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

looked surprised at the question. “I’m fine, Tom. How are you?”
    “I meant after your ordeal on Monday.” He made a sour face. “That foul wine.”
    “What wine?”
    What wine? “The wine from Leeds’s jug. It put you out cold. Don’t you remember?”
    Diligence shook his head. “I remember throwing up out the window with you and Steadfast holding me.”
    “That’s all? Well, I guess some things are best forgotten.” Tom clapped the boy on the shoulder. “I’m more concerned about what got into that jug in the first place. I’d hate to think the butler was getting careless.”
    “Our butler? I like him. He hardly ever yells at us and if he does, he makes it up by giving us a bit of extra cheese or something.”
    “I like him too,” Tom said. “You brought the jug from the buttery yourself, didn’t you?”
    “I always do. The butler leaves it on the counter and I fetch it on my way back from breakfast. I leave it — left it — on Mr. Leeds’s table.” He cast a sad glance at the unoccupied table in the center of the room. Or was it a worried glance? Surely he wouldn’t have drunk the wine if he’d seen anyone tampering with it, but he might not have understood what he saw.
    “Did you see anyone handling that jug before you collected it?”
    “How do you mean?”
    “Oh, I don’t know. Moving it aside, perhaps, to make room for something else.”
    Diligence frowned down at the surface of his desk as if reading something written in invisible ink. Then he looked up at Tom, blinking his pale blue eyes. “I never see anything, Tom. I just do what they tell me.”

Chapter Nine
     
    Francis Bacon granted himself a moment to stretch his arms and flex his fingers. He’d been writing for a solid hour, drafting and then making a fair copy of a letter in French for Sir Francis Walsingham to send to the Secretary of France concerning Her Majesty’s religious policies. The letter was satisfactory, he deemed, and had one or two well-turned phrases. He was especially pleased with the conceit of the queen not caring to open windows into men’s souls to view their innermost beliefs. Outward conformity in support of national unity was all that she, in her infinite wisdom, required.
    He wished the radical Protestants in Cambridgeshire could understand that simple truth; but then he would not have this commission that kept him in weekly contact with his powerful uncle.
    He sanded the letter, folded it, sealed it, and dropped it into the basket of mail to be delivered. He picked up the next one to be read and sighed as he recognized the angular strokes of his mother’s handwriting.
    Lady Anne Bacon was a woman of strong opinions freely expressed. She kept a sharp eye on the doings of her youngest son, especially since her eldest, Anthony, had escaped her supervision by moving to the south of France. Normally, Francis made an effort to deflect her attentions, but she knew more about religious nonconformity in England than anyone else he could consult without risking questions. Her views were more aligned with the zealot Clarady had been sent to catch than with those of the established Church of England, although she knew better than to flaunt them in public.
    Francis didn’t want her to know about his commission, which she would not support, but he did want whatever information she had that might help him identify the seditioner. He’d come up with a pretext which was plausible enough, given that religion was her favorite topic.
    He slit the seal and unfolded the letter. It began, as usual, without salutation. Her letters always seemed to pick up in the middle of some ongoing argument.
    “I am glad to learn you are recovered from your recent distemper. You overindulge and then refuse to moderate your sleeping habits. Awake until all hours musing nescio quid (I know not what) then lying in bed until noon. This hampers the digestion and leads to a souring in the belly.
    As for your proposal that Gray’s Inn