The Poison Bed: 'Gone Girl meets The Miniaturist'

by E C Fremantle

  ‘His Majesty would like to see you in private.’ He seemed so mild and sincere, and I hated him for inspiring such extremes of emotion in me. I knew it wasn’t his fault, that he was just a pawn in someone else’s game. But it didn’t make me hate him any the less. ‘I’ll take you up there.’

  ‘I can find it perfectly well myself.’ My retort couldn’t have been more lacking in grace but Villiers didn’t respond, which was just as well as I might have hit him.

  James couldn’t hide his agitation: the twitch in his eye was pronounced, his right leg jigging frantically. He dismissed everyone and we were entirely alone for the first time in months. He didn’t offer me a seat, not even the low stool beside him, and I was obliged to remain on my knees while he lolled back in his chair.

  ‘The secretary of state has heard a rumour.’ He hesitated, scratching at his beard. ‘Well, more than a rumour, really.’ The eye twitched on.

  ‘Winwood can’t be trusted.’ My voice was clipped. It was all I could do to maintain an unruffled surface.

  ‘Do you think I don’t know that?’ he snapped, almost shouting. ‘No one can be trusted.’ It was unusual for him to display his anger so overtly, which made it more menacing. ‘Even you!’ I blanched, attempting to defend myself but he continued. ‘You were the one who petitioned me to install him as secretary, Robbie.’

  ‘But I believed he was upright. He was a friend of –’ I stopped myself before blurting out Thomas’s name.

  But James said it for me: ‘A friend of Thomas Overbury.’ He had calmed but looked forlorn and said, very quietly, ‘Winwood says that the deathbed testimony of some apothecary’s boy has come to light. The boy said that Overbury was deliberately poisoned, claimed he was witness to it.’ He brought his hands up to cradle his forehead with a great sad exhalation, repeating, ‘Deliberately poisoned.’

  I couldn’t speak. My entire being was filled with that image of Thomas’s corpse and I was struck to the heart with regret – regret and sorrow over the whole sordid business.

  ‘I have no choice but to demand an investigation.’ He tapped a finger repeatedly on the arm of his chair, looking around shiftily, lowering his voice. ‘It can’t touch me. You know that. He was imprisoned on my order. If even a whiff of suspicion alights on me …’ He paused. ‘If it’s found to be murder …’

  ‘But you’re the King – anointed.’ Thomas was murmuring urgently in my ear, trying to tell me something, but I couldn’t make it out.

  ‘A smear of oil on my mother’s forehead didn’t save her. Be realistic, Robbie. Even a king can’t get away with murder. Well, not one as unpopular as I am, at least.’

  ‘Get away with murder! How can you say that? Nobody could ever accuse –’

  ‘It’s a figure of speech,’ he snapped.

  I was still on the floor but leaned forward to put my hands on his knees. ‘It wasn’t murder. Tom died of neglect and for that we are both guilty.’

  ‘You have to consider how things might seem. Whatever the truth is, people jump to conclusions and there are quite a number who’d be happy to see the back of me if they could find even half a reason …’ He was silent a moment and I was shot with a bolt of realization.

  ‘You want me to take the blame?’ My suspicion began to spin out of control. I fixed on his eyes – that twitch: was it a sign of guilt? – asking myself if he had more to hide than I knew about, remembering it was he who had employed Mayerne.

  ‘Goodness, no. I merely want the truth to be uncovered.’ He patted the back of my hand. It was a cool gesture, patronizing. ‘I’m going to have to cut you loose, Robbie.’ I felt the floor fall away beneath me. ‘You’ll leave for Whitehall tomorrow. You can continue to carry out your offices but you will keep your distance from me. Just until the investigation’s over. Unless, of course –’

  ‘You think I killed him!’ Dismay stared me in the face.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. I know you couldn’t harm a fly. But Winwood says your name came up –’

  ‘Oh, God!’ I was thinking about the powders I’d sent in. Had they been more harmful than I’d thought? It couldn’t be that as I’d sent them in May and he’d died in September and, anyway, Killigrew had assured me they were made up of chalk, nothing else – but if somebody wanted it to look a certain way … I couldn’t line up my thoughts properly. They were spinning out of my reach. ‘Winwood’s telling lies. It’s a conspiracy. My enemies want to get rid of me. You must know there’s nothing in it.’ My voice was shrill.

  ‘Everything will become clear in the investigation.’

  He sounded stone hard and alarm was taking hold in me. I blurted, ‘If anyone killed him it was Northampton.’ That man would have been capable of anything. ‘He set it all up, put Weston and Elwes in there to do his bidding.’

  Horror frothed in my gut. Oh, God, Tom, what did I allow to happen?

  ‘Well, Coke will get to the bottom of it.’ I couldn’t remember if Chief Justice Coke was a friend of the Howards. I thought perhaps he was. ‘And you’re innocent, so there’s nothing to worry about, is there?’ His brow was corrugated and I couldn’t tell if it was with concern or disbelief.

  ‘You said it yourself. It’s how it seems that matters. If people want me …’ My voice cracked. I was hollowed out with remorse. Forgive me, Tom, I beg you.

  ‘You know it’s impossible that I do nothing.’ He held out a hand. ‘For goodness’ sake, what are you doing on your knees, soft lad? Sit here.’ He indicated the chair beside him. I was relieved to hear the endearment on his lips.

  ‘Look,’ he continued, putting an arm over my shoulders. His leg was still jigging. ‘Make your peace with the boy.’ I was confused, didn’t know immediately whom he meant. ‘I can’t have that kind of tension, not in the light of all this. His elevation doesn’t have to diminish your position. You know that, don’t you? I’m fond of you, even if you’ve been impossible lately.’ He lifted my fingers to kiss them. His mouth was wet. ‘But I’m fond of him, too. You have your Frances and I have my George. See?’

  I was in turmoil. I wanted to say that it wasn’t the same, that Frances didn’t visit humiliation on him, as George Villiers’s preferment did to me – everyone gleefully hoping it was the first sign of my fall.

  ‘I’ll send him to you before you leave and you make your peace. Is that clear?’ It was an order but spoken with firm tenderness, as if he was my father, and I felt a little reassured.

  I nodded and mumbled a garbled apology. I meant it. I was sorry, very, very sorry for everything. Thomas emerged, toothless and putrid, following me towards the door.

  As I left James said: ‘Go back to your wife. See that baby born and, before you know it, everything will be back to normal.’ I didn’t believe him.

  I couldn’t face my bed, was too disturbed, and sought out Harry, going from room to room trying to ignore the turned shoulders. Unable to find him, or any other friendly face, I went outside, Thomas still clamped to my back. The weather was balmy, though it was well past ten o’clock, and the moon was up, casting a steely glow over the walls and giving life to inanimate objects in the shadows. I lit my pipe from a nearby torch and took the path through the arch to where the fishponds lay.

  I slumped on to a bench, inhaling deeply, trying to forget, for a moment at least, the surplus of worries that had begun to silt in me. The night was still and full of sounds: the wet plop as a frog took to the water, the faint crackle of something creeping through the undergrowth, the crunch of footsteps on the path. A figure was approaching, the orange glow of another pipe wavering against a dark shape, short and broad, unmistakable.

  ‘Winwood?’ I said.

  ‘Ah, it is you. I thought as much. Do you mind if I join you?’ Not waiting for my response, he sank on to the bench beside me with a rasping exhalation. ‘Peaceful out here. It’s chaos upstairs. I’m bedding down with three other fellows. No more room here, and your brother-in-law wasn’t expecting me, you see.’ He talked on about missing the c
omforts of home. ‘Long time since you lodged at my London house. You were just a boy.’

  I wondered why, in the light of the reason he was at Lulworth, he was being so companionable. It set me on my guard, questioning if he had an ulterior motive for bringing up his past generosity.

  ‘Dear Thomas,’ he continued, ‘you were his protégé then. Strange how Fate works.’ He sucked on his pipe. The tobacco fizzled.

  ‘What in God’s name do you think you’re doing bringing your trumped-up accusations to the King?’ I had meant to keep my cool but found I wasn’t able.

  ‘Not my accusations.’ He was firm. ‘You must understand, I was duty-bound to report the allegations.’

  ‘You should have come to me first.’ I sounded riled, but not as riled as I felt. ‘I was the one who had you installed as secretary.’

  ‘Then you should be pleased I’m fulfilling my duties with such diligence.’

  ‘Listen to me,’ I spat. ‘If there’s been foul play then I’m the first person to want it exposed.’

  He remained completely calm. ‘I must say, the testament of the apothecary’s boy is most compelling. He seems to have been employed by a man named Franklin.’

  ‘Should I know of him?’ I was telling the truth but I could sense him listening carefully for a flaw in my voice. ‘The only apothecary I know who visited Thomas was Mayerne’s man, de Loubell.’ As I said it I remembered Mayerne complaining about Thomas having taken remedies he hadn’t prescribed.

  We fell to silence. A mosquito was whining in the air. I felt it bite my wrist and slapped it dead.

  Her

  Frances arrived to find the Whitehall apartments silent as the grave. The place smelt of stale tobacco smoke, ash spilled out of the dead fire, and the remains of a rudimentary meal were scattered over the table, as if someone had left in a hurry. She threw her coat over a chair, raising a cloud of dust.

  She’d stayed away for as long as she could but eventually it was Harry who insisted she return. Robert needed managing, he’d written:

  He’s out of control, assaulted Villiers, of all people. Villiers had gone to him in friendship but Robert became violent and threatened to break his neck. The King is incensed. Everyone is talking about it. I tried reasoning with Robert, told him the investigation was all founded on rumour and speculation, said they didn’t have any tangible evidence and it would all come to nothing. It didn’t help and now he’s gone to ground, won’t see sense. He’s even dismissed most of the servants, says they can’t be trusted. You need to come back and keep an eye on him before he does us any more damage.

  The only evidence of Robert was a pair of his boots abandoned in the middle of the floor. She called his name, her voice echoing back through the silence, and lumbered through to the bedroom. The growing baby sapped her of strength, rendering her body gross and unwieldy, making her resentful.

  She found him lying on the bed, hands folded over his chest, eyes bruised with exhaustion, cheeks pallid. It shocked her to think of the monstrous force of desire she had once felt, the lengths to which she had gone to possess him. For a joyous instant, she thought he might be dead until she noticed the barely discernible rise and fall of his abdomen.

  Her immediate thought was how easy it would be to extinguish that breath. But with Uncle gone the finger might point too easily at her. Besides, Robert might yet salvage his reputation. Stranger things had happened. If it came to the worst she would find a way to cut the ties from him, and she still had some dry ammunition: she knew the King’s secret. What a fool he’d been to confide in her, but that was Robert: too guileless for her world.

  She said his name. His eyes popped open and he made a small cry, as if in terror, before waking fully to see her. ‘Thank God you’re here. I’ve been going half mad with worry.’ He pawed at her. She resisted the urge to push his hand away. ‘They’re trying to make it appear that I killed Tom.’ He swallowed as if his words were stuck in his throat. ‘I don’t know what to do.’

  ‘You do nothing. Go about your business in the usual way until it blows over. Your duties as lord chamberlain must be seen to and the Privy Council – you can’t just abandon everything. It makes you look like a man with something to hide.’

  She could hear Anne in the other room, instructing the servants where to leave the luggage. Anne, too, had been in a state of almost permanent agitation since she’d heard of the investigation. Frances had had to pull her into line more than once. Looking at her husband with counterfeit shock, she exclaimed, ‘Have you something to hide? What is it you’re hiding?’

  ‘How could you even ask me that?’ He was strung with distress. She wanted to slap him, tell him to be a man. ‘You can’t think I did it?’

  ‘No, of course not,’ she said. He lowered his head against her breast. She stroked his hair, careful to mask the revulsion his weakness induced in her. The baby moved – something trapped inside. ‘You must make your peace with Villiers. Apologize, disarm him with friendship.’

  ‘I fear it’s too late for that,’ he whimpered into her neck.

  She paused, tempering her tone. ‘Remember, Robert, you still hold high office. You are the Earl of Somerset. You are lord privy seal. Lord high chamberlain.’ She wanted him to sit up, to find his fight. ‘If it’s too late for reconciliation with that fop Villiers, then show the King that you’re indispensable. You’re still the one he trusts with state duties. He clearly has some residue of fondness for you. Love cannot be blown out like a candle.’ But that wasn’t true. ‘The embers are still burning. Rekindle it.’

  They didn’t speak for a while, until she added, ‘For the sake of our baby.’

  He seemed a little renewed by the thought, began to talk about what they would name the child, when Anne appeared.

  ‘What is it?’ Frances asked.

  ‘I need you to come.’ She looked ashen.

  Robert began to get up but Anne met Frances’s eye with a minuscule shake of the head.

  ‘Women’s problems,’ she said, planting a kiss on her husband’s head. ‘I’ll be back shortly.’

  ‘Whatever’s the matter?’ Frances asked, once they were in the corridor.

  ‘Franklin’s here again.’

  ‘I suppose he wants the rest of his money. Get rid of him, Anne. Tell him I’ll have it sent.’

  ‘No, it’s not that, it’s – it’s – it’s –’ Anne was falling to pieces, and Frances had to use all her self-restraint not to lose patience with her.

  ‘Where is he? I hope no one saw him.’

  They crossed the hall. Ugly little carved faces looked down from the beams and her husband’s portrait followed them with its eyes. Larkin had spotted Robert’s failing: his yearning to be liked. It was in the dog-like hopefulness of his painted expression.

  They entered the music room, a small, rarely used chamber off the hall. Franklin was inside, slumped on a stool. The room smelt strongly of the beeswax used to polish the instruments. He stood as the women entered, taking a step towards them. He was wearing a moulded leather mask over his rotten nose, which, rather than improving his looks, made him seem more menacing. Anne locked the door.

  ‘What do you think you’re doing coming here?’ Frances was firm. His stance told her it was a matter of importance. She hadn’t believed it possible for a man like Franklin to appear scared but his eyes flitted restlessly as flies and he worried at a button on his waistcoat until it came off in his hand.

  ‘I wasn’t seen,’ he said.

  Someone coughed beyond the door. A floorboard creaked, followed by the quiet shuffle of footsteps. Frances put her index finger over her lips to indicate silence and sat down at the set of virginals that had been a gift from the King in better days.

  As she lifted the lid a small gold moth flew out, fluttering aimlessly before alighting on the wall where she stamped her thumb on it, smearing its dusty remains down the panelling.

  She began to play, explaining quietly that the music would mask their conversation, s
aying to Franklin, ‘If anyone sees you when you leave, you’re the tuner. Now, tell me why you’re here?’

  ‘Weston’s been arrested.’

  Her playing faltered but she forced herself to continue. It was an unremittingly jolly tune, the sort of thing a child might play. Anne, across the room, was rocking back and forth with vacant eyes. Frances pictured Weston, his bulk and broad shoulders and the white scar that embroidered his face. He was the sort that could withstand anything.

  She pasted a look of confusion on to her face. ‘What – the man Uncle employed as Overbury’s guard? Wasn’t he your servant before that, Anne?’ Frances imagined rolling the ball and them all tumbling like skittles. ‘What do you know?’ she asked Franklin.

  ‘He was questioned by Coke and can’t have given much away because Secretary Winwood and two others went in this morning to question him again.’

  She quizzed him as to how he knew this and he told her – with a slight air of smugness, she thought – that he had a connection with Winwood’s page, who had been present while the interrogation was taking place. Frances was impressed by his resourcefulness but didn’t allow it to show. ‘What else did this page tell you?’

  ‘That Weston held out. He maintained that Overbury caught a chill, sitting too long in the window, and that was what did for him.’

  Her fingers continued to dance, repeating the simple refrain over and over. ‘That’s good.’ The mention of Overbury had caused Anne to whimper.

  ‘But they broke him down,’ continued Franklin. ‘Weston eventually told them about a phial of poison and that Mistress Turner had instructed him to administer it.’ Anne made a groan and clapped her hands to her head.

  ‘Did he mention my great-uncle?’ asked Frances. Franklin shook his head. ‘But they must have asked who was giving instructions. No one could possibly think Anne was acting on her own.’ She paused the music, making a brief silence for her words to sink in, then added, as if it was something she’d just thought of, ‘I hope to goodness you destroyed that letter he wrote you, Franklin.’ She watched as mention of the letter that had never existed caused a twinge of panic on his face.