The Mammoth Book of Best British Mysteries

GREEN TARTS by 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.

Yet his position was assured. Robert, frankly, had neither the brains nor the will to wade through interminable papers, and having been raised to the role of Privy Councillor now sent various secret documents to Overbury for him to look over first. Yet this very power was making Thomas unpopular in certain quarters. And one quarter was extremely dangerous. The King himself had conceived a violent dislike of his favourite’s best friend, a dislike which he barely bothered to conceal.

“I am deep in love,” said the Countess of Essex, sighing.

“I am sure you are, my dear,” replied Mrs Turner, wishing she were being paid a guinea for every time she had heard that remark.

“Yet I fear the situation,” Frances continued. “If my husband should discover my association he would wreak havoc.”

“But he is not a husband in the true sense of the word. Is he?” she added, a trifle uncertainly.

“Most certainly not,” Frances replied roundly. “You know I hate the sight of him. And now I love Robert I could not bear to sleep with another man.”

“But surely you and Carr have not…”

Anne Turner paused delicately and the Countess blushed. “No, not yet. But I fear – what am I saying? – I mean I hope that it won’t be too long. That is why, my dear, I want you to take me to your Cunning Man. He has a fearsome reputation in dealing with matrimonial matters.”

Mrs Turner nodded her blonde head. “He certainly has. He also has a reputation for taking his clients to bed.” She laughed, a little nervously.

“Well, he won’t get anywhere with me,” Frances answered with asperity. And in that moment Anne saw her determination, her ruthlessness in achieving what she wanted regardless of the cost.

In this way Frances was introduced to Simon Forman, a man who combined the art of medicine with that of magic. An astrologer, a clairvoyant, and most of all a sympathetic listener, she begged him to make Robert Carr love her passionately and at the same time render her husband totally incapable in the bed-chamber. She also asked, though this in the greatest secrecy, that the Earl of Essex should die, thus leaving her free to marry again should she so desire.

Then, in the following spring, while still married to the lugubrious Earl, she and Robert met in secret at his house in London. She arrived by coach, heavily veiled, and was immediately shown into the salon. Awaiting her, in a frenzy of love, was the young nobleman, gorgeously attired as was customary but today not caring how he looked, determined, as he was, to get her upstairs to see his wonderful bed.

As soon as the servants had left the room he started to kiss her, wildly and voluptuously, knowing that she would weaken under such a barrage.

“Sweetheart,” he said, close to her ear. “Oh, my darling, I want you so badly.”

“But…” Frances protested half-heartedly.

“But what?”

“I am still married.”

“To that miserable fool. To hell with him.”

Robert was more aroused than he had ever been before. All his life he had found men more attractive than women but now he was in the throes of a desire so strong that it was barely containable. Turning Frances round he headed purposefully for the door.

“Where are you going?” she asked him

“There’s only one place for us to go. To the bedroom.”

“Oh, Robert, I’m afraid.”

“So am I,” he answered truthfully, making her laugh.

But once inside his bedchamber, the door locked safely behind them, she stared in wonderment at his beautiful bed.

“Oh, God’s truth,” she exclaimed. “I have never seen anything so glorious.”

“Do you refer to me or my bed?” he asked, half seriously.

She moved round to face him. “Both,” she said.

Afterwards, when they lay entwined, naked as on the day of their birth, she shuddered a little.

“What’s the matter? Did I hurt you?”

“A bit. But it was worth every second.”

“You belong to me now, Frances Essex.”

“Don’t call me by that name. I hate it. Call me Howard.”

“But the Howards hate me,” said Robert ruefully.

“One day they won’t.”

“It will take a magic spell to make them change their minds.”

“Well, who knows, that might even happen.”

Overbury was beside himself with anger. He was positive that his friend was deeply besotted with the wretched Howard woman, despite all his warnings of dire peril if Robert continued to associate with her.

“Abandon the bitch now,” had become his war cry.

But he misinterpreted the situation. Robert had for the first time in his life fallen deeply in love – physically, mentally, and every other way. He now had one goal and that was to marry Frances as soon as she could obtain a divorce.

Things came to a head between the two men in the following March. Returning to his rooms in Whitehall in the small hours, having spent the evening in the embrace of Frances, Robert was horrified to find Overbury pacing up and down in the Privy Gallery through which he had to pass.

“Are you still here?” he asked angrily.

“Am I here? Where have you been?”

Brushing him aside, Carr went on his way only to have Overbury shout at him, “Will you never leave the company of that base woman?”

“I haven’t seen her,” muttered Robert.

“It is too manifest,” Thomas screamed at him.

Carr wheeled about, his face livid, but Overbury was in full spate. “The King has bestowed great honours and gifts upon you and you overthrow yourself and all your fortunes in the company of that base woman. As you clearly intend to ruinate yourself I think it best if I have nothing further to do with you.”

“So be it,” growled Robert.

But Thomas was not done yet. “If you would kindly pay me the £1,500 you owe me then our obligations to one another are at an end. You must stand as you can, and I shall shift for myself. Good night to you.” And he stormed off in a towering rage.

“Prick,” yelled Robert at his departing back.

“The man is dangerous,” said Frances when told of the incident next day.

“No, darling. Difficult perhaps, but not actually menacing.”

“He might try and stop my suit for nullity going through.”

“On what grounds?”

“On the grounds that you and I committed adultery, a fact which he knows well.”

“It would be his word against ours.”

“He would dig up other witnesses from somewhere.”

Furthermore, thought Robert, Thomas Overbury has been thwarted in his love for me and will never forgive Frances as long as he lives. While Frances, unaware of what her lover was thinking, considered the fact that Thomas might yet reassert his power over Robert and send her packing.

“It would be better for all of us if the man could be spirited away,” said Carr quietly.

“I could try and get someone to murder him,” Frances remarked brightly.

Robert Carr, Viscount Rochford, merely laughed, thinking that she spoke in jest. But actually the Countess of Essex was in earnest, even going so far as to approach Sir David Wood – a Scotsman with a grudge against Overbury. Unfortunately he refused point blank, saying, “I might be accounted a great fool, Madam, if upon a woman’s word I should go to Tyburn.”

In the end it was the King himself who provided the solution. He decided that Overbury was to be offered an ambassadorship abroad, thus removing him and his potential for making trouble, yet at the same time treating him very fairly, for to be created ambassador was considered a good promotion.

Strangely, Overbury decided to be defiant. He believed that if he went overseas he would fade into obscurity. His prospects in England were far better, he argued. In view of the King’s dislike of him and the fact that Carr had fallen out with him, this was very odd reasoning, to say the least. Yet Thomas would not budge, probably thinking that Carr was behind it all and wanted him out of the way. The possibility of blackmailing Robert – a difficult thing to do from a distance – had also crossed his mind.

King James was thrown into an almost uncontrollable rage by Thomas Overbury’s contemptuous refusal of his offer.

“How dare that arrogant upstart treat me with such derision, Carr? You know I did this for you and I thought it a brave way of saving Overbury’s face. And now the poxy pillcock has turned down my offer. I’ll have him for this, mark my words.”

The spittle was running down from the King’s mouth, a sign that he was labouring under some great emotion. Robert, not so keen these days on giving his Majesty whorish looks and flirtatious glances, felt genuinely alarmed. Yet alongside this alarm there rose a ray of hope.

“What do you mean, Sire?”

“I’ll call him before the Council and then send him to the Tower. I’ll teach him to treat me with disrespect.”

Robert was so overcome that he had to sit down suddenly, despite the King being present. So their problem was going to be solved for them. Overbury was to be condemned to imprisonment.

James looked at him from a little eye. “And what do you have to say to that, eh, my Carr?”

“I say good riddance.”

“I think it well if you take to your bed for a few days, Robert. And when the news does come to you, plead ignorance.”

“I will, Sire, never fear.” And Carr kissed the royal hand more fervently that he had done for the last several months.

At long last Frances’s marriage was declared null and void. But what a terrible time she had had to endure in order to obtain her objective. The entire Howard clan had been thrown into a panic when the Court of Commissioners had insisted that she be investigated by midwives and ladies of rank to see whether she was “virgo intacta”. The fact that she was having an affair with Carr was common knowledge among the family so they had substituted another girl – very young and heavily veiled – to undergo the examination. However the head of the commissioners, Archbishop Abbot, had expressed doubt about the proceedings, but once again the King had intervened. He had issued an order that each commissioner was to vote whether he was for or against the annulment without stating his reasons. Seven to five voted in favour of the Countess’s marriage being annulled.

The populace at large were vaguely amused by it all and some wit wrote a ditty which went into common circulation:

This dame was inspected, but fraud interjected,

A maid of more perfection

Whom the midwives did handle, whilst the knight held the candle,

O there was a clear inspection.

Now all foreign writers, cry out on those mitres

That allow this for virginity

And talk of ejection and want of erection,

O there is sound divinity!

Seventeen days after Thomas Overbury was admitted to the Tower, the Governor, Sir William Wade, was dismissed and Sir Gervase Elwes was appointed in his place. Behind this extraordinary turn of events lay the hand of the Earl of Northampton, great-uncle to Frances and himself very attracted to Robert Carr. No sooner had this happened than Richard Weston, a shady character who had once worked for Mrs Anne Turner and who had latterly helped Frances and Robert to meet in secret places, was appointed as Thomas’s gaoler.

Shortly after this, Mrs Turner sent for Weston to come to Whitehall to meet the Countess of Essex, as she still then was. She asked him to give Overbury “a water”, insisting that Weston did not take it himself. He suspected at once it was poison but on his way to administer it he was stopped by Sir Gervase Elwes. Weston was then approached by a strange man called Franklin in the White Lion on Tower Hill, who enquired about Overbury’s health. Weston told him that the man was far from well and had to have enemas regularly. Franklin immediately suggested that a strange apothecary would come and give him a poisoned glister, or enema. Weston promptly reported the matter to Sir Gervase.

Right from the start of his imprisonment, Thomas had been writing to Robert in letters that showed he had no conception of how deeply wounded Carr had been by his references to Frances. Instead he spoke blithely of plans to get him out of the Tower, most of them saying how sick he was, indeed fit to expire. In a welter of self-deception, he begged Carr to say that he – Robert – would die of a broken heart if Thomas were not released. In other letters still he tried to manage Carr’s affairs, just as he once had long ago. But his greatest mistake was to refer to Frances as a “catopard”; a derogatory term that he had used about her when Robert merely regarded the girl as a plaything.

Meanwhile a steady stream of tarts and jellies had been arriving at the Tower, purporting to come from Robert. But, shortly, other foodstuffs arrived, from the Countess of Essex. Elwes kept these particular tarts, which were a bright green in shade, in the Tower kitchen and noted that after a day or two they had turned black and foul. While the jellies, left standing, grew fur on them. Then came the day when she sent another batch of emerald green tarts, this time accompanied by a letter. In it she insisted that Sir Gervase should not allow his wife or children to taste the tarts or jelly, and that they were to be given to Thomas Overbury. “Do this at night and all will be well,” she concluded.

That evening, lying next to Robert in the great and beautiful bed, she whispered, “Darling, why do you write to Overbury? Surely you must hate him as much as I do.”

There was a silence, so profound that she thought her lover must have dropped off to sleep, but eventually he spoke in the darkness.

“No, I don’t hate him. I just wish he weren’t such an arrogant bullying creature. I truly hoped that being in prison would make him see sense and that he would swear allegiance to your family. But he continues to write in his old vein; ordering me about and…”

His voice died away.

“Insulting me?” asked Frances.

Carr propped himself up on one elbow. “I didn’t say that.”

“No, but you meant it. Oh, sweetheart, I fear that fellow. I fear his influence even from the heart of the Tower.”

“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.”

“No, Madam,” said Mrs Turner in a quiet voice, “I will be hanged for you both.”

Frances did not reply but left the room. In the silence that followed they could hear her speaking through the wall, and Robert answering her. When she came back again she looked slightly calmer and warned Franklin again about remaining silent when being questioned.

He bowed and left. Two days later both he and Mrs Turner were arrested and questioned.

That night, climbing into their bed, Frances and Robert hugged each other like two children.

“What shall we do?” she asked him in a tiny, frightened voice.

“Deny,” he answered. “We must deny everything.”

“But Weston will tell them about the green tarts, about the jelly, about the apothecaries…”

“Say no more, not even between these walls. All we can do is swear they are liars.”

“I’m terrified, Robert.”

“We should have thought of that before,” he answered bitterly.

Like a rat in a trap, the Earl of Somerset did everything to defend himself; burning letters, writing to Overbury’s servant, pleading with the King, objecting to the panel of commissioners investigating the case. But all to no avail. On 17 October an order was made placing him under house arrest in his apartments at Whitehall. Frances – now seven months pregnant – was similarly confined to a room in Greys.

Now, it seemed, that Overbury reached from the grave and claimed his victims. Weston was hanged by the neck until he was dead; Sir Thomas Monson, a shadowy figure who had worked behind the scenes assisting the Countess of Somerset, was arrested pending trial; Sir Gervase Elwes was stripped of office and placed in confinement; Mrs Anne Turner was taken into custody, James Franklin, the quack doctor, likewise. Somerset himself was transferred to the Tower. Because of Frances’s pregnancy she was placed under house arrest in the care of Sir William Smithie, a London alderman. She was now completely isolated.

The trial of Mrs Turner proved sensational because various magic dolls were produced, all coming from the time when she and Frances had consulted cunning men about their love affairs. But in the eyes of the public it meant that she was a sorceress, a dabbler in the black arts, and it was hardly surprising when the jury found her guilty. Thomas Overbury had his second victim.

Sir Gervase Elwes was hanged, swiftly, because one of his servants took hold of one foot while the hangman’s assistant tugged the other. There was a general feeling that no one thought he deserved the verdict. James Franklin was sent to the gallows and died muttering as the cart was driven away and he was left hanging. Four people had now gone to the grave.

On 9th December Frances gave birth to a baby girl after a normal confinement. The child was christened Anne a few days later. Then, on 4 April, 1616, the Countess and her daughter were parted, for the mother was taken to the Tower pending the court hearing. She lived separately from her husband – who had yet to see his baby – and it was elected that she would be the first to go to trial, to be prosecuted by no less than Sir Francis Bacon. As she entered court every man present drew breath for that day she looked radiantly beautiful. She held up her hand for the reading of the indictment.

“Frances, Countess of Somerset, what sayest thou? Art thou guilty of this felony and murder, or not guilty.”

Curtseying to the Lord Chancellor, the Countess uttered a single word in a low voice, wondrous fearful. “Guilty,” she said.

That, you may feel, was the end of the story. The Earl and Countess of Somerset were both found guilty and condemned to die, she by the rope and he by the axe. But, strange as it may seem, they received royal pardons and eventually walked free from the Tower.

What does that mean? Had Overbury been murdered or had he died of an illness contracted in the Tower? Had all the so-called evidence been doctored by Coke in his determination to condemn Somerset?

And what of me? You see, I was the smallest player. No one asked me what happened, but I knew all the facts.

Poor little Frances. She supplied green tarts and jellies to the prisoner, but they were intercepted by Elwes and never eaten. They were each and all so convinced of the parts they played that they trapped themselves by their own guilt.

So did anyone kill Thomas Overbury, I hear you ask?

Indeed. I killed him, dead as pork.

I, William Reeve, apprentice to Paul de Loubell, the apothecary who made up prescriptions for Dr Mayerne.

On the way to the Tower to give Sir Thomas an enema, I was approached by a shifty fellow – I have no idea who he was – and given a substance which I was asked to substitute for the one I was carrying. He offered me £20, more money than I could earn in years. So I did. I applied the enema right under the eyes of Weston, who had no idea what was really happening.

Then I fled to Paris and stayed there for several years until the whole affair was over, before returning to London and setting myself up as an apothecary. I heard the whole story from my master, Paul de Loubell, just before he died, and I have set it down for you as he told it to me.

Yet even he did not know the truth about my part in the affair. Now you alone know how I outwitted them all, even the greatest in the land. Will you find it in your heart to forgive me?