The Tigers in the Tower

by Julia Golding

  “Sounds most unsanitary,” Sahira suggested.

  Emily laughed. “I meant like Fanny Kemble.”

  “Who?”

  “You don’t know who Miss Kemble is?” Emily exclaimed. “She’s only the theatre’s darling and my heroine. She saved Covent Garden from ruin and she writes plays. She is my idea of the complete lady.”

  Sahira wasn’t much interested in theatre, finding real animals so much more interesting than the activities of pretend people, but she could clearly see that Emily was as enamoured of that life. “Then you must follow in her footsteps if you can.”

  “From this place?” Emily collapsed on the bed. “I can’t see the Pences allowing me anywhere near the stage door.”

  “They won’t always rule your life. You will have choices once you leave here, won’t you?” Sahira pulled the laces tight on her blue boots then spun in a circle. “How do I look?”

  “Wonderful. You put the two of us in the shade,” said Ann generously, though she looked very pretty in her pale yellow muslin. Patched and mended to be sure, but it suited her colouring. “Let’s go to breakfast and see what everyone else thinks.”

  What Mr Pence thought was expressed in a mouthful of porridge spat out on the table. Sahira processed to the head of the girls’ table, Ann and Emily flanking her like handmaidens.

  “Eleanor Clive, what on earth are you wearing?” Mr Pence thundered.

  “My Sunday best, sir,” she answered.

  “I’ve never seen anything so outlandish.”

  Truth about her origins had not served her well so far, so Sahira decided to spin a tale that would be believed, something with the flavour of the Arabian Nights. “I’m not surprised, sir. These are the peacocks of the illustrious house of Golconda. Only a princess of the blood is allowed to wear them.”

  “Is that silver thread?” marvelled Mrs Pence, her eyes narrowed on the skirt. No doubt she was calculating its value in the second-hand market.

  “As befits a princess. A powerful curse lies on anyone who dares touch the peacocks if they aren’t of royal blood.” Sahira knew that stories had been circulating in England for years about the treasure of the Golconda mines near Sahira’s city of Hyderabad, the only known source of diamonds in the world. They were reputed to be unlucky to any man who acquired them by dishonest means; Sahira was hoping that logic would extend to other Golcondan riches.

  “Princess? She can’t be a princess, not livin’ ’ere,” scoffed Alf Newton. The twins were staring with malice plain in their eyes.

  Sahira couldn’t fault Alf ’s logic but ignored them, which she knew they would hate. “May I take my seat, sir?”

  Mr Pence nodded curtly and bent close to his wife. They embarked on a whispered argument. Sahira was very pleased she had a stout lock to her trunk and kept the key with her at all times.

  “Have I made a mistake?” Sahira asked her friends from behind her hand.

  Emily grinned and shook her head.

  Ann looked more doubtful. “You’ve certainly set the fox among the hens.”

  As Sahira walked back from church in file with her friends, a large carriage, what Emily called an “omnibus”, trundled by. Morose-looking horses had the difficult task of pulling it.

  “Omnibuses are new to London,” Emily explained.

  “Where are people going in them on a Sunday?” asked Sahira.

  “That lot? They’re likely to be heading to one of the tea gardens, out in Sadler’s Wells maybe. If only we could join them,” Emily said wistfully.

  It was beginning to worry Sahira how horses were treated in London; she was yet to see a happy, healthy specimen. Then an advertisement on the back of the ’bus caught her eye:

  REGENT’S PARK ZOOLOGICAL GARDENS

  – LONDON’S NEWEST ATTRACTION

  She nudged Emily, who had been looking at the bills posted outside a closed theatre. “Where is Regent’s Park?”

  “Across town. About four or five miles from here, I’d guess.”

  “Have you been there?” asked Sahira earnestly.

  Emily laughed and shook her head. “Sahira, if I can’t afford the Tower menagerie, what hope would there be for me to visit a zoological garden in a park where only the toffs go?”

  “I don’t know.” Sahira shrugged her shoulders in defeat. “I don’t understand this city.”

  “Only the very richest live there. As for the zoological garden, the papers say that it’s only open to those who know one of the founders, or people they approve.”

  Sahira liked the idea of a zoological garden – it sounded more like the menageries she knew in India. “You mean someone like my grandfather?”

  “I expect so, if he really is a lord.” Emily winked. Sahira couldn’t blame Emily for doubting that claim. She had already admitted to her friends that being a princess was a fiction. “I don’t know much about it myself,” Emily continued, “but the newspapers say that several members of the government are involved, including the Prime Minister and the Home Secretary, as well as men of science and exploration.”

  Sahira was ashamed to admit she did not know who the Prime Minister or the Home Secretary were – or even know very clearly what they did. India had been run by lots of local rulers who were coming increasingly under the sway of the East India Company. In Hyderabad they had a Nizam, his viziers, and a Resident representing Company interests – was this odd English system anything like that?

  Emily sighed. “I can see you want to ask a question. Go on.”

  “What is a prime minister?”

  She rolled her eyes. “The man who runs the government on behalf of the King.”

  “Ah, he’s the chief vizier. Go on.”

  “It’s the Duke of Wellington at the moment. You must’ve heard of him?”

  “Oh yes. He led the British army in India before he beat Emperor Napoleon at Waterloo. People still talk about him in Hyderabad – they say he was a good leader, but ruthless.”

  Emily nodded. “He hasn’t changed. He’s very traditional and stern. My dad didn’t like him much. Dad was what is called a radical because he thought all men should have the vote, but Old Beaky…”

  “Who?” Sahira asked, marvelling at yet another strange English turn of phrase.

  “It’s what we call the duke because he has a big nose. Anyway, Old Beaky is set against any change. He thinks nothing can improve on how the country is run at the moment by men of property.”

  “He’s a man of property then?” asked Sahira.

  “How ever did you guess?” Emily said archly. “Then there’s the Home Secretary – that’s Robert Peel. You might’ve heard of him.”

  Sahira shook her head.

  “He’s the man who created the police force last year. We nicknamed them Bobbies after him, but quite a few around here don’t like them. They call them Peelers.”

  “People like Tommy and Alf?”

  “Exactly.” Emily nudged her. “See: you do understand London.”

  Only when thinking of it like a jungle, Sahira decided. The beasts at the top – the lions like Wellington – did not want to give any territory to other creatures, defending the pride of the privileged. Hyenas like the Newtons liked it most when the jungle was lawless and the lion sleeping in his den. Having the lion employ – Sahira tried to think of a suitable comparison to policemen – elephants to drive off the hyenas from the grazing population was doubtless an unwelcome shock to the scavengers.

  “So you think my chances of going to the zoological gardens are not good?” she asked as the omnibus turned out of sight.

  Emily linked arms with her. “I’m afraid so. But you have the tigers in the Tower – which is more than most of us can claim.”

  Yes, thought Sahira. At least I have them.

  PART 3

  TYGER, TYGER

  CHAPTER 8

  Sahira heard nothing more about returning to the menagerie that day and went to bed quite despondent. Only the knowledge that the tigress needed her
gave Sahira hope Mr Cops wouldn’t forget his promise.

  The next morning, she received a summons before breakfast to report to Mr Pence’s study. The menagerie keeper was waiting there, cap in hand. He smiled and nodded to Sahira, which she took as a sign that negotiations had gone well.

  “Eleanor Clive,” said Mr Pence, standing behind his desk. “Mr Cops has requested you help him with your father’s animals at the menagerie. You will accompany him this morning, but on other days you will go after morning lessons. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir,” Sahira replied, trying hard to restrain her excitement.

  “And I’ll pay her wage direct to you, Mr Pence,” Mr Cops stated, giving Sahira a warning look not to object.

  Mr Pence opened his accounts book with a sigh. “I would far rather you hand over the fee for the tigers as agreed with Mr Godstow of the Company.”

  “Well now, that would be a fine thing indeed,” agreed Mr Cops, “but my lawyer has advised that I have to wait until Captain Clive’s estate is settled. As the order was placed with the captain personally, not with the Company, then my man thinks that the payment should go to the heirs, not to an unconnected person like yourself. I might find myself in court otherwise.”

  “But Miss Clive owes me for her board and lodging,” Mr Pence objected.

  “Which I’m sure her wage will more than cover as I’ll be paying her the same as my keepers. Don’t say she costs more than a man with a wife and family to feed – a little thing like her?”

  “You’d be surprised.”

  “I dare say I would.” The two men locked gazes, a power struggle going on between them.

  “Very well.” Mr Pence nodded, giving the victory to Mr Cops this time. “Run along with the keeper, Eleanor, and mind your manners.”

  She bobbed a curtsey. “Be with you in a moment,” she said to Mr Cops, as excitement bubbled through her. She dashed upstairs to her trunk and took out several items from the bottom. Closing the lid and double-checking the fastening, she hurried downstairs, bundle tucked under an arm. Mr Cops was waiting in the bare corridor outside the dining room.

  “Do you want to stop for breakfast?” he asked, gesturing inside. “If you’re quick, I can wait.”

  Sahira waved to Ann and Emily who were already seated. “Oh no. I’m not hungry.” Who could be hungry with tigers to visit? “How is Sita?”

  “Pining for you again, but Mr Pence refused flatly to let you come on a Sunday. He said you were to concentrate on your prayers.”

  Mr Pence no more cared for prayers than a crocodile. He hadn’t even come to church with the orphans, which Sahira hadn’t minded as it meant she had been free to talk to Emily on the way back. “I’ll soon sort Sita out, don’t you worry, Mr Cops,” said Sahira eagerly as they turned out of Duck Street.

  “I’m sure you will, lass.” He paused at a bakery and bought a warm buttered roll. “Can’t have you wasting away too.”

  It tasted delicious, still hot from the oven. “Thank you so much for handling Mr Pence.”

  “Slippery customer, that one. Reminds me of that boa constrictor. Can’t say I like him much.” Mr Cops shook his head.

  “If you can keep the tiger money away from him, it gives me hope that I won’t always be penniless.”

  “It’s a shame to sacrifice your wages to him, but I decided the prospect of a bird in the hand was better than two in the bush.”

  Sahira tried to work out what he meant but couldn’t see it. Bushes were better for birds than hands as a rule. “Pardon?”

  “If I hinted that the money was tied up in the courts then he would rapidly work out he wouldn’t see a shilling for years. The law in this country moves with all the haste of a sloth.”

  “The money isn’t tied up, is it?” Sahira asked.

  “No, but don’t tell him. You’re the only heir so I reckon I can place it on account for you somewhere without falling foul of the law. It won’t be much, so don’t get big ideas.”

  “But it’s better than nothing.”

  “Aye, it’s better than that.”

  On arrival at the menagerie Sahira requested a quiet place to change out of her orphanage uniform and into the old clothes she had brought with her. Left alone in a storeroom, she slipped into what she thought of as her animal hunting gear: thick cotton baggy trousers and tunic. She tied up her hair in a strip of cloth and tucked it in, turban style as her mother had so often done for her. That memory brought a pang of grief. She let it ripple through her before emerging. She found Mr Cops waiting with two other keepers.

  “Who’s the little Indian lad?” asked one. “I thought you wanted us to show Captain Clive’s daughter the animals.”

  Mr Cops recovered quickly from his surprise. “Why, Ben, it is the girl, can’t you see? Miss Clive, Ben Poulter and Mike Kerry. My right hand – and left hand – men.” He gestured to each in turn.

  “That last would be you, Mike; you’re the one who’s left-handed,” teased Ben.

  Sahira bowed to them both. At a glance, she judged them both as capable, like the seasoned guides her father employed to take them into the jungle – short and stocky with work-roughened hands. “I hope you don’t mind me wearing my Indian clothes, Mr Cops? I don’t want to ruin the gown the orphanage has given me.” And the fact that Sahira infinitely preferred them didn’t influence her decision, of course.

  Mr Cops tugged on a side whisker. “Can’t say that it’s a problem for me. Adds a certain exotic flavour if the visitors catch sight of you, and they’ll probably take that more in their stride than if they see a girl in a dress. In fact, I think it is just the thing.”

  “Thank you.” Sahira gave an exaggerated bow.

  “In any case, Miss Clive, we’ve got bigger fish to fry today. The Constable of the Tower is making an inspection at noon so perhaps we should err on the side of caution and you should keep out of sight then, eh? Ben, Mike, show Miss Clive where we store the animal feed.” He checked his pocket watch. “Hurry along now.”

  Delighted to have got away with returning to her usual garb, Sahira hugged her arms to herself and followed the two keepers about their tasks. “Please, call me Sahira. And what’s this about frying fish?”

  Having accompanied the keepers on the rounds to feed the animals, Ben and Mike left Sahira mending a perch in the aviary while they swept up for the inspection. It apparently wouldn’t do for any noble foot to get mired in dung. She was enjoying the birdsong when she heard the special visitors approach, the tramp of feet and the hubbub sending many of the singers into hiding.

  “So, Cops, I heard you’ve just taken delivery of a consignment of animals from India.” The man that spoke was strong and commanding. He had a captain’s voice, heard on a ship’s deck even if a storm were howling.

  She peeked through the foliage. A tall silver-haired gentleman with a prominent nose strode across the yard followed by a flock of black-jacketed underlings. One was taking notes of everything the man said.

  “Yes, your grace.” Mr Cops had his hat in his hand, a sign he considered the visitor far above his touch. “Would you like to see the tigers?”

  “I believe I expressed a wish that the number of animals in the menagerie be reduced, not increased – reduced with a view to its eventual closure,” said the man with the booming voice.

  Closure? He couldn’t shut down the menagerie, could he? wondered Sahira.

  “You have your responsibilities, sir, but I also have mine in the ancient position of His Majesty’s Keeper of the Lions,” countered Mr Cops. “If we don’t keep up gate receipts, sir, then I can’t feed the animals. New attractions bring in more visitors.”

  At the rear of the visiting party came a man in a fine maroon jacket and cream waistcoat, with a boy of around Sahira’s age by his side. The boy had curly dark hair and alert eyes, darting every which way to take in the sights. They appeared to be on the fringes of the group, enjoying the displays rather than participating in the discussion between Mr Cops and the ta
ll gentleman.

  “Need I remind you that the Tower is primarily a garrison, not an amusement?” drawled the old man. “As Constable, I cannot have your animals getting in the way of my soldiers.”

  “But, your grace, the menagerie has existed since Henry III’s day,” pleaded Mr Cops.

  “I always thought him a weak king. Not one of his better decisions. This is the nineteenth century, man, not the fourteenth! We need a modern army, fit for purpose in the modern world.” He spoke as one who would not be swayed.

  “But the menagerie has been supported and enjoyed by all kings and queens through the centuries since its founding. Indeed, King George is most fond of it.” Sahira wanted to cheer Mr Cops. He was trumping the Constable’s wishes with the highest authority in the land.

  “Humph!” The gentleman in that snort gave the impression that he disapproved of many of the things the present king enjoyed.

  “Sir, sir, Prime Minister! A note from the palace.” A young pink-faced underling ran to catch up with the group, a letter in hand.

  The old man was the Duke of Wellington? marvelled Sahira. He certainly fitted Emily’s description and Mr Cops had addressed him as “your grace”, the right form of address for a duke. Was he both Constable of the Tower and Prime Minister? Could they not find enough men to share out the jobs more evenly? Surely the duke had better things to do – like running the country – rather than spending his time complaining about the number of animals in a menagerie?

  The duke had moved to one side to take the note. Sahira studied him from behind the potted palm tree. She had to admit that it was quite exciting to be in the presence of such a great man, one whose name would long outlive any others of her time. This was the hero who had beaten Napoleon; the same man who, decades before that, began his illustrious career by defeating the infamous Tipu Sultan of Mysore, one of the last of India’s rulers to resist the East India Company’s power. Sahira wasn’t sure what to think of Wellington after learning about the ruthlessness with which the duke had crushed rebellion in India. Her father had said the Company’s ambitions had long outgrown its original purpose of promoting trade between the two countries; it was now the only form of government left in much of India.