The Mammoth Book of Best British Mysteries (11 page)

Lola hooted with derision. “Almost like the fairytales I used to make up for myself,” she added. “You know, I thought he might fucking twig when I told him I was named after a
character in Raymond Chandler. But I couldn’t resist it.”

“Well,” her companion smiled at her fondly. “You certainly made up for the loss of that Queen Anne silver. We’ve got enough to keep us going for months now. So where do
you fancy?”

“Not back to Soho,” Lola sniffed, as the car pulled into the slipstream of Marylebone Road. “I’ve fucking had it with those posing thugs. I know. I fancy some sea air.
How does Brighton sound to you?”

“The perfect place,” her companion agreed, “for a couple of actors.”

Dougie came around with his face stuck to a cold stone floor with his own blood. Shards of glass covered him. He could smell the acrid stench of piss in his nostrils, and from
the pub above, he could hear a tune, sounding like it was coming from out of a long tunnel of memory. He could just make out the lyrics: “
I met her in a club down in old Soho/Where you
drink Champagne and it tastes like cherry cola
. . .”

In loving memory of Lee Hazlewood 1929–2007, who had all the best stories and all the best songs.

Deryn Lake

God grant me grace, but I am getting on in years. I looked in the mirror this very morning and an old man stared back at me. I gazed at him in horror, hardly believing that I
had come to this. But sooner or later we all have intimations of mortality. Thus I will do as my conscience dictates and set down a record of those times, so long ago, when a man met his death in
the Tower and the part that I played in it all. As far as I can recall, if memory serves correctly, it all started with a bed.

It arrived in pieces, as was customary, and was carried up to the master bedroom by a team of servants, then handed over to the craftsmen to assemble. Watching them work, its
new owner thought it a beautiful thing that grew beneath their hands; richly carved and sumptuously adorned. In fact he could hardly wait for them to finish that he might stretch out on it and
measure his length on the silk cover, letting his eyes take in the marquetry panels on the headboard, created by German craftsmen, a number of whom now lived in Southwark. His gaze wandered over
the elaborate carvings, one of which was a grinning satyr to represent fertility. It seemed to smile at him in a devilish manner. All in all, he thought to himself, this new bed summed up his
status, his standing, his enviable position as the best-loved favourite of that most malleable of monarchs, James I.

Robert Carr, Viscount Rochford, took a step forward and touched the gorgeous draperies, presently being hung beneath the intricately carved oak tester. The workman responsible looked up.

“All right, my lord?”

“Splendid. I think this bed is going to be quite wonderful.”

“It will indeed, my lord.”

And tonight, thought Robert, I shall show it, totally complete, to my closest friend, Thomas Overbury. He gave a quiet sigh, thinking of the pleasures ahead, and turning, left the room.

As he went downstairs, Robert glanced admiringly at himself in a mirror. He was a handsome man, some twenty-four years of age, with long straight limbs and broad shoulders. He had a head of
thick fair hair which he wore tightly frizzed as fashion dictated, meanwhile dressing himself to the inch in fine clothes and jewels, including a sparkling earring worn in his left ear.
Unfortunately all this frippery made him appear effeminate, a feature which, no doubt, pleased his royal master enormously. For there could be no doubt that the King worshipped Robert –
leaning on his arm, pinching his cheek, kissing him quite openly in full public gaze – a fact which the self-seeking young man positively encouraged, responding with melting looks and
suggestive gestures. Yet, despite the love of King James, Robert had formed another liaison with Thomas Overbury, a bright young Englishman with literary pretensions. In fact the couple were
devoted and it was Thomas who was to visit this very night.

In order to pass the time, Robert decided to have a bath, thus causing an army of servants to plod up and down stairs with pails of boiling water. After being towelled dry, he oiled himself then
dressed in stockings and doublet, executed in silks and gold and silver thread. On his feet he put on a pair of low-heeled shoes, decorated with an enormous frill of black and yellow. Then, having
shaved closely, a feature much admired by the King, he awaited Thomas’s arrival. Quarter of an hour later, a thunderous knock announced his presence. Robert immediately assumed a negligent
pose, his fingers idly toying with a book, the other hand supporting his chin. He looked up as his friend was announced.

“My dear Overbury,” he said.

But once the bowing servant was out of the way, Robert hurried over and embraced the newcomer warmly, kissing him on both cheeks, then on the mouth.

Thomas disentangled himself. “You’re pleased to see me, I take it.”

“I always am. You know that.”

His friend allowed a small smile to light his features, a fact which made him appear more attractive. Older than Carr, he was not so blatantly good looking yet it was a more intelligent face,
though spoiled by an expression of arrogance. Now, though, he was anxious to please.

“Have you persuaded the King to like me any better?” he asked eagerly.

Robert pulled down his mouth. “No, I’m afraid not.”

“You know why it is, don’t you?”

“I think I can hazard a guess.”

“Because he’s jealous of me. He knows damn well that you love me better than him – and that is something the lecherous old beast cannot stomach.”

Robert simpered and for a moment looked utterly feminine. “I think what you say is true. He cannot take his eyes off me, even at court.”

Thomas Overbury scowled. “Besotted old fool.”

“Shush. Someone might hear you.”

“Let them.” He turned to Robert. “Now, what is this surprise you have to show me?”

“Come upstairs. Come and see my new toy.”

Somewhat mystified, Thomas followed him up the staircase to the master bedroom, Robert firmly closing the door behind him. A few minutes later came the sound of muted laughter as the two men
sampled the new bed’s delights.

“I am in despair,” said Frances, Countess of Essex, bursting into a spectacular torrent of tears. “Oh, my dear, what am I to do?”

The dear in question was a small, comely widow with a pleasing face and hair like golden thread. But at present her expression was one of deep sympathy which did not totally become her.

“Think of it,” Frances continued, not waiting for a reply. “Think of being wedded to a lanky brute who at first would not consummate the marriage and now expects me to lie with
him, which I do not wish to do. And, sweet Anne, just at this stage I have received a love letter from another man.”

Anne’s expression changed rapidly to one of acute attention. “Really, my pet? Who?”

“You’ll not believe it – the King’s favourite! Robert Carr himself.”

“Robert Carr? But surely he has other interests.”

“So I always thought, but the letter was most ardent.”

“What did it say?”

“How much he admires me and how much he would like to converse with me.”

Anne shook her head. “I am surprised indeed.”

Frances, who was one of the most beautiful women at court, looked very slightly annoyed. “Oh?”

“I’m just surprised that he had the courage to write,” Anne answered swiftly.

“I see,” answered the Countess, slightly mollified.

“I hold your heart close to mine as I hope you do to me,” said Sir Thomas Overbury, dictating.

“Is that grammatically correct?” asked Robert Carr, pausing in his writing.

“Oh, to hell with grammar. It will certainly attract the attention of the silly bitch.”

Robert laughed carelessly. “I don’t know why I’m bothering with this.”

“Oh, yes, you do. It’s because you can’t resist a challenge and the fact that the lady is in a loveless marriage appeals to you.”

“What shall I do if she says yes?”

Overbury gave a careless shrug. “That, my dear, will be entirely up to you.”

At that moment both men looked up as there was a noise in the corridor outside. They were in the royal palace at Greenwich, in Carr’s apartments, but this did not guarantee them
privacy.

“Hide the letter,” hissed Overbury and Robert thrust it beneath a book as the door opened without ceremony and they saw, standing in the entrance, his royal majesty James.

He glanced at Thomas unsmilingly. Ever since the affair last year when both he and Carr had been caught laughing at the Queen, any affection the King might have felt for Robert’s friend
had been totally banished. However, his feelings for Carr remained undiminished.

Now he said, “There you are, my lad. I would ask you to walk with me a little.”

Straightening himself from his reverential bow, Carr smiled flirtatiously. “Of course, your Majesty.”

Advancing on him, James lolled an arm round his favourite’s neck and kissed him on the lips. Carr turned towards him as sweetly as any woman. “If I can do anything to please your
Majesty.”

The King’s rheumy eyes had an inner fire. “We’ll walk a little way first, eh, Carr?”

“As your Majesty pleases.”

Ignoring Overbury the pair left the room, weak-legged James hanging round Robert’s neck as though his very life depended on it. Thomas could not help but notice that the fingers of the
King’s other hand were fiddling round his codpiece as he shuffled out.

They met privately and for the first time in Carr’s apartments in Hampton Court, he full of charm and prattling nonsense, she virtually tongue-tied. Looking at her,
intending to use her as a plaything and then discard her, Robert was struck by how very good-looking she was at close quarters. Her hair, reddish-gold in colour, was frizzed out in the latest
fashion with an aquamarine and pearl headdress, while her eyes – matching the stone – flashed shy but definite messages in his direction. As for her figure, he could see from her
exceedingly low-cut gown that her breasts were truly beautiful. It was rumoured throughout the court that she was a virgin, a fact which stimulated Robert’s wicked side with thoughts of
deflowering her.

“Well, Lady Frances, how good of you to come.”

“I come in response to your letters, Sir.”

He had not written one of them; Thomas Overbury was responsible for them all. Thinking of the ribaldry as they had been composed, Robert felt himself flush and turned away.

“Would my Lady like some wine?”

“Yes, please, I would.”

Carr poured two glasses and having handed her one, sat down in a chair opposite hers.

“You truly are bewitching,” he said, speaking his thoughts aloud.

Frances pulled a face. “Much good it has done me.”

“You are not happy?” asked Robert, hoping that this would start off the story of her marriage.

“No, Sir, I am not.”

And that indeed released the floodgates. She spoke of her wedding to the Earl of Essex when she had been fifteen and he a few months younger, how her father had at first kept them apart but,
following that, when her husband had returned from his trip abroad, he had failed dismally in the bed chamber. So much so that after a year of trying he had given up completely.

“And now?” Carr enquired.

“Now I would hate sexual connection. I dislike the Earl, may God forgive me.”

“Why Madam?”

“Because he is not pleasing to look at, he cannot talk to me, and he is only happy in the company of other men.” Tears filled the lovely bright eyes. “All in all, he is not a
pretty fellow.”

There was silence in the room and then Robert put down his glass and held out his hand. After a moment’s hesitation, the Countess of Essex slowly put out hers and twined her fingers round
his. They said nothing but sat quietly, simply looking at one another.

That evening Overbury, calling on his friend as usual, found him strangely withdrawn.

“Well, Robert, how did it go? Did you woo the hussy?”

“Don’t call her that, I beg you.”

Thomas was so shaken that he sat down abruptly. “God’s life! Do I hear aright? Don’t tell me that you have fallen under her spell.”

Robert, looking at Thomas Overbury, noticed for the first time that the man had a spot with a head forming on his right cheek.

“Of course not,” he said abruptly.

Thomas raised an eyebrow. “If I didn’t know you a great deal better I would say that you are extremely interested in the girl. Well, don’t be so I beg of you. The Howards are a
poisonous bunch and you know perfectly well that her father loathes you.”

“That is hardly her fault.”

“Agreed. But I assure you that you will place yourself in great danger if you pursue this.”

“Perhaps,” Robert answered. He changed the subject. “Now, dear friend, would you care for some wine?”

“I’ll have some Alicante.”

“A favourite of his Majesty.”

“Yes,” said Thomas with much meaning. “Let us hope that he does not lose interest in it.”

After he had gone, rather abruptly Robert thought – though he had been thankful, for once, to see the back of him – Carr lay on his bed. Over and over in his mind came the vision of
the beautiful Countess, so young and so unhappy. A strange feeling came over him, one that he was quite unaccustomed to, and he wondered what could possibly be causing such an unusual sensation.
Yet, despite it, he knew that she was indeed dangerous to him. And he also knew for certain that his original plan to use her as a plaything might well have to be abandoned.

Thomas Overbury was in a state of high alarm. There had been a definite change in his friend’s attitude, all stemming from the time he had seen that wretched Howard girl
on his own. It was a known fact that Thomas detested all the Howards – nobody, himself included, quite knowing why. Possibly, he often thought, he had been born hating them. But the fact
remained, he had an obsessive private malice towards the entire family.

He had helped Robert write those silly letters to the Countess of Essex, born Lady Frances Howard, for one reason and one reason alone; to ruin her reputation and thus bring dishonour to her
clan. But now it looked as if the entire scheme had blown up in his face. Could it even be possible that Robert Carr, Viscount Rochford, was falling in love with the woman? Alone in his room,
Thomas seethed with silent rage.