Jean Plaidy - The Murder in the Tower - The Story of Frances, Countess of Essex

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.

Do I need Robert Carr as much as he needs me?

An exciting idea that, which went whirling round and round in his head.

He went to the Mermaid Club where he was always welcomed as the poet who was also the close friend of the most influential man at Court. It was natural that he should be flattered there for he was richer than most of the Club’s patrons and could entertain them with his wit and lively talk of the Court. He had always been cautious, though, never betraying how much he influenced Robert Carr.