Lord Ellesmore was staring at the Constable aghast.
“How now, Master Drew, be you serious in this matter?”
“Never more,” the Constable assured him,
“And thus are you saying that Lord Deenish must be innocent of it?”
“I am.”
“Then do you accuse his sister, Lady Ivowen?”
Master Drew turned to the door.
“Give me a moment more of indulgence,” he said.
They re-entered the chamber where Lord Deenish rose uncertainly from the chair where he had been sitting. He had removed his bloodstained shirt and pulled on a woollen doublet. His sister continued to sit moodily staring into the fire.
The Constable went to the door and called in the Serjeant at Arms.
“A favour, good Serjeant,” he said, when Master Strong entered. “Be so good as to go and fetch me the shoes that you were wearing when you were doing your guard rounds tonight.”
The Serjeant at Arms stared at him in bewilderment for a moment.
The Lord Chancellor was frowning.
“Shoes? You seem to have a preoccupation with shoes, Master Constable.”
Master Drew nodded, his eyes not leaving those of the burly Serjeant at Arms.
“I am not so unobservant that I did not realize a night watch in the corridors and halls of a palace does not stalk these echoing chambers in heavy, clumsy riding boots. You have changed your footwear, Master Strong. Shall I tell you how?”
There was a tense silence in the room. The Serjeant was now white faced.
“This night you went on your rounds as usual, clad in your normal footwear. You came to the doors of the Star Chamber and something caught your attention. Perhaps some noise. You quietly unlocked the chamber door and entered and saw . . . well, God alone knows what you thought. Here was the ultimate sacrilege. The young Prince of Wales, heir to the throne, performing some unspeakable satanic rite, in the very chamber where your own beloved Queen Elizabeth once held court among her loyal subjects. You had served her well and loyally, and your religious scruples reinforced your anger. You grabbed the ritual dagger from the young man’s hand and killed him.”
Master Drew paused. There was no denial, no response, no movement from Master Ned Strong.
“You began to move away from the bloody body, half a dozen paces, before you realized the reality of what you had done. You suddenly grasped the fact that you had blood on the underside of your shoes. They left an accusing trail. So you stepped out of your shoes, there and then, and picked them up. Thus the trail ended. Bearing them in your hands you walked in stocking feet back to the doors, re-locked them, and removed yourself to your guardroom where you put on the other only available footwear – your riding boots.
“Then I think you decided to resume your watch and came back to the door of the Star Chamber when you heard movement within. You opened it but Lord Deenish, who had just discovered the body, had fled back to wake his sister. She was the only person he could confide in. Knowing someone must have made the discovery, you pretended to have discovered the Prince’s body for the first time and went off to alert Lord Ellesmore. Am I right?”
Ned Strong glanced to Lord Ellesmore. Some look, a slight nod of acknowledgement passed, and then he cried, “God bless Queen Bess. God bless England!”
The cry startled them all with its abrupt passion.
Then Master Ned Strong was sinking rapidly to the floor. He was dead before he reached it. The dirk was no longer in the sheath at his waist but buried deep under his ribs, through the heart, and his blood was pumping over his clothing.
Master Hardy Drew stood looking down at him in sadness. He had not been prepared for such an act. At his shoulder, Lord Ellesmore was more cynical.
“How shall we describe him, good Constable? A patriot? A religious fanatic? A regicide?”
The Constable shook his head.
“That is not my concern, my lord. But think long and hard about this affair. Should the truth of this be voiced abroad it might do irreparable damage to a realm that is already in turmoil. I am no counsellor, my lord, but things have happened here that the common good dictates should not be revealed to anyone outside these walls.”
Lord Ellesmore glanced sharply at him.
“Then I shall return to the question that I asked you earlier – can I count on your discretion?”
Master Hardy Drew returned his gaze earnestly.
“My lord, I have not been here tonight.”
It was five days later, on November 6, that London awoke to the announcement from St James’ Palace that His Royal Highness Henry Frederick, Prince of Wales, Duke of Rothesay, Lord of the Isles and Duke of Cornwall, heir to the thrones of England, Scotland and Ireland, had died of typhoid fever. He had been removed to his darkened bedchamber early in the morning of November 1 where not even his family were allowed entrance, nor even his chaplain, Reverend Dr Daniel Price, could see him because of the contagion. The announcement provoked a widespread outpouring of public and private grief, English and Scottish poets wrote moving elegies reflecting on human vulnerability, ballads were sung, sermons preached and even madrigalls called “songs of mourning” were performed. The realms of England and Scotland joined together in the grief-stricken release of hopes and expectation for their future king who was now no more. All eyes were turned on the eleven-year-old Duke of Albany, Marquess of Ormonde, Earl of Ross, Baron of Ardmannoch and Duke of York – Charles – the new heir apparent.
Only Master Hardy Drew gave passing thought at the gossip surrounding the swift departure of Lord Deenish and his sister, Lady Ivowen, who had sailed from Gravesend to make a new life for themselves at Jamestown in Captain John Smith’s new colony of Virginia, even before the funeral obsequies of Prince Henry.
It was four years later that Master Drew was attending the funeral of Lord Ellesmore himself.
He was seated next to an elderly and loquacious man.
“A great man, Lord Ellesmore,” the man offered. “He was one of Her Late Majesty’s most trusted servants and ardent supporters of her dynasty. Did you know him, Master Constable?”
“I knew him briefly some years ago,” admitted Master Drew. “And you?”
“I served him as a guard when he was Chancellor. Serjeant Strong was my senior then.”
“Serjeant Ned Strong?” Master Drew stirred uncomfortably.
“Aye, did you know him?”
“I have heard the name.”
“A fine soldier was Ned Strong. Fiercely loyal to Lord Ellesmore.”
Master Drew stirred uneasily.
“Is that so?”
“Indeed it is. You would have recognized him easily had you known him. A strong, muscular man who was proud of the livery he wore. We used to jest with him for when he was on duty, he liked to dress in full uniform, even down to riding boots. Whoever heard of wearing riding boots within doors! But that was his only eccentricity.”
The Constable felt suddenly cold.
“It was his custom to wear riding boots indoors?”
The elderly man chuckled.
“He said a uniform was not properly worn without them. But he was a man who would lay down his life for what he believed right. Poor Ned Strong. He disappeared some years ago. The story was that he was probably set upon by footpads one night outside the palace and his body dumped into the Thames. A sad end.”
Master Drew nodded slowly. He was suddenly remembering the first time he had seen Lord Ellesmore, seated in his chair and pulling on a new pair of shoes. All that he had accused Strong of doing could equally apply to . . .
It was then the funeral cortege of Lord Ellesmore entered the church.
“A sad end,” he echoed. “Ah!” he added, with a little savagery in his tone. “I think I am getting too old to be Constable. I miss the obvious.”
GREEN TARTS
DERYN LAKE
Perhaps the most notorious murder trial during James’s reign was the Overbury Case. It has
fascinated investigators for years and you may find several books on the subject including Cast of Ravens (1965) by Beatrice White and more recently Unnatural Murder (1997) by Anne Somerset. The case is recounted in such detail in the following story that I need say no more.
Deryn Lake is the author of the John Rawlings and John Fielding murder mysteries set in eighteenth-century Georgian England, starting with Death in the Dark Walk (1994). Under her own name, Dinah Lampitt, she has produced many historical novels, including the popular Sutton Place trilogy and The King’s Women (1993) featuring Joan of Arc.
God grant me grace, but I am getting on in years. I looked in the mirror this very morning and an old man stared back at me. I gazed at him in horror, hardly believing that I had come to this. But sooner or later we all have intimations of mortality. Thus I will do as my conscience dictates and set down a record of those times, so long ago, when a man met his death in the Tower and the part that I played in it all. As far as I can recall, if memory serves correctly, it all started with a bed.
It arrived in pieces, as was customary, and was carried up to the master bedroom by a team of servants, then handed over to the craftsmen to assemble. Watching them work, its new owner thought it a beautiful thing that grew beneath their hands; richly carved and sumptuously adorned. In fact he could hardly wait for them to finish that he might stretch out on it and measure his length on the silk cover, letting his eyes take in the marquetry panels on the headboard, created by German craftsmen, a number of whom now lived in Southwark. His gaze wandered over the elaborate carvings, one of which was a grinning satyr to represent fertility. It seemed to smile at him in a devilish manner. All in all, he thought to himself, this new bed summed up his status, his standing, his enviable position as the best-loved favourite of that most malleable of monarchs, James I.
Robert Carr, Viscount Rochford, took a step forward and touched the gorgeous draperies, presently being hung beneath the intricately carved oak tester. The workman responsible looked up.
“All right, my lord?”
“Splendid. I think this bed is going to be quite wonderful.”
“It will indeed, my lord.”
And tonight, thought Robert, I shall show it, totally complete, to my closest friend, Thomas Overbury. He gave a quiet sigh, thinking of the pleasures ahead, and turning, left the room.
As he went downstairs, Robert glanced admiringly at himself in a mirror. He was a handsome man, some twenty-four years of age, with long straight limbs and broad shoulders. He had a head of thick fair hair which he wore tightly frizzed as fashion dictated, meanwhile dressing himself to the inch in fine clothes and jewels, including a sparkling earring worn in his left ear. Unfortunately all this frippery made him appear effeminate, a feature which, no doubt, pleased his royal master enormously. For there could be no doubt that the King worshipped Robert – leaning on his arm, pinching his cheek, kissing him quite openly in full public gaze – a fact which the self-seeking young man positively encouraged, responding with melting looks and suggestive gestures. Yet, despite the love of King James, Robert had formed another liaison with Thomas Overbury, a bright young Englishman with literary pretensions. In fact the couple were devoted and it was Thomas who was to visit this very night.
In order to pass the time, Robert decided to have a bath, thus causing an army of servants to plod up and down stairs with pails of boiling water. After being towelled dry, he oiled himself then dressed in stockings and doublet, executed in silks and gold and silver thread. On his feet he put on a pair of low-heeled shoes, decorated with an enormous frill of black and yellow. Then, having shaved closely, a feature much admired by the King, he awaited Thomas’s arrival. Quarter of an hour later, a thunderous knock announced his presence. Robert immediately assumed a negligent pose, his fingers idly toying with a book, the other hand supporting his chin. He looked up as his friend was announced.
“My dear Overbury,” he said.
But once the bowing servant was out of the way, Robert hurried over and embraced the newcomer warmly, kissing him on both cheeks, then on the mouth.
Thomas disentangled himself. “You’re pleased to see me, I take it.”
“I always am. You know that.”
His friend allowed a small smile to light his features, a fact which made him appear more attractive. Older than Carr, he was not so blatantly good looking yet it was a more intelligent face, though spoiled by an expression of arrogance. Now, though, he was anxious to please.
“Have you persuaded the King to like me any better?” he asked eagerly.
Robert pulled down his mouth. “No, I’m afraid not.”
“You know why it is, don’t you?”
“I think I can hazard a guess.”
“Because he’s jealous of me. He knows damn well that you love me better than him – and that is something the lecherous old beast cannot stomach.”
Robert simpered and for a moment looked utterly feminine. “I think what you say is true. He cannot take his eyes off me, even at court.”
Thomas Overbury scowled. “Besotted old fool.”
“Shush. Someone might hear you.”
“Let them.” He turned to Robert. “Now, what is this surprise you have to show me?”
“Come upstairs. Come and see my new toy.”
Somewhat mystified, Thomas followed him up the staircase to the master bedroom, Robert firmly closing the door behind him. A few minutes later came the sound of muted laughter as the two men sampled the new bed’s delights.
“I am in despair,” said Frances, Countess of Essex, bursting into a spectacular torrent of tears. “Oh, my dear, what am I to do?”
The dear in question was a small, comely widow with a pleasing face and hair like golden thread. But at present her expression was one of deep sympathy which did not totally become her.
“Think of it,” Frances continued, not waiting for a reply. “Think of being wedded to a lanky brute who at first would not consummate the marriage and now expects me to lie with him, which I do not wish to do. And, sweet Anne, just at this stage I have received a love letter from another man.”
Anne’s expression changed rapidly to one of acute attention. “Really, my pet? Who?”
“You’ll not believe it – the King’s favourite! Robert Carr himself.”
“Robert Carr? But surely he has other interests.”
“So I always thought, but the letter was most ardent.”
“What did it say?”
“How much he admires me and how much he would like to converse with me.”
Anne shook her head. “I am surprised indeed.”
Frances, who was one of the most beautiful women at court, looked very slightly annoyed. “Oh?”
“I’m just surprised that he had the courage to write,” Anne answered swiftly.
“I see,” answered the Countess, slightly mollified.
“I hold your heart close to mine as I hope you do to me,” said Sir Thomas Overbury, dictating.
“Is that grammatically correct?” asked Robert Carr, pausing in his writing.
“Oh, to hell with grammar. It will certainly attract the attention of the silly bitch.”
Robert laughed carelessly. “I don’t know why I’m bothering with this.”
“Oh, yes, you do. It’s because you can’t resist a challenge and the fact that the lady is in a loveless marriage appeals to you.”
“What shall I do if she says yes?”
Overbury gave a careless shrug. “That, my dear, will be entirely up to you.”
At that moment both men looked up as there was a noise in the corridor outside. They were in the royal palace at Greenwich, in Carr’s apartments, but this did not guarantee them privacy.
“Hide the letter,” hissed Overbury and Robert thrust it beneath a book as the door opened without ceremony and they saw, standing in the entrance, his royal majesty James.
He glanced at Thomas unsmilingly. Ever since the affair last year when both he and Carr had
been caught laughing at the Queen, any affection the King might have felt for Robert’s friend had been totally banished. However, his feelings for Carr remained undiminished.
Now he said, “There you are, my lad. I would ask you to walk with me a little.”
Straightening himself from his reverential bow, Carr smiled flirtatiously. “Of course, your Majesty.”
Advancing on him, James lolled an arm round his favourite’s neck and kissed him on the lips. Carr turned towards him as sweetly as any woman. “If I can do anything to please your Majesty.”
The King’s rheumy eyes had an inner fire. “We’ll walk a little way first, eh, Carr?”
“As your Majesty pleases.”
Ignoring Overbury the pair left the room, weak-legged James hanging round Robert’s neck as though his very life depended on it. Thomas could not help but notice that the fingers of the King’s other hand were fiddling round his codpiece as he shuffled out.
They met privately and for the first time in Carr’s apartments in Hampton Court, he full of charm and prattling nonsense, she virtually tongue-tied. Looking at her, intending to use her as a plaything and then discard her, Robert was struck by how very good-looking she was at close quarters. Her hair, reddish-gold in colour, was frizzed out in the latest fashion with an aquamarine and pearl headdress, while her eyes – matching the stone – flashed shy but definite messages in his direction. As for her figure, he could see from her exceedingly low-cut gown that her breasts were truly beautiful. It was rumoured throughout the court that she was a virgin, a fact which stimulated Robert’s wicked side with thoughts of deflowering her.
“Well, Lady Frances, how good of you to come.”
“I come in response to your letters, Sir.”
He had not written one of them; Thomas Overbury was responsible for them all. Thinking of the ribaldry as they had been composed, Robert felt himself flush and turned away.
The Mammoth Book of Jacobean Whodunnits Page 17