Death by Disputation (A Francis Bacon Mystery Book 2) by Anna Castle Read Free Book Online Page B

long strap across his back. He scooped up his armful of bedding.
    “You’re moving in?” Tom asked.
    “Mr. Barrow sent me to look after the young ones. He thought they might be afraid to sleep in a dead man’s room.”
    “You’re going to sleep in Leeds’s bed?” Tom wouldn’t have done it — unless he was drunk and there was money riding on it. A lot of money, after a lot of drink.
    “I’m not afraid of spooks and spirits,” Steadfast scoffed. He paused at the foot of the stairs and shot Tom a queer glance. “Once, my father made me spend a whole night in the churchyard to prove to me there were no ghosts wandering about, like those popish fantasists would have you believe.”
    “Sounds like fun.” Tom imagined spending a night in a churchyard with his father, Uncle Luke, and a couple of the sailors. “A roaring fire, toasted sausages, those tart little apples roasted with slivers of cinnamon.” He chuckled. “My Uncle Luke tells the scariest stories! He’ll raise the hair on your head straight up.”
    Steadfast looked at him as if he were brainsick. “I was ten years old. And alone, with nothing but my cloak to shield me.”
    Tom goggled at him, horrified.
    Steadfast held his gaze for a moment, his face wooden. Then he cracked a broad grin. “God was with me!” He laughed heartily. “I sang all the psalms in order, over and again. Before I knew it, the sun was up and my mother was fetching me home to breakfast. Now I know in my soul that the spirit moves on to its reward or punishment. It doesn’t wander about moaning and rattling old chains. I’ve got fresh bedding here. We’ll say a few extra prayers at bedtime and sleep the sleep of the righteous.”
    It wasn’t until he heard footsteps clomping over his head that Tom remembered how groggy and dazed Marlowe had seemed when he’d first risen up from behind the bed. Then another thought struck him like a blow. How could Leeds have tied those clever knots and balanced himself on a stool after drinking a draft from that jug? He couldn’t have done it, which meant someone did it for him. And that meant Bartholomew Leeds had been murdered.
    Tom groaned. Now he had to write another report to Bacon and pay extra for express delivery.

Chapter Six
     
    Francis Bacon walked across the fields of Covent Garden to the back gate of Burghley House on the Strand. He was known there, of course; the porter admitted him without question. He saw a cluster of visitors emerging from the portico and made a slight detour to climb up the snail mound in the corner of the large garden. The grass was putting forth shoots of green, bright on this overcast morning. The spiral path winding up to the circular bench at the top was inviting and pleasingly symmetrical. When Francis had a garden of his own, he would build such an ornament, but his would be glimpsable through rows of tall trees. Elms, for the yellow leaves in autumn, or beeches, for the whiteness of their bark.
    He wasn’t looking forward to this meeting, though he had news at last. Unfortunately, his first result after six dull weeks was a negative one. The Cambridge enterprise had suffered a major setback. The only positive aspect to the situation was that blame could not by any interpretation be assigned to him. Blamelessness was not necessarily a shield against consequences, however.
    Francis sighed. His dreams of gardens receded ever farther from his reach. Perhaps someday he could at least do something about the untidy fields behind Gray’s Inn.
    He and his uncle shared a love of gardens and a delight in designing them. Or more precisely, they each individually felt such a delight. Nothing was truly shared between them but scraps of family history, the constraint of wants obstructed, and that mutual sense of ease one feels when speaking, for a rarity, with someone of similarly high intelligence.
    Seeing that the small group had gone out the gate, Francis returned to the central path. He passed through