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

THE LITTLE FISH ARE CAUGHT

Since the marriage of the Earl and Countess of Somerset, life had been good for Anne Turner. When she awoke in her luxurious bed in some palace or large country house she thanked the day Jennet had brought Lady Essex to her. Anne was a beautiful woman, a fact which had not been so obvious when she was living obscurely in Hammersmith as it was now that she was at Court.

She had even become a leader of fashion and many women had taken up the yellow ruffs which she wore because, as they were so becoming to her, they believed they would be to them.

It was a good life, and all because she had done an inestimable service to a rich and noble lady. Frances would never forget; in fact Anne was determined that she should not, and although she never reminded her that they had committed murder together, she made sure that Frances remembered.

Frances was her friend and patron and she had become one of the many ladies in the retinue of the Somersets. She saw the good life stretching out ahead of her and was determined never to return to Hammersmith.

Her servants came to dress her, and while she sat at her mirror and they arranged her beautiful hair, they chattered to her of Court gossip because she always encouraged them to do this. It was important to carry little scraps of information to the Countess; and now that Sir George Villiers was becoming so prominent, Frances always liked to hear the latest news regarding him.

This day they had another piece of gossip.

One of the maids had a lover who was servant to Sir Ralph Winwood, and Sir Ralph had just returned from a visit to the King. He had left in a great hurry it seemed, and when he had returned had been very busy. He had had long and secret talks with several people—but servants were the great detectives and secrets could not long be kept from them.

“Such a pother, Madam,” said the maid, “and it seems that it concerns a long dead gentleman. He died in the Tower and it was by poison.”

Anne had begun to watch the maid’s face in the mirror, but the girl did not notice how fixedly she stared.

“They’re going to find out who poisoned him. They’re going to follow up the trail because he was once a very important Court gentleman, a friend of my lord Somerset, no less.”

Anne stood up; she was afraid the girl would see that her face had whitened.

“Did you hear this gentleman’s name mentioned?” she asked, trying to make her voice sound casual.

“Oh yes, Madam. It was Sir Thomas Overbury.”

Since Frances had known that she was pregnant she had felt more at peace. It was true that Sir George Villiers had cast a shadow over her security and would have to be watched; but she felt equal to deal with that young upstart. Each passing week, she reminded herself, took her farther from the divorce and the death of Overbury.

Therefore she was unprepared for the news Anne Turner brought her. As soon as she saw Anne’s face she knew that something important was wrong and her heart began to pound with terror.

Anne looked over her shoulder to make sure they were alone.

“No one can overhear,” said Frances.

“A most distressing rumor. Winwood is investigating Overbury’s death.”

Frances stared at Anne for the moment, unable to speak, so great was her horror.

“My maid was chattering about it.”

“Maids’ gossip.”

“Her lover serves Winwood. I do not think we can afford to ignore this, even if it is only gossip.”

“But why … in God’s name why … now … after all this time?”

Anne shook her head. “We must act quickly … I think.”

“How?”

“It is certain that Weston will be interrogated. He was his jailer at the time.”

Frances nodded. “You must see him, Anne. You must make sure that he will know exactly what to say, or I fear he will betray us all.”

“Thank God you have good friends.”

Good friends!—thought Frances. Northampton dead. Robert in ignorance of the plot in which he was involved—and Sir George Villiers standing by, ready to snatch his power.

“Go, Anne,” she said urgently. “Go at once and see Weston. Warn him. It is always better to be warned.”

In a tavern some miles from London a lady in a cloak, the hood of which partly concealed her face, impatiently waited in the room which the innkeeper had set aside for her to receive her guest.

A Court lady, mused the innkeeper. One could always tell. And this was a secret assignation with a lover. The innkeeper was not displeased. This might be the beginning of a succession of visits from Court ladies and gentlemen; it would be well to let them know that he was an innkeeper who could be discreet.

When the lady’s guest arrived he proved to be a disappointment for he was a somewhat shabby fellow. Was the lady having a love affair with her groom? Perhaps this was the reason why they must meet well away from the Court.

Anne’s reception of Richard Weston was certainly unlike that of a woman receiving her lover.

“Weston,” she cried, “so at last you are here! I thought you would never come.”

“You are distressed, Madam.”

“So will you be when you hear what I have to tell. We shall all be more than distressed if we do not take the utmost care.”

She then told him of the rumor.

Weston turned pale and began to tremble. “I only acted in this under orders,” he burst out. “It was nothing to me whether Sir Thomas Overbury lived or died.”

“You were eager enough to help when you knew how well paid you would be.”

“I was acting as a paid servant, remember.”

“This is no time for such talk. We have to decide what we shall say if we are questioned, for it is imperative that we all tell the same tale. If anyone asks how you acquired your post in the Tower, you must tell them that Sir Thomas Monson recommended you for it.”

Weston nodded.

“And you must find out how much Sir Gervase Helwys knows of that matter, and when you have done this, send a message to me by way of your son. I will go to order some feathers and he must tell me then. We must be very careful. This may be an idle rumor but should it be more than that we must be prepared. You should in no way mention my name or that of the Countess. Do you understand?”

Weston said he did. He was perplexed. How was he to sound Sir Gervase who, he was certain, knew that there had been an attempt to poison Sir Thomas Overbury? Had he not intercepted Weston when he was actually carrying poison? Had he not taken it from him?

But of course Weston had never told Anne Turner this.

It was all very unsettling.

Sir Ralph Winwood was pondering on the Overbury matter. It was true, of course, that there were always rumors of poison to accompany any death, and Overbury would be no exception—particularly as he had been a man of some standing in Court, had been sent to the Tower on the smallest of accusations and had died there.

He could question Weston, who had undoubtedly been Overbury’s jailer; and if Overbury had been poisoned, could this have happened without the knowledge of Sir Gervase Helwys who, after all, as Lieutenant of the Tower, should know what was happening to his prisoners.

If he were going to look for reasons for Overbury’s death he would more likely find them among the people of some position rather than the underlings.

Sir Gervase had become chief suspect in the mind of Sir Ralph Winwood; and while he was pondering this the Earl of Shrewsbury invited him to his house at Whitehall.

By a strange coincidence, Shrewsbury told him that he wanted him to meet, among others, Sir Gervase Helwys, the Lieutenant of the Tower, a man of many qualities, added Shrewsbury, but stopped short, seeing the expression which crossed Winwood’s face.

“You do not agree?” asked Shrewsbury.

“I am in no hurry to meet that man … at a friend’s table.”

“But what is this? I do not understand?”

“First,” said Winwood, “I would like to know that he is not involved in an unpleasant scandal.”

“What scandal?”

“I am thinking of the death of Sir Thomas Overbury. There is a rumor that he died by foul means and as Helwys was Lieutenant of the Tower at that time it seems likely that he was involved.”

“But this is shocking,” cried Shrewsbury.

And when Winwood left him he called at once on Helwys and told him of his conversation with Winwood.

Helwys was horrified. His one idea was to absolve himself from blame. He knew that there had been something very suspicious about Overbury’s death and had been prepared to keep silent in order to please important people. Now he felt the need to break that silence to please Sir Ralph Winwood.

He went to him and asked to speak to him alone.

Winwood regarded him coldly and Helwys burst out: “Sir Ralph, my lord Shrewsbury has talked to me of your suspicions. This is a terrible thing and I hasten to tell you that I am in no way to blame for the murder of Overbury.”

Ah! thought winwood. He admits it is murder.

“I think,” said Winwood, “that you could best help me and yourself by telling all you know.”

“Weston is the man who can help you,” cried Helwys. “He was sent to work at the Tower for the purpose.”

“It was you who engaged him?”

“Yes, because I was asked to do so by some important people.”

“What people?”

“Sir Thomas Monson, Master of the Armory, asked me to allow the man to wait on Overbury.”

“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.”

Jennet could not comfort her, she was too fearful for her own safety. Weston had been right when he had said that small mercy was shown to the little fish.

But everyone was waiting for the big fish to be caught in the net; and there was growing indignation throughout the country because four people had been hanged already for the murder of Sir Thomas Overbury and the chief murderers had as yet not been brought to trial.

“What shall I do?” moaned Frances. “What can I do?”

On a dark December day her child was born.

Her women brought the baby to her and laid it in her arms.

“A little girl,” they told her.

She looked at the child and pity for her state was so great that the tears fell on to the child’s face.

“The child is born,” she said, “and I still live. Oh, what will become of me?”

She was in great despair because she knew now that soon she must be brought to justice.

It occurred to her then that if she named her daughter Anne the Queen might be pleased and would surely do something to help her namesake; and how could she best help this child than by showing a little comfort to her mother?

So the Lady Anne Carr was christened; but Queen Anne and all the Court ignored the event.

Frances now understood that there was to be no special treatment. She must face her judges.