by his pointed beard. Still, his expression seemed mild and welcoming.
“Have you any news?” he asked. “I know it’s early days, but we like to stay abreast of developments as they occur.”
“Mr. Bacon understands that.” Tom had already rejected the idea of apologizing for Bacon’s non-appearance. These men were cousins. They knew each other well enough. “We haven’t identified the murderer yet. Naturally, we would have communicated that to you at once. We’ve barely had time to take our bearings, so to speak, but we have determined some promising directions of inquiry.”
“Such as?” Cecil asked, raising his thin eyebrows.
“As you know,” Tom said, “Mr. Bacon is nothing if not thorough. He began by visiting Archbishop Whitgift and Canon Bancroft to acquaint himself with the progress they have made in identifying Martin Marprelate’s accomplices.”
“Which is none,” Cecil said. “I could have told him that. In fact, I think I did. But it is the logical first step. What then?”
“Well,” Tom said, “I myself have questioned the anti-Martinist pamphleteers. I don’t know if you’re aware of this yet, but there was another assault, this time on Robert Greene. He was pushed down the stairs at a tavern favored by writers.”
“I heard,” Cecil said, flicking an amused glance at his secretary. “Although what I heard was that he fell down the stairs in a state of extreme inebriation.”
“That’s possible,” Tom said, “but it’s a striking coincidence under the current circumstances, and we would be remiss not to investigate it.”
“Fair enough,” Cecil said. “Did Greene remember who pushed him?”
“No. But I am pursuing the matter. Never fear. If anyone saw anyone push or crowd against Robert Greene that night, I’ll find them.”
Cecil smiled slightly, nodding as he regarded Tom with interest. “My cousin told me you were a lively lad. That’s the sort I like to employ.”
“Thank you.” Tom blinked, realizing he’d just been complimented twice. He stood a little straighter, squaring his shoulders. “My investigation among the pamphleteers has borne some early fruits, in the form of one strong suspect.”
“Who?” Cecil asked.
“A man named Anthony Munday.”
Cecil cut a glance at his secretary, then shook his head at Tom. “You don’t mean Munday, the pursuivant? The one Archbishop Whitgift has employed to locate Martin’s press? The man recommended by Sir Richard Topcliffe as a most effective discoverer of hidden Catholics?”
Tom grinned. “That’s the man. His pursuit of Catholics is one of the arguments in his favor — as a suspect, I mean. Nobody hates Catholics more than a nonconformist Protestant, I can tell you that with complete assurance.”
“Yes, I’ve heard about your exploits in Cambridge. But if he’s pursuing Martin Marprelate, why would he want to hinder others working toward the same objective?”
“By all accounts,” Tom said, “this Munday is a crafty one. Suppose that he’s one of Martin’s min — er, accomplices. He might have gotten himself hired by the archbishop in order to be able to warn Martin about impending searches.”
Cecil’s eyes cut toward Hollowell, his mouth twisted with suppressed mirth. The explanation now sounded hopelessly light-witted in Tom’s ears too. He should have listened to Mr. Bacon.
“That would be crafty,” Cecil said drily. “And Martin has managed to stay a step — or a league — ahead of the bishops.” He wagged a finger at Tom. “You may have something there, Clarady. Perhaps I should bring Munday in and question him myself.” He turned a frown toward Hollowell, as if asking him to consider that option.
Heat rose in Tom’s cheeks. He scrambled for something more impressive to report. “Not yet, if it please you, Mr. Cecil. We have a plan in place to expose the strangler. If he really is Anthony Munday, you’d give our game away.”
“We wouldn’t want to do that,” Cecil said. “Please tell me about this plan, if it isn’t too secret. I know my cousin likes to keep such things in the dark as long as possible.”
“That’s only good sense,” Tom answered. “Although of course he wants you to know about it. If we’re successful, we’ll need a man taken into immediate custody.” He paused to gather his thoughts. He had now crawled all the way out on a very shaky limb. What if Mr. Cecil met Mr. Bacon somewhere before the trap was sprung? He couldn’t fail to mention it.
Too late now. Tom asked, “Are you familiar with Holborn Road and the area between it and Gray’s Inn at all?”
“Somewhat,” Cecil allowed.
“There’s an excellent inn on the high street,” Hollowell put in, “called the Antelope. A favorite haunt of the legal community, I believe.”
“Yes,” Tom said, smiling at him with more gratitude than the comment merited. “That’s the starting point.” He sketched the route they’d planned, describing the bottle opening that broached into the court behind Bacon’s house. “That’s where we’ll close the trap and catch our villain.” He clapped his palms together with a soft pop.
“Ah, the trap!” Cecil traded another amused glance with Hollowell. “I’ve been waiting for this. My cousin has made traps something of a specialty. No doubt he’ll be watching the action from the safety of his bedroom window. Do let me know at once how it works out.” He tilted his chin at his secretary, who rose, causing Tom to rise as well.
The interview was over. It had not gone the way Tom had imagined; quite the opposite, in fact. Now he’d laid something of a trap for Mr. Bacon. They’d have to solve this case quickly to forestall serious embarrassment.
Hollowell bowed him out of the office, not bothering to accompany him to the stairs this time. As the door closed behind him, Tom turned to walk down the gallery, but stopped in his tracks. Anthony Munday was sitting on the very bench Tom had recently occupied, apparently waiting for an audience with Robert Cecil.
Shock ran through Tom’s body, like stepping on a hot coal with a bare foot. That had only happened to him once, but it wasn’t something you forgot.
They glared at one another in mutually hostile recognition. Then Tom turned his back, taking the long way around to the staircase. He walked slowly down the marble steps, his mind churning up possible outcomes of that surprise encounter. Munday knew Tom was a friend of Thomas Nashe and might easily have learned already that he’d been asking questions about the murders. Now he could assume Tom was in the employ of Mr. Cecil. It would be only natural to connect those two things.
Did he know enough about Robert Cecil’s family to link him to Francis Bacon? If he’d heard Nashe’s rumors today, he could readily draw a line from Nashe to Gray’s Inn. Mr. Bacon’s membership in that society was widely known, thanks to his late father’s position as Lord Keeper of the Great Seal.
Tom’s spirits sank with the weight of the ever-expanding ramifications of this already complicated case. He’d succeeded in trapping himself too.