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

“My name is Mrs. Forman, my lady. You were a friend of my husband’s, the late Dr. Forman.”

“I think you are mistaken.”

“Oh no, my lady. You wrote to him often you remember. He called you his daughter and to you he was ‘Sweet Father.’”

“Who told you this?”

“He used to show me his letters. I have them still. You see I was his wife and I worked with him. That is why, now he is gone, I have fallen on evil times and I thought that as such a good friend of the doctor—”

The woman must not know that she was afraid. She smiled and said: “Why, if times are hard with you, you must allow me to help you.”

Give them money. It was easy. There was so much money.

“My lady,” said Dr. Franklin, “the potions I procured for you were very costly. My experiments demanded a lavish use of these. I neglected other clients to serve you and, my lady, I find I have lost two hundred pounds this year because of this.”

“Two hundred pounds this year?”

“Two hundred pounds a year, my lady, would satisfy me well, with a little extra for food and my boat hire.”

Franklin smiled at her, the lazy smile of power. These people were no longer humble as they had been. They had worked for her and as a result a man had died. That was something they could not forget.

How many more of them? she wondered. There was Mrs. Turner’s maid, Margaret, who had run many errands to find what the lady had needed; there was Mrs. Turner’s manservant, Stephen. They all wanted their little rewards—their silence money.

There was Mrs. Turner herself—not that she would do anything so vulgar as to ask for money. But they had been dear friends, had they not? That friendship must not cease because they had achieved success together.

“Sweetest lady,” said Anne Turner, “I’ll confess I am never happy away from your side. We worked well together did we not? It is foolish of me but I am almost sorry that we have successfully completed our task and I can no longer be of service to you.”

Mrs. Turner was therefore often a guest at the house of the Earl and Countess of Somerset and it was a great pleasure to her to be at Court again.

So, much as Frances tried to forget Sir Thomas Overbury, these people would not allow her to. It seemed that every day there was someone or some thing to remind her.

She became ill and Robert was anxious.

“What ails you, my love?” he asked her. “You seem nervous. Are you worried?”

“Nay, Robert,” she said. “I am well.”

“But you are not,” he told her tenderly. “You have changed. Others have noticed.”

“I think the long delay over the divorce was more upsetting than I realized. I so longed for it to be over.”

“Well now it is, and we can forget it.”

You may, she thought. But how can I?

She had thought it so simple to murder a man who stood in the way. But it seemed it was not.

Overbury haunted her. He would not let her forget. It was true she saw no ghost; but ghosts took many forms; they did not always have to materialize in order to make themselves felt.

Robert, alarmed for her health, took a house in Kensington for her, but as it did not improve there they went to Chesterfield Park; then Robert decided that she must see the King’s physician, and James himself insisted on this. He could not have his Robbie worried after all the trouble they had had to get him married.

So Robert bought a house in Isleworth, and the King’s doctor, Burgess, attended the Countess.

He could not understand what was undermining the Countess’s health, but he believed she would be well when the spring came.

That was a cold winter; the Thames itself was frozen and there was no escaping the bleak cold winds.

ENTER GEORGE VILLIERS

James was brooding uneasily when the arrival of Sir John Digby at the palace was announced.

Money! He could never find enough. It was not that he spent a great deal upon himself. If he asked his Parliament for it they would begin to snarl about his favorites, declaring that they were the ones whose greedy hands depleted the Exchequer.

One of the ministers had said that those handsome young men who were spaniels to the King were wolves to the people. They were eager to drag Robert down; he knew it. They were jealous of Robert on whom he was coming more and more to rely. Robert was the perfect companion, the perfect minister; he never criticized; he never attempted to impose his will. He worked for his master wholeheartedly and through love.

But it was a pretty pass when the brewers were at the door of the palace declaring they would supply no more goods until their bills were paid. Sixteen thousand pounds they said the palace owed them and on account of this they were all but ruined; they must have payment. They had even dared to go to law. Such a state of affairs could