CHAPTER 37
Tom marched up Holborn Street, setting a punishing pace with his long legs. A church bell had just tolled nine of the clock. Clara had been arrested one whole hour ago. Time was of the essence.
"First we talk to Mrs. Sprye, and then we pound Treasurer Fogg to a bloody pulp." He threw a glance over his shoulder and saw Trumpet jogging along behind. Even Ben was panting slightly. He slowed his pace.
Ben said, "Mr. Bacon first. He'll know for certain if this is Fogg's hand. He'll also know how to post bail."
"Yes, yes, Mr. Bacon knows everything." Tom was in no mood to humor Ben's hero worship.
"Well, he does," Ben said, unfazed. "Besides, I want to check on him to see if he needs anything. He was up too late last night. It doesn't agree with him."
"Doesn't agree with him," Tom muttered. Then he shouted, "The love of my life has been thrown into the foulest, most dangerous prison in Christendom and you're worried that your tutor might have a little hangover?"
Ben looked abashed, which made Tom feel even worse.
"We'll get her out, Tom," Trumpet soothed. "Maybe not today since it's Sunday, but tomorrow. You'll see. Mrs. Sprye knows every judge in Westminster and the gaol delivery justices too. Half of them owe her their positions."
"Don't forget that Mr. Bacon wants to talk to Clara too," Ben said. "He'll help us, I promise you."
"Fine. Mr. Bacon first, then." Tom cut recklessly across Holborn and stormed up Gray's Inn Road and through the gateway, waving impatiently at the porter as he passed. "He'd better be awake."
They marched across the yard. Tom flung open the door. He nearly stepped on him, the frail figure splayed on the floor at the foot of the stairs.
"Francis!" Ben cried. He knelt beside him, his face white.
"Is he dead?" Tom's heart clenched with dread.
Trumpet knelt on the other side and placed trembling fingers on his neck. "He's alive." He moved a hand under the man's nostrils. "He's breathing." His voice quavered with tears of relief.
Tom breathed in then out. Tears stung his own eyes. "Thanks be to God in his heaven."
"We must get him upstairs," Ben whispered.
Tom nudged Trumpet aside and bent to gather the slender form into his arms. He took the stairs as quickly as he could without jarring. Ben kept pace beside him, his hand on Bacon's forehead as if that would somehow help. Trumpet ran ahead to open doors.
They passed straight through the outer chamber. Tom barely noticed the opulence of the furnishings as he hurried in to lay his burden gently on the wide bed. Ben removed Bacon's ruff, cuffs, and doublet. Tom slipped off his shoes and unfolded the lambskin coverlet that lay across the foot of the bed, drawing it up over the still figure. Trumpet arranged pillows, taking the opportunity to run light hands over his head.
"A bump — a big one — but no blood. Not too bad." He smiled at Ben, who was weeping openly with fear.
Tom heard a soft boom from the stairwell. He nipped into the outer chamber and peered out the window. He went back into the bedchamber. "Someone went out, I think, but I missed him. The court is full of men, walking here and there. It could have been any of them."
Mr. Bacon groaned softly. His eyes fluttered open. Ben took his limp hand and patted it. "My bed," Bacon said. "How?"
"We found you at the foot of the stairs," Ben said.
The lads exchanged worried looks. Tom knew they were all thinking the same thing: Bacon had been pushed, like Shiveley. Thanks be to God they had come straight to Gray's instead of stopping first at the Antelope. If they had arrived even a few minutes later, he was certain they would have found Bacon's neck snapped.
The murderer that was loose at Gray's was growing bolder. "Thank you, Gentlemen." Bacon's eyes closed. His lashes lay black against his too-white cheeks. He lay still, breathing soft, regular breaths. A minute passed; another.
"Should we go?" Trumpet whispered. "Let him sleep?"
"Not sleeping. Thinking." Bacon opened his eyes and looked sideways at Ben. "Mr. Whitt, would you be so kind as to fetch my desk and take dictation? I may never have another opportunity to describe the effects of a blow on the head from the perspective of the victim."
Tom was nonplussed, but Ben rose without comment and went into the study. He returned with a portable writing desk decorated with the Bacon coat of arms. He drew a stool to the side of the bed and sat, placing the desk at his feet.
"Mr. Bacon," Tom asked, "shouldn't we send for a physician?"
"Yes, please do. But not yet." Again his eyes closed, but briefly this time. "I can't remember." He sounded nettled. "I went out on my landing, meaning to go down to the buttery. I spoke with someone. I can almost see his face and hear his voice, but I cannot form a name in my mind."
"You must rest," Ben said. "Don't strain yourself."
Bacon looked at Tom. "Have you brought the limner? Does she have the tools of her trade? Perhaps she can help me remember."
Tom shook his head. "I'm afraid I have bad news." He told him about Clara's arrest, glossing over his reasons for being on the scene first thing on a Sunday morning.
"If Fogg sent that letter, then he is our killer," Bacon said. "Conversely, if he is not the killer, he did not send the letter. There is no reason for the limner to be questioned in the matter of the Fleming's death."
Tom pulled the letter from his pocket and unfolded it. He started to hand it to the prostrate man, hesitated, and gave it to Ben instead. Ben held it so that Bacon could see it without moving his head.
"Well," he said, after a brief perusal, "that is not Fogg's hand. His clerk might have written it, but it doesn't seem his style either. I would expect more verbosity. Perhaps with some thought . . ."
"You must rest," Ben insisted. He folded up the letter and tucked it into the desk. "You've had a very narrow escape."
Bacon turned his hazel eyes toward Ben. He suddenly looked very young and very vulnerable, lying injured and helpless in his vast bed. "Will you stay with me?"
"Every minute." Ben took his hand and clasped it firmly in both of his own.