by Deryn Lake
Sutton Place
Deryn Lake
Copyright © Dinah Lampitt 1983
The right of Dinah Lampitt to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
First published in the United Kingdom in 1983 by Frederick Muller Ltd.
This edition published in 2018 by Lume Books.
This book is dedicated to Bill Lampitt — my Love and my Inspiration — whose faith and encouragement I will always remember and to Jacqueline Getty, who gave me the key to Sutton Place, and Geoffrey Glassborow, who unlocked the door.
My thanks are also due to Margaret, Duchess of Argyll; Father Gordon Albion; Dr Clive Mackenzie and Mrs Barbara Wallace for their help on the last days of Paul Getty and to Shirley Russell and Eddie Campbell, Ronin Kent, Erika Lock and Charles Purle for their advice and many kindnesses.
Table of Contents
Author’s Note
Prologue
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
Epilogue
Bibliography
Author’s Note
Although the story of the strange events of the Manor of Sutton is presented here as fiction most of the incidents are, in fact, true and a matter of recorded history. Furthermore, nearly all the principal characters actually lived and died in the way I have described. The legend of the curse, therefore, must be judged on the facts.
Prologue
The richest man in the world was dying and as he wandered in that wild never-never land that lies between the end of life and infinity he dreamed.
The dream came in pictures, clear and sharp. This, the last dream he would ever have, was a mirror without distortion.
He saw a boy, crisp-cheeked in the autumn air, thrusting newspapers into mail boxes. Heard him shout with pleasure at the silver dollar in his small square hand. The flash of that coin so much more brilliant than any of the millions that were to follow.
Now the boy was grown, running swift in the hills and loving the earth that would one day reveal its secrets to him. And now followed the man, sleek-haired, sharp-faced, the trappings of wealth about him. But alert, waiting for the moment that must be enacted — the moment when he would be made richer than any other man alive. The moment when he would stoop casually — taking his time with destiny — and pick up a handful of common soil and see in its depths the dull black glow of oil.
Now came the panoply of immense wealth. The old man saw himself as the guest of Kings, the friend of the beautiful and the famous, the lover of women. He saw extravagant house parties, fast cars, luxurious swimming pools and red smiling lips; heard the tinsel tumult of the twenties, the shouts and whispers of the thirties. Saw the meaningless ceremonial of marriage and himself emerge on to sunlit steps five times and each time with a different woman on his arm. Five brides, all nestling close, each vow to last for ever; each to end in the dreary familiarity of divorce.
He saw five sons — one to die as a boy. Oh, that draped coffin, so small to go into the greedy-mouthed grave. But four young men were alive, and one, his first-born, was developing as he had done, watchful, knife-sharp in business, playing hard — the true heir to his boundless empire; another self.
And now the dream changed. Far away he glimpsed a house — not clearly but swathed in mist. And then as he hurried towards it the grey vapour lifted dramatically and before him was a masterpiece of Tudor architecture, towering against a sapphire sky. Amber and rose was the brickwork — diamond the mullioned windows. He knew that his quest had ended; that he and the great house were to own one another utterly and inseparably. Here was the consort that he had sought all his life. No woman could give him this feeling of completion. Symbolically, in the way of fantasy, as he crossed the courtyard a huge door swung open.
The dream altered course once more. He saw his eldest son, mature now, groomed and ready to take over. It would all be his — the house and the fortune. The heir apparent stood smiling, waiting to stretch out his hand.
And then it seemed to the old man that he fell a little further into darkness. For without warning his son was no longer there and in his place waited a pale girl from some time so far in the past that the old man could not even guess who she was. Slowly and sadly she shook her head and he saw that she was weeping, tears running into the hair that hung round her shoulders; hair the colour of wild strawberries.
Now he heard a tinny voice repeating over and over again, ‘George is dead, George is dead’. And his heart shrank inside him for, with these words, he knew that all his striving had been worthless. Everything finished. The oil emperor with nobody to succeed to the glittering throne. Sad cypress, come away death. All his riches couldn’t buy him George’s life. Nor his own.
And then he could see nothing — only a chorus of voices saying ‘June 6’. He puzzled about it and then realized that that was the date of George’s strange, tragic end. And he felt too that there was another reason why it was important which he could not as yet fully understand. The dream was slipping away from him and he knew that he must wake before he died, force his leaping soul to be patient a little longer.
Why were the voices saying ‘May 17’, he wondered. What had he in common with that date? And then he remembered that in the history of his great house it had some significance. On June 6 his son had gone and on May 17 some past heir to the house had also died. Very dimly he began to see a pattern emerge but he was too near the threshold of the world to fear or even to care.
‘I must see you once more,’ he whispered to Sutton Place and it seemed to him that he was helped by hands centuries old as he spiralled down into his body. The dying man’s eyes flickered lizard-like, and slowly opened ...
1
To the prisoner in the Tower the first rose thread of dawn was a blasphemy. His last day on earth should have been beneath ominous skies, less difficult to leave than the clear sweetness of a budding May morning. But from his small window he could see a gentle mist rising from the Thames which confirmed that the day would be fine and alive with bird-song.
He had been awake all night, called from his rough pallet bed almost as soon as he had lain on it. In the gloom he had heard the heavy drawing back of the bolts of his cell door and an anonymous voice saying, ‘Your confessor, Sir Francis’.
He had thought, ‘Christ have mercy, so this is the time. I shall die on the morrow.’ His body had drenched with sweat as his mouth had dried. He had mused on that momentarily; the dampness and the parching simultaneously.
The priest had been old, bumbling, but kind. He had sat on the crude chair, groaning a little as some rheumaticky joint somewhere had responded to the dampness running down the walls.
‘Why, Sir Francis,’ he had said, ‘I know your dear mother. A true follower of the old faith.’
His voice had lowered a little for now with King Henry VIII as the head of the Church, instead of the Pope in Rome, one had to be careful. Francis Weston had fallen on his knees before him and then, shamefully, he had buried his face in the old man’s lap and wept. The knotted hand — after a moment’s hesitation — had gently stroked the young man’s hair.
‘My son, my son,’ he had said. ‘Death is not so dreadful. Go to God with thy soul purified and He will receive you at His right hand.’
‘I do no
t weep from fear, Father. ’Tis the waste.’
‘Waste, my son?’
‘Mine has been a wasted life.’
The priest thought that from what he had heard Sir Francis Weston had indeed squandered his time on earth but it was not his role to criticize. He was here, in this dreadful room, to comfort the dying, to absolve the soul of guilt and to give absolution.
He handed the young man a rosary.
‘Let me hear your confession, my son.’
So it was in the darkness, Francis kneeling on the stone floor, that they mumbled through the familiar prayers together and Francis, the rosary clutched tightly in his hands, thought back over what had been so that he might go to the axe with his spirit as shining as the blade that would be raised over his defenceless neck.
‘I believe my first sin to be cheating at cards against my sisters, Father. That and stubbornness with my parents.’
In the blackness the old man smiled and Francis saw again his childhood; his home in Chelsea, the glittering Court of his King, Henry, the eighth to bear that title — but above all, Sutton Place. To even think of it now brought the too easy tears stinging again at his eyes. His father’s beautiful mansion would have been his by inheritance. The stately pleasure of owning that jewel of Renaissance design had been his to grasp but the executioner would end that on the morrow.
He had ridden away from the great house, up the winding drive to Court, as an unworldly boy of fifteen. Could it really be only ten years ago? But when he had come back the following Michaelmas his manhood had begun — Lucy Talbot, one of Queen Katharine’s maids-of-honour had seen to that. How she had tumbled him in her bed! He spoke of it haltingly before the celibate priest but there was no tone of reproof in the reply.
‘My worst sin, Father, was gambling. That coupled with my debts. Oh Father, I go from this world owing money.’
The items flashed through his mind — arrears for his clothes, for gaming, for personal loans, what an extravagant charade. And yet he had not felt himself at any time to be immoral. He had not cheated since he was a child; he truly loved his wife, Rose — his mind quickly flitted over his one infidelity to her — he adored his child, admired his parents. The indignation of his death made him suddenly rise and pace the tiny room.
The priest, misunderstanding, said, ‘My son, list your debts and ask your father to discharge you of them. He will do so for the salvation of your soul. Cease to carry this anguish with you.’
All was pitch black now and out of it Francis spoke.
‘Father, I go to die falsely accused.’
In the darkness he could hear the priest twitch. It must be the fate of every confessor, Francis thought, to learn the truth on the eve of execution. An incredible situation for them — knowing all and yet unable to speak, bound by the vows of the confessional.
‘My son?’
The voice was shaking with the sheer import of the moment. The Queen of England — the mighty Anne Boleyn — she who had severed the English Church of Rome from the Pope, was to die accused of adultery with five young men, one her own brother, and here was a member of them giving his deathbed confession that it was not true. Father Dominic trembled with the responsibility of it all. Then he spared a thought for his four brothers of the cloth, admitted at the Watergate of the Tower, mist-shrouded and doleful, that same night. All five of them with one purpose — to prepare a chosen prisoner for death by execution, commuted from hanging and disembowelling only by the clemency of King Henry VIII himself. To ensure that heaven would await the victim, purified of guilt. But here was a great turnabout. Sir Francis Weston was denying the charge. Were the other priests hearing the same?
Trembling Father Dominic persisted.
‘My son — Sir Francis — I must ask you. Have you committed adultery?’
There was a pause and then from the direction of the window Francis spoke.
‘Yes, Father, I have.’
‘And Sir, was it with the Queen?’
‘I have just told you that it was not.’
There was a fraught silence and the priest thought it politic to remain quiet.
‘There was a woman, Father; Madge — Mistress Shelton. It was while my wife was with child and would not permit me her bed. I did not love the whore — forgive me Father — but my desire was sharp. You would not understand as a man of God.’
‘Oh, would I not,’ thought the priest. ‘So he thinks it is easy for a normal man to subdue his passions. Just because God has called us, makes it no simpler to abstain.’
‘Sir Francis,’ he said aloud, ‘you come as a penitent, therefore God will forgive you. Do you truly regret your sin?’
‘Aye I do. I loved Ann ... Rose ... Ann. I love her and will beyond death.’
Staring out of the window at the black Thames, Francis’s eyes fastened on the solitary light of a late home-going boat. He thought of his initial meeting with Rose Pickering, his father’s ward, and how surprised he had been to feel his body react with pleasure at the first glance from those wondrous cornflower blue eyes. He had never been in love with anyone else since. Ann, of the nickname Rose — his love — his bride — mother of his son.
But the priest was clutching at straws.
‘Anne, my son?’ he said.
‘Aye, Ann, Father. Ann Weston — not Anne Boleyn.’
He regretted his bitter tone. The old man was trying his hardest. It was his duty to extract information in order to forgive. There would be no further betrayal. The mockery of a trial at which — as one of the judges — had sat the Queen’s own father, Thomas Boleyn, the Earl of Wiltshire, was over. Francis crossed to the priest and knelt down beside him.
‘You are wondering, Father, if I loved Her Grace.’
‘Yes, my son.’
‘I did, Father’ — there was an intake of breath from the old man — ‘but not with my body, not ever. Nor did I love her as I loved my wife. You see, Father, it was impossible to be her friend and not love her.’
How did one explain to a pious man the effect of a glance from those slanting black eyes; the lips that curved into laughter; the excitement of that thrilling voice which caressed each cadence as it sang or spoke. Just as he remembered his first sight of Ann Pickering so now Francis thought of the first time he met Anne Boleyn. It had been March and the wild tresses of black hair were whipped by the wind as she ran like a forest creature among the daffodils. He had fallen under her spell then.
‘You are contradictory, my son. You say you loved both your wife and the Queen?’
‘But differently, Father. I loved Ann my wife as a lover, a husband. The Queen fascinated me. She was not like any other woman alive.’
Father Dominic thought, ‘So she was probably a witch. The King swears ’tis so.’
He decided there and then to see if he could glimpse her before the night was out.
‘Then there is nothing on your conscience with regard to Her Grace?’
‘Nothing, Father.’
The priest called for a candle as it was too dark now to see the scriptures and the formal ritual of Confession and Absolution was begun. By three in the morning Francis had laid his carefree life bare. Father Dominic forgave him all in the name of the Trinity. It was over — he was ready for death.
‘Will you be there tomorrow?’
‘Today, my son. Midnight has gone.’
‘Will you be there?’ Francis repeated.
Father Dominic hesitated. How could he tell the young man that he detested executions, that they actually made him fall to the ground vomiting. After his one and only embarrassing experience, he had never been asked to attend again.
‘Er ... I may be. But I believe the Archbishop will be present.’
‘I will hope to see you, Father.’
He knelt and kissed the priest’s hand.
‘God bless you, my poor boy.’
The words were out before the old man had had time to guard his tongue. Francis shook his head.
‘
It has been a wasted life,’ he repeated.
‘You have fathered a son, Sir Francis. Think of him.’
The priest was in the doorway.
‘What date is it? One loses count of time in this dread place.’
‘May 17, my son.’
‘Goodbye, Father.’
‘Goodbye, Sir Francis.’
Now there was nothing left to do but make his will. He sat at the rough table, picked up his quill pen and by the guttering light of the candle wrote, ‘Father and mother and wife, I shall humbly desire you for the salvation of my soul to discharge me of this bill and to forgive me of all the offences that I have done to you. And in especial to my wife ...’
Rose ... Ann — always so jealous of her namesake, the Queen. How could he explain that to him one was a goddess, untouchable; the other a girl whom he desired in his arms, in his bed — all too late now anyway. Too late for anything except this wretched list of extravagant tomfoolery.
‘Item to my shoemaker £46. Item to Bridges, my tailor, £26. Item to a poor woman at the Tennis play for balls, I cannot tell how much.’
Dear Jesus, what a wretched idiot he had been. A little tinsel courtier playing in a darkening whirlpool that he had not even noticed.
‘Item to Mark Smeaton, £73.6s.7d.’
Oh well, that was one debt his father wouldn’t have to pay. For poor simple Mark was to die today as well. The Queen’s musician — a carpenter’s son made good because of his ability to sing and play and compose. And because of his humble station they had put him on the rack and he had sung a different song. He had confessed to adultery with the Queen’s Grace and doomed them all. Francis wondered grimly how long it would have been before he had screamed ‘Yes, yes, yes’ if they had racked him.
A ray of light fell on the floor. It was dawn and it was then that he crossed to the window and saw that it was going to be a glorious day. Now he must hurry. With the sweet birds in full throat he completed his will.
