Tom stood outside Bacon’s chambers with his hands on his hips, glaring for all he was worth at Pinnock, who had opened the door barely wide enough to show his face. The black-eyed imp had just turned fifteen and was nearly as tall as Trumpet. He’d spent the past three years fetching, cleaning, and running errands for Francis Bacon, who had about as much skill in managing servants as he had in sword-fighting.
“Five minutes,” Tom said. “That’s all I ask.”
Bacon had taken to his bed after his attack and had not emerged since. Worse, he wouldn’t allow anyone to enter his chambers but Pinnock. Tom couldn’t even get to his desk. It had been two days and he was going mad with restlessness and indecision. What should he do? Were they giving up the case?
“Master says no,” Pinnock said, a touch of impudence in his voice. “Nobody but me.”
They locked eyes in a silent contest, which was lost before it began. Pinnock was less afraid of Tom than he was of Bacon, whom he feared not one jot. In merchant’s terms, that would make Tom the debtor, in which case he ought to fear Pinnock — a pure impossibility.
“Two minutes,” Tom begged.
Pinnock shook his head.
“One.”
Pinnock’s eyes danced at the idea of anyone holding a one-minute conversation with Francis Bacon.
Tom frowned deeply to make his displeasure clear, tapped his foot on the oak floor a few times, then gave up. “Tell me the very minute he’s ready to —”
“Yes, yes. The very minute.” Pinnock flashed a cheeky grin and swung shut the door.
Tom plodded back down to his own room and slumped behind his second desk. Never in all his active boyhood had he ever imagined he would end up spending his days shifting between two cramped desks. Or worse — wanting to sit at the lesser of the said desks.
He rested his cheek on one fist, gazing out the window at the glorious summer day. He couldn’t sit here twiddling his thumbs until Bacon chose to rejoin the living. That could be days, or even weeks, even though he hadn’t been much injured in the attack.
They’d verified that much on the spot. As soon as they knew he was all right, Trumpet and Catalina melted away. Nashe had just come through the shadowed passage, reaching Tom’s window without incident. When Bacon shouted, “Help,” he rushed to join what was left of the fray. Then he helped Tom carry Bacon up to his bedchamber, bringing him in through Tom’s window to avoid the curious gaze of men in the yard. They removed his ruff and doublet, unlacing the collar of his shirt. Dark bruises marked the pale skin of his throat and his voice was hoarse, but nothing worse. The hoarseness was much soothed by the warm, honeyed wine Pinnock tearfully fixed for him.
Of course, the insult to his system had been tremendous. Anyone would feel out of balance for a while, especially a pacific sort like Bacon. He never engaged in physical pursuits like fencing, dancing, or shooting. As far as Tom knew, he had never cultivated any of the manly arts; contrarily, he tended toward frailty, easily falling ill from rich foods or chilly draughts. Being nearly strangled could be expected to take a toll.
Even so, he’d left Tom to shift for himself, and he wasn’t sure what he ought to do. He needed a consultation with his collaborators, which he could accomplish. Today was Thursday. Trumpet would be out and about this afternoon.
He jotted a note asking her to meet him and Nashe at the Antelope at her earliest convenience. He selected a small rock from the supply he kept in a pot near his desk for this purpose and wrapped the note around it, securing it with a scrap of string. Then he put on his hat and walked out the front door, crossing the yard to go through the gatehouse onto Gray’s Inn Road, calling a cheery greeting to the gatekeeper as he passed. The window was more convenient, but he had to be seen occasionally or people would begin to wonder.
When he got to Blackfriars, he circled around to Trumpet’s window, which stood open, as expected. He checked to be sure no one was watching, whistled a little of “The Sweet and Merry Month of May,” and tossed the note-wrapped rock inside. Then he strode briskly off toward Holborn without a backward glance.
He found Thomas Nashe sitting at the most undesirable table in the tavern, way at the back, closest to the privy. The small, clouded window admitted some light but was kept firmly shut to keep out the faintest whiff of air. The table was covered with neat stacks of paper, presumably the bills and letters Nashe had been hired to sort.
As Tom approached, Nashe looked up and grinned his gag-toothed grin, running inky fingers through his straw-colored hair. “We should marry innkeepers, Clarady. This place produces more coin than the Royal Mint.”
“I’ve proposed to Mrs. Sprye at least twice,” Tom said, grabbing a stool. “She says I’m too young for her.”
Nashe studied him with a critical eye. “Hmph. Perhaps she prefers wit to beauty.”
“Sorry, old chum. You have to be at least a serjeant-at-law to get her attention.”
“Ah, well. Another dream shattered.” Nashe pretended to wipe a tear from his eye. “Anything yet from Mr. Bacon?”
“Not a word.”
“I didn’t think he was so badly injured.”
“He wasn’t, he’s just —” Tom turned around to follow Nashe’s gaze, which had shifted toward something behind him, which turned out to be Trumpet and Catalina, dressed as tradesmen’s wives in simple gowns with dark veils to protect their faces from the sun and the dusty streets. They could be anyone, male or female, in that garb. How easy it was for women of the middling sort to walk about anonymously!
They drew off their veils as they sat down, revealing neat white coifs tied under their chins. The costume made Trumpet look like a diligent housewife, a disguise more deceptive than galligaskins and a false moustache.
“How’s Mr. Bacon?” she asked.
Tom shrugged. “I can’t even get in to ask.”
She clucked her tongue sympathetically, comprehending the situation without further explanation.
Nashe, however, was unschooled in Bacon’s ways. “How long is this going to go on?”
Tom and Trumpet shrugged in unison. She answered, “Several days, probably. A week or more, possibly. He doesn’t fare well in the face of strong affronts of any kind. A scolding from the queen, a set-down at court, a tumble down the stairs . . .”
“But why won’t he let Clarady in?” Nashe asked. “Doesn’t he trust you?”
“Of course he trusts me. It isn’t that. He won’t leave his room until he’s recovered from the fright. Refusing to see me is something else again.” He met Trumpet’s eyes with a look laden with meaning. She narrowed her eyes and gave him a short nod to show she understood.
Tom threw Nashe a crumb. “He’s thought of something he doesn’t want to talk about, not even to me.”
“But how can you catch the man who attacked him if he won’t tell you everything he knows?” Nashe asked.
“He never does that,” Trumpet said, flashing a grin. “Trust me, you don’t want him to. But this . . .” She shook her head, pursing her cupid’s-bow lips in a way that made Tom pinch his leg under the table to keep from kissing them, public house be damned.
He looked at Nashe instead. “I think he may have stumbled onto a link to someone too great to touch and he hasn’t decided how to handle it.”
He and Trumpet shared another knowing look. They had both been at dinner on Sunday during that oblique conversation between Bacon and Lady Russell, which Trumpet could interpret equally well. Granted, they’d been engaged in a little covert dalliance, trying to catch each other’s feet beneath the table and forming messages with their food, but you can do that and listen to the grown-ups’ conversation at the same time.
Bacon suspected his cousin Robert Cecil of creating or managing or sustaining Martin Marprelate, with or without his father’s approval. But now one of Martin’s subordinates had turned deadly, with or without their consent, and they’d tasked Bacon with cleaning up the mess because they thought they could control him.
“He can’t just quit and leave a murderer at large,” Trumpet explained to Nashe, “especially not one bold enough to attack a man at the edge of a compound filled with lawyers.”
“A half-empty compound,” Tom said, “but your point is well taken. Mr. Bacon has a moral obligation to stop the killing, but he’ll want to tread very lightly around the great one, whoever it may be.” A thorny problem, to say the least. Tom didn’t wonder that Bacon had taken to his bed. “The question is, should we wait until he makes up his mind?”
“I vote nay,” Nashe said. “I can’t spend the rest of my life in hiding, the span of which promises to be small if the strangler is left at large. Two minutes slower and my neck would’ve been the one being crushed between his hands.” He shuddered.
“I wonder about that,” Tom said. “We did everything right. We were in position well before dark. Nashe walked the gauntlet at a normal pace, in his usual gait.”
“That takes courage,” Trumpet said, pointing at Nashe. He ducked his head at the praise.
Tom didn’t think he deserved special acclaim. The man had walked down an alley — he hadn’t fended off a pack of wild dogs. “What possessed you to come back out of my room?”
Nashe shrugged. “Once I got inside and looked out, it seemed so light still that I thought perhaps I ought to go back to Holborn Road and try again. But then when I climbed out and looked into the alley, I realized it was too late.”
“I don’t think that made any difference,” Trumpet said. “I doubt the strangler even saw him.”
“Still, it was sloppy,” Tom said. “But it’s done, and we won’t be trying this trick again. Did anyone see the villain? I couldn’t see into the bottleneck from my post, though I was the closest. I didn’t hear anything but Nashe’s footsteps before Mr. Bacon cried out for help.”
“I was looking straight into darkness,” Trumpet said. “I didn’t see Nashe until he was three steps into the yard.”
“I saw someone enter the alley after we all hide,” Catalina said. “He stop and hide also.”
“That’s lucky,” Tom said. “Your sighting him, I mean. What did he look like?”
“I do not see much,” Catalina said. “Only his shape. I saw him grab Mr. Bacon. He was a little taller and more broad in the shoulder. He wore a cap, puffy on top, and long hose like my lady’s favorite.”
“Galligaskins,” Trumpet said. “Anything else? A short cloak? Boots?”
Catalina shook her head, frowning, her dark eyes sad. “It is my fault poor Mr. Bacon is hurt. I saw the villain. I saw him let Mr. Nashe pass him, but I said nothing. I should cry out, call the alarm.”
“No, you were right,” Tom said. “You couldn’t warn us without spoiling the game. But that supports my suspicion, that the killer let Nashe go to wait for Mr. Bacon.”
“That makes no sense,” Trumpet said. “How could he know that Mr. Bacon would walk down that alley at that very moment?”
“He could have seen him sitting in the window, right over there.” Tom pointed toward the front of the tavern. “He told us, as we were putting him to bed, that he’d stopped in for a slice of almond tart. He always sits at that little table at the front. The killer would have passed right by him, sitting there staring at nothing the way he does, and guessed that he’d be taking the shortcut home.”
“A likely enough guess,” Trumpet said, conceding the possibility, “since it’s three times as far by Gray’s Inn Road. He wouldn’t know how long he’d have to wait, but he’d catch a bigger prize if he knew —”
“And another thing,” Tom said, talking over her. “Mr. Bacon has a beard. A short one, like mine, but even in the dark, a strangler would feel it and know he’d grabbed the wrong man.”
The others winced at that vivid description of Bacon’s ordeal.
Tom tapped his finger on the table to help him sort the thoughts tumbling through his head. “Beards are a key to this locked box; I can feel it in my gut. You are beardless.” He pointed at Nashe.
“It adds to my boyish charm,” Nashe said, trying to look winsome.
“Edgar Stoke, also beardless,” Tom went on. “John Little’s beard is irrelevant, since he was falsely identified by his name, not his appearance.”
“But Bacon’s beard is like yours, close to the jaw,” Trumpet said. “Inns of Court regulation. No beard of more than three weeks’ growth allowed, tuppence penalty for noncompliance.” She held out a hand for an imaginary payment, grinning.
Tom ignored her game, mentally reviewing all the beards he’d seen in the course of this commission.
“I will make beards for us, my lady,” Catalina said. “But long is more easy, to hide the wire. We are too old to be boyish.”
“Speak for yourself,” Trumpet said. “Do we hook the wire over our ears? That sounds uncomfortable.”
“Could we please stick to the subject at hand?” Tom demanded, glaring at the women. “All right, then. We’ve accounted for the victims, beard-wise. Now for the villain. Mr. Bacon said he felt the man’s beard brush against his cheek as he murmured those last threatening words.”
“What threatening words?” Trumpet asked. “I haven’t heard about that.”
Tom held up his palm. “Later. First, the beards. If you can feel a beard brushing against your cheek, it must be longish, don’t you think? Longer than mine.” He rubbed his jaw with the back of his fingers, testing.
Nashe and Trumpet shrugged. Trumpet said, “How could he tell the difference between a beard and a lace-edged ruff?”
“Very different,” Catalina said. She was the only person at the table with any relevant experience. “And a short beard very different from a long. Short is brushy, stiff, like a painter’s brush. Long is like hair, only not so fine.”
“So, a short beard,” Tom said. “Brush-like, not long and straggling. Our favorite suspect so far, Anthony Munday, has a short beard.” He snapped his fingers at Nashe, making him jump. “Munday! I saw him outside Mr. Cecil’s office on Tuesday afternoon. I forgot all about it.”
“What was he doing there?” Nashe asked.
“How should I know? Waiting to see Mr. Cecil, same as I had been a few minutes before.” Tom frowned. “That doesn’t bode well, does it?” He caught Trumpet’s eyes for another worried look.
“They think I can’t see them,” Nashe remarked to Catalina. “That I can’t tell they have some dire notion about this person in a high place they suspect Mr. Bacon suspects. I suppose it’s my smallishness or my boyishness, but —”
Trumpet clucked her tongue to silence him. “Let’s go back to the beards. Short, brush-like, pointed or rounded. Who do we know? Anthony Munday, for one. Anyone else?”
Nashe held up his hand. “John Dando has a roundishly pointed short beard. He’s about the same height as Munday as well.”
“And I got the feeling he was jealous of you and Greene being hired by Canon Bancroft instead of him,” Tom said.
“Who would hire him for that?” Nashe asked, incredulous.
“Who wouldn’t? He’s popular enough. Not like Greene, but he must envy Greene, now that I think of it. And he’s the one who put envy on the table as a motive for Munday.”
“I like Dando and Oatmeale,” Nashe said sadly. “I see them nearly every day. I don’t want to think either one of them would try to kill me, not even for a guaranteed run of a thousand copies.”
“I don’t want to think it either,” Tom said, “but we have to keep an open mind. Apart from a general description, these men don’t look anything alike. Dando’s nose is long and narrow. Munday’s plumps out at the end. His face is square and coarse, while Dando’s is longer, more oval, less brutish.”
Trumpet shook her finger at him. “You’re letting your likes and dislikes color your observations. Mr. Bacon warned us about that.”
“True,” Tom said. “I retract the word ‘brutish.’ But you’d never confuse the two men.”
“Not in daylight,” Nashe said. “But at night? Or from a distance?”
They fell silent. Tom had no idea what occupied the others’ minds, but a third man who fit the general description arose in his: Peter Hollowell, Mr. Cecil’s secretary. He also knew about their trap. In fact, he knew nearly everything Bacon knew, thanks to Tom’s garrulous reports. But in fairness, he’d had no reason to hold back and every reason not to — until now.
He couldn’t share his new candidate with the others, especially not babbling Nashe. It veered too close to the dangerous waters keeping Mr. Bacon below deck. He’d think of a subtle way to test the wind first. For all he knew, Hollowell had been playing cards with sixteen worthy gentlemen on the nights Stokes and Little had been murdered.
“Tell me about those last threatening words,” Trumpet said.
“Ah yes,” Tom said. “It was while we were helping him into his nightshirt, after he’d drunk off his cup of wine with poppy juice. It hurt to speak, but he wanted to tell us everything before he fell asleep. Let’s see. When he heard me shouting, the strangler loosened his grip, but before he let go, he said, ‘Take this as a warning, Frank. Don’t stick your neck out where it might get wrung.’”
“Ugh! Poor Mr. Bacon!” Trumpet shuddered. “No wonder he’s locked himself in his chambers. But that changes everything.” Her tone changed from sympathetic to disgruntled in the blink of an eye. “I’ve been thinking about it the wrong way for two whole days.” She crossed her arms and glared green daggers at him.
“How is that my fault?” Tom asked. “This is the first chance I’ve had to tell you anything. You could have sent a note, you know, asking how he was. You don’t have to throw pebbles in the window and whistle like a fool. You can just send a messenger, like everyone else. I suppose you were too busy weighing marriage proposals to trouble yourself.”
“It isn’t as easy as you seem to think. I can’t just walk out the door and whistle for a boy. I have to —”
Nashe cleared his throat. “Returning to the problem of my imminent demise. Even if the strangler did catch his intended victim this time, I don’t think he’s going to give up. He’ll try again. He’ll come for me or Robert Greene sooner rather than later. Or you, either of you, or Mr. Luna here, which would be a great loss to all lovers of womanly beauty.”
Catalina laughed, surprised, then gave him a measuring look. He grinned encouragingly.
“We can’t stop,” Tom said, ignoring their byplay. “We can’t wait for Mr. Bacon either.”
“What’s your plan, then?” Trumpet asked, still indignant.
Tom ignored that too. He had enough balls to juggle. “Nashe, you had better keep out of sight. Stay here or in my chambers, coming and going only in broad daylight. No wandering around, no going home, and absolutely no popping in to the Goose and Gall.”
Nashe grumbled, but didn’t argue. It was his neck at risk, after all.
Tom went on, “I’ll keep trying to scare up a witness. We have a better description now — slightly better anyway. It might be enough to prick someone’s memory. I need a name.”
“What about hats?” Nashe asked. “Munday usually wears a tall hat, but Mr. Luna says our man wore a cap Tuesday night.”
“It’s easier to keep a cap on in a scuffle,” Trumpet said. Her ruffled feathers had smoothed. Now she seemed eager to add her bit of expertise to the discussion. She’d loved getting into scuffles during her year as a boy, which Tom had always had to pull her out of.
The memory made him sad. They’d had so much fun together, but those days would never come back. He gave her a tight smile, letting the sadness show in his eyes. She smiled, nodding to show she remembered too.
Tom sighed. They were together here and now, and that was something. He said, “I’ll do what I can to track Munday’s movements on Tuesday,” then winced as the others laughed.
“What can I do?” Trumpet said.
“Nothing,” Tom said, then raised both hands to appeal for mercy at her outraged glare. “I don’t have anything for you. Try to think of something better. You have an advantage, you know.”
“What?” She sounded suspicious, for no earthly reason.
“Your advisor, Lady Russell. She knows all sorts of people, high and low, here, there, and everywhere. You might ask her who she thinks Martin is, for a start.”
“Oh. All right.” Trumpet’s delicate black eyebrows furled at that suggestion. “What did Mr. Bacon have planned before the attack? Anything?”
“He wanted me to go to the Stationers’ Hall to study their records, to try to identify Martin’s printer. He must be a master printer; Martin’s works are good quality. And he must not be employed in a known shop.”
“That’s a clever idea,” Nashe said. “Why hasn’t anyone else thought of it?”
“Because they’re not Francis Bacon.” Tom shrugged at the obvious answer. “But I don’t relish the prospect of spending who knows how many hours in some stuffy back room poring over a pile of dusty books.”
“Why would they show them to you?” Trumpet asked. “You can’t stroll into a guild hall and poke your nose into their records, can you?”
“Why not?” Tom grinned. “I can go almost anywhere. I tell them I’m on an errand for Francis Bacon — you know, the late Lord Keeper’s son — and they dust off a chair and offer me extra quills.”
“Huh.” Trumpet seemed impressed. He would have thought she knew that already.
“I could do that job,” Nashe said. “In fact, I’m a better man for it since I know more about printers and booksellers than you do.”
“No, no, and no again,” Tom said. “You stay out of the City. No Stationers’ Hall, no Goose and Gall. You stick within the narrow space bounded by Gray’s and the Antelope.” He drew an oval shape on the table top, tapped the center of it, and pointed at Nashe.
“I could go,” Trumpet said.
“Don’t be silly.” Tom softened it with a grin.“It isn’t likely to do much good. I’ll go, when Mr. Bacon sends me. Best you just stay home and wait for further news.”