“Why are you sad?” Henry asked.

“I’m not sad, sweetling, I wear black when I want people to treat me nicely.” Henry seemed to find this sensible and went back to his slate.

“I may be late,” I said to Barbara, hugging her close.

“What is it?” she asked, sensing a difference in this departure.

“I do not like to leave you so long.”

“Do not worry, we will be merry,” said Katherine, drawing when she was meant to be learning her psalms.

Carr had ordered Frankie to stay in her parlor, not because he disliked me but so they might distance themselves from legal processes used for the lower orders. I longed for an encouraging embrace and a few words to shore up my courage.

Two parish officers awaited me in the entrance hall, one old, one young, perhaps father and son. They were looking about at the splendor of their surroundings and did not immediately notice my arrival.

“I am Mistress Turner. How can I help you, sirs?” I asked serenely, although I felt sick and light-headed.

“We have orders to accompany you to the house of Alderman Smith, to answer questions pertaining to the death of Sir Thomas Overbury,” said the elder. There was little respect in their manner.

I feigned surprise. “I will come willingly, sirs.” The maid brought me my warmest shawl and cloak.

“No bag?”

“Bag?” I said, genuinely surprised.

“If you’re detained.”

“Detained?” I said, my wits blunted by fear. “Why would I be detained?”

The older one shrugged and gripped my arm painfully. At that moment Frankie arrived, in defiance of her husband’s command. Her belly preceded her like a bowsprit; she was dressed in her most luxurious house gown, wearing far more jewelry than she would usually at that time of day, her highest heels, hair arranged on the tallest pads. Her face was white and heavily made up and she looked unearthly, frightening, like a vengeful Goddess of the Ancients. She came to a stop close to the beadles, towering over them by two heads, and the cold haughtiness of her expression worked instant magic, as it did on everyone who met Frankie in this mood.

The officers bowed very low until she permitted them to rise.

“Who are you?” she demanded.

“My lady, I am Officer Cartwright of the Parish of St. Mary’s Undercroft, and this is my son Jimmy.”

“Your being sent here is a mistake,” said Frankie, her expression so severe that the younger beadle repeatedly blinked. “The Earl of Somerset is to speak to the King later today.”

Both men nodded and the elder released my arm, but they did not retreat.

“With apologies, my lady, we have orders to bring her in,” said Officer Cartwright.

“From whom?” Frankie demanded.

“Lord Coke, my lady.”