The Mammoth Book of Best British Mysteries (13 page)

“What influence, pray?”

“That he will poison you against me. That he will regain his place in your heart.”

“Never,” answered Robert forcefully. “I swear to you that he shall never do that.”

“All the same I wish he were dead and leaving us all in peace.”

“Shush. You are not to say such things.”

“But I think them.”

The final straw in the relationship between the imprisoned Overbury and Robert Carr came in August. Thomas’s brother-in-law, Sir John Lidcote wrote to him and told him of
a visit he had made to Carr. Having read the letter Overbury, much enfeebled since his commital to the Tower, made a gesture of despair.

“What’s the matter with you?” asked Weston, who had just come into the room.

“It’s Carr. He’s played me false. Listen to this. My brother-in-law told him of my plight in this place and the fellow gave a counterfeit sigh. And then do you know what he
did?”

“No.”

“He grinned widely in Lidcote’s face. Just couldn’t help smiling. And to think of my miserable condition and the number of times I have begged him to help free me. Why, I would
like to kill the bastard.”

“No chance of that,” remarked Weston dourly.

“Indeed, indeed,” replied Overbury heavily. “But at least I can put pen to paper. That is if I had any.”

“I’ll get you some,” Weston answered, suffering an unusual moment of pity for the shambling wreck that Overbury was fast becoming.

Later he took the letter to be posted without telling Sir Gervase Elwes, little realizing that its contents would finally give Robert Carr a motive for murder, because in it Overbury threatened
to expose all the secrets he and Carr had shared over the years, ending with the ominous words, “Thus, if you deal thus wickedly with me, I have provided, whether I die or live, your nature
shall never die, nor leave to be the most odious man alive.” He also stated that he had made copies of this indictment and sent it out to all his “friends noble”.

Knowing that the contents of the letter would send Frances into a frenzy, Robert did not show it to her. But going about the Court as usual he heard nothing to make him believe that Overbury had
kept his word and written to various noblemen. On the contrary, everyone was cheerful and nobody mentioned a word about receiving such a libellous document. Carr concluded that Thomas simply had
threatened in vain.

But the sands of time were running out for Thomas Overbury; that arrogant bully was now seriously ill. Throughout the month of August, 1613, his condition slowly deteriorated.
According to Weston, his gaoler, Thomas had a large sore on his back which he kept covered with a plaster. Apparently the changing of this caused him so much pain that he would shout and swear when
Weston did it.

At the end of the month Sir John Lidcote wrote to Robert that it was virtually impossible to contact Overbury and asked if he knew anything about it. Then, almost immediately, Carr was informed
that the wretched man’s condition was deteriorating fast. He immediately wrote to Dr Mayerne – who was visiting Bath at the time – and told him of the situation. The physician
replied that he was sorry but there was nothing he could do at the moment. Might it not be better perhaps if Overbury wrote to him direct describing his symptoms.

But the time for writing letters was almost over. On the morning of the 14th September, Overbury begged Weston for an enema.

“It might ease me a little.”

Weston looked noncommittal, his usual expression. “Aye, it might. Shall I ask Paul de Loubell, Dr Mayerne’s apothecary, to make you one up?”

“If you wouldn’t mind.”

Two hours later an apothecary’s boy had come into the room where Overbury lay, looking quite ghastly.

“You’re wanting an enema, Sir?”

“Oh, God, yes. I’m in a terrible state and I’m hoping it might afford me some relief.”

“Should do, Sir. Now let’s to your arse.”

“What’s your name?” asked Weston as the boy administered the glister.

“William, Sir.”

“Do you know what you are doing?”

The boy had given him a look from the eyes of a leopard. “Oh, yes, sir. I know what I am doing very well.”

That evening, as Weston lay fitfully slumbering, he heard the most terrible cry from Overbury’s room. Going to him he saw that the man had thrown himself half out of bed.

“What’s up?” he asked laconically.

But he had to bend over Overbury to hear the reply, which came from a mouth with the lips drawn back and upwards in a kind of terrible snarl.

“I am in agony, man. For the love of Christ, help me.”

“Where does it hurt you?”

“Everywhere. I have never known pain like it.”

“I can change the plaster on your back if you like.”

Overbury nodded. “It might help me. Can you do it beneath the bedclothes?”

“I can try.”

Fumbling about beneath the sheets Weston did his best to follow Thomas’s instructions as to where the ulcer was, but when sticking the plaster down he heard Overbury give vent to a
terrible oath as he touched the place where it was situated. He pulled back.

“That’s the best I can do.”

There was no answer. Weston looked down and saw that Thomas had closed his eyes, but not peacefully. Instead there was an agonized expression on his face.

Throughout that night the gaoler kept close watch, listening to the screams and groans of the sick man. He even moved him to another bed to see if this might ease his sufferings. As dawn broke
Overbury spoke to him in a feeble voice.

“Weston, go and buy me some beer, I beg of you. I have such a thirst that I think it will kill me if I don’t drink.”

The gaoler, paid creature of Mrs Anne Turner, took another look at the prisoner, then did what was necessary. After that he went out of the Tower for fifteen minutes. When he returned he was
greeted by death. For the corpse of Thomas Overbury lay alone in the chamber to which he had been brought exactly four months previously. It was finished.

The wedding was one of the most splendid the court could remember. It took place on 26th December, 1613, exactly three months after the death in the Tower. Celebrated in the
Chapel Royal at Whitehall – where Frances had married the Earl of Essex, her first husband – the service was conducted by the same man, the Bishop of Bath and Wells. Frances played the
part of virgin bride by wearing her hair loose, Robert Carr – who a month before had been raised to the status of Earl of Somerset – was dressed resplendently. It was indeed a sight to
behold.

The marriage was followed by extravagant festivities. A specially written masque was performed, then came dancing in which both bride and groom took part. The couple finally got to bed at about
three o’clock in the morning, utterly exhausted and too tired for consummation. Acting on a whim, the new Earl had had the great bed dismantled and reassembled in his apartments at Whitehall.
So that when Frances finally entered the room she exclaimed aloud in delighted surprise. And later when the groom was brought in surrounded by his male attendants, he found her sitting up in it,
smiling at him.

“Oh, sweetheart, you’ve brought our bed here,” she whispered as the last one left the room.

“Yes, goodnight, darling.”

And she laughed a little as she saw that he had immediately fallen asleep.

The celebrations went on interminably. At court the entire twelve days of Christmas were taken up with masques and feasting, while poets wrote verses praising the bride’s beauty and
purity. On New Year’s Day a tournament was held in which the teams wore the colours of either bride or bridegroom, while on the 4th January the entire court rode through the streets of London
to feast with the Lord Mayor. The bridegroom went on horseback, Frances rode in a brand new coach, richly ornamented, drawn by a team of horses presented to the Earl as an additional wedding
present.

It seemed as if nothing could ever go wrong for this glittering couple. Robert had made up his quarrel with Frances’s family and still stood high in the King’s estimation. He had
estates, money, a key position, and, above all, a wife with whom he was deeply in love. Life had never been more worth living. And yet, somewhere, a worm began to turn.

Making his summer progress through the country, the King stayed at Apethorpe in Northamptonshire. And it was there that he first set eyes on George Villiers. It was love at
first sight undeniably. James had never seen such a vision. For George’s face and hands were effeminate yet handsome, his hair hung in chestnut curls, he was tall and well made. From that
moment on the star of Robert Carr, Earl of Somerset, began to go into the descendent.

Robert’s many enemies met at Baynard’s Castle, four Earls being amongst their number. They determined, almost gleefully, to use Villiers to bring Carr down. They decided to clothe
George, giving him spending money. The impecunious young man, owner of one threadbare suit, was now dressed in the very latest fashion. He was young, he was attractive, he was gleaming with
self-awareness. At long last the Earl of Somerset had been outshone.

Furiously, Robert did everything to block his rival’s rise to power. But to no avail. He had finally met his match.

“But, sweetheart,” said Frances, who had been sitting patiently listening to her husband’s complaints for a good thirty minutes, “surely you should try and win the
King’s favour back.”

“I do try.”

“I beg to differ. You sulk and show him open fury. You will never gain his love again like that.”

Much to her surprise, her husband rounded on her. “How dare you? I know the King of old. Leave the way he is handled to me, if you please.”

“Certainly,” Frances replied, and stalked out of the room.

But walking down the corridor she had a frightening experience. She thought that something moved in the shadows, a dark shapeless thing.

“Overbury!” she exclaimed. And just for a second the thing took form and raised its hand at her before it vanished.

Frances ran to the bedroom and flung herself down on the bed – that wonderful bed that had accompanied her throughout her love affair with Robert Carr. She felt cold and afraid as if
something unknown were rising from the grave to come and taunt her. Turning, she looked up at the woodwork but all she could see was the face of a grinning satyr.

By that summer, with George Villiers now knighted and made a Gentleman of the Bedchamber, something else, something far worse, began to worry Robert Carr. A whispering campaign
had started about the death of Thomas Overbury. Talk of poison and poisoners was spreading, and all this nearly two years after the event. It occurred to the Earl of Somerset almost at once that
his enemies at court had deliberately rekindled the old scandal.

Meanwhile Mrs Anne Turner, Frances’s friend and confidante, to say nothing of Frances herself, was growing distinctly worried. It was widely believed that Richard Weston had been working
for them and that he had insisted on being paid for his services – namely the demise of the prisoner. Had he anything to do with Overbury’s death or was he demanding payment under false
pretences? He continued to badger the women who had supplied him with the green tarts until the time when, in order to keep him quiet, they gave him
£
100 in gold, followed by another
four score pounds, also in gold, both sums paid to him by Mrs Turner.

In the spring of 1615 Frances felt certain that she had become pregnant and removed herself to Greys, near Henley. Mrs Turner, who had moved in with the Somersets a short time after their
marriage, accompanied her. Walking in the garden, certain that they could not be overheard, they conversed.

“My dear Anne, what are we going to do?”

“I have no idea, my dear Frances. After all, we did send in the green tarts.”

“Not to mention the jelly. It was full of poison as you know.”

“We must just deny everything and hope that these wretched rumours will stop.”

Frances Somerset burst into tears and stamped her foot. “Horrible Thomas Overbury! He will make trouble for us yet, I swear it.”

Mrs Turner made no reply but simply pursed her lips and walked steadfastly on.

Robert Carr, Earl of Somerset, had now grown frantic. He had sought from King James a pardon which would absolve him of crimes he had previously committed. But though the King
seemed willing enough to sign it, it had come unstuck before the Council when the Lord Chancellor had refused to seal it. The King had become angry and had walked out of the meeting, straight to
the Queen, who had, hating Somerset as she did, put the final nail into the coffin and told James not to sign.

Shortly after, His Majesty left on his summer progress. And it was while he was staying at Beaulieu that news reached him of the fact that Sir Gervase Elwes had set down an account of the events
leading up to the death of Sir Thomas Overbury. Having thus been informed, it left James no option but to order a full enquiry into the death of the prisoner.

The Lord Chief Justice himself, Sir Edward Coke, who seemed to be everybody’s enemy, headed the investigation, driven by his own desire to punish Somerset. He interviewed hundreds of
people, everyone from the highest to the lowest – well, almost the lowest – determined to capture the big fish via the little minnows.

In mid-September Richard Weston was arrested and confessed that he had been given a phial of greenish liquid by a Doctor Franklin, a quack that both Frances and Mrs Turner had consulted to aid
them with their respective love affairs. That night Franklin was summoned to the Whitehall apartments of the Countess. As he entered the room, Robert Carr, who was present with his wife, gave him a
dark look and walked out, leaving him alone with the two women.

“Weston has been taken into custody,” said Frances hysterically.

She looked terrible; pale, her hair wild, her body swollen by the child she was carrying.

“How very regrettable,” Franklin answered, not knowing quite what else to say.

“Regrettable! It’s a tragedy,” she answered. “You will be next, Franklin, mark my words, and you must deny everything. If you confess anything you will be hanged. By God,
if you confess, you shall be hanged for me, for I will not be hanged.”