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

by Jean Plaidy

  “I understand.”

  “Call me Father—your sweet father, because that is what I am to you, dear Daughter.”

  “Yes, sweet Father,” answered Frances dutifully.

  She was now receiving frequent letters from Robert. Their passion astonished her, and it was so poetically expressed that she read them until she knew them by heart.

  “Only a lover could write thus,” she assured Jennet. “Do you know, he is changing. He is beginning to feel as deeply as I do. Oh yes, he has changed of late.”

  “Does he seem more urgent in his passion?” asked Jennet.

  “When we are together he is no more loving than he used to be, but it is his letters in which he betrays his true feelings. How beautiful they are! It is due to the doctor and dear Turner. They are making him dream of me, and my image is for ever in his thoughts.”

  She thought of the wax images the doctor had made of the three of them. The figure of Essex had been pierced with pins that had been made hot in the flame of candles; and while this operation was in progress, the doctor in his black robe decorated by the cabalistic signs had muttered weird incantations. The figure of Robert had been dressed elaborately in satin and brocade, and that of Frances was naked. The doctor had asked that she serve as a model for it because it was essential that it should be perfect in every detail. She trusted him completely now; she looked upon him as her dear father so that after the first embarrassment she had posed while the image was made.

  She remembered the ritual; the burning of incense which filled the room with aromatic odors and vapors. She remembered how the wax male figure had been undressed until it was as naked as that of the woman. The two figures were then put together on a minute couch and made to go through the motions of making love while fresh heated pins were thrust into the wax figure of Essex.

  At first Frances had been repelled but gradually she had become elated by these spectacles she was forced to witness.

  She believed in the black magic, for had she not noticed a change in her lover since she had begun to partake in it? There was fresh power in his pen, for only a lover could write the letters he was now writing to her; nor did he wait until there was need to write; the letters came frequently, accompanied by poems in praise of her beauty and the joy their lovemaking brought to him.

  From an upper window of the house at Lambeth a woman watched Lady Essex ride away accompanied by her maid.

  “Quality this time,” said the woman to herself with a smirk. “I will say this for Simon, he knows how to get hold of the right people.”

  She left the window and going to the head of the stairs peered down. All was silence. Where was he now? In that room where he received his clients? Handling the lewd images. Trust him.

  What a man!

  Jane Forman laughed and wondered how she herself had come to marry him. She had been glad to; there was something about Simon which made him different from every other man she had known. He was a witch.

  Once she said to him: “What if I were to betray you to the finders, Simon?”

  And he had looked at her in a way which had made her blood run cold. She knew that if she were foolish enough to do that he would make sure she suffered for it. As if she would! What? When he could make such a comfortable living for them!

  She reckoned she had been a good wife to him; she had never grumbled when he had seduced the maids. He had told her he needed a variety of women; it was the command of his master that he should have no virgins under his roof because they would have come between him and his work, bringing a purity into the house, and that was not good when one worked with the devil.

  She might have argued that Simon had soon sent virginity flying from his house, so that he need not have worked so hard in his master’s cause. But one did not argue with Simon. One was thankful for the good living he made and accepted him, his mistresses and his illegitimate children, of whom that haughty Anne Turner was doubtless one.

  The two of them were closeted together for hours at a time. Making plans, he told her, for the treatment of this new client who was the richest that had ever fallen into their hands.

  She slowly descended the stairs and made her way to the door of the receiving chamber.

  “Simon,” she said, “did you call?”

  There was no answer, so cautiously she opened the door and looked in. The smell of incense lingered, but the curtains had been drawn back now to let in a little daylight and the candles were out.

  She shut the door quietly behind her and went to the table. There she stood looking round the room. She saw the large box on the bench and opening it, disclosed the wax figures.

  She sniggered.

  “What a fine gentleman!” she whispered. And there was the lady, with what looked like real hair. And what a figure!

  She could imagine the tricks he got up to with them.

  Still there was money in it—and they lived by it.

  “Mustn’t be caught in here,” she whispered; then she opened the door, looked out, made sure she was unobserved and went quickly and quietly back upstairs.

  Robert hurried into the apartment where Overbury sat at work.

  “Tom,” he cried, “write me a letter quickly … a letter of regret.”

  “To the lovely Countess?” said Overbury with a smile.

  “Yes. I had promised to be with her this evening and the King had commanded me to attend him.”

  “How inconvenient it sometimes is to be so popular!” murmured Overbury.

  “And when it is finished will you take it to Hammersmith for me.”

  “To Hammersmith?”

  “Yes, I was to meet her there … at the house of a Mistress Turner. I cannot stay now, but you know the kind of things. Your letters delight her. Tell her that I am desolate … you know so well how to put it.”

  Robert went off and Overbury returned to his table a little disgruntled. It was one thing to write the flowery epistles, but to be asked to deliver them like some page boy was a little humiliating. And Hammersmith! Mistress Anne Turner! He had heard of the name. He believed she was a connection of Dr. Forman the notorious swindler, who might even be a witch. The man had been in trouble once or twice and called upon to answer for his misdeeds. Surely the Countess of Essex was not involved with people like this!

  However, there was nothing to do but write the letter and take it to the woman.

  An hour later he was riding out to Hammersmith, but his mood had not improved as he journeyed there. Was it absurd for a man of his talents to be employed thus? It was said in some quarters that Rochester ruled the King and Overbury ruled Rochester; and in that case did not Overbury rule England?

  He liked to hear such talk. But at the same time it made it doubly uncomfortable to be riding out as a messenger for illicit lovers.

  A maid let him into the house and when he asked to see the Countess of Essex without delay, he was shown into a handsome room. He had not been there many seconds before the door was flung open and a voice cried: “Robert, my dearest …” and then stopped.

  The Countess was wearing a low-cut gown which after the new fashion exposed her breasts; her long hair was loose; and there was a silver ruff about her neck.

  Her expression grew cold as she looked at him.

  “My lady, I bring you a letter from Viscount Rochester.”

  She snatched it ungraciously.

  “So he is not coming,” she said.

  “The King commanded his presence.”

  Her mouth was sullen and she looked like a child who, disappointed of a longed-for treat, turns her anger on the one who tells her she cannot have it for a while.

  “Return to my lord,” she said, “and thank him for sending you. But you will be in need of refreshment. It shall be given to you in the kitchens.”

  “I am in no need of refreshment, my lady, and I do not eat in kitchens. Perhaps I should have introduced myself. Sir Thomas Overbury at your service.”

  “Yes, I know you to be a s
ervant of my lord Rochester.”

  She turned away, her manner insolent.

  Hatred surged up in Overbury. The wanton slut! How dared she. So she had heard of him! Had she heard that he was the man who worked behind the scenes and that it was due to his services that Robert Carr had been able to hold his place with the King’s ministers? How dared she offer him such insolence!

  She had gone and he was left standing there.

  He did not remain; he went out to his horse and rode hard back to Court.

  I shall not forget your insults to me, Lady Essex, he thought.

  The September day had been warm and the windows were open to the garden as Jane Forman and her husband sat together while the maids served them with supper.

  The doctor was in a mellow mood. The Countess had called that day and that event always pleased him.

  Jane wondered how much money he was making from that deal and how long he would be able to keep it going. By surreptitious visits to his receiving room and peeps into the diary he kept—for she could read a little—she knew that the Countess was in love with Viscount Rochester whom all knew was one of the most famous men at Court, and that she wanted to be rid of her husband, the Earl of Essex. Jane knew only one way of getting rid of husbands; also that Simon did not care to sell poisons. He had been in trouble too many times to want more; and supplying poisons could bring him real trouble.

  Ah, she thought, one of these days he’ll land up on a gibbet.

  And that would not be so good for her, for life here in Lambeth was comfortable, even luxurious, and Jane liked her comforts.

  She looked at him steadily, and as the light fell on his face she thought he had aged lately; that his pallor was more pronounced and he looked tired.

  He had eaten well and was half dozing at the table; she had no idea therefore that he was aware of her scrutiny.

  “Well, wife,” he said suddenly, “what are you thinking of?”

  She sometimes believed that he could read her thoughts so she did not lie to him.

  “Death,” she said simply.

  “What of death?” he asked.

  “I was wondering whether you or I would die first. Do you know? But of course you do. You have pre-knowledge of these things.”

  “I shall die first,” he said quietly.

  She leaned toward him and said quickly: “When?”

  “Next Thursday,” he answered.

  Jane leaped to her feet. “Thursday!” she cried. “The Thursday that is coming!”

  He looked as startled as she did. “Eh?” he cried. “What did I say?”

  “You said you would die on Thursday.”

  He looked aghast, for he was shaken. He had spoken thoughtlessly, and the words had slipped out almost involuntarily. He was alarmed because on the rare occasions when he had foreseen the future it had happened in this way.

  “Forget it,” he said.

  But neither of them could.

  He already looks older, thought Jane. A little more tired. A little closer to death. A little closer to Thursday.

  On Wednesday Jane said jokingly: “Well, you only have one more day to live, Simon. I trust your affairs are in order.”

  He laughed with her and she was relieved. He had been joking of course.

  On Thursday he said he had business to do at Puddle Dock and took boat there. He was rowing steadily when the oars slipped from his hands and he fell forward.

  When they brought his body home Jane could not believe it; although she had on occasions known him to prophesy events which had come true, other prophecies he had made had not, so she could never be sure; this she had not believed, so she was stunned and bewildered.

  But when she had recovered a little from the shock she went into that room where he had received his clients. Evidently he himself had not believed the prophecy for he had made no effort to put his affairs in order.

  I must destroy these things, said Jane as she took out the wax images, the powders and phials of liquid.

  She set them out on the bench and went through the drawers of his private cabinet. There she found his diary and turning the pages read here and there.

  It was fascinating, for there was an account of many an intrigue and love affair, and Simon had not hesitated to mention the names of the ladies and gentlemen concerned.

  What a story this book could tell!

  Jane looked at the more recent entries and read an account of the love affair between Lady Essex and Viscount Rochester with quotations of what Lady Essex had said and done in this room.

  She shut the book and then discovered the letters. He had kept every one.

  “Sweet Father,” she called him, and signed herself his loving daughter.

  Jane made a big fire in the room and sorted out the letters and papers. Among them were spells, incantations and recipes for making certain potions.

  Perhaps it was wrong to destroy these things; they might be useful.

  So she turned her back on the fire and found a large box in which she placed the images, the recipes, the letters and the diary which gave such lurid accounts of Court intrigues and especially of the most recent involving Lady Essex and the King’s favorite.

  “Such sad news!” wrote Mrs. Turner. “I beg of my good sweet lady to come to me without delay. We will console each other.”

  At the earliest opportunity Frances went to Hammersmith and the two wept together.

  “Everything was beginning to work well,” mourned Frances. “My lord was becoming more in love with me; his letters were wonderful; and I learned that he finds it easier to express himself with the pen than in his actions. I know it is all due to my dear father. What shall we do without him?”

  “Do not despair, my dear friend. There are others—though perhaps lacking our father’s great skill. But they exist, and I shall find them.”

  “Dearest Anne, what should I do without you?”

  “There is no need to do without me. Knowing your need I have already been turning this matter over in my mind. My husband was a doctor, remember. That put me into touch with people who handle and understand drugs.”

  Frances was thoughtful. Then she said slowly: “Although the lord had become more loving, that other is a source of great trouble to me. I would I were rid of him. I believe that if I were, the lord would love me even more, for I am aware that the other is never far from his mind. In the course of his state business he often has to write or converse with that other and he does so with the utmost courteousness. The lord is such that he feels uncomfortable at these times and is often a little cooler toward me afterward.”

  “It is one point on which I was not always in tune with our sweet departed father. He wished to work on the lovely lord; and he did so with success. But I always felt that we should rid ourselves of the other before we came to complete success.”

  “Oh, to be rid of him!” sighed Frances.

  “I have many friends in the City,” went on Mrs. Turner “There is a Dr. Savories whom I believed to be as clever as our dear father. I could consult him. He is expensive … even more so than our father; but we cannot hope to go on in quite the same way.”

  “You must see this Dr. Savories.”

  “I will. And there is a man named Gresham, who foretold the Gunpowder Plot in his almanack, and poor man, he suffered for it, because many accused him of being one of the conspirators. But this was not proved against him and was in fact true prophecy.”

  “I know that you will do all in your power to help me, Anne.”

  “You many trust me,” answered Mrs. Turner, “and together we will achieve what we set out to—even without our dear father’s help.”

  Robert noticed the change in Overbury’s manner which had become cool and withdrawn. He asked what was wrong.

  “Wrong?” cried Overbury. “What should be wrong? All goes well, does it not? The King is delighted with my work.”

  “It seems to me, Tom, that you are not delighted.”

  “Oh, I
have grown accustomed to doing the work and seeing you get the praise.”

  “If there is anything you wish for …”

  “You are generous,” admitted Overbury. “You have never stinted me.”

  “And should consider myself despicable if I did. I do not forget, Tom, all you have done for me.”

  Overbury was mollified. He was a little under the spell of Robert’s charm. The handsome looks and the good-natured serenity were appealing. It was not Robert who had irritated him, Overbury reminded himself. It was that woman of his.

  “I know. I know,” he said. Then: “Robert, can I speak frankly to you?”

  “You know I always expect frankness from you.”

  “I think you are making a great mistake in seeing so much of that woman.” Robert looked startled and a flush appeared in his cheeks, but Overbury hurried on: “There is something about her which is … evil. Be warned, Robert. What of Essex? You have made a cuckold of him. That would be most unpleasant if it were bruited about the Court.”

  For the first time during their friendship Overbury saw Robert angry.

  He said shortly: “You have helped me considerably in many ways, but I must ask you not to meddle in my private affairs.”

  The two men faced each other; both were unusually pale now for the color had faded from Robert’s face as quickly as it had come. Then without another word Robert turned away and briskly left the apartment.

  Fool! said Overbury when the door had shut. Does he not see where this is leading him? That woman will be the destruction of him.

  Another and more unpleasant thought quickly followed: And of me. For never was one man’s fortune so bound up in another’s as was Tom Overbury’s with Robert Carr’s.

  He paced up and down the apartment. Yet was it so? Many people guessed that the favorite’s sudden abilities could only mean that he possessed a ghost who worked in the shadows. Some knew that Overbury’s was the hand that wrote the letters, the brain which produced the brilliant suggestions. And if Robert Carr should fall from favor, having involved himself in a disgraceful scandal with the wife of Essex, none could blame Thomas Overbury. People might remember that he had been the brains behind the pretty fellow. That was a comforting thought.