by Carola Dunn
Today, the picturesque scene ahead was more evocative of colourful processions of kings and queens on their way to Westminster Abbey to be crowned, escorted by throngs of nobles on brightly caparisoned horses. The blare of motor horns and glint of sunlight on polished brass headlamps conjured up trumpet fanfares and cheering crowds. Absorbed by the view, Daisy didn’t notice the constable on point duty waving them across the street.
“Come on.” Melanie tugged her arm. “Do you know him?” she asked as Daisy waved to the policeman.
“Who? Oh, the bobby? No, but learning to drive has given me a new appreciation for their intrepidity. Imagine standing there with all the taxis and ’buses and lorries and cars swirling about you, with nothing to protect you but long white gauntlets.”
“Much worse than mere headless ghosts,” Mel said with a smile.
They reached the gardens safely. The path led them to a reminder of the Tower’s grim history, a fenced-off square commemorating the scaffold where public executions used to take place. Here, Daisy thought, the crowds would have jeered, not cheered, enjoying with equal glee a royal procession or a grisly death. Dutifully, she made a note of the inscription. Alec was right: The Tower was a morbid subject to write about. But it was too late now to change her mind.
They walked down Tower Hill, the pavement separated from the dry, grassy moat by an iron railing and trees. Beyond the moat rose the outer walls. With their massive towers, arrow slits and crenellations, they had a stern, forbidding look, but daffodils danced under the greening trees.
At the bottom, they stopped outside the ticket office and refreshment room, an inappropriate-looking wooden building.
“This was the site of the Lion Tower,” said Daisy. “They kept the Royal Menagerie here for hundreds of years.”
“Please, no history lessons,” Melanie begged. “Do we need tickets?”
“Surely not. We’re invited guests. No, look, the notice says you need them only for the White Tower, the Bloody Tower, and the Crown Jewels.”
The walk swung left under a rounded Norman arch adorned with the royal lion and unicorn carved in stone, between two round towers. A stout Yeoman Warder stood there, a picturesque figure in his dark blue Tudor-style tunic and bonnet, lavishly adorned with red braid; on his chest was a crown, with G V R beneath. His eight-foot tasselled halberd was also Tudor and picturesque, though no doubt as lethal at close quarters as any modern automatic.
“Could you direct us to the King’s House, please?”
A benevolent smile divided his short, neat grey beard from his moustache. “You’ll be Mrs. Fletcher and Mrs. Germond? We was advised to look out for you.” He turned to point the way. “You go across the bridge here, over the moat, then under the next archway. That’s the Byward Tower. Keep straight ahead along Water Street, past the Bell Tower on your left. A bit farther on, you’ll see the Traitors’ Gate on your right. You turn left there, under the portcullis. There’s a tunnel below the Bloody Tower to the Inner Ward. Just follow the signs to the Bloody Tower and the Crown Jewels. Can’t miss it. You’ll find another chap there who’ll tell you the rest of the way.”
They thanked him and continued over the bridge.
“His directions sounded like a history lesson,” Melanie complained whimsically.
“Don’t blame me. The Bloody Tower is where they found the bones of the two little princes—”
“Daisy!”
“Sorry!”
“You won’t start talking about murders and executions at lunch, will you?”
“Good heavens, no! That would be inexcusable in a duchess or a dustman.”
“A duchess, perhaps,” Mel retorted, “but my daily woman’s husband is a dustman, and from what my housekeeper relays of her conversations, he regularly dispenses such tidbits from the evening paper over their supper.”
“Really? Well, I assure you, no duchess of my acquaintance would dream of raising the subject before coffee.”
Laughing, they passed under the Byward Tower arch, where a rigid sentry stood, clad in a red coat, white trousers, and red-cockaded white shako, and armed with a modern rifle.
“There’s a military garrison here,” said Daisy, “as well as the Beefeaters, who, I gather, regard that epithet as a mortal insult. Yeoman Warders, they are, so be careful what you say.”
“I shall,” Mel promised.
They watched as the soldier turned about, with much raising of knees and stamping of feet, marched a few paces, turned again, marched back, and resumed his position.
“I wonder how he knows when it’s time to do that,” Daisy said. “Did you hear a bugle or a whistle or anything?”
“No, nothing.”
Daisy went up to the sentry. “I suppose you’re not allowed to answer a question?” she asked.
His gaze never shifted from straight over her shoulder, but his lips twitched and he gave an infinitesimal shake of the head.
“Ah well, never mind.” She rejoined Melanie.
“Daisy, how could you?”
“Easily. How will I find out if I don’t ask?”
They continued along Water Street.
Water Street was a cobbled street occupying the fortress’s outer ward on the river side. High stone walls on either side were reminders of the Tower’s historic function as a prison, but the inner wall’s starkness was softened by a luxuriant creeper now putting forth bright green leaves. A few other people were wandering along, many studying booklets, which, judging by their overheard comments, provided a brief history and description of the Tower. Ahead, a group stood by a railing on the right, being harangued by a Yeoman Warder. Several others turned left between a pair of sentries and disappeared under an arch.
“That must be the Bloody Tower,” Daisy said.
As they turned in between the motionless sentries, she noticed behind each man a viciously spiked semicircle of iron protruding from the wall. She hadn’t realized the torture had started before prisoners even reached their cells. That was an aspect of the Tower she didn’t intend to emphasize in her articles. She avoided drawing Melanie’s attention to the fanged arcs, and also to the ironclad teeth of the portcullis suspended ominously overhead. Presumably it had good strong chains to support it?
A cloud passing across the sun made the tunnel suddenly dank and gloomy. They started up the slope, footsteps ringing on the cobbles.
Suddenly, a black apparition loomed ahead, silhouetted against the daylight. Daisy clutched Mel’s arm. “What . . . ?”
“A Beefeater.” Mel corrected herself: “A Yeoman Warder.”
“Oh, of course.” She felt an utter ass. The shape of the dark figure was peculiar, his long tunic suggesting a fashionably short skirt, his bonnet a truncated top hat. A bushy beard made his head look overlarge. But she wouldn’t have jumped to the conclusion it was a ghost if she hadn’t already managed to give herself the creeps. Not that she believed in ghosts.
He came down towards them, a tall, burly man, who seemed to Daisy to be eyeing them in a disagreeably appraising manner. The light was too dim to be sure. Besides, she was probably prejudiced by the unwarranted fright his sudden appearance had caused her. He was perfectly polite when they stopped him to ask for further directions.
In fact, he turned back to accompany them. Emerging from the tunnel, they continued up the cobbled slope. A crumbling section of ancient wall and a hideous modern guardhouse blocked the expected vista of the White Tower, the central keep of William the Conqueror’s castle. Ahead, at the top of the slope, were two broad, shallow flights of steps. However, their guide ushered them through a gap in the wall on their left, up a couple of steps under a small arch. It was a murky spot, with high blank walls on two sides and a steep stone staircase on the third. Up this, the yeoman led them.
“So you’re friends of Mrs. Tebbit, then, are you?” he said, his voice placing him as a Northcountryman, with the edges worn off by his sojourn in the army. “A very nice lady.”
“Nice” was not
how Daisy would describe Mrs. Tebbit. Amusing, interesting, thought-provoking, just plain provoking—In any case, it was not the yeoman’s place to pronounce judgement, favourable or unfavourable, on members of the Resident Governor’s household, even if he held some rank above the ordinary warder, as appeared by the White Tower insignia on his uniform. Nor did she like his tone, which seemed sly and insinuating, or the way he looked back at her and Melanie, apparently to judge their reactions.
Beside her, Mel pursed her lips in disapproval. They toiled upward in silence. In any case, they needed all their breath for the ascent. The warder waited at the top. Daisy thought she detected a touch of sardonic enjoyment as he watched their arduous ascent from the pit. Had he taken them that way just to amuse himself?
They came out level with the first floor of the Bloody Tower. Its entrance was just ahead, with a yeoman in a booth waiting to check tickets, his halberd leaning in the corner behind him. Another yeoman, unarmed, stood ready to escort visitors inside and tell them all about the murder of the young princes.
Their guide turned right towards a grassy slope with sycamores, just leafing out, surrounded by daffodils. Sparrows chirped noisily from the branches; a raven on the ground stared at them with bright, knowing eyes and greeted them: “Grawk!” The sun came out.
“Tower Green,” said the yeoman. “The scaffold was just up there, where they used to cut off the heads of them as was favoured with a private execution. That black-and-white Tudor building there, built against the wall, that’s the King’s House. Just finished scraping off the old plaster coating, they have, that hid the timbers, and a sight better it looks.”
It was indeed an attractive scene in the sunshine. Nothing could have looked less threatening. Daisy resolved to enjoy her lunch and try to ignore for the present the constant reminders of bloodshed.
2
A sentry stood at the door of the King’s House. He remained immobile, expressionless, but his eyes slewed to watch them as Melanie rang the bell. They heard the bell ring inside, simultaneous with a bugle call from somewhere behind them.
A neat maid opened the door. She showed them up to the second floor—Daisy recalled Alec’s warning about the Tower having an awful lot of steps—and into a spacious drawing room.
A high, wide, mullioned oriel window faced north onto Tower Green. Sunlight flooded in through a window in the opposite gable, overlooking Water Street, the outer wall, and the Thames. The ceiling was open to the slanting rafters, and dark beams chequered the white walls. This much, Daisy absorbed as a tall, painfully thin woman rose and hurried eagerly to greet them.
“I’m so glad you were able to come. Mother has been missing her friends in St. John’s Wood.” Miss Tebbit, in her mid-forties, wore her greying hair in a bun confined with a net, despite which wisps escaped in all directions. Her brown silk frock sagged at the hem. Admittedly, uneven hemlines were all the rage, but Miss Tebbit’s just plain sagged.
A tart voice came from behind her. “There’s no need to make me sound pathetic, Myrtle. Life is much more interesting here than in that fusty suburb. Just think, this very room is the Council Chamber where Guy Fawkes was questioned! But I’m delighted to see you, Mrs. Germond, Mrs. Fletcher. I hope you’ve come primed with all the latest scandal.”
“Mother!”
Daisy was glad to see the move to the Tower had not banished the mischievous twinkle from Mrs. Tebbit’s eyes. Ignoring, as usual, her daughter’s feeble protest, the old lady introduced the Resident Governor. A slight, dapper gentleman with the erect bearing of a regular soldier, Major General Carradine had sprung to his feet when the visitors entered. He looked to be in his mid-fifties, his fair hair and moustache fading to salt-and-pepper, but still thick. He came forward to shake their hands with an affable smile.
“Welcome to my humble castle,” he said. “May I offer you some sherry? Or a cocktail, perhaps?”
Melanie opted for sherry, while Daisy requested gin and It without the gin. “Spirits at midday make me sleepy,” she explained.
Carradine laughed. “Vermouth coming up. Would you care for a dash of soda water in it?”
“That would be perfect. Yes, please.”
He poured Cinzano and sprayed soda water, then handed her the drink. She took a sip. “Just right.”
“I’ll have the same,” announced Mrs. Tebbit. “Never could abide sherry.”
“But Mother, you’ve always—”
“And gin makes me bilious. Thank you, Arthur. Hmm, not bad.”
He grinned at Daisy. In an undertone, he said, “I never expected inviting my cousins to live with me would provide such a source of amusement.”
“She’s splendid, isn’t she? Your gain is our loss.”
They chatted for a few minutes. Daisy liked him and thought he’d probably be amenable to giving her special access for her research. She was wondering whether to broach the subject at once or wait until lunch or after, when Mrs. Tebbit said commandingly, “Arthur!”
The general, looking a bit sheepish, excused himself to Daisy and went to join the old lady and Melanie. Miss Tebbit gravitated to Daisy’s side, with her usual air of vague anxiety.
“Oh dear, Mrs. Fletcher,” she said with a little gasp, “I do hope you won’t think we’ve brought you here under false pretences.”
“False pretences?” Daisy asked, astonished.
“The numbers!”
“Numbers? Are the general’s daughters going to join us?”
“Oh yes, they promised.”
“You and your mother moved here to chaperon them, didn’t you?”
“Yes.” Miss Tebbit wrung her hands. “But I’m very much afraid we shall be six ladies and only three gentlemen at table!”
Daisy laughed. “Well, I don’t mind a bit, but isn’t the Tower swarming with military men?”
“That’s the trouble.” She lowered her voice. “You see, Mrs. Carradine died when the girls were quite small, and her sister brought them up. Cousin Arthur was away a lot, of course, being in the army. Then after the War, he was offered this post, Resident Governor of the Tower, so they all came to live here. And his sister-in-law went and married the lieutenant colonel in charge of the Hotspur Guards battalion quartered here!”
“How very shocking of her.”
“Oh no, I don’t blame dear Christina in the least, even though Cousin Arthur says Colonel Duggan is not a pukka sahib. It’s . . . it’s not always very pleasant being an aging spinster, my dear.”
“Not a pukka sahib?” Daisy asked, intrigued.
“He rose from the ranks, starting out as a common private. He got his commission and attained the rank of lieutenant colonel only because of the War, because so many officers were killed.”
“He must be exceptionally competent, then.”
“I wouldn’t know about that, I’m afraid. In any case, when Christina married, Cousin Arthur sent the girls off to finishing school in Switzerland, so that was all right. But now they’re seventeen and eighteen, such pretty girls, and they’ve come home, and as is only natural, they want to spend time with their aunt.”
“Of course, since she brought them up.”
“And, you see, the Hotspur Guards are presently our garrison again, and the colonel’s quarters are positively haunted by young officers. The battalion will be quartered in the Tower for only a few months, I understand, or is it weeks? But in the meantime, Colonel Duggan just laughs, and Cousin Arthur has quarrelled with him, and, oh dear, it’s very uncomfortable.”
“And you can’t invite any of the officers to lunch?”
“Exactly! So our numbers are all wrong. I know it’s not what you’re used to. . . .”
Daisy didn’t like to reveal that these days she usually ate lunch in the nursery with Nanny and the twins. “Who are the other two gentlemen?” she enquired.
“General Sir Patrick Heald,” Miss Tebbit said impressively. “He’s Keeper of the Regalia, which makes him a member of His Majesty’s Household. And Cou
sin Arthur’s assistant, Mr. Webster. He’s a distant relative on the other side. He’s sort of a secretary, really, but Cousin Arthur calls him his ADC, or sometimes his adjutant. Military terms, I believe.”
“He’s not a soldier, though?”
“No. And I must say,” she added with a shadow of her mother’s frankness, “it’s very pleasant to have someone to talk to who is not obsessed with the army!”
“I can imagine it might be.” Daisy looked round as the door burst open.
Two girls in tennis whites bounced in.
“Frightfully sorry we’re late, everyone,” the taller said breathlessly.
“But we won’t be half a tick,” vowed the other.
“We won’t stop to bathe. . . .”
“Just a lick and a promise . . .”
“And a quick change . . .”
“And we’ll be down for the soup.”
They disappeared as abruptly as they had arrived, leaving Daisy with an impression of exuberant energy, pink faces, and blond bobs ruffled by exertion. Nothing could have been more at variance with the Tower’s gloomy history.
“Allow me to introduce my daughters,” said the general with pardonable sarcasm. “Those were Brenda and Fay. And allow me to apologize for their excruciating manners.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Mrs. Tebbit remarked. “They did apologize on their own behalf. And tennis is healthy exercise these days, nothing like the genteel nonsense that was all girls were permitted in my young day. All we could manage, indeed, in our crinolines and corsets.”
Carradine looked as if he was no longer so certain that Mrs. Tebbit’s outspokenness was amusing. Perhaps he was also wondering whether Brenda and Fay had been playing singles or doubles. Daisy wanted to ask whether the amenities of the Tower included tennis courts, which would hint at doubles with military partners. However, she was afraid anything to do with tennis might prove inflammatory just now.
Before she could make up her mind, they were interrupted by the arrival of two men. The general introduced Sir Patrick Heald, Keeper of the Regalia, “A bit of a sinecure,” he boomed in a voice unexpectedly deep for his short, tubby frame and round pink face. “I get free quarters in St. Thomas’s Tower, a nice pied-à-terre in town, in exchange for minimal services to the Crown. Pun intended, ha ha!”