‘After I saw you last I searched for it. Couldn’t find it.’
‘I expect you got rid of it at the time.’ She felt heady with it all, as if she had climbed inside his head and stolen his memories, replacing them with lies. ‘You can’t have wanted to keep something like that lying around.’
‘Of course I did!’ He was indignant, as if she’d called him a fool to his face, his pride getting the better of him.
‘What else did Weston say?’
‘Nothing more.’
Frances imagined what they might have done to Weston, wondered if they’d beaten him or stretched him yet. She’d heard of a knotted rope that interrogators tied around the temples and tightened. A new thought was forming, making her heart palpitate, as her fingers trotted out the chorus once more, a plan that might solve everything.
She saw then, with absolute clarity, what she would do. The idea had been lurking for some time but indistinctly, like pond life seen in glimpses through surface ripples. Now the water was still, revealing the drifting masses of cloudy spawn, the golden flit of fish threading through tangled weed and, in the very depths, the shifty slink of the eels.
She plastered concern over her face and turned to Franklin. ‘My husband’s name didn’t come up when Weston was questioned, as far as you know, did it?’
‘No.’ Franklin seemed surprised. ‘Why?’
‘I was worried about something he wrote to me at the time. When Overbury had already been incarcerated for a while. It’s been playing on my mind.’ She held her hands still, as if too distressed to continue playing. ‘He was very close with my great-uncle, you see. And he wrote something in a letter that I didn’t fully understand.’ She began to play again, slower, more awkwardly, occasionally striking a wrong key. ‘No, it can’t have been anything sinister …’ Frances watched Franklin’s interest ignite. He thought he was the canniest person in the room. It made her want to laugh and crush his pride, just as she’d crushed that moth.
‘What did he write?’ asked Franklin, all ears.
‘No, it’s not important.’ She allowed the silence to hang, tantalizing him.
‘Tell me.’
As if it had been squeezed from her, she mumbled, ‘He wrote that he couldn’t believe the business had not yet been dispatched. That word, dispatched, seems suspicious in the light of … Oh, you know.’ She wiped her hand slowly over her brow, saying, ‘It was innocent, I’m sure,’ inflecting the words with a questioning upward lift. ‘Like the dispatch of a letter, or some other harmless thing, don’t you think? It couldn’t be anything more, could it?’ She momentarily stopped playing again to place a hand over her mouth, as if something terrible had just occurred to her.
‘Your husband wrote such a thing?’
Nodding slowly, she allowed the information to percolate in Franklin’s mind, then said, ‘I can’t believe he has any stain of guilt on him – not Robert.’ She was a perfect, besotted wife, unable to see even the slightest flaw in her spouse. Franklin’s eyebrows rose minutely, giving away his disbelief. He was as easy to play as the instrument beneath her fingers.
‘They’ll want to talk to both of you.’ She changed the subject abruptly. ‘You must admit nothing.’
Anne still had her head buried in her hands. ‘Anne, look at me. I need to know that you’ve heard. I’ll do my best to clear up this mess that Uncle has left you with, but you have to cooperate.’ Anne lifted her eyes then, regarding Frances with a dead expression. ‘If you don’t, they might hang me – you wouldn’t want that on your conscience, would you? I will not be made to pay for Uncle’s deeds.’
Anne looked horrified, Franklin too, and Frances was glad that her great-uncle was no longer there to refute what she had said.
‘No.’ Anne was suddenly animated. ‘It’s me who’ll hang. I was the one …’
‘It was Uncle who forced you into it, Anne. You must explain it to them when you’re questioned. They’ll understand – you had no choice.’
From the side of her eye Frances watched her words register in Franklin’s expression, as she played a final verse, the notes marching like an armed guard through the room.
A blessed silence descended and she took Anne’s hands, meeting her distressed gaze, saying in a whisper, ‘Hold your nerve. Uncle got you into this and I’m going to get you out of it.’ She tightened her grip. ‘Do you trust me?’ Anne mumbled that she did, of course she did, that she’d known Frances since she was a child, how could she not?
Frances released her and began to play again, a different tune, more dirge-like to go with the atmosphere. How credulous people were, how easily convinced. It had been the same when she had made Anne believe all the orders had come from Uncle: notes written in his looping hand, initialled ‘H.N.’ for Henry Northampton, requesting Anne to acquire poisons from Franklin: a drop of this and a drop of that to send to Weston, or to add to the jam. Frances mustn’t ever know, the notes always insisted. It had been almost child’s play.
The thought of it made her feel vast and invincible, as if she held enough power to harness the winds.
Him
Frances’s return was like a salve, smoothing over my despair. She began to undress, asking me to help her. I untied her laces and her clothes came away, layer by layer, until she was in nothing but her undergarments.
‘Here!’ She took hold of my hand, lifted her shift to bare the great moon of her belly and placed it there. ‘It’s moving.’
To feel that blessed life, a form unfolding, beneath her surface and know it to be our baby quietened the bicker of dread that had been my constant companion. I covered her with a blanket. Winter was settling in.
‘Only a couple more months and December will be on us.’
She was referring to the birth, but thinking of the future made all my fears into a cacophony once more. ‘I hope to God I’ll still be here.’
‘You have to stop thinking like this.’
‘But there are so many things – things that could be construed to make me seem guilty.’
In the flicker of the candle I saw Thomas’s disembodied face, grim with contempt. You could have saved me. I blew it out.
In the dark, it seemed easier to talk. ‘There’s something you need to know, Frances.’ I felt her tense, as if afraid of what I was about to divulge. ‘I don’t know what to do. Will you hear me out without judgement?’
She said of course she would, and I began to tell her of the powders I had sent in to Overbury. ‘He asked for them. To make him sicken, in the hope of provoking the King’s sympathy, so he might be released. I didn’t at first – I thought it a terrible idea.’
‘What on God’s earth made you do that?’ She half sat up, shifting away from me.
‘I didn’t want to.’ I sounded desperate, feeling intensely the space opening up between us. ‘But eventually I relented. What I sent wouldn’t have had the power to harm a mouse, but it looks bad.’ It was a relief to confess, like a boil lanced.
She began to speak but I was determined she would hear what I had to say in its entirety so, finding some dregs of assertiveness from the maelstrom in my head, I told her I hadn’t finished. ‘And there is a great deal of correspondence between Northampton and myself. In some of the letters we discussed Thomas’s imprisonment, how we meant to prolong it deliberately until the nullity was dealt with. And there are others from Thomas in which he described the state of his health. To be honest, I can’t remember what was in them all and I’m worried they might contain things that could be misconstrued.’
Her hand reached back across the space to me. I held it tight. ‘Where are they, these letters?’
‘That’s the trouble. I gave them to Sir Robert Cotton for safekeeping.’ I’d been such a fool for not holding on to them.
‘You trust this Cotton? Who is he?’
‘As much as I trust anyone. He’s responsible for organizing most of my correspondence.’
‘Tell him to burn them.’
‘Burn th
em? All of them?’
‘I suppose –’ I heard her head shift on the pillow. ‘No, forget that.’
‘What? Tell me what you suppose.’ I was desperate to know what idea she was so reluctant to share. Frances always had the answer to everything.
‘You could see if Cotton, or someone, might keep one or two of the letters. For example, those in which Overbury speaks of his condition. If there are any in which he remarked that his health was improving, you might ask Cotton …’ She paused. ‘No, I never said that. It’s a bad idea.’
‘Let me be the judge. Finish what you were saying, Frances – please.’
‘You could ask Cotton to have the dates altered, to make it absolutely clear that Overbury was feeling better after you sent him those powders.’
‘It’s the truth. Tom was feeling better.’
‘Well, then, it wouldn’t even be subterfuge to change one or two dates by a few weeks. But it must be done properly – by an expert. I think Uncle knew of a man – I’ll try to remember his name. That way, if it ever comes to it – which I very much doubt it will but if it does – then nothing can be misinterpreted.’
‘My God, Frances, you never cease to amaze me.’ She had dragged me back from the abyss.
‘I’ve done nothing. It’s all you.’
‘We’ll come through this stronger.’ I felt it already, her potent efficiency pouring into me, making me newly resilient.
‘It goes without saying that any letters casting doubt on Uncle’s motives should be kept. I know he’s no longer here to defend himself but …’ She left her words hanging.
‘What do you mean, his motives?’ She had as good as confirmed my long-held suspicions about that monstrous man.
‘What did you think, Robert?’ She clutched her hand around my back, coiling herself into me. ‘He put Overbury in the Tower, as far as I can tell. I’m not having you taking the blame for him. The idea of having to live without you is … is …’ Her voice was trembling. ‘It’s inconceivable.’
‘My poor, poor Frances. Don’t cry.’ I knew then that I could stand up to every last one of my enemies. ‘He’s gone now, and we have each other, my darling.’
Her
They arrived just before dawn, two weeks after Franklin’s visit. Frances was lying awake, listening to the song of a lone blackbird when she heard the horses. She slipped from the bed, quietly pulling on her clothes. For a moment, she thought they might have come to arrest her and had to remind herself that she wasn’t under suspicion. Robert half woke, groggy and confused. She told him to go back to sleep, slipping down to the hall before they began banging on the door and woke the whole household.
Four men entered, all armed. They seemed embarrassed that the pregnant lady of the house had answered the door, making effusive apologies for having disturbed her. They had come for Anne. Frances offered them her most beguiling smile, asking if they would mind waiting a few minutes, to spare Anne the indignity of being arrested in her nightgown.
Anne was still asleep, in peaceful ignorance, her pale hair spread on the pillow. Frances shook her gently. She sat up, startled, tensing as she remembered her situation. ‘Why are you here?’ It was clear, from the fear daubed over her face, that she knew why.
Frances opened the curtains. It was barely light and the windows were frosted with an intricate pattern of icy stars. She prodded the embers of the fire and tipped on some kindling to combat the chill before sitting and taking Anne’s hand. ‘I need you to stay calm.’
‘They’ve come for me, haven’t they?’
‘You mustn’t worry. It’ll just be a few questions. That’s all.’ Anne’s nails dug into her flesh. ‘I’m going to make sure you want for nothing and that they don’t hold you for longer than is absolutely necessary. I’ll put up the bond for your release.’
‘I’m frightened.’ She looked blighted – green with fear. ‘Frightened of what they’ll do to me if I deny all knowledge.’
‘They won’t torture a woman.’ She felt Anne flinch.
Frances got her up and began to dress her. She was reminded of all the times Anne had dressed and attended to her in childhood, treated her as if she was her own child.
‘What if I have to lie? They’ll see right through me.’ The eye-rolling and hand-wringing made her look quite mad.
‘Listen to me.’ Frances reined in the urge to shake her and held her firmly with a look. ‘This is important. If you must lie, then give something small away. A nugget of truth – something that compromises you only in an insignificant way. Then they will be more likely to believe anything else you have to say. Disguise your deceit with a veneer of truth. Do you hear me?’
Anne nodded meekly, like a child awaiting a beating.
‘Now,’ Frances continued, ‘I want you looking splendid.’ She pulled a saffron ruff from the shelf and began to tie it around Anne’s neck.
But she tugged at it. ‘Won’t they think me brazen in this? Shouldn’t I wear a plain collar?’
‘No.’ Frances was insistent, tying the tapes tightly into a double bow. ‘You must look like a woman of breeding. I won’t have you put in a commoner’s cell. I’m going to get you something. Wait here while I fetch it.’
Frances rummaged in her jewel box for the diamond ring, the one that had caused all the trouble with Mary Woods. She threaded a length of tape through its shank before returning to find Anne scrutinizing her own upturned palm, as if she might find an answer there to what was happening. ‘Can you see anything?’ She held her hand out to Frances. ‘I can’t see my future any more.’
‘Don’t be silly.’ Frances pulled her to her feet to comb her hair back under a cap. ‘Remember not to hang your head. You mustn’t seem ashamed. You must appear as if you have nothing to hide. And whatever they threaten, say nothing. Say you know nothing.’
‘You don’t understand,’ Anne said. ‘I don’t have your courage.’
‘I’ll be with you in spirit. When you feel yourself weaken, remember that. And there’s this.’ She tied the ring round Anne’s neck, tucking it out of sight beneath her clothes before Anne was able to see what it was. ‘It’s a ring, if you need funds.’ Anne tried to protest but Frances wouldn’t allow it.
Finally, she stood back. Anne looked perfect, but her expression was blurred with fear, like a painting finished to the finest detail save for the face.
‘I curse the day I ever set eyes on your great-uncle.’ Her voice was barely audible.
‘I know. And we are left to mop up his sins.’ Frances led her to the door. ‘Now you must eat something. I won’t allow you to go anywhere on an empty stomach.’
The kitchen was deserted, the servants still not up, and Frances forced her to drink a cup of milk and eat a little of yesterday’s bread. It was there that Anne told her about a box of letters that she feared might incriminate her.
‘How do you know of it?’
‘Franklin told me yesterday. It came out when Weston was questioned. I didn’t know he’d kept them.’ Her voice shook. ‘He offered them as a makeweight for lenience.’
‘So much for your loyal servant Weston, dragging you into this to save his own skin.’ Frances took a gulp of milk. It was unpleasantly sharp, on the turn. ‘What can the letters possibly say that is so bad?’ She mustered all her reserves of patience in the face of Anne’s fragmented composure.
‘I fear they are the notes I sent him with the – the –’ Anne seemed incapable of saying the word ‘poisons’ and eventually said ‘remedies’ in its place. ‘The directions of what exactly they were and how they were to be administered. My handwriting is so distinctive, I can’t deny I wrote them.’
‘Oh, Anne! Why ever weren’t they burned? Uncle has left a hellish chaos in his wake.’ Frances controlled her exasperation to ask coolly, ‘What else was discussed in those letters? We need to be sure of your safety.’
‘Nothing, I think. Nothing of importance.’ She was feverishly rolling a morsel of bread in her fingers.
‘No mention of me?’ Frances tossed it in as if it were barely significant enough to mention.
‘Only in passing, I think.’ Anne’s breath was thin.
‘In passing?’
The ball of bread was grey from her kneading. ‘I can’t remember, really.’
Frances could hear the soft pump of blood in her ears. ‘And where are these letters?’
‘At Weston’s house. I went there last night, as soon as I heard of it, but his son wouldn’t admit me.’
‘You went there? You should have told me.’ Frances wondered how many more such letters there were in existence and exactly what Anne had meant by, Only in passing, I think. It didn’t inspire confidence. She would have to get her hands on those letters before Winwood and Coke. ‘I’ll see to it that they’re destroyed. Is there anything else that proves your involvement?’
Tears ran silently down Anne’s face. ‘What if Franklin speaks out?’
‘If he does he’s a dead man.’ Frances noticed that the edge of Anne’s cuff had dipped in her cup of milk and imagined how rancid it would smell in a few hours. ‘He provided all the poisons, didn’t he?’
‘I curse the day you first led me to that Dr Forman and his vile assistant.’ She lifted her eyes. They were bloodshot.
Frances leaned over the table, taking both the other woman’s hands, speaking softly, ‘You’re not remembering, Anne. Distress has muddled you and you need to recall everything clearly if you are to be questioned. I didn’t take you there. It was you who sought out Forman.’
‘But …’ Anne seemed unable to find her words.
‘Don’t you remember? You wanted Arthur to propose to you. I only went along with you for support.’ Anne was shaking her head but Frances could see she was beginning to doubt her memory. Fear had addled her. ‘It’s not surprising you’re confused. Such a terrible business – Forman’s death. And you were so close to him.’
The Poison Bed: 'Gone Girl meets The Miniaturist' Page 27
