The Murder in the Tower: The Story of Frances, Countess of Essex

by Jean Plaidy

  “So the important person was Sir Thomas Monson, you believe?”

  “No, no. I meant someone of greater importance. It was the Countess of Somerset—then the Countess of Essex—who asked Monson to arrange this. I believe that while this request came through her it was in truth made by the Earl of Northampton and my lord Somerset.”

  Winwood was astounded. He had not expected to hear such names mentioned at this stage.

  He was delighted with this revelation and his pleasure showed itself. Misconstruing this, Helwys was relieved. All would be well. The matter would pass over him. After all he had only obeyed the orders of those greater than himself. What more could a man do?

  “Thank you,” said Winwood. “You have been of great help to me.”

  “If there is anything else I can do …”

  “There will be, I have no doubt. I am very grateful.”

  Helwys watched his visitor depart, assured that what he had feared would be a dangerous interview had turned out very well for him.

  Winwood took barge from the Tower to Whitehall. He felt exultant. Somerset and his Countess! And it fitted so well. Overbury and Somerset had worked closely together. Overbury would be in possession of secrets which Somerset would not want betrayed. They had fallen out. Oh, there was no absence of motive.

  What could this mean? The end of Somerset? The end of the Spanish policy? No Spanish Infanta for the Prince of Wales? In his hands he held the key to the future.

  He would go straight to the King.

  But he must be careful. James was enamored of young Villiers, but he was a faithful man and Somerset was still his beloved friend, for James did not cast off old friends when new ones appeared.

  The King must not yet know how far this had gone; he must not know yet that the name of Somerset had been mentioned. That must not come out until it was too late to withdraw.

  James received him at once and he told the King that he was greatly disturbed by the confession of Sir Gervase Helwys.

  “I think, Your Majesty, that there can be no doubt that Sir Thomas Overbury was murdered.”

  James was grave. He felt a twinge of conscience because he had sent Overbury to the Tower for such a small offense. The least he could do now was to avenge his death.

  “Let Helwys write down all he knows of this matter,” he said, “and when he has done so bring what he has written to me. We shall then see how to act.”

  Sir Gervase, eager now to work in the cause of justice and at the same time save himself, wrote an account of what he remembered; he told of the occasion when he had intercepted Weston with the poison; he told that Weston had admitted to him how Overbury’s death had been brought about by the clyster and that the boy who had poisoned the clyster had been paid twenty pounds. He mentioned that a few weeks ago Mrs. Anne Turner had asked Weston to meet her in an inn and there warned him that investigations were about to begin.

  When James read this he was very perplexed. He knew that Mrs. Turner was in the service of the Countess of Somerset. But he did not for one moment believe that Robert could be involved in murder; and he saw no reason why his countess should be.

  Winwood was watching him intently.

  There must be justice in the realm, thought James. We cannot afford such a scandal at this time—and scandal there would be if it were believed Overbury were murdered and nothing done in the matter.

  “We must unravel this mystery,” said James. “I will summon the Lord Chief Justice without delay and will put the matter into his hands.”

  It could not be better! thought Winwood. Stern old Sir Edward Coke would never allow any consideration to stand in the way of justice.

  The end of Somerset! prophesied Winwood secretly. The end of the Spanish menace!

  Sir Edward Coke went to work with enthusiasm. His first act was to arrest Weston and put him through an intensive cross examination. Unaware of all that had been discovered Weston at first attempted to lie, but he was soon trapped, and seeing himself caught, betrayed everyone.

  The names came tumbling out: Dr. Forman, Franklin, Gresham; Mrs. Anne Turner, Sir Gervase Helwys, and behind it all the late Earl of Northampton and the Countess of Somerset.

  Frances, aware that terrible revelation was at hand, did not stir from her apartments. She made the excuse that her pregnancy was responsible for her state of health; but when the news was brought to her that Mrs. Anne Turner had been arrested she broke down, and Robert found her lying on her bed so unnerved that he realized she had some fearful secret on her mind.

  She knew that she could no longer hope to keep the whole story from him. Sir Gervase Helwys was now being questioned; Franklin had been taken up; soon she knew, the Lord Chief Justice would be pointing to her.

  “Robert,” she said, “I am terribly afraid.”

  He looked at her steadily. “Is it anything to do with Overbury?”

  She nodded.

  “They are saying he was poisoned,” went on Robert.

  “I know.”

  “You mean you know that he was poisoned?”

  “I know that too,” she answered.

  Horrible understanding was coming to Robert. He whispered: “You?”

  She only looked at him, but he knew the answer.

  “Mrs. Turner … Weston … Monson … Helwys …” Robert enumerated them.

  “I used them all.”

  “And the boy who confessed to poisoning the clyster?”

  “I paid him twenty pounds to do it,” said Frances wearily.

  “Oh, my God,” cried Robert.

  “You may well call on God to help us. No one else will.”

  “So you are … a murderess!”

  “Don’t look at me like that, Robert. I did it for you.”

  “Frances … !”

  “Yes,” she cried passionately, “for you! For this life of ours….” She beat on her body with frantic hands. “That I might bear you children. That we might grow in power. That we might be together for the rest of our lives.”

  “And Overbury?”

  “He was in the way. He was trying to stop us. He knew that I had obtained spells from Dr. Forman.”

  “Spells?”

  “To rid myself of Essex.”

  Robert covered his face with his hands. What a fool he had been not to see. Fools paid for their folly. And then he began to think of those months when Overbury was in the Tower. He himself had sent in tarts and delicacies to him. Had those tarts been poisoned? Had he not arranged that Overbury should be sent to the Tower? Had he not wanted it because he was angry with him on account of his attitude to Frances? Frances! It all came back to Frances. But how deeply was he involved?

  He was trying to look back to those months of the imprisonment. Had the knowledge been with him that all was not as it seemed? Did he not prevent Overbury’s family from seeing him? Was he too ready to listen to Northampton’s advice?

  He would never have condemned to horrible death a man who had once been a friend. But had he thrust the thought of murder from his mind because it was convenient to do so?

  How much was he to blame?

  He looked at Frances—her eyes enormous in her pale face. She was talking wildly, missing no detail. The letters she had written to Forman, the images he made—the lewd obscene images—the efforts to bewitch Essex; all those horrid practices which had culminated in the murder of Overbury.

  And now the story was out, and the Lord Chief Justice would be taking his findings to the King.

  The King! thought Robert, with whom his relationship this last year had become strained, the King whose eyes dwelt too fondly on the handsome features of Sir George Villiers.

  But James was a loyal friend. He must see James; he must protest his innocence in the matter.

  Frances was clutching at his coat with shaking fingers; he wanted to throw her off. He could not bear to look into her face.

  Murderess! he thought. She murdered poor Tom Overbury. And she is my wife.

 
“Robert,” cried Frances, “remember this always: I did it for you.”

  He turned away. “I would to God,” he said bitterly, “that I had never set eyes on you.”

  James looked sorrowfully into the face of his old friend.

  “Your Majesty believes me?” said Robert, his face contorted with emotion.

  “My dear Robbie, how could I ever believe that you would take part in such a dastardly plot!”

  “Thank you. With Your Majesty’s confidence in me I can face all my accusers.”

  “Are they accusing you, Robbie?”

  “There is talk of nothing else in the Court but this hideous affair.”

  James laid his hand on Robert’s arm. “Don’t grieve, lad,” he said. “Innocence has nothing to fear.”

  Sir Edward had had many people brought in for questioning. Weston, Franklin, Helwys and Anne Turner would be obliged to prove their innocence, although Sir Edward did not believe they would be able to do this. The servants of these people had been questioned so thoroughly that they had betrayed what he wanted to know.

  Northampton was dead and could not be brought to justice, although Coke believed he had had a hand in the murder. But there were two who were living and whom he believed to be at the very center of the plot: The Earl and Countess of Somerset.

  Coke, bowing to none in his determination to lay the guilt where it belonged, summoned Robert Carr, Earl of Somerset, to appear for examination in connection with the poisoning of Sir Thomas Overbury.

  When Robert received the summons he was horrified. For so long he had been treated as the most important man in the country. Did Coke think that he could summon him as he would an ordinary person?

  Robert went to the King and angrily told him what had happened, showing him the summons.

  James took it and shook his head sadly.

  “Why, Robert,” he said, “this is an order from the Lord Chief Justice of England and must be obeyed.”

  “But surely—”

  “Nay, lad. If the Lord Chief Justice summoned me I must needs answer it.”

  Robert was distressed because he had been counting on James’s help to release him from such an unpleasant undertaking, and seeing this a great fear came to James. He could not help wondering why, if Robert were entirely innocent, he should be so distressed.

  He took him into his arms and kissed him tenderly.

  “Come back soon, Robert,” he said. “I shall be waiting eagerly to welcome you. Sorely shall I miss you and you know my heart goes with you.”

  Robert saw that it would be useless to plead with the King. He was summoned by the Lord Chief Justice and he must go.

  James stared after him and there were tears in his eyes.

  “Goodbye Robert,” he whispered. “Goodbye, my dear one. Something tells me I shall never more see your face.”

  Frances waited for doom to touch her.

  Those whom she had paid to help her were all in the hands of the law, and perhaps even at this moment confessions were being extorted. The story of Sir Thomas Overbury’s death would be surely unraveled. The attempt on the life of Essex might also be revealed for this was a prelude to the other.

  Who would have thought such ill luck could come after all this time?

  She had believed Sir Thomas Overbury long since dead and buried—in all respects. She had assured herself that in time even she would cease to dream of him.

  And now everyone was talking of him; and the most insistent question of the day was: How did Thomas Overbury die?

  What had happened to the life which was going to be so good? She could feel the child move within her—her and Robert’s, the heir to all their greatness, she had once thought. Would the child be the heir to all their sorrows? Would it go through life with the stigma on it: Your mother was a murderess?

  Life was intolerable. Her servants were silent in her presence; how could she tell what they said of her when she was out of hearing? How could she know what was said to them of her?

  Robert was no longer with her. He had been summoned to help the Lord Chief Justice in his inquiries.

  One of her servants came in to her and told her that a messenger was below asking to deliver something into her hands.

  She shivered. Every messenger nowadays filled her with fear.

  “Bring him to me without delay,” she commanded.

  He came, and after giving her a document, withdrew.

  She guessed what it was when she saw the signatures. They were all members of the Commission set up to inquire into the death of Sir Thomas Overbury, and among them was the name of Sir Edward Coke.

  She was required to keep to her house at Blackfriars if that was ready for her, or go to the house of Lord Knollys, near the Tiltyard. She might choose from either residence but when she had made her choice would be required to keep to her chamber without suffering the access of any person other than her necessary servants until she was acquainted with His Majesty’s pleasure.

  This was what she had dreaded.

  She was a prisoner.

  As she paced up and down her chamber Frances could hear the bells ringing.

  She was large with child now being in the seventh month of her pregnancy; and there were times when she wished she were dead. She would be allowed some respite until the child was born; that had been promised her, but when she had recovered from the birth it would be her turn.

  Jennet was with her; sometimes she felt she could not bear to see the woman’s eyes fixed on her. They were no longer truculent. Jennet was as frightened as she was. It was clear that Jennet was wishing she had never taken her along to see Anne Turner.

  “I wish those bells would stop,” she said.

  “They are for Richard Weston,” answered Jennet.

  “They sound joyous.”

  “They are meant to be … because a poisoner has been discovered and sent to his death.”

  “Be silent.”

  “Did you expect London to mourn for Weston, my lady?”

  Frances did not answer. She sat, her head bent, her fingers pulling at her gown.

  “What did he say, I wonder, when they questioned him.”

  “He was ever a coward, my lady.”

  Frances was overcome by further shivering and Jennet brought her a shawl.

  “Jennet,” said Frances, “go out and see his end, and come back and tell me all that happened.”

  Jennet rose obediently. As she pushed her way through the crowd to Tyburn, she had convinced herself that she was not to blame. She had done nothing. There was no law against introducing one person to another; and if these people plotted murder together that was no concern of hers.

  It was disconcerting to see a man one had known, riding in the cart, and Jennet wished she had not come. The people were all talking about Sir Thomas Overbury.

  “I hear he only gave the stuff and was paid well for it.”

  “By those that could afford to pay him.”

  “Did you hear what he said? It was that he believed the big fish would be allowed to escape from the net while the little ones were brought to justice.”

  “Oh, there’s more to this than we have heard. My Lord and Lady Somerset …”

  “Somerset!”

  “The King won’t have Somerset hurt….”

  Jennet was almost swept off her feet, so great was the press.

  She looked at the scaffold with the dangling rope. Weston was talking to the priest who rode with him in the cart; the moment had almost come, and the noose was about to be placed round his neck, when a group of galloping horsemen arrived on the scene.

  There was a gasp of surprise among the watchers when it was seen that these were led by Sir John Lidcott, who was Sir Thomas Overbury’s brother-in-law.

  The hangman paused and Sir John was heard to say: “Did you poison Sir Thomas Overbury?”

  “You misjudge me,” answered Weston.

  Sir John addressed the crowd. “This man is sheltering some great personages.
”

  But the hangman continued with his task, saying that he had his orders and Weston had received his sentence.

  “The matter shall not rest here,” shouted Sir John. “This is but a beginning.”

  The crowd was silent while Richard Weston was hanged.

  Jennet made her way back to her mistress. She had little comfort to offer her.

  It was indeed a beginning.

  A month later Anne Turner was brought out from her prison, after having been found guilty, and condemned to be hanged. She looked very beautiful in her yellow starched ruff, the fashion and color she had always favored and which many had copied, that it was a silent crowd who watched her go to her death and scarcely one voice was raised to revile her.

  But every woman who possessed a yellow ruff made up her mind that she would never wear it again; and the fashion Anne Turner had made died with her.

  In the early stages of her cross examination she had done her best to shield Frances, but when she realized that the truth was known, when the letters which Frances had written to Forman were produced, when the waxen images were shown to her, she understood that there was no point in attempting to conceal that which had already been discovered.

  Then she had cried bitterly: “Woe to the day I met my lady Somerset. My love for her and my respect for her greatness has brought me to this dog’s death.”

  She died bravely, making a further confession on the scaffold; and her brother, who held a good post in the service of the Prince of Wales, waited in his coach and then took her body to St. Martins-in-the-Field that he might decently bury it.

  The next to die was Sir Gervase Helwys. His crime was that he had known efforts were being made to poison Sir Thomas Overbury but had done nothing to stop the crime; in fact he had made of himself an accessory by allowing the murder to take place under his eyes.

  He was followed by Franklin.

  There was a little time left to her, Frances knew, because of the child she carried.

  They would not bring a pregnant woman into the Court.

  “There is only one thing I can do,” she told Jennet; “and that to die. I shall never survive the birth of my child.”