by Lucy Jago
At night I sat beside the children as they slept, Henry sprawled amongst the warm, soft-breathing bodies of his sisters. I lit a new candle each time the previous one burnt down. It was inevitable that I would be questioned. How could I ever explain my arrest to them?
Frankie stayed by my side, even for much of the night, as neither of us could sleep. We talked quietly through our story, agreeing on the smallest details. We would deny everything; Frankie had learnt this during the scandal over Mary Woods: the most important thing was to insist on our innocence and not yield.
The wolves could not wait to tear us apart. Frankie’s steward brought us the broadsheets, reluctantly, in which we read that ‘for a whore’s sake, Carr murdered his dearest friend’, and that he was capable of heinous crimes because he was a foreigner, low-born, lenient to Catholics, too fond of fashion and extravagance and, most importantly, already guilty of that darkling sin of too great a love for the King. It was not difficult to know who had fed this effluent to the newsmongers.
‘They’re saying that Lord Northampton is not dead but in Rome with the Jesuits and that he, together with Robin, poisoned Prince Henry as well as Sir Thomas,’ she read out. Suddenly she dropped to her knees and scrabbled together the printed pages that littered the chamber floor, snatching one from my fingers and flinging the whole lot on the fire. ‘We should leave for Greys.’
‘What point is there? Weston is known to be my helpmeet. It will not be long before they come for me.’
Frankie and Carr argued constantly, both of them in tears. She insisted on the coroner’s verdict, overseen by fourteen witnesses, that Overbury had died by God’s hand, and dismissed everything else as a malicious attempt to bring them down. Elwes had been bribed by their enemies, she insisted, and there was no truth in his confession.
When the maid came for me at ten in the morning on the fourth day, my children were at their lessons. I kissed them and pressed all the love in my heart into the skin of their cheeks.
‘Why are you sad?’ Henry asked.
‘I’m not sad, sweetling, I wear black when I want people to treat me nicely.’ Henry seemed to find this sensible and went back to his slate.
‘I may be late,’ I said to Barbara, hugging her close.
‘What is it?’ she asked, sensing a difference in this departure.
‘I do not like to leave you so long.’
‘Do not worry, we will be merry,’ said Katherine, drawing when she was meant to be learning her psalms.
Carr had ordered Frankie to stay in her parlour, not because he disliked me but so they might distance themselves from legal processes used for the lower orders. I longed for an encouraging embrace and a few words to shore up my courage.
Two parish officers awaited me in the entrance hall, one old, one young, perhaps father and son. They were looking about at the splendour of their surroundings and did not immediately notice my arrival.
‘I am Mistress Turner. How can I help you, sirs?’ I asked serenely, although I felt sick and light-headed.
‘We have orders to accompany you to the house of Alderman Smith, to answer questions pertaining to the death of Sir Thomas Overbury,’ said the elder. There was little respect in their manner.
I feigned surprise. ‘I will come willingly, sirs.’ The maid brought me my warmest shawl and cloak.
‘No bag?’
‘Bag?’ I said, genuinely surprised.
‘If you’re detained.’
‘Detained?’ I said, my wits blunted by fear. ‘Why would I be detained?’
The older one shrugged and gripped my arm painfully. At that moment Frankie arrived, in defiance of her husband’s command. Her belly preceded her like a bowsprit; she was dressed in her most luxurious house gown, wearing far more jewellery than she would usually at that time of day, her highest heels, hair arranged on the tallest pads. Her face was white and heavily made up and she looked unearthly, frightening, like a vengeful Goddess of the Ancients. She came to a stop close to the beadles, towering over them by two heads, and the cold haughtiness of her expression worked instant magic, as it did on everyone who met Frankie in this mood.
The officers bowed very low until she permitted them to rise.
‘Who are you?’ she demanded.
‘My lady, I am Officer Cartwright of the Parish of St Mary’s Undercroft, and this is my son Jimmy.’
‘Your being sent here is a mistake,’ said Frankie, her expression so severe that the younger beadle repeatedly blinked. ‘The Earl of Somerset is to speak to the King later today.’
Both men nodded and the elder released my arm, but they did not retreat.
‘With apologies, my lady, we have orders to bring her in,’ said Officer Cartwright.
‘From whom?’ Frankie demanded.
‘Lord Coke, my lady.’
She was careful not to look at me, but we both knew that Lord Coke would not be intimidated by her. She would need to mobilise the most senior members of her family.
‘Then I would have you take the utmost care of my greatest friend,’ Frankie said. She embraced me and I felt like a child before her, she was so tall. ‘You will be home before nightfall,’ she said, squeezing my cold hands. She had not abandoned me, although disobeying her husband would not endear either of us to him.
The beadles behaved like a guard of honour throughout our journey into the City. At the alderman’s house I was shown into a parlour, a comfortable room that reminded me of my home with George, and I all but expected the alderman to greet me with apologies and put me in his own carriage back to Whitehall.
Within a few minutes Lord Chief Justice Coke strode into the room, which I had not expected, and settled himself behind a trestle, his eyes slit thin in his rodent face. Beside him sat a man with writing materials and behind him stood an older man whom I took to be Alderman Smith. No introductions were made. There was no Frankie beside me compelling these men to show respect, and all three of them looked angry and fierce. I knew this was intended to frighten me and it did.
‘You are Mistress Anne Turner, widow, previously of Paternoster Row and now residing in the household of the Countess of Somerset?’ said the man with the quill. Before I could nod, Lord Coke addressed me in a thin voice.
‘Widow Turner, why did you give Richard Weston poisons with which to murder Sir Thomas Overbury?’
My head was dizzy with terror but I did not falter.
‘I have no idea of what you speak.’
‘Come, Weston has confessed,’ said the Chief Justice.
I said nothing, from fear that I might give myself away by accident. I did not believe him.
‘Weston’s story that Sir Thomas Overbury died of a chill did not hold for long,’ said Lord Coke, with a tiny smile. ‘On the second day of questioning he admitted to showing the Lieutenant of the Tower a phial of clear liquid with which you supplied him. On day three he admitted that you had told him to give it to the prisoner but not to partake of it himself.’ Coke raised his eyebrows, as if that gesture might prompt me to confess all.
‘I am entirely at a loss,’ I said, my faith in Weston cracking along with my own façade of self-assurance. I had not known what to expect, but certainly not this immediate attack from Lord Coke. ‘Richard Weston told me that Sir Thomas Overbury sent him out for beer at about six o’clock on the morning he died. Weston was not half an hour gone, but Overbury was dead when he returned,’ I said with conviction, for this was indeed how my former servant had described it to me. ‘Weston believed that Sir Thomas had succumbed to illness, emetics, physick, or a combination of the three.’
‘This matter is of the greatest urgency because it involves those close to the King.’
‘It does? I have told you all I know,’ I said.
Coke stared at me without blinking and water gathered in my mouth and down my throat, a prelude to vomiting. I would not swallow; he would know my guilt if I did. I calmly held his gaze, willing my eyes to speak of honesty. Not until my mouth near ove
rflowed did he look away to nod at the alderman, who led me from the room to a small, wintry cell that smelt strongly of rust and wet stone. There was nothing in it but a truckle with a thin straw mattress, the barest of blankets and a bucket. The narrow window was unglazed and rain puddled on the floor below it.
‘What are you doing? I cannot be here, what of my children? They have lost their father and will be mighty afraid, not knowing where I am. The Countess of Somerset awaits me …’ The alderman ignored my mounting hysteria and left me, without candle or fire, closing the door behind him. When I heard the key turn in the lock, I sat for fear I would collapse.
I have been kept close prisoner ever since, over six weeks, seeing no one but the Lord Chief Justice and Alderman Smith. Enforced isolation can turn you somewhat mad; loneliness folds me in upon myself. The voices in my head grow so vile that I welcome even the company of my accusers.
That first day, I moved the hard truckle away from the rain that blew in with each gust. Outside there is a drop of thirty feet to the river and the echo of boatmen’s calls and shimmering reflections on bright days are the only life in the cell.
After a few days, desperation to see my children overtook me. I did not eat, wash or sleep, but lay down and remembered every detail of their lives from before they were born to kissing them goodbye as they sat at their lessons. I pulled threads of memory from my mind, carefully separated each one and laid it with utmost tenderness, like clean clothes, on that child’s pile, until I was satisfied I had missed nothing. After that, I did the same with George, until the lid of his coffin closed and darkness came upon me. I dared not think of Frankie beyond praying that she was trying to free me; I had only to keep to my denials.
Each dawn my hopes returned that I would be freed; each afternoon they faded with the light. I imagined Frankie summoning important persons, writing letters, cajoling her father and Robin. I did this to stem the ocean of regret that would otherwise have drowned me. At night I slept little, but once I dreamt of George Villiers walking in the Privy Garden, his chest swathed in pearls, leaving a trail of silk which the King gathered lovingly as he scurried along behind.
The many notes I received from my children, my brother Eustace, Frankie and Mr Palmer, cheered me a little. Frankie told me that Robin was working for my release and sent me sea coal for the fire. I hoped he was working harder for me than he had for Overbury.
One day, after about a week, the notes and letters stopped. Why did my children no longer write, nor Mr Palmer? Had they been persuaded of my guilt? Had Frankie lost the baby? Was she ill? Dead? Had she abandoned me? If she, or my children, threw away my love, then all that was left would be my pride, my vanity and my stupidity.
When I again stood before Lord Chief Justice Coke, I felt very much smaller than the first time. Even so, my hopes were not gone that I would be freed.
‘Richard Weston claims that you instructed him to give a clear liquid to Sir Thomas Overbury and that the Countess of Somerset would reward him well if he did,’ said Lord Coke, leaning forward.
‘I cannot think what pressure you have put upon the poor man to make him fabricate such tales.’ Coke’s response was a slight narrowing of his eyes.
‘Weston has had a visitor in the person of Sir Gervase Elwes,’ said Coke. ‘The former Lieutenant of the Tower has made a full, written confession of his part in this plot. He managed to persuade Weston of the futility, indeed harmfulness, of continuing to lie.’ I looked away from Sir Edward, out of the window. Gulls screamed through the air, hurled about by the gusting wind. The chimney moaned but I did not speak. Coke shifted in his chair and blew sharply through his nose.
‘Mr James Franklin … You deny knowing him?’ Reluctantly I pulled my gaze back to my inquisitor.
‘Franklin is amongst my acquaintance,’ I said. ‘I sent him on occasion to see how Weston did.’
‘Why had you concern for him? Was it not rather news of Sir Thomas Overbury’s health you sought?’
‘I had very slight acquaintance with Sir Thomas Overbury and would not seek knowledge of him; Weston I have known for many years.’
‘Are you familiar with the law as it concerns murder? Only by admission of guilt before trial can the King grant clemency.’
‘Poor widows are rarely the beneficiaries of clemency, from any source.’
‘You speak boldly for a woman.’
‘I speak only the truth, my lord.’
‘Come, Mistress Turner, your guilt is clear, but that of much greater personages even more so. If you were led into crime by them, clemency is possible.’
I have never liked people who do not take me seriously; there is no clemency for widows who abet murder. Coke let out a long sigh worthy of the stage, and from the corner of my eye I saw him nod to the alderman who banged on the door. After a few moments, it was opened from without. Into the room, shoved by an unseen hand, stumbled Weston, his face bruised and swollen. He regained his balance with difficulty since his hands were tied.
‘Weston!’ I cried, moving towards him.
‘Be still and silent,’ said Coke, extending an imperious finger. I stopped. Weston was bowed, beaten, his clothes, hair and beard filthy. No one offered him a stool and he did not look up.
‘Speak,’ ordered Coke.
Weston slumped further.
‘Mistress Turner paid me monies to give a clear liquid to Sir Thomas Overbury.’ His voice was a dry recital. ‘She was following orders from the Countess of Somerset. This liquid was poison.’
I could not stop myself. I rounded on Lord Coke. ‘You have beaten him about the head! You have tortured an old man. Look at him! What evil is this?’
‘Mistress Turner, your feigned concern for an ancient retainer does not convince me. You are held here as an accessory to murder. I believe that you acquired and gave poison to Richard Weston with the express purpose of murdering Sir Thomas Overbury, foe to your friend the Countess of Somerset. The sentence for those found guilty but who plead innocence is always death. In this case, Mistress Turner, given the import of these matters and the seeming complicity of personages close to the royal presence, tell us the part played by the Earl and Countess of Somerset and your willing repentance will be noted when punishment is decided.’
Without thinking, I put a hand to the small hat on my head, perhaps because I could not believe that anything would stay put in this gale of accusation.
‘Those afflicted with pride and vanity,’ said Lord Coke observing me closely, ‘easily fall prey to the greater sins of which you stand accused.’
‘It is a crime to wear a hat now?’ I snapped, my composure gone. ‘What poor Weston has been forced to say is no concern of mine. I will not confess to crimes I know not of.’
Weston lifted his eyes to mine for a moment. I saw in them not defeat, or fear, nor even resentment, but admiration for my steadfastness in the face of a bully.
At a nod from Coke, the guard wrested Weston to the door. I ran forward, ignoring Coke’s shouts, and raised Weston’s hands to my lips. I kissed them gently as he looked into my eyes with such deep sadness that my guilt felt too vast for my body to carry. I knew that even after this torture, Howard heavies would visit Weston and ‘press’ him to remain silent at his trial, by threatening his beloved son, William. It was my fault. I had thrust him, unwilling, into Frankie’s world, and for most of the time he had tried to drag me out. The guard wrenched him from me and the door was closed.
How had this happened? Why had Frankie and Carr not secured my release, and Weston’s too? I looked around for somewhere I could sit; there was nowhere. Was Frankie also being questioned? I felt almost mad with knowing nothing.
‘What have you to say?’ Coke asked me.
‘I must beg you grant bail for the sake of my children.’
Coke looked up to the ceiling as if there lay patience.
‘Very well, Mistress Turner. Petition me for bail. I shall refuse it. Let us see if your friends are in a position to overrule me.
Alderman Smith? Has Mistress Turner received any messages?’
‘This gentleman is spy as well as gaoler?’
‘Several notes from her children whose distress at her absence is genuine,’ he said with a note of kindness that undid me worse than Coke’s aggression. ‘They are in the apartments of the Countess of Somerset and—’
‘Mistress Turner’s children are not my concern,’ interrupted Coke. ‘Other messages?’
‘Several from the Countess of Somerset.’ Coke nodded at him. The man pulled a letter from a leather satchel and unrolled it. ‘This latest says, “My dearest soul, be of good cheer, you shall want for nothing …”’
‘That is addressed to me,’ I said.
‘Continue,’ ordered Coke. A cold serpent of terror rose within me, swelling, making my heart race as it constricted my organs and pushed up into my skull, bringing with it a senseless hiss which made it hard to hear the men’s voices. ‘With this note came a diamond ring and a chain and cross of gold, for Mistress Turner’s financial comfort, which I have in safe-keeping. The Countess writes, “My lord will go to Court within three or four days to procure your delivery, my truest friend.”’
Frankie had not abandoned me. She was writing, sending me the jewels on her body to keep me alive, but they were being kept from me.
‘When was that sent?’ said Lord Coke.
‘A week ago.’
Coke leered at me. ‘And yet here you are.’
Why was I not allowed bail? It could only be that Robert Carr had lost the power to grant it; that Villiers and the Essex faction had the upper hand. Coke stood. ‘When you decide to stop clinging to faithless friends, I will take your confession myself.’
