“Why is it that Lord Northampton wanted none to see the body save the coroner? And not even the correct coroner for the Tower jurisdiction, but the coroner for Middlesex. Was the Middlesex coroner Lord Northampton’s man? Is it not the case that those ‘great ones’ sought Overbury’s death, such that the Catholic faith might be restored in this land?”

At this the crowd erupted. “Treason! Catholic traitors!” Lord Coke let them rant.

“Weston did not keep your secrets during his trial, Mistress Turner, as you must have prayed that he would,” he finally said, holding up his hand for silence. “He confessed to participating in this, the most heinous and hateful offense of our times. He is dead, hanged two weeks ago at Tyburn for murder. What say you now?”

Weston was dead.

Hanged while I sat alone in the alderman’s cell. Was his beloved son William witness to it?

Stupefaction kept me upright as Lord Coke pointed at me and shouted, “The crowd of witnesses to your crimes envelops you. I say again, you possess the seven deadly sins. You are whore, bawd, witch, sorcerer, Papist, felon and murderer. Confess it!”

27

Someone felt their way down the three steps into the cell; I heard a hand sliding along the stone wall. Was it Mr. Palmer? Frankie? The executioner come to ask my forgiveness for what he had to do? All they would see was my hair, the only point of light in this narrow prison.

“Something to warm you?” I heard Alderman Smith ask of the visitor. I lay on my truckle, face to the wall.

“I do not drink, sir.” A man’s voice I did not recognize. “Just a table and chair if you please. I am anxious to start directly, as the Lord Chief Justice must have her confession.”

“Ah, then we must jump to it if Sir Edward has our salvation to hand,” said Alderman Smith. A bristling pause.

“I am against the commodious accommodation of criminals; she wants for nothing, I see,” said the newcomer.

“Save her freedom, her children, her friends and all hope,” the alderman replied. “Since the trial she has not washed, spoken, risen from her bed or eaten. She is hardly in her wits.”

“If her abjection is real, she can be brought to the Lord.”

“You seek her salvation, Dr. Whiting? I thought you were here for a confession? Tell her of God’s forgiveness, sir, and do not dishearten her further or she will be dead before they can hang her.”

“There are no candles,” said this Dr. Whiting, irritated to have been told his business.

“Who pays for them? She’s been here six weeks and I’ve had nothing for her keep.” Scrabbling in a coin belt. “I’ll send someone along.”

“Bring fire too, if you please, it’s cold as death in here.”

The door banged closed and was locked.