by Julia Stuart
Once the creatures were safely back in their cages in the Well Tower, Ruby Dore invited the clergyman into the Rack & Ruin, locking the door behind her lest the Beefeaters expected to be served. She reappeared from the cellar with a bottle of vintage champagne, which she had been saving for a special occasion that had never arrived. As she poured them both a glass, Rev. Septimus Drew looked at the canary asleep on its perch and said that he had always thought it such a shame that Canary Wharf had not been named after an infestation of tiny yellow birds as one might assume, but after the Spanish islands whose fruit had arrived there by the boatload. As she handed him his drink, the landlady knew that the special occasion had finally come.
Once she had finished her first glass, she revealed that she was studying for an Open University degree in history. She hadn’t told anyone, she said, watching his reaction closely, as she didn’t want people to think that she had ideas above her station. She had taken over the pub from her father without having given much thought to another career. But she had come to the conclusion after almost two decades behind the taps that there must be more to life than pouring Beefeaters pints.
Rev. Septimus Drew replied that he thought it a splendid idea, and had considered reading history at university himself, but theology had been a stronger calling. The landlady refilled his glass and as they sipped their champagne, they discussed the lives of several European monarchs including Ethelred the Unready, Pippin the Short, and George the Turnip Hoer.
When the bottle was empty, Ruby Dore finally found the courage to ask him the question that had recently perplexed her: why he had never married. Rev. Septimus Drew replied that he had only once met a woman whom he wanted to spend the rest of his life with, and who would find living in the Tower a privilege rather than a curse.
“What happened?” she asked.
“She doesn’t know,” he admitted. And he held Ruby Dore’s gaze for so long, she lowered her eyes to the bar with a blush.
RUBY DORE YAWNED as she stood at the sink washing Balthazar Jones’s and Oswin Fielding’s cups. As she looked down, she wondered when people would start to notice that she was pregnant. She had already decided to rebuff any enquiries about the father with the simple explanation that they were no longer together. It was a line she used when she broke the news to her parents. Her mother had remained silent for so long that Ruby Dore wondered whether she was still on the line. Barbara Dore then told her the truth: “I’m not ready to be a grandmother, but then again I wasn’t ready to be a mother.”
It was her father’s reaction that she had been more concerned about. Once again there was a moment’s silence on the line, this time as Harry Dore worked out that his daughter must have fallen pregnant while in Spain, having honed his mathematical skills during decades of Beefeaters attempting to defraud him. Swallowing the questions he wanted to ask, he offered her his congratulations and shouted to his second wife the exalted news that he was going to be a grandfather. When, several minutes after hanging up, the full ramifications of the situation dawned on him, he immediately called his daughter back. “For God’s sake, don’t let the Tower doctor handle the birth,” he urged. “I don’t think the kitchen lino is up to it.”
The landlady fetched the broom from the cupboard under the stairs and started working it in between the bar stools. When she opened the pub door to sweep out the dust, she noticed the mess left by the howler monkeys when they had been cornered the previous night. They had grabbed what they could as they fled from the home of Rev. Septimus Drew. She picked up a large sock bearing a snowman and a clerical collar, and then reached for the crumpled pieces of paper. As she walked back inside, she was struck by the familiarity of the handwriting. She smoothed down one of the pages on the bar, and it wasn’t long before she recognised the hand that had written out a recipe for treacle cake. But what she couldn’t understand was why the chaplain would be writing about the glory of rosebud nipples.
HEBE JONES SET DOWN HER SUITCASE in the hall. Slipping the keys she had just collected from the lettings agency back into her coat pocket, she set about exploring her new home. As she wandered from room to room she discovered to her dismay several things she had failed to notice when she agreed to rent the flat. As she stood in the living room that overlooked a main road, she realised how loud the traffic was. While the kitchen was much bigger than the one she was used to in the Salt Tower, the cooker was electric rather than gas, and the insides of the cupboards were covered in grime. She went into the bathroom and saw that the carpet curled up in discoloured corners under the sink. As she sat down on the lumpy bed used by countless strangers for the most intimate act of all, she wondered whether she would ever get used to sleeping alone.
She looked at the shabby 1970s dressing table in front of her, which she would never have chosen. Already missing the comfort of Valerie Jennings’s over-heated flat with the frilly tissue-box covers, she reminded herself that this would only be temporary. When the tenants’ lease ran out, she would be able to move back into their home in Catford, where the carpeted stairs rose in a straight line, the rooms were square rather than circular, and the neighbours didn’t even know her name, let alone her business.
However, the thought of returning home was not enough to defend her against the tide of misery that rose up around her, and she picked over the flotsam of her marriage. For years she and her husband had remained in a state of blissful delusion, seeing many more virtues in each other than really existed. While some spent the silences of their marriage imagining being in another’s arms, Hebe and Balthazar Jones had maintained a lifetime of conversation, both entirely convinced that they had picked the right one. But after the tragedy, a corrosive despair had worked its way into the bolts of their affection until the mechanism of their colossal love was unable to turn. And all she had left was its echo.
Eventually, the unfamiliarity of her surroundings drove her to her feet, and she walked back to the hall. She opened the front door and pulled it behind her. As she headed down the steps for the Lost Property Office, the harsh sound of it slamming followed her.
WHEN HEBE JONES ARRIVED, Valerie Jennings emerged from behind the shelves and asked how the flat was.
“It’s lovely,” Hebe Jones replied. “Thanks again for letting me stay with you for so long.”
She sat down at her desk and, working a silver letter-opener across each of the envelopes’ spines, opened the post to distract herself. The only things of interest were yet another thank-you letter from Samuel Crapper—this time for having reunited him with his corduroy jacket—and a list of members of the Society of Woodworkers who took on commissions. Hebe Jones glanced through the numerous pages, her heart sinking. When she thought of the stranger who had lost the urn, it sank even further, and she dialled the first number. After the initial disappointment, she dialled again, then continued down the list, enquiring whether they had ever worked with pomegranate wood. Just as she had reached the bottom of the first page, she heard the clanking of the Swiss cowbell. Irritated at being disturbed, she looked over to see whether Valerie Jennings was going to answer it. But she caught a glimpse of her disappearing down one of the aisles carrying a set of golf clubs, listing like a ship with uneven ballast.
Standing at the original Victorian counter was a man in a long black leather coat. His hair had been grown to counteract its unequivocal retreat from the top of his head, and was fashioned into a mean, frail ponytail that hung limply down his back. Blooms of acne highlighted his vampire-white skin.
“Is this London Underground Lost Property Office?” he asked.
“Can I help you?” Hebe Jones asked.
The man placed his hands on the counter. “I left a diary on the Tube about a month ago. I’ve only just found out that this place exists and was wondering whether you’ve got it. It’s got a black, hardback cover and is written in green ink.”
“Just a minute.”
Hebe Jones rounded the corner and swiftly returned with the gigolo’s diary,
which she slid across the counter with a fingertip.
“You didn’t read it, did you?” the man asked, putting it into his pocket.
“Heavens no,” she replied.
After washing her hands thoroughly, she returned to her desk, picked up the phone, and called the next number on the list. “Is that Sandra Bell?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“My name’s Mrs. Jones. I was wondering whether you’ve ever worked with pomegranate wood?”
“I have done, as a matter of fact, but unfortunately I don’t have any left.”
Hebe Jones explained where she was calling from and that she was trying to trace the owner of an urn made from the curious wood.
“I did make someone a box out of pomegranate, but I’ve no idea what it was for,” the woman replied. “The gentleman just gave me the measurements and I got on with it as soon as I’d tracked down some wood. It’s not easy to come by. But I can try and get in touch with him, if you like.”
“God delays, but does not forget,” thought Hebe Jones as she put down the phone. She looked over at Valerie Jennings, who was standing next to the inflatable doll putting on her coat.
“I’m just going to the Danish Church,” she said, doing up her buttons.
Hebe Jones had suggested the place as a possible lead after Valerie Jennings came to a dead end in her attempts to trace the owner of the safe. All the documents she found inside had been signed by a Niels Reinking. When she called the shipping firm whose address was printed at the top of each one, she was told that he had left and it was against company policy to give out personal details. After she tried the phone book in vain, Hebe Jones pointed out to her that Reinking was a Danish name.
“I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone Danish,” Valerie Jennings had said.
“Nor me,” Hebe Jones replied, adding that her mother had never allowed Danish bacon into the house, as Denmark had surrendered to the Nazis after just two hours of occupation. Then she suggested trying the Danish Church up the road in Regent’s Park. “You never know, someone might have heard of him.”
Before leaving the office, Valerie Jennings gave her lips another coat of Lilac Haze in the hope that she would bump into Arthur Catnip on her way out. But it was disappointment rather than a tattooed ticket inspector that accompanied her to the street. Wondering again why she hadn’t heard from him since their second lunch, she thought what a fool she had been to mix up Edgar and Teddy Evans during her tale of the lost Antarctic boot. As she approached the church, she cursed herself, explorers, and finally their forsaken footwear.
Reasoning that if God understood Danish, he would also understand the anguish of constricted bunions, she took off her shoes and left them next to the umbrella stand. She padded up the cold aisle, grateful that neither big toe had bored through her tights. Standing at the altar, she looked around, but failed to find any sign of life, so she sat down on one of the pews to rest her feet. Opening the pamphlet she had picked up from the table at the entrance, she started to read about the services the church offered to Danish sailors. But her thoughts immediately turned to Arthur Catnip, and she wondered whether he had ever visited English chapels overseas, if such things existed, during his years in the Navy. Just as she was trying to find the resolve to stand up again, a side door opened and the pastor came out wearing a pair of jeans and a red sweater.
“You’re in luck, we’re not usually open at this time of the day. I’ve just popped in to catch up on some paperwork,” he said, coming to sit beside her. He looked down at her feet. Valerie Jennings followed his gaze, then quickly explained that she worked at London Underground Lost Property Office and had found something belonging to a Niels Reinking. “I was wondering whether you might know him,” she said.
The pastor gazed at the ceiling as he thought. “The name doesn’t ring a bell,” he said. “But I’ll ask around. I’m better at faces than names.”
He walked her to the door and watched as she forced her feet back into her shoes.
“Maybe I should try Jesus sandals,” Valerie Jennings muttered, and reached for the door handle.
Back in the Lost Property Office, she put on the kettle and updated Hebe Jones on her progress with the safe while waiting for the water to boil. As she reached for the teacups, the Swiss cowbell sounded. Valerie Jennings was round the corner as fast as her footwear could carry her. But instead of the tattooed ticket inspector, she discovered a woman wearing a mac, clutching a large plastic shopping bag.
“I’ve just found this on the District Line and thought I’d bring it in,” the customer said, pushing the bag across the original Victorian counter. Valerie Jennings reached in and drew out its contents. First came a black cloak, followed by a breastplate, a plastic lightsaber, and finally a black helmet with a pronounced mouthpiece.
After thanking the woman, and wishing that everyone was as honest as she was, Valerie Jennings noted down the items in the ledgers. Once she was certain that she was alone, she picked up the helmet and pulled it on. As she was holding the lightsaber in front of her with both hands, she looked up and saw through the eye slits someone standing in front of her. She turned her head slightly and instantly recognised the confused features of Arthur Catnip.
“Is that Valerie Jennings?” he asked.
“It is,” came the muffled voice.
“I was wondering whether you would like to go to dinner tonight,” he said, keeping his distance from the weapon.
The black helmet nodded.
“Would eight o’clock at the Hotel Splendid be okay?”
There was another nod.
The ticket inspector hesitated for a moment, then turned to leave. “May the Force be with you,” he called over his shoulder.
THE BATHROOM CURTAINS DRAWN tightly against the night, the Yeoman Gaoler hauled himself out of the tub. He stood on the mat rubbing his back with his towel, his japonicas swaying underneath the full moon of his belly. Once in his pajamas, he brushed his teeth, and such was his contentment he even gave them a floss to please his dentist.
Climbing into bed, he turned off the lamp and released the contented sigh of a silver-muzzled dog as he waited for the blissful uninterrupted sleep he had enjoyed ever since the chaplain had worked his magic. He had had little hope in the abilities of Rev. Septimus Drew, and had only asked for his help in an act of desperation. But the exorcism had been such an emphatic success that the Yeoman Gaoler, who had previously deemed religion to be a form of witchcraft, had even considered turning up for the chaplain’s service on Sunday.
The explosion sounded sometime after midnight, terrifying the odious ravens to such an extent that they simultaneously discharged a hail of droppings. The Yeoman Gaoler woke from his dreams, convinced he was in the grip of the heart attack the Tower doctor had warned him about. When the painful beating finally slowed, he swung his legs out of bed and staggered to the window. Rubbing a hole in the condensation with his fingers, he cupped his hands against the pane and peered through. Unable to make out anything in the darkness through the streaks, he hauled up the sash window and saw the shimmering form of a converted henhouse, minus its front door. Lying flat on his back amongst the splintered wood was a man in a plumed hat and velvet breeches, his face covered in soot. It took a while for the ghost of the doomed explorer to come round following the botched experiment. He slowly sat up, lamenting the state of his pearl-encrusted jacket. He then got to his feet, dusted himself down, and set about mending the door.
“That bastard Raleigh,” raged the Yeoman Gaoler and slammed down the window. He unhooked his dressing gown from the back of the bedroom door and pulled it on. As he tied it around his waist, he cursed the useless chaplain, with his skinny white ankles, who had simply transplanted the problem outside his house. Gripping the wooden handrail, he made his way down the narrow stairs in his bare feet and headed along the hall to the kitchen to check on the Etruscan shrew after the commotion. He found his glasses, opened the cage, and carefully took the lid off
the plastic house. But no amount of nudging the creature’s tiny ribs with his plump finger could make it reveal its pointed velvet nose.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
BALTHAZAR JONES CAREFULLY PLACED the Egyptian perfume bottle inside the cabinet and stepped back to admire it. It was a particularly fine sample taken from a light shower that had fallen the previous night. Giving the display a careful wipe with a duster, he ran his eyes over the other varieties, reading their labels with a collector’s fixation.
Closing the door on the wartime graffiti, he was halfway down the stairs thinking about breakfast when the phone rang. He picked up speed, his hand burning on the filthy rope handrail. But when he answered it, instead of his wife, he found a salesman on the line trying to sell him the genius of double-glazing.
He hung up, and sat down heavily on his side of the bed. While he knew that Hebe Jones wasn’t coming back, he still had the tormenting hope that she would get in touch. At one stage he had become obsessed with the thought that she would write, insisting that she had made a mistake in leaving. Several times a day he called in at the Byward Tower to check his pigeonhole, certain that if the letter hadn’t arrived with the postman, it would be hand-delivered. But as the weeks continued without a word, he became convinced that the only letter that would come would be from her solicitor. From that moment on, he refused to collect his mail, and so much built up that the Chief Yeoman Warder threatened to dispose of it if he didn’t take it away.