The Mammoth Book of Best British Mysteries by Maxim Jakubowski Page B

my conscience dictates and set down a record of those times, so long ago, when a man met his death in
the Tower and the part that I played in it all. As far as I can recall, if memory serves correctly, it all started with a bed.
    It arrived in pieces, as was customary, and was carried up to the master bedroom by a team of servants, then handed over to the craftsmen to assemble. Watching them work, its
new owner thought it a beautiful thing that grew beneath their hands; richly carved and sumptuously adorned. In fact he could hardly wait for them to finish that he might stretch out on it and
measure his length on the silk cover, letting his eyes take in the marquetry panels on the headboard, created by German craftsmen, a number of whom now lived in Southwark. His gaze wandered over
the elaborate carvings, one of which was a grinning satyr to represent fertility. It seemed to smile at him in a devilish manner. All in all, he thought to himself, this new bed summed up his
status, his standing, his enviable position as the best-loved favourite of that most malleable of monarchs, James I.
    Robert Carr, Viscount Rochford, took a step forward and touched the gorgeous draperies, presently being hung beneath the intricately carved oak tester. The workman responsible looked up.
    “All right, my lord?”
    “Splendid. I think this bed is going to be quite wonderful.”
    “It will indeed, my lord.”
    And tonight, thought Robert, I shall show it, totally complete, to my closest friend, Thomas Overbury. He gave a quiet sigh, thinking of the pleasures ahead, and turning, left the room.
    As he went downstairs, Robert glanced admiringly at himself in a mirror. He was a handsome man, some twenty-four years of age, with long straight limbs and broad shoulders. He had a head of
thick fair hair which he wore tightly frizzed as fashion dictated, meanwhile dressing himself to the inch in fine clothes and jewels, including a sparkling earring worn in his left ear.
Unfortunately all this frippery made him appear effeminate, a feature which, no doubt, pleased his royal master enormously. For there could be no doubt that the King worshipped Robert –
leaning on his arm, pinching his cheek, kissing him quite openly in full public gaze – a fact which the self-seeking young man positively encouraged, responding with melting looks and
suggestive gestures. Yet, despite the love of King James, Robert had formed another liaison with Thomas Overbury, a bright young Englishman with literary pretensions. In fact the couple were
devoted and it was Thomas who was to visit this very night.
    In order to pass the time, Robert decided to have a bath, thus causing an army of servants to plod up and down stairs with pails of boiling water. After being towelled dry, he oiled himself then
dressed in stockings and doublet, executed in silks and gold and silver thread. On his feet he put on a pair of low-heeled shoes, decorated with an enormous frill of black and yellow. Then, having
shaved closely, a feature much admired by the King, he awaited Thomas’s arrival. Quarter of an hour later, a thunderous knock announced his presence. Robert immediately assumed a negligent
pose, his fingers idly toying with a book, the other hand supporting his chin. He looked up as his friend was announced.
    “My dear Overbury,” he said.
    But once the bowing servant was out of the way, Robert hurried over and embraced the newcomer warmly, kissing him on both cheeks, then on the mouth.
    Thomas disentangled himself. “You’re pleased to see me, I take it.”
    “I always am. You know that.”
    His friend allowed a small smile to light his features, a fact which made him appear more attractive. Older than Carr, he was not so blatantly good looking yet it was a more intelligent face,
though spoiled by an expression of arrogance. Now, though, he was anxious to please.
    “Have you persuaded the King to like me any better?” he asked eagerly.
    Robert pulled down his