For the rest of the day Dr. Whiting harangued or sermonized me, baiting me with snippets of worrying tidings about Frankie and her husband. I knew that the chance of Frankie’s relatives ensuring my release, or hers, was small. Still I believed that this was not my time to die; I would see her and my children again.

On the second day of my confession, Dr. Whiting began in his usual censorious manner, but I was distraught and lay on my truckle, looking at him only because there was nothing else at which to look. He moved to the window, staring out to the most distant point for so long I wondered if he was one of those who could fall asleep standing. It was so cold, I was sure he would freeze if he did not move. When he finally spoke, his voice was softer, perhaps more his own.

“It is not a simple matter, to separate good from evil,” he said, as if making a confession of his own. “God knows the difference, of course, but His voice is sometimes very quiet. When I look at the multitude of souls afloat on the river, some straining against the tide, some speeding with it, it strikes me how hard it is to follow the hand that guides. And truth? When I was young, I thought it was much the same as experience; now I know we take different truths from the same experience.” He seemed to have waged some internal battle with himself and come out with the word of God in his ear, not that of Lord Coke; his voice remained gentle, even skeptical, as he continued his questioning, although he did not shy from searching inquiries or blunt assertions. He still looked for a slip from me with which to convict Frankie or Robert Carr or Lord Northampton, but with less enthusiasm.

“How did you hear of Sir Thomas Overbury’s death?”

“Richard Weston sent his son William with the news. Frankie was as shocked as I.” We had, by then, decided that he was immune to poison.

“The Countess of Essex must have been thankful that Sir Thomas could no longer disrupt the annulment process?”

“You still think of me as the witch Lord Coke conjured? Two painted Papist whores, bored with our lapdogs, murdering a man out of spite and lust? The relief Frankie felt at release from her violent and impotent husband was much lessened by Robert Carr’s grief.”

“His grief was not so great that he refused the earldom the King offered him six weeks after his best friend’s death. Not so great as to make him reject the woman Sir Thomas hated above all others. Did Robert Carr help you to kill Sir Thomas?”

Frankie had been more afraid of Robin finding out than of anything else.