“I was working for you,” Weston said, but I could tell from his expression that he had become Northampton’s man more than mine. I wondered whether it was before or after Overbury’s death. A new knot of fear tightened in my stomach, to find that even someone who loved me was not entirely on my side.

“How exactly did Overbury die?”

“I’ve already told you, I was out buying him beer when he passed. He was very sick from all those emetics and purges he took. He came into prison with griping in the guts and a sore on his back that grew great and stinking while he was there. I bathed him daily under a blanket, so ashamed was he of the canker. Even the softer bed I found him made no difference.” Weston had a caring streak running close to his rough surface. He pulled up his sleeve suddenly and stroked the paler flesh on the inside of his forearm. “He had a golden pellet lodged here, by Dr. Mayerne, to make it easier to open a vein to let blood. The skin was red and hot around it. To my thinking, the King’s physician killed him faster than anything you and the Countess planned.”

“‘Planned?’ You did not use our poisons?”

“A man at death’s door cannot eat much of tarts or jellies, be they wholesome or not.”

Had Weston thrown away our poisons, convinced Overbury would die of natural causes and Dr. Mayerne’s treatments? To admit it would be to risk losing the money and the position we had promised him. He had been ready to poison Overbury for us, whatever had actually occurred, and for that he felt he deserved full payment. I contemplated challenging him again for the full truth, but knew his stubbornness was greater than my own, and that I would get nowhere. There were many good reasons not to make an enemy of him.

“They have huge debts,” I said, turning my thoughts away from Overbury to the cases of statuary and paintings on their way across the Mediterranean Sea to join those already in Carr’s collection. “They are favorites at Court and have honor and position to maintain but insufficient estates to pay the expenses.”

“The pursuivant’s position was worth two hundred a year and she still owes me a hundred,” he said. That sum, equivalent to what Carr spent every month on gloves alone, would keep Weston comfortable for the rest of his life. I wanted him comfortable.