The Spymaster's Brother

Book 6: A Francis Bacon Mystery

by Anna Castle

Genres: Renaissance; Mystery; Amateur Sleuth; Historical Mysteries; elizabethan mystery

Synopsis

Anthony Bacon returns after thirteen years in France to live in his brother’s house at Gray’s Inn. Though seldom strong enough to leave his rooms, his gouty legs never hinder his agile mind. He’s built the most valuable intelligence service in Europe. Now the Bacon brothers are ready to offer it to the patron with the deepest pockets.

Then Francis finds a body lying near Anthony’s coach. The clues inside point to Anthony’s secretary. Worse, the murdered man had been spreading rumors that could destroy Anthony’s reputation.

Francis thinks his brother did it. Assistant Thomas Clarady thinks the secretary did it. As they investigate, they hear one story after another about what happened. Which is the truth? Can they sort through the lies before disaster strikes?

Release date: June 15, 2019

Publisher: Anna Castle

Print pages: 322

Sample

ONE

17 March, 1592, Gray’s Inn, London

 “Keep that frame up,” Francis Bacon scolded his young servant. He’d placed the lad on a stool about six feet from the windows in his study chamber, holding the frame of a burning glass at arm’s length. He didn’t want a human shadow interfering with his experiment. Now if only the fickle March sun would come out from behind that drift of clouds, he could note the result and let the lad step down.

Francis had embarked on a comprehensive exploration of the property of heat. Everyone knew a burning glass could induce heat to the point of flame. They’d tested that earlier this morning. Now he wanted to see if reversing the lens would induce a reduction in temperature. Would it cool a well heated quantity of wool, for example?

“My arms are falling off,” Pinnock whined.

“Just a few more minutes. Think of all the lives you’ll save.”

“By setting balls of wool on fire?”

Francis didn’t deign to answer. Pinnock clearly lacked the soul of a philosopher, but he’d have to get used to this work. Now that Francis’s older brother, Anthony, had returned after thirteen years in France, things were going to change.

First and foremost, Francis would be spending a lot less time at court, just as soon as Anthony’s gout subsided enough for him to leave the house. Anthony was the true politician in the family. Francis’s talents lay in the realm of philosophy. He believed in his heart that his best destiny lay in teasing the veil from Nature’s secrets to improve the lot of all humanity.

“Ah, here comes our friend the sun! Now we’ll see what effect the concave lens has.”

Francis stooped to lay his hand on the uncarded mass of wool he’d placed in a wooden bowl on the floor. He’d heated it earlier in a clay pot. Yes, it was still quite warm.

“Mr. Bacon, the books!” Pinnock cried.

“What?” Francis looked first at Pinnock, who was aiming his glass frame at the shelves. Following the gesture, Francis spotted flames leaping up from one of the topmost books. “God save us!”

He leapt up and snatched the book from the shelf. He dropped it on the floor and stamped out the small fire. Only then did he seek the cause, and he could’ve kicked himself. He’d left his other burning glass — with the original convex lens — on his desk. Purest accident had placed it where its beam would strike the nearest inflammable materials.

“Is it ruined?” Pinnock asked.

“I’m afraid so.” Francis picked up the charred book to see which one it was. Just an old copy of Ralph Lever’s The Art of Reason. He couldn’t imagine how it happened to be on top. “It doesn’t matter. I borrowed this months ago. Its owner must not value it much.”

He tossed the ruined volume into the fireplace and kicked at the ashes on the rush mat. Pinnock could clean that up later. “Shall we make another attempt before the wool cools on its own?”

“Oh, Mr. Bacon. Haven’t we—”

Shouts arose from outside the door. Someone was crying for help!

Francis and his servant stared at one another, then both charged for the door at once. “Stay back!” Francis commanded as he hurried down the stairs. He rounded the second landing and saw Anthony sprawled on the last few steps.

“What’s happened? Are you all right?” He bounded down to kneel on the step beside his brother.

“I’m all right, Frank. I just lost my footing.”

Francis helped his brother raise himself and plant his bottom on the wooden step. His poor gout-afflicted legs twisted uselessly to one side.

The door to Anthony’s ground-floor chambers flew open, and his young servant, Jacques Petit, rushed out. “Mon dieu! Mon cher maître! Que s’est-il passé?”

“I thought I’d give the stairs a try.” Anthony summoned a wan smile. “It appears I’m not quite up to it.”

“I should say not!” Francis patted his brother’s shoulder.

“Quelle idée!” Jacques wagged a finger at his master, scolding him in the soft twang of his southern dialect.

One of Anthony’s secretaries appeared on the flight above, peering over the bannister. “God’s mercy, Anthony! What happened?” He trotted down to the bottom step.

“I’m all right, Lawly,” Anthony said. “Just a bit of a spill.”

Lawson, the secretary, nudged Francis out of the way so he and Jacques could grasp Anthony’s arms and hoist him up. The victim protested unconvincingly that he could manage on his own while they carried him into the ground-floor chamber.

Francis stepped out of the way. He had a sudden sense of unreality, as if he were watching a scene from a play being performed on his staircase. He shook his head to clear the illusion and stooped to collect the ebony walking stick lying a few feet from the stairs. The handle was a round ivory knob set into a band of silver tracery.

The men got Anthony settled in his cushioned armchair before the hearth. Lawson said, “I’ll leave you, then, if you’re really all right. Work to do.” On his way to the door, he flicked a wry smile at Francis. “At first, I thought the shouting was coming from your room. Thought you’d set something else on fire. Good thing I came down to check, eh?”

Lawson had lived with Anthony for many years. No doubt he was able to distinguish one brother’s muffled cry from the other.

Francis took his customary seat on the other side of the hearth. Jacques offered him a blanket for his legs, but he waved it off. Poor Anthony could no longer tolerate the slightest chill; hence his servant’s vigilance. Though Jacques had somehow failed to notice when his master went doddering out the door.

Jacques served each brother a cup of warm spiced wine. Then he continued to fuss over his master, lifting the weak legs onto a padded stool and pressing each one lightly to test for bruises. Anthony allowed the handling without comment, hardly flinching, even when the lad’s strong hands probed to the innermost top of his thigh.

A strapping youth of sixteen, Jacques was strong enough to lift the invalid out of bed and carry him across the room. He’d entered Anthony’s service at the tender age of eleven as a page and still retained the doe-eyed beauty that had won him that post.

Anthony leaned his head back against a pillow and closed his eyes. Francis sipped his fragrant wine and studied the features that had once been more familiar than his own. Only thirty-five, Anthony looked at least ten years older. His color was poor, even by the warm light of the fire. Chronic illness had etched lines across his forehead and withered his cheeks. He carried too many pounds and limped, even with a cane — when he could walk. His black curls and pointed beard remained unsalted with gray, and his brown eyes shone with intelligence. But the handsome courtier who had wielded both lute and tennis racquet with equal skill had vanished.

Anthony sighed and opened his eyes. He smiled at Francis. “Do I pass inspection, Doctor?” Getting only a roll of the eyes in response, he nodded. “Have I mentioned how much I like your beard?”

Francis had been a dewy youth of eighteen when Anthony left for France. He’d added a crease above his nose from too much reading and lost that arrogant smirk, according to his mother, but was otherwise not much changed. He asked his brother, “Whatever possessed you to attempt the stairs?”

“I wanted to see how far I could get. My cane caught on a baluster, and down I went.”

“But why? Can’t you send Jacques up to fetch your secretary?”

“It wasn’t that,” Anthony said. “I wanted to test myself, to see if I’m ready to pay my respects to Her Majesty. The Presence Chamber at Whitehall is on the first floor. That’s two flights of stairs, followed by a longish walk.”

Francis sighed. “She does ask after you whenever she notices me. You’ve been gone so long a personal visit is virtually required for persons of our rank.” Elizabeth Tudor did not like to be ignored. Then again, what monarch did?

“I know, I know.” Anthony echoed the sigh. “I long to go, I truly do. Perhaps in a few weeks I’ll be able to manage it.”

“You could be carried up in a chair. Everyone knows you suffer from the gout.”

“Never!” Anthony swatted away Jacques’s hand as he tried to wipe his neck under his ruff with a moist cloth. “C’est assez, mon cher. I am quite uninjured.” He turned a scowl toward his brother. “I will not be carried into Her Majesty’s presence like some Turkish altezza. Imagine the talk! People will think I’ve grown above my station. No, until I can walk into her presence on my own two feet, I will stay home and build my strength.”

“As you wish.” Francis heard more than fear of embarrassment in Anthony’s heated protest. True, his legs were unreliable, but there was some other reason as well. What terror lurked in Queen Elizabeth’s Presence Chamber that could outweigh his duty to pay homage?

Anthony had spent many weeks at the court of Henri de Navarre — now King Henry the Fourth of all France. They said Henry’s courtiers were far more licentious and addicted to intrigue than the English, who were paragons of virtue by comparison.

Well, thirteen years was a long time. The two brothers had much to learn — and relearn — about one another.

“You’re mending well enough,” Francis said. “If you refrain from falling again, you’ll be walking across the yard before you know it.” He gave his brother a tentative smile. “I have rather hoped you’d take my place at court one of these days. You’re so much better at small talk than I am. The little lies, the flattery . . . saying the right word at the right time to the right person. I haven’t the knack. With you to represent the Bacon family, I could retire to Twickenham and devote myself to philosophy.”

He hoped for an answering smile, but Anthony rolled his eyes, impatient. “It’s a skill like any other, Frank. Something to be learned. You’ll do better, now you have me as your tutor.”

That wasn’t at all what Francis wanted. “But I’m so bad at it. I don’t remember things that don’t interest me, which includes most of what transpires at court. Dalliances, for example. It’s a major topic about which I would prefer to know nothing. And you’re so much more diplomatic than I am. I have the awkward habit of answering questions directly and saying what I mean, which never turns out well.”

“I’m sure you’re better than you think.” Anthony took a sip of wine and smacked his lips, heedless of his brother’s souring humor. “But in truth, your talents do lie elsewhere. You should be Solicitor General by now.”

“Our lord uncle has convinced the queen that I’m too young.” Lord Burghley’s increasingly ill health kept him from court most days, but he still held the post of Lord Treasurer, and the queen still relied on his judgment — especially where his gifted nephews were concerned.

“It might help if you argued a few cases in court first,” Anthony said, then added hastily, “But I agree. His Lordship has treated you as shabbily as he has me. He’s never paid me in full for my services nor helped with my messengers’ expenses. It would serve him right if you retired to the countryside to weigh pots of pond scum.”

Francis had to laugh at that notion. “Perhaps not the first inquiry upon which I would embark. But even if you can’t yet go to court, Anthony, I’ll still have more time for my studies. Now that you’re here, physically present in England, I won’t be needed to decrypt and disseminate your correspondence. Your letters were my principal stock in trade, after all. Without them, my shop is empty.”

Anthony granted the witticism a small smile but evaded the main point. “We’ll have more work than ever, now that I’m back on my native soil.”

“But you won’t need me—”

“Oh, there’ll be plenty of work for you, Frank, never fear. No one has your capacity for concentration. It’d take three men to replace you. Speaking of which, we must hire another secretary. I want one fluent in German and Russian, and Polish, if we can find such a man.”

“Another secretary?” Francis frowned. He’d already enlarged his house, raising the roof to add a full story and a more habitable attic. He’d expected some additions to the household, but Anthony had brought his entire retinue.

Most senior members of Gray’s Inn had a clerk and a personal servant. Anthony had two secretaries, two clerks, a body servant, a wardrobe minder, a cook, a potboy, a page, and a coachman, most of whom now lodged under this roof. Add that to Francis, Pinnock, and Thomas Clarady, and the house was already full to bursting.

Anthony seemed oblivious to that dull, domestic problem. “We’ll want at least two more scriveners. We shouldn’t waste the talents of our multilingual secretaries on mere copying. Of course, the most sensitive materials will be handled exclusively by you and me.”

Another skilled secretary, educated at Cambridge or Oxford, presumably, and thus expected to dress — and dine and travel — like a gentleman. Two copyists needing desks, candles, ink, food, and somewhere to sleep. They’d have to find another house, perhaps somewhere nearby in Holborn.

“How are we planning to pay for this stable of intelligencers?” Francis asked.

“We need a patron, obviously. Preferably the queen.” Anthony’s eyes sparkled with delight at the reaction to that blast.

“Our queen?” Francis was stunned. England’s monarch was notoriously parsimonious. “One doesn’t simply ask Her Majesty to pay one’s secretaries, however useful one’s work might be in furthering her aims.” He took several sips from his cup to restore his balance.

“One does if one is the Secretary of State.” Anthony’s lips curved in a smug smile.

Francis nearly choked on his wine. “Ambitious, aren’t we?”

“It makes sense. Think about it. It’s been two years since Sir Francis Walsingham died, and she still hasn’t named a replacement. Meanwhile, his best agents are scattering to the four winds — or coming to me to ask for a position. They don’t trust our lord uncle to pay them anymore than we do.”

“You may in fact be the best candidate, but you’re simply not strong enough. That’s the most demanding job in England.” Francis’s mind whirled at the impossible notion. Anthony would need a large house of his own to perform that office. Sir Francis had kept something like seventy horses, ready to ride at a moment’s notice. The benchers at Gray’s Inn would never allow that much tumult inside their studious enclave, even if space could be found.

“Nonsense.” Anthony flapped his hand, a foppish gesture that drew attention to the wealth of lace around his wrists. “Sir Francis was housebound for the last years of his life. And I’ve hardly been idle this past week, in spite of being largely confined to my bed. We’re digging into those documents I brought home, thinking about how best to organize them.”

“That’s a valuable resource.” Francis hadn’t yet peeked inside the enormous black chest. It had taken two men to carry it up to the second floor, where the secretaries lived. They couldn’t keep it down here for fear of light-fingered visitors. Locks on that sort of chest were easily picked, and the letters stored within could cause serious damage to persons and reputations if they fell into the wrong hands.

Anthony had spent his thirteen years in the south of France building the most valuable intelligence service in Europe. He knew who had served whom for how long — or pretended to do so. He’d kept records of alliances and dalliances, both rumored and proven. He had informants in every major port and intelligencers sending him observations even from the depths of Italy and Spain. He knew more about political affairs in Europe than any man in England, now that Sir Francis was gone.

Anthony said, “I’ve started a master list of everyone with whom I’ve ever corresponded. Eventually, the names will be sorted by country and rank.”

Francis chuckled. “You’re taking a leaf from my commonplace book.”

“You see, I do pay attention. Don’t worry, dear brother. There will always be time for your philosophical investigations. You wouldn’t be Francis Bacon if you weren’t pondering one of Nature’s mysteries.”

“True knowledge is the foundation of all beneficial applications,” Francis said. “Without it, how can we determine which remedies will be most effective?”

“Précisément, mon frère. Solid intelligence is the foundation of all policy.” That was not what Francis meant, but Anthony sailed on past it.

“The first step,” he said, “is to get a good rumor rumbling about my years of experience and the breadth of my knowledge. I know everyone of importance from Rome to Riga.”

Francis surrendered to his brother’s single-mindedness — for the moment. “How do we initiate this rumbling?”

“We need a friend or two, people of influence.” Anthony snapped his fingers. Jacques rose from the stool by the front window, where he’d been watching Graysians crossing the yard through a gap in the curtains. Anthony gestured for him to sit down, then poked Francis in the arm. “Didn’t you tell me you were friends with Lady Dorchester? Isn’t she a gentlewoman of the Privy Chamber? She must know everyone.”

“I can’t see her for a few weeks. She’s in confinement.” Lady Dorchester, née Alice Trumpington, had once spent a year at Gray’s under Francis’s tutelage, disguised as a young gentleman. He had never once suspected she was anything other than what she’d pretended to be. He still chided himself for his poor observational skills. What kind of natural philosopher could fail to distinguish a boy from a girl?

“Confinement?” Anthony asked. “Whatever for? Oh, of course. She’s expecting a child. Well, may God preserve her.”

Francis silently echoed that prayer. “We could ask Tom to tell some tales about you in the local taverns. We’re between legal terms. He has nothing better to do.”

“The très beau Thomas Clarady?” Anthony gave a sensuous little wriggle. “Alas, for the vigor of my youth!”

“He’s not that kind,” Francis said. He did like the idea of dropping this business into his clerk’s idle hands. Tom liked intelligencing; he’d said so more than once. Perhaps he could be guided into Anthony’s service, taking over the tedious bits to leave Francis more time for his own pursuits.

“A pity,” Anthony said. “But that is a good idea. No one loves gossip more than an Inns of Court man. Word will drift up the social ladder as they visit their clients. Let’s craft a little story for Clarady to spread. Something praiseful yet slightly droll. A lively anecdote about my weighty chest full of Continental secrets, perhaps.”

“I’ll see what I can conjure up.”

“We still need a patron rather urgently,” Anthony said. “We can’t count on support from our uncle, but perhaps we ought to offer him the right of first refusal, if only for appearance’s sake. People will wonder if we skip past our own relation.”

“Any offers from that source will have to be made in very concrete terms. I’ve had nothing but vague promises and hollow honors in all these years.”

“Who else might desire our services?”

Francis noted that “our” with a sinking heart. “My lord of Essex has been very kind to me. He’ll expect to be first on the list, or at least co-first, if there can be such a thing. He’s eager to meet you when he returns from Rouen.”

“As I am to meet him! Le Roi Henri likes him quite well, which can be a good sign. It could also mean the man is just good company at a feast.”

Francis shook his head. Essex was much more than that. “His Lordship is charming, well-read, and accomplished in all the manly arts. I’m not surprised your king likes him.”

“Co-first, then. Although if he’s not here . . .”

“We’ll write to his sister, Lady Rich. She’s living in Essex House in his absence. Lady Dorchester is there as well, as it happens, for her confinement.”

“Isn’t that convenient?” Anthony gave Francis a smile of approval. “You see, Frank. You are good at this.”

Francis frowned. Two friends did not make him a master of political negotiations.

“You must be sure to attend the christening, Frank, once her ladyship is delivered of her child. Bring a handsome present. She’ll ask about me, and then you can slip in some odd facts for her to pass along. How long will it be, do you reckon?”

“A matter of weeks. Days, perhaps.” Francis had no idea, but Tom probably knew since he was the child’s father — a deep secret not to be shared with the Master of Secrets sitting right here in this room.

When had Anthony become such a Machiavellian schemer? And when had he stopped caring about Francis’s philosophical investigations? Apart from a few placating words, he’d shown no interest. He used to listen avidly to each new theory, sometimes helping obtain and measure samples. Those pots of pond scum, for example. Francis remembered the day they’d collected them, ruining two good shirts in the process. He’d been trying to work out whether the stuff was a substance, like oil or mercury, or some sort of vegetable matter.

“Who else, Frank? We should have more than two. Another Privy Council member? Think, man! Our future’s at stake.” Anthony grinned.

Francis did not return his enthusiasm. “Let’s be clear, Anthony. I’ll help you get on your feet, figuratively and literally. I’ll work to get those rumors started and solicit bids for your services — with the uttermost subtlety, of course. If you like, I’ll have a sign painted to hang outside that window” — he jerked his chin at the red brocade curtains — “reading Bacon Brothers House of Secrets. But once the wheels are in motion, I’ll step back. I’ll slip away to a quiet place where I can read and think and write.”

“Quelle absurdité!” Anthony puffed in disdain. “If you really wanted to retire to Twickenham to study philosophy, you’d have done it already. Your two little manors are enough to support that simple life. You wouldn’t need new clothes every year nor have to buy gifts for courtiers who already own three of everything. You could even continue at Gray’s during legal terms, if you dined in commons and took on a few paying clients. You don’t need my permission or our lord uncle’s. You could just go do it. You don’t because it isn’t what you really want. You like hearing the latest news before anyone else here. You like being received in the libraries and private parlors of earls and privy councilors. You love having the queen’s ear now and then, and you adore writing advice letters that are read by everyone who matters. You couldn’t give any of that up for a month, much less a lifetime. Besides, our father bred us for this service. You can’t turn your back on that. You’ll be struggling for a higher position until you go to meet your Maker. In your heart of hearts, you know it too.”

Francis cast him a bitter look, lips pressed tight. His gaze shifted to the fire, crackling with fragrant wood instead of smoky coal. He stroked the rolled rim of his Venetian glass cup, filled with the rich wine of Bordeaux and flavored with Caribbean sugar and Indian spices. His two paltry manors wouldn’t support this level of luxury. He’d have to get by with one man of all work and depend on friends to bring him books. No more popping into the City to read the latest works fresh from the press. He’d be lucky to get news from court once a month. Who among those with entrée to the centers of power would have time to visit him? He’d gradually slip out of touch and out of mind, forgotten in his pastoral retreat, pottering about the garden in a shabby doublet and patched hose, muttering to himself.

Hard truths, but ones he’d needed to hear. He turned to Anthony with a rueful look. “You’re right. In part.” He sighed loudly. “Well, let’s get those rumors rolling. Then we’ll make sure our prospects know what we have on offer. To wit” — he ticked each item off on his fingers — “one experienced spymaster, slightly damaged but on the mend; one infinitely patient brother with a not inconsiderable skill with a pen; a cadre of multilingual secretaries, each supplied with a swift-fingered copyist; and one large oaken chest, laden with priceless confidential correspondence going back twelve years.”

Anthony giggled. “They’ll be beating a path to our door.”

Francis didn’t like the sound of that. “On second thought, perhaps we should start with a few discreetly placed words. We don’t want these rumors taking on a life of their own.”