Mrs Turner made no reply but simply pursed her lips and walked steadfastly on.
Robert Carr, Earl of Somerset, had now grown frantic. He had sought from King James a pardon which would absolve him of crimes he had previously committed. But though the King seemed willing enough to sign it, it had come unstuck before the Council when the Lord Chancellor had refused to seal it. The King had become angry and had walked out of the meeting, straight to the Queen, who had, hating Somerset as she did, put the final nail into the coffin and told James not to sign.
Shortly after, His Majesty left on his summer progress. And it was while he was staying at Beaulieu that news reached him of the fact that Sir Gervase Elwes had set down an account of the events leading up to the death of Sir Thomas Overbury. Having thus been informed, it left James no option but to order a full enquiry into the death of the prisoner.
The Lord Chief Justice himself, Sir Edward Coke, who seemed to be everybody’s enemy, headed the investigation, driven by his own desire to punish Somerset. He interviewed hundreds of people, everyone from the highest to the lowest – well, almost the lowest – determined to capture the big fish via the little minnows.
In mid-September Richard Weston was arrested and confessed that he had been given a phial of greenish liquid by a Doctor Franklin, a quack that both Frances and Mrs Turner had consulted to aid them with their respective love affairs. That night Franklin was summoned to the Whitehall apartments of the Countess. As he entered the room, Robert Carr, who was present with his wife, gave him a dark look and walked out, leaving him alone with the two women.
“Weston has been taken into custody,” said Frances hysterically.
She looked terrible; pale, her hair wild, her body swollen by the child she was carrying.
“How very regrettable,” Franklin answered, not knowing quite what else to say.
“Regrettable! It’s a tragedy,” she answered. “You will be next, Franklin, mark my words, and you must deny everything. If you confess anything you will be hanged. By God, if you confess, you shall be hanged for me, for I will not be hanged.”
“No, Madam,” said Mrs Turner in a quiet voice, “I will be hanged for you both.”
Frances did not reply but left the room. In the silence that followed they could hear her speaking through the wall, and Robert answering her. When she came back again she looked slightly calmer and warned Franklin again about remaining silent when being questioned.
He bowed and left. Two days later both he and Mrs Turner were arrested and questioned.
That night, climbing into their bed, Frances and Robert hugged each other like two children.
“What shall we do?” she asked him in a tiny, frightened voice.
“Deny,” he answered. “We must deny everything.”
“But Weston will tell them about the green tarts, about the jelly, about the apothecaries . . .”
“Say no more, not even between these walls. All we can do is swear they are liars.”
“I’m terrified, Robert.”
“We should have thought of that before,” he answered bitterly.
Like a rat in a trap, the Earl of Somerset did everything to defend himself; burning letters, writing to Overbury’s servant, pleading with the King, objecting to the panel of commissioners investigating the case. But all to no avail. On 17 October an order was made placing him under house arrest in his apartments at Whitehall. Frances – now seven months pregnant – was similarly confined to a room in Greys.
Now, it seemed, that Overbury reached from the grave and claimed his victims. Weston was hanged by the neck until he was dead; Sir Thomas Monson, a shadowy figure who had worked behind the scenes assisting the Countess of Somerset, was arrested pending trial; Sir Gervase Elwes was stripped of office and placed in confinement; Mrs Anne Turner was taken into custody, James Franklin, the quack doctor, likewise. Somerset himself was transferred to the Tower. Because of Frances’s pregnancy she was placed under house arrest in the care of Sir William Smithie, a London alderman. She was now completely isolated.
The trial of Mrs Turner proved sensational because various magic dolls were produced, all coming from the time when she and Frances had consulted cunning men about their love affairs. But in the eyes of the public it meant that she was a sorceress, a dabbler in the black arts, and it was hardly surprising when the jury found her guilty. Thomas Overbury had his second victim.
Sir Gervase Elwes was hanged, swiftly, because one of his servants took hold of one foot while the hangman’s assistant tugged the other. There was a general feeling that no one thought he deserved the verdict. James Franklin was sent to the gallows and died muttering as the cart was driven away and he was left hanging. Four people had now gone to the grave.
On 9th December Frances gave birth to a baby girl after a normal confinement. The child was christened Anne a few days later. Then, on 4 April, 1616, the Countess and her daughter were parted, for the mother was taken to the Tower pending the court hearing. She lived separately from her husband – who had yet to see his baby – and it was elected that she would be the first to go to trial, to be prosecuted by no less than Sir Francis Bacon. As she entered court every man present drew breath for that day she looked radiantly beautiful. She held up her hand for the reading of the indictment.
“Frances, Countess of Somerset, what sayest thou? Art thou guilty of this felony and murder, or not guilty.”
Curtseying to the Lord Chancellor, the Countess uttered a single word in a low voice, wondrous fearful. “Guilty,” she said.
That, you may feel, was the end of the story. The Earl and Countess of Somerset were both found guilty and condemned to die, she by the rope and he by the axe. But, strange as it may seem, they received royal pardons and eventually walked free from the Tower.
What does that mean? Had Overbury been murdered or had he died of an illness contracted in the Tower? Had all the so-called evidence been doctored by Coke in his determination to condemn Somerset?
And what of me? You see, I was the smallest player. No one asked me what happened, but I knew all the facts.
Poor little Frances. She supplied green tarts and jellies to the prisoner, but they were intercepted by Elwes and never eaten. They were each and all so convinced of the parts they played that they trapped themselves by their own guilt.
So did anyone kill Thomas Overbury, I hear you ask?
Indeed. I killed him, dead as pork.
I, William Reeve, apprentice to Paul de Loubell, the apothecary who made up prescriptions for Dr Mayerne.
On the way to the Tower to give Sir Thomas an enema, I was approached by a shifty fellow – I have no idea who he was – and given a substance which I was asked to substitute for the one I was carrying. He offered me £20, more money than I could earn in years. So I did. I applied the enema right under the eyes of Weston, who had no idea what was really happening.
Then I fled to Paris and stayed there for several years until the whole affair was over, before returning to London and setting myself up as an apothecary. I heard the whole story from my master, Paul de Loubell, just before he died, and I have set it down for you as he told it to me.
Yet even he did not know the truth about my part in the affair. Now you alone know how I outwitted them all, even the greatest in the land. Will you find it in your heart to forgive me?
DAPHNE McANDREWS
AND THE SMACK-HEAD JUNKIES
Stuart McBride
Half past eight on a cold autumn evening and Sergeant Dumfries had his feet up on the reception desk, a mug of tea in one hand, a copy of the Oldcastle Advertiser in the other. Reading about the hunt for little Lucy Milne. The lobby door clattered open, letting in a howling gale, setting the posters flapping on the notice board. He sat upright with a sigh, put the newspaper away and plastered a professional smile on his face. An old lady with a walking stick was wrestling a tartan shopping trolley in through the heavy wooden doors. She had a little Westie terrier on the end of an extendible l
eash, barking happily as bright orange leaves tumbled in around the old woman’s ankles, twirling about the police station lobby like demented Highland dancers.
“Can I help you with that, madam?”
She flashed him a smile. “No, no we’ll be fine.” There was something familiar about her, but Dumfries couldn’t put his finger on it. Five foot two, overweight, grey-brown overcoat, tartan headscarf, granny boots, face like a wrinkled cushion . . . With one last tug she got the trolley inside, letting the lobby door slam shut. For a moment the swirling leaves hung in the air, before slowly drifting to the linoleum floor.
She trundled her shopping trolley up to the reception desk and peeled off her headscarf, revealing a solid mass of grey curls, hairsprayed within an inch of their life. “Dear, oh dear,” she said, giving a little shiver. “What a dreadful evening! I was saying to Agnes this morning – we always have tea in the Castlehill Snook: they do a lovely fruit scone – and I was saying how the weather seems so much worse this year. I remember when—”
Dumfries stifled a groan as she wittered on – just his luck to get stuck with an old biddy in for a bit of a chat. “So,” he said, making sure his fixed smile hadn’t slipped, “what can I do for you, madam?
She stopped talking and studied at him for a moment. “Norman, isn’t it? Norman Dumfries?”
“Er . . .” He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “Yes?”
“Who would have known you’d turn out so tall! You were such a wee lad at Kingsmeath primary – see, I told you eating your greens would do you the world of good.”
And that’s when it clicked. “Mrs McAndrews, thought I recognized you!” This time Sergeant Dumfries’s smile was genuine. “How you been?”
“Not too good, Norman,” she said, leaning forward and dropping her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “There’s a naked man in my shed, and I think he’s dead.”
While most school dinner ladies were waxing lyrical about the exotic delights of custard creams and garibaldi biscuits, Daphne McAndrews had remained steadfast: as far as she was concerned it was homemade shortbread or nothing. Humming happily, she arranged some on the tray, next to a fresh pot of tea and six mugs, and carried it out the back door.
The police had set up a pair of huge spotlights, training them on the shed at the bottom of the garden, making the wasp-chewed wood glow. The rest of the garden was shrouded in darkness, the trees groaning and creaking in the buffeting wind. Daphne tottered carefully down the path, trying to keep the tea things from blowing away.
The shed door was propped open and half a dozen men, dressed in those white plastic over-suit things they wore on telly, were poking about inside. It was a big shed, Bill’s pride and joy, but she’d barely touched it since he’d gone, just dusted from time to time. It was comforting to know that there was something of him in here: in a grey urn at the back, next to the little wooden fire engine he was working on before he died.
“Is everyone ready for a nice cup of tea?” she asked, stepping over the threshold and closing the door behind her, shutting out the wind.
Someone spun round and stared at her. “You shouldn’t be in here!”
“Oh, wheesht. My Bill used to say that all the time, but a bit of shortbread always made him change his tune.”
“No, you don’t understand. This is a crime scene.” He flapped his hands in the direction of the naked young man, sprawled against the far wall – under the shelf with Bill’s urn on it – wearing nothing but a pair of argyle socks.
“It’s not a crime scene, it’s Bill’s shed. Now stop being silly: time for tea.” She started pouring. “Beside, it’s not like I haven’t seen a naked man before. And as a dinner lady, you get used to being around death. One lump or two?”
“Err . . .” He looked around at his companions, but no one came to his rescue. Policemen were just like little boys: you had to be firm, stand your ground, and not let them get away with anything. Cheeky monkeys. He cleared his throat and stared at his shoes for a moment, before saying, “Two please.”
The shortbread was going down a treat – she wasn’t a leading light of the Women’s Rural Institute for nothing – when the shed door banged open again. A small pause and then someone roared, “What the hell’s going on in here?” It was a man with a moustache and a thunderous expression. “Sergeant, this is supposed to be a crime scene, not a bloody tea party!” The policeman with two sugars blushed and apologized, the words coming out in a shower of crumbs. The newcomer’s head looked like it was about to explode. Shouting and swearing, he dragged the policemen out into the back garden and shouted at them some more. Going on about trace evidence and shortbread crumbs and disciplinary hearings . . . Then he noticed Daphne was still in the shed, sipping her tea.
“YOU!” he said, flinging a finger in her direction. “Get back in that bloody house!”
A nice WPC was sent in to take her statement. “Don’t worry about DI Whyte,” she said, as Daphne opened a tin of Pedigree Chum Senior. “He’s going through a bit of a divorce at the minute.”
Daphne gave a haughty sniff and scraped a solid tube of chicken and heart into a clean dish. “If my Bill was alive today . . .” But he wasn’t, so there was no point even thinking about it. She put the dish down on the floor, and whistled. “Come on darling, din-dins!” An old, yellow-white Westie dog clattered into the kitchen, little stumpy tail going at twenty to the dozen. He had Mr Bunny, his favourite, tatty old squeaky toy, clamped in his jaws.
“Oh, he’s so sweet!” The WPC beamed. “What’s his name?”
Daphne reached down and ruffled the fur between her boy’s ears. “This is Little Douglas. Bill named him after my father, on account of the family resemblance. He’s going to be fifteen in February. Aren’t you Wee Doug, aren’t you? Yes, you are! Yes, you are!” He gave a cheerful bark and stuck his nose in the dog food.
“Can you tell me when you found the dead man in your shed, Mrs McAndrews?”
“Hmm? Oh, it was . . .” Daphne frowned in concentration. “Coronation Street. That blonde lassie was having an affair with the Asian chap and I was thinking I could really do with a nice cup of tea. So I waited for the next advert break and went through to make one. Only before I turned on the light I saw this naked woman running climbing over the back fence. And I thought—”
“Wait, you saw a naked woman? Not a naked man?”
“Oh, yes. When you work in a school canteen you get to know the difference. Anyway, she was clambering over the fence, and I got Wee Doug and we went out and he was very brave, weren’t you? Mummy’s little soldier. He’s very protective, you know. Anyway, I saw the shed door was open and I went to close it and there he was. So I got on my overcoat and went to the police station and reported it.”
“Why didn’t you just dial 999?”
Daphne shook her head sadly. Young people these days. “My dear, reporting a dead body isn’t like ordering a pizza. Some things you just have to do in person.”
The Castlehill Snook was nearly empty at half past ten on a Tuesday morning – just a middle-aged couple in the corner, bickering over a map – so Daphne and her best friend Agnes McWhirter had no trouble getting their usual table by the window overlooking the Castle car park. A large coach from Germany was disgorging tourists in front of the pay and display machine, all of them clutching little Scottish flags and plastic bags from the Woollen Mill. The sky was the colour of warm slate, wind making the tourists’ cagoules whip and snap as they tried to get round the Old Castle ruins before the rain came on.
Daphne unclipped Wee Doug’s lead and let him snuffle about the tiled floor; by the time the waitress arrived with the cake trolley, he was curled up beneath a chair. Snoring.
Agnes ordered her usual fruit scone, but Daphne shocked everyone, even herself, by asking for a slice of Battenberg instead. “Are you feelin’ OK?” asked Agnes, staring aghast at the slice of yellow and pink sponge. Taking a deep breath, Daphne told her about the dead body in her shed, the naked woma
n clambering over the back fence, and what that nice Sergeant Norman Dumfries had said when she’d called in past the station first thing this morning to see how they were getting on.
“Fancy that!” said Agnes, pouring the tea. “Naked drug addicts in your shed!”
“I know, I’m that mortified.” Daphne shuddered, took a bite of her Battenberg and chewed suspiciously. It wasn’t like her to entertain baked goods involving marzipan. She fed the rest to Wee Doug.
“They were probably having kinky, drugged-up sex. That’s what these people do, you know, get high and indulge in filthy sex games: it was in the Sunday Post. Mr McAndrews would not have liked that!”
Daphne nodded; her husband had been as conservative in the bedroom as she was in the biscuit department. He would never have asked her for a fig roll when there was perfectly respectable shortbread available.
“Of course, they’re all at it.” Agnes tapped on the window. On the other side of the castle car park a ragged figure was trying to sell copies of the Big Issue magazine to the scurrying German tourists. “Drug addicts the lot of them. ‘Junkies’ – they’re everywhere these days. It was in the Sunday Post. I tell you, Oldcastle’s getting more like that Los Angeles every day. Next thing you know there’ll be drive-by shootings and prostitutes on every street corner!” She nodded sagely and the first drops of rain speckled the teashop window, getting heavier and heavier, sending the tourists scurrying back to their bus. The scruffy figure watched them in silent resignation then tromped away into the downpour.
The shed was filthy by the time the police were finished with it, covered in fingerprint powder, nothing put back in the right place. Dressed in her “Sheep of Scotland” pinny and yellow rubber gloves, Daphne scrubbed and polished and tidied until it was all good as new. She stood back and examined her handiwork with grim satisfaction – there was a lot to be said for a clean shed. She frowned. Bill’s urn didn’t look right.
The Mammoth Book of Best British Mysteries Page 11