Read Online Death by Disputation (A Francis Bacon Mystery Book 2) by Anna Castle - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Anna Castle
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From Gray’s Inn, 4 March 1587
Fra. Bacon
P.S. In re the enclosed: We know this Marlowe is capable of wanton destruction, for here he has most cruelly tortured the poet Lucan.”
Chapter Eight
Tom sketched the noose as best he could, then packed it snugly in a box and went back to Hobson’s to have his package added to the cart that left once a week for the West Country. He couldn’t expect a reply from Uncle Luke in anything less than a month. The whole commission might be over by then, but his curiosity would be satisfied.
He decided to speak to the butler next to find out what he could about that jug of wine. The buttery was in the screens passage beyond the hall. Against the wall to the left was a long bench; on the right was a tall, narrow table where the butler set jugs and pitchers to be picked up. Fellows also stood at that table to review their students’ expenses in the account book.
The buttery itself was a smallish room whose door was split in half. The bottom half was always closed to prevent students from wandering in and helping themselves. You asked for what you wanted through the open upper half.
The walls within were lined with racks holding barrels of various sizes. Great hogsheads on the bottom row were filled with the small ale that was the staple drink of the college, brewed on the premises and served in pitchers at every meal. Rundlets on the next row held beer, purchased in town, for those who wished to pay for that more popular drink. One rack held casks of wine — the cheapest sack and Spanish tinto — also to be paid for out of your own purse. Any man who wanted wine of better quality could hie himself to a vintner in the town.
The screens passage was quiet in mid-afternoon, as Tom had hoped. The butler quirked an eyebrow at him as he approached. Tom asked for a cup of beer, saying, “I wanted a quiet moment to look at my account, if I may. Make sure I’m keeping up.”
“Now that’s what I like to see.” The butler was a tall man with long limbs well suited for his job, which consisted largely of reaching for things in his small domain. He pulled the buttery book from the shelf at his elbow and opened it on the wide ledge over the bottom half of his door. He entered the beer at the bottom and turned the book around for Tom to read. Then he twisted on his tall stool to grab a wooden cup and fill it from a cask.
Tom studied the rows of entries. Most were written in a hasty scrawl and the butler seemed to have adopted the headmaster’s slapdash approach to names. Tom’s occurred twice as ‘Claraday,’ once as ‘Clattery,’ and possibly once as ‘Catterpole,’ unless that was someone else. He had quite a few entries since he liked to treat the sizars to an extra bit of something now and then. A gentleman was known by his generosity. Bacon had advised him to keep his accounts current so as not to attract negative attention, so he took a moment to double-check the Catterpole and Clattery entries.
That settled, he started to broach the topic of Leeds’s death when the butler beat him to it. “You’re one of Leeds’s boys, aren’t you?” He shook his head, his long face a portrait of seemly grief. “A sad business.” He leaned an elbow on his counter, ready to gossip. No need for subtle strategies here. “You’re the one what found him, aren’t you?”
“I am.” Tom matched his sorrowful expression but knew what was expected. He told his story yet again, emphasizing the more horrible bits. The butler’s eyes gleamed in appreciation for the tale.
Tom let a moment of silence go by, then pointed at another entry in the book. “I’d like to pay these charges of Diligence Wingfield’s too.”
“Nice of you,” the butler said, making the appropriate notations.
“Poor Dilly,” Tom said. “He drank what was left of Leeds’s wine that day and knocked himself flat out.”
“Oh, those
From Gray’s Inn, 4 March 1587
Fra. Bacon
P.S. In re the enclosed: We know this Marlowe is capable of wanton destruction, for here he has most cruelly tortured the poet Lucan.”
Chapter Eight
Tom sketched the noose as best he could, then packed it snugly in a box and went back to Hobson’s to have his package added to the cart that left once a week for the West Country. He couldn’t expect a reply from Uncle Luke in anything less than a month. The whole commission might be over by then, but his curiosity would be satisfied.
He decided to speak to the butler next to find out what he could about that jug of wine. The buttery was in the screens passage beyond the hall. Against the wall to the left was a long bench; on the right was a tall, narrow table where the butler set jugs and pitchers to be picked up. Fellows also stood at that table to review their students’ expenses in the account book.
The buttery itself was a smallish room whose door was split in half. The bottom half was always closed to prevent students from wandering in and helping themselves. You asked for what you wanted through the open upper half.
The walls within were lined with racks holding barrels of various sizes. Great hogsheads on the bottom row were filled with the small ale that was the staple drink of the college, brewed on the premises and served in pitchers at every meal. Rundlets on the next row held beer, purchased in town, for those who wished to pay for that more popular drink. One rack held casks of wine — the cheapest sack and Spanish tinto — also to be paid for out of your own purse. Any man who wanted wine of better quality could hie himself to a vintner in the town.
The screens passage was quiet in mid-afternoon, as Tom had hoped. The butler quirked an eyebrow at him as he approached. Tom asked for a cup of beer, saying, “I wanted a quiet moment to look at my account, if I may. Make sure I’m keeping up.”
“Now that’s what I like to see.” The butler was a tall man with long limbs well suited for his job, which consisted largely of reaching for things in his small domain. He pulled the buttery book from the shelf at his elbow and opened it on the wide ledge over the bottom half of his door. He entered the beer at the bottom and turned the book around for Tom to read. Then he twisted on his tall stool to grab a wooden cup and fill it from a cask.
Tom studied the rows of entries. Most were written in a hasty scrawl and the butler seemed to have adopted the headmaster’s slapdash approach to names. Tom’s occurred twice as ‘Claraday,’ once as ‘Clattery,’ and possibly once as ‘Catterpole,’ unless that was someone else. He had quite a few entries since he liked to treat the sizars to an extra bit of something now and then. A gentleman was known by his generosity. Bacon had advised him to keep his accounts current so as not to attract negative attention, so he took a moment to double-check the Catterpole and Clattery entries.
That settled, he started to broach the topic of Leeds’s death when the butler beat him to it. “You’re one of Leeds’s boys, aren’t you?” He shook his head, his long face a portrait of seemly grief. “A sad business.” He leaned an elbow on his counter, ready to gossip. No need for subtle strategies here. “You’re the one what found him, aren’t you?”
“I am.” Tom matched his sorrowful expression but knew what was expected. He told his story yet again, emphasizing the more horrible bits. The butler’s eyes gleamed in appreciation for the tale.
Tom let a moment of silence go by, then pointed at another entry in the book. “I’d like to pay these charges of Diligence Wingfield’s too.”
“Nice of you,” the butler said, making the appropriate notations.
“Poor Dilly,” Tom said. “He drank what was left of Leeds’s wine that day and knocked himself flat out.”
“Oh, those
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