by Brian John
“Did I hear that correctly? Rhiannon?”
“Yes. A pretty name. She came from Wales two years ago.”
“Can I guess where she came from? Pembrokeshire, by any chance?”
“Quite correct, my friend! Now how did you know that? She’s from a mountain near a little place called Newport. Came as a young bird, with a damaged wing, but she’s done wonderfully well since she recovered.”
“May I ask which is the dominant male?”
“Funny that you should ask that,” said the Ravenmaster. “For the first time ever, we have a dominant female. Cedric was the dominant male until a few months ago, and then, without any warning of any sort, Rhiannon took over as the dominant bird in the group. She is always the first one out in the morning, and the first one in at night. She threatens me and challenges me all the time, but it’s all show, and she is perfectly harmless if you know how to deal with her.”
I laughed. “I quite understand. She hasn’t changed a bit.”
“Pardon me?”
“Never mind. I’ll explain some other time.” My mind was still racing, and suddenly it occurred to me what I had to do next. “Do you have a full London Telephone Directory?” I asked.
“Why yes, in the office, in the barracks.”
“Will you take me there, please? We must hurry -- there’s not a moment to spare.”
We walked across to the Waterloo Block, trailed by the jostling media pack, and five minutes later the three of us were in the office. I opened up the Directory at the appropriate page, and thumbed down the list from Jabber to Jackson and from James to Jawecki. Onto the next column, and a dozen or so Jebsons, all but one of whom lived in the suburbs. My eyes focussed on this one: JEBSON A.C. 26 Bow Street, and then the number. “Aha!” I exclaimed, causing eyebrows to be raised. “I am on the trail, gentlemen. The mystery is almost solved. May I please use the phone?”
“By all means.”
In a state of high anticipation I dialled the number. A small child answered the phone. “Sally speaking,” she said.
“Hello Sally. Is your Mum or Dad available at the moment, so that I can have a word?”
“Dad isn’t back from work yet, and Mum is in the shower.”
“Oh dear.” I thought for a moment, and then continued. “Sally, can you do me a favour?”
“I don’t do favours for strange men.”
I laughed. “Don’t worry. Will you be kind enough to look out through your front window and tell me what you see?”
“Oh, all right. Hold on a minute.” Off she went, and returned to the phone about a minute later. “Just people and cars.”
“And have you got a garden at the back of the house?”
“Oh yes, it’s very nice. I’ve got a Wendy house too.”
“Have you? You lucky thing! Would you please look out through one of your back windows and tell me what you see?”
“Must I really? This is getting boring.”
“It’s really quite important. Please! Just this once.”
“All right then. But then I have to go. I’m in the middle of a very hard computer game. Hold on a minute.”
And off she went again. After a few seconds I heard a squeal of delight, followed by running footsteps as she returned to the phone. “Ooh!” she exclaimed. “On a big branch of the tree just outside the window of Dad’s study, there are masses of big black birds, and they’re just sitting there in a row.”
“Thank you very much, Sally. You’ve been very clever and helpful. But can I ask how many big black birds there are?”
“Oh, I forgot to count. Hold on again!” Down went the phone again, and I could hear the patter of her little feet on a wooden floor as she ran to the window once again. Back she came to the phone.
“I’ve been very good at counting since I was four. Now I can count up to 925, and perhaps even more if I try hard! Eight birds.”
“As I thought! Excellent, Sally. You are a star! Now, you go back to your game. Just tell your Mum, when she gets out of the shower, that some Beefeaters will be calling to see her before too long. Have you got that?”
“Beefeaters? What a funny name! What are they?”
“Gentlemen in funny costumes, who like to eat beef for their supper. Thank you ever so much for your brilliant help. Bye bye.”
“Cheery-bye.”
I turned to the Police Inspector and the Ravenmaster. “All sorted, gentlemen,” I said, no doubt with triumph in my voice. “If you take your portable cages, Ivan, and go as fast as you can to 26 Bow Street, you’ll find eight ravens in the garden at the back of the property. If you talk to them nicely they’ll probably be glad to flutter down off that tree and to get home, just in time for a snack before settling down for the night.”
The Inspector and the Beefeater looked entirely mystified, but to their credit they sprang into action. They rushed out onto the green and off towards the tower in which Ivan stored his cages. The media followed them in a great phalanx, shouting questions but getting no answers, and with cameras flashing and whirring. Everybody forgot about me, and I took the opportunity to slip out of the office, closing the door behind me as I sidled away in the shadows. My work at the Tower was done, and ten minutes later I stood at the entrance of Tower Hill tube station as a convoy of unmarked vans and police cars with sirens blaring went rushing past. I could not resist grinning like a happy Dalmatian puppy as I descended towards the northbound Circle Line platform, and I did not particularly mind it when people gave me some very strange looks. Is it actually a crime to look happy on the London Underground? Who cares........
Later that evening, while my son was completing some office work, I decided to watch the Ten o’clock News on the BBC. The strange saga of the ravens lost and found was the lead story, with live reporting from the Tower and with recorded footage from earlier in the evening. There were interviews with the police inspector, the Ravenmaster, and the Prime Minister. The Queen was probably unavailable. How on earth, all the experts wondered, had the birds travelled from the Tower to Bow Street, and up into the branches of a tall tree, when they are unable to fly? There had been no sightings of them flying across the city. How had the two youngest birds got out of their cages, leaving them still locked after their departure? Then I found that I was a nameless hero, held up by the BBC Court Correspondent as the man who might well have saved both the Queen and the country. Luckily, there were no clear pictures of my face, but there was speculation as to who I was, where I had come from, and how it was that I had identified the location of the missing ravens. They had obviously decided that I was a psychic, and they even had an interview with a strange lady who explained dowsing and the paranormal sensing of crime locations. The next item on the News was about the economy, so I turned the telly off and picked up the phone.
First I rang my wife and told her briefly about the Tower of London episode. I said that I might have to stay in London for a few more days since I had not yet been able to give any help at all on the redecoration of Tom’s apartment. In any case, I was hot on the trail of the missing manuscript. She was very understanding. Then I rang Carol on her mobile phone and told her the story too. She had heard the news about the ravens, but had not made any connection with me. To her credit she swore an oath of secrecy. I hoped that the raven story would die down within 24 hours, and decided to lie low over the weekend. So I told Carol that she might not see me again until the beginning of the next week. I stayed for the next day at the apartment in Aldgate while Tom was out at work, stripping wallpaper and sanding down door frames and other things that needed to be repainted. Intermittently I watched the ongoing coverage of the story on the BBC’s News 24 channel, and was fascinated to discover that as the day went on the focus shifted from the missing ravens and the downfall of the state to the identity of the “shy Welsh hero” who had facilitated the recovery of the missing birds before the fall of darkness. There was endless speculation as to my identity, and the BBC reporter who had seen me when I sho
uted from the back of the crowd on the previous evening managed to give a reasonably accurate description of me and the clothes I was wearing.
When Tom came back from work, he carried with him a copy of Friday’s Evening Standard. “Take a look at this!” he chuckled. “Entertaining, don’t you think?”
There was another banner headline, and my heart sank when I read it. This is what the front page article said:
TOWER RAVENS -- MYSTERY DEEPENS
Following the recovery of the Tower ravens, in which this newspaper played no little part, the hunt is on for the Welshman who identified the address in Bow Street where the birds were found.
The Tower of London has offered him a reward of £5,000 if he will come forward and identify himself, and this paper is pleased to match that sum. If he reads this article, and wants to reveal for the Standard the full story of how the ravens went missing, and how he found them, he simply needs to ring us on this number -- 0800 576442.
We also offer a reward of £2,000 to any other reader of this paper who can point us to the man who saved the nation. All we know about him at this stage is that he’s probably in his sixties, of medium height and build and with a weatherbeaten face and greying short hair. Yesterday he wore dark blue chinos and a green sweatshirt, and carried a red rucksack on his back. He had a copy of the Evening Standard in his hand. He has quite a strong Welsh accent, and according to the Tower Ravenmaster he might have some connection with Pembrokeshire. That’s all we know for the present, but our investigations are continuing.
According to legend, the monarchy and the nation will fall if the Tower ravens should ever go missing. Yesterday they were absent from the Tower for around eight hours, but they were back in their cages by nightfall, and that was obviously enough to deflect the arrows of fate. At the time of going to press, the Queen is still in rude health, Buckingham Palace still stands, and the state seems to be working with something resembling efficiency.
On an inside double spread, there were features on the Tower ravens, on legends connected with the Tower, and on past connections between the Tower and Wales. There was a list of famous Welshmen who had been incarcerated in the Tower and even executed there, and a pompous and convoluted “Comment”column from the Editor in which he remarked upon the fact that so many previous Welsh visitors to the Tower had plotted the downfall of England and espoused the cause of Welsh independence, and concluded that this latest act of grace from a Welshman showed that Wales was now truly integrated as part of the UK.
“Oh my God!” I moaned. “Now they have turned this into a political gesture. Tom, do they always do this in London?”
“Don’t take it seriously, Dad. This is all about circulation. This is a nice feel-good story. The Editor wants to keep it alive for a day or two, and he’s trying to stir up a reaction on his letters page. Of course, he’ll get a few letters from irate Welshmen. But by Monday the next big story will have taken its place. Now, shall I put the kettle on for a cup of tea?”
“But they are after me. I hope that neither you nor Carol is open to bribery. I wonder how many others there are who might betray me?”
“I shouldn’t think there is anybody else, Dad. Nobody else knows you in London, and I suppose only a few of your friends at home in Wales know that you’re here. They’ll watch the news on the box and read the papers, I dare say, but there’s no reason for them to make any connection between you and the Tower of London. Somebody might recognize you from the fleeting images of you that were shown on the news, but images are very ephemeral, and I wouldn’t mind betting that they won’t be shown again. Just take it easy, old man.”
“Oh, all right. But what about these blood-thirsty investigative journalists that one hears about? They may all be heading for Pembrokeshire as we speak, determined to track me down.”
Tom laughed. “The world has changed, Dad. There are a few such reporters who dig deep and travel. But take it from me that most reporters these days work from their desks, by phone and Email. It’s far more efficient. I guarantee that by Monday this story will be dead.”
On Sunday it was anything but dead, with big features in most of the popular Sunday papers. So I remained in hiding and made good progress with my painting and decorating. On Monday morning I thought heavy disguise was in order, so I dressed in the most casual clothes I could find in Tom’s wardrobe. Luckily, he and I were almost the same size. A baseball cap on my head, dark shades over my eyes, and two days’ worth of stubble on my chin completed my transformation. I emerged onto the street at 8 am, bought half a dozen daily papers on the nearest news-stand, and returned to the apartment to read them over breakfast. There was no mention of the Tower of London, or ravens, or Wales. I breathed a sigh of relief. So ended my five minutes of fame, which in retrospect I quite enjoyed, in spite of the fact that my name was never discovered.
Now I had various things to do. First, I rang Carol at the office in Gabriel Lane, and told her that I was busy, but would call in tomorrow, hopefully with something interesting to show her. Then I rang the Jebson household. “Hello,” said a female voice. “Helen Jebson speaking.”
“Good morning, Mrs Jebson. Please excuse this call out of the blue. You won’t know me, but I’m ringing about this raven business.”
“Oh no! Not again!” she exclaimed. “Who are you?”
I had to explain who I was, and had to hope that her natural suspicion would be ameliorated. She continued: “The last few days have been completely mad. The phone has hardly stopped, and we’ve had journalists and film crews here from all over the world. My daughter Sally has loved every minute of it, and thinks that she’s now a film star. But normal life has been on hold, and I’ll be glad when the story fades away. I’ve no more information to give you -- it’s all been reported already.”
“The story is now dead and buried, I assure you. I’m the one who spoke to Sally some days ago..........”
She was silent for a moment. “You know that reporters are hunting for you all over London?”
“And in Wales as well. That’s why I’ve been lying low. There’s a matter on which you might be able to help me, and I promise that it’s got nothing to do with ravens.”
“Well.............” She sounded uncertain.
“Please! It has something to do with old Mr Jebson the publisher, who was, I assume, an ancestor of your husband?”
“No, he wasn’t. He was a bachelor who lived in the upper part of the house, which he owned jointly with his married brother Morton. Morton had several children, and he would be my husband’s ancestor -- maybe five generations back. Andrew has made a family tree, and he’s mentioned “Old Uncle James” sometimes. He was greatly loved as a kind and eccentric old fellow; and there are mentions of him in various family papers. This house has been in the family since the eighteenth century.”
“Dare I ask if any of Uncle James’s things are still in the house?”
“They might be. There’s a top-floor tenement -- more like an attic, really-- with lots of stuff in boxes and cupboards. And there’s another cupboard in Andrew’s study.”
“Wonderful! This might be very important. Do you think that Andrew might allow me to look at some of the old man’s things?”
“You’d better ask him yourself. I don’t suppose he would object.”
“I’m not in London for very long. May I call in today, when he comes home from work?”
There was a long silence, while Helen Jebson considered whether she should trust me. I did not want to force anything, and held my breath. “Very well,” she said at last. “He normally comes home at about 5.30. I’ll tell him that you rang. Call in at about 6 pm, if you will.”
Now I had the rest of the day at my disposal. Tom was out at work, and so I spent the morning finishing off the painting of his kitchen. After lunch I took a brisk walk to the Tower, driven by an urge to see the ravens back on their home territory. I had to see Rhiannon in particular. I hoped that I would not meet Ivan the Ravenmaster,
since I wanted to remain anonymous, and feared that he might recognize me. Having bought my entrance ticket I wandered about, marvelling at the sheer scale of the place and at the austere and ancient majesty of the White Tower in particular. On my previous visit, just a few days earlier, I had not had a chance to be a proper tourist. The buildings and precincts were heaving with visitors from every corner of the planet; visitor numbers for the day had probably doubled because of the publicity over the weekend. I looked for the ravens. There were two on a low wall close to the river, preening themselves and looking content in the warmth of the midsummer sun. I had no idea which of the four stations might be the one occupied by Rhiannon and her mate. So I explored rather aimlessly, guide book in hand, until I came once again to Tower Green, not knowing what to expect. Suddenly, there she was, just a few feet in front of me, stock still, and looking me straight in the eye, with her head slightly cocked. It was Rhiannon all right, the same bird which I had seen countless times before on my visits to Carningli. I dare say that all ravens are supposed to look the same, except that females are slightly smaller than the males. But I was surprised by her size, and impressed as ever with the beautiful silvery blue and green iridescence which gave colour to her otherwise pitch black plumage. I did not know what to do next, but then she hopped towards me. Instinctively I dropped to one knee and put out my hand. I thought that she might peck at it, but she rubbed against my fingers with her beak and head. If she had been a kitten, she would certainly have purred. For a few seconds, something passed between us.
“Be careful, sir! Ravens are dangerous birds, and that one in particular is very unpredictable.”
The magic disappeared. The voice was that of Ivan the Ravenmaster, who was naturally more watchful than he might have been a week ago, and intent on protecting both his beloved birds and the inquisitive public. I got to my feet as he approached, and the raven hopped away to join her mate in pecking about in the weeds at the base of the high wall of the White Tower. Luckily Ivan did not penetrate my disguise, and I said nothing to him. I shrugged my shoulders and held my hands out wide, in the hope that he might mistake me for a Polish builder who spoke no English. It seemed to work, for he ticked me off very briefly with a smile on his face and then explained, in a very loud voice, the he had to go off to check the birds near the Roman Wall.