But it is by no means so sure that she was at all unwell. It is one of the most damning evidences of foul play in this famous case that rumours were current for some time before the murder, or the accident, whichever it was, to the effect that she was suffering from cancer and was sure to die shortly, and that this gossip was contradicted at the time. Among those who gave the lie to it was the Spanish Ambassador, writing to the Duchess of Parma. “They,” he said, “are thinking of destroying Lord Robert’s wife.” Who “they” were we can only conjecture. “They have given out that she is ill; but she is not ill at all; she is very well, and is taking care not to be poisoned.”
Is it at all reconcilable with the theory of accident that a person whose continued existence stood in the way of so ambitious a man as Dudley, and of whom it was so freely said that she was dying, when she was known to be well, and whose life was said to be in danger from violence or poison, should in fact meet her end so immediately and mysteriously? No modern coroner’s jury would return a verdict of accidental death under such suspicious circumstances.
What are the known facts? Lady Dudley was residing at Cumnor Place in September 1560, and the extraordinary cloud of suggestions, innuendoes, and suspicions current everywhere must have reached her ears. She must have been superhuman not to have been miserably affected by these doings of her husband, who, at the time when the tragedy happened, was with the Queen at Windsor; and she was, as we have seen suggested, probably in fear of being secretly poisoned. On Sunday, September 8th, the day of Abingdon Fair, her servants all went to Abingdon, by her express desire, according to one account. But, at any rate, they did all go, leaving in the house alone, it would seem, Lady Dudley, Mrs. Hyde, and Mrs. Odingsell, Mr. Hyde’s sister. The three ladies were that evening playing a game popular at that time, known as “tables,” when suddenly Lady Dudley arose and left the room, being almost immediately afterwards found dead at the foot of a staircase by the servants returning from the Fair; having apparently fallen and broken her neck.
Where was Forster at this time? The records are silent, and do not tell of any man about the place. The views of Dudley himself and his dependents were that the affair was purely an accident. Alternatively, it was suggested by some that it was suicide.
But Dudley’s conduct on receipt of vague news of tragedy at Cumnor was suspicious. It would be supposed that the first act of an innocent man would be to hurry off from Windsor to the scene of this happening, to learn at first hand what had befallen his wife; but Dudley was content to send Sir Thomas Blount, a confidential gentleman in his train, to ride over and make inquiries. On the way Blount met a messenger from Cumnor, proceeding to Windsor with the detailed news. Next day, at Cumnor, Blount, examining the lady’s maid, extracted from her the admission that Lady Dudley had been frequently heard to pray for delivery from desperation. He eagerly seized upon this as indicating suicide, but the maid immediately checked him with, “No, good Mr. Blount, do not so judge of my words. If you should so gather, I should be sorry I said so much.”
What “desperation” might mean is uncertain: it is a strange choice of a word; but it has been thought that the unhappy woman, knowing she was in danger of being murdered, thus prayed to be protected from the desperate resolves against her life.
Blount, writing to Dudley, acquainted him with the feelings of the neighbourhood about the affair, by which it is sufficiently evident that this happening was already regarded as a serious thing for Dudley. To this Dudley replied, directing that the strictest inquiry should be made; that an inquest should be held immediately, and “the discreetest and most substantial men should be chosen for the jury.” But surely, the question of an inquest and the choice of a jury were the affairs of others than himself, and an inquest would have been held in any case, whether he liked it or not; and so his directions to that end are mere unmeaning words. He further begged of Blount “as he loved him and desired his quietness, to use all devices and means for learning of the truth without respect to living persons”; and especially desired him not to dissemble, but to tell him, faithfully, “whether it happened by evil chance, or villainy.”
He was evidently seriously alarmed for himself; but we look in vain for any expression of sorrow at his wife’s lamentable end. All he was concerned with was “the talk which the wicked world will use”: talk for which his own conduct for long past had given the fullest occasion.
Blount had halted at Abingdon on his journey, and only reached Cumnor on September 11th. Already, as might have been supposed, the coroner had summoned his jury. They were, in Blount’s opinion, “as wise and able men, being but countrymen, as ever I saw.” They deliberated long and searchingly, and Blount wrote again, on the 13th, that they were very active; “whether equity is the cause, or malice [i.e. suspicion, let us note] against Forster, I know not.” He further said that they were very secret, but he could not hear that they had found any presumption of evil. He thought, however, they would be sorry (these wise and able men—for countrymen) if they failed. Obviously Blount had been trying to pump the jury as to their finding. Dudley himself, writing to Blount, said the foreman of the jury had communicated with him to the effect that although the inquiry was not yet concluded, for anything they could learn to the contrary, it was a very misfortune. So Dudley himself had been trafficking with the jury, a thing that would in modern times afford very strong presumption of guilt.
If we put faith in Dudley’s own protestations, we must, however, find him innocent. Yet is it possible to have this faith?