by Carola Dunn
“So that’s why you were so keen to bring me up here.”
“I suppose that’s not very couth, either, come to think of it. Sorry. But I did think, too, that you’d like to see Ralegh’s Walk.”
“Certainly. I hope you’re going to explain it to me.”
Fay pointed to the building at the far end of the section of wall. “That’s the Bloody Tower, where he was imprisoned. Sir Walter Ralegh, I mean. They let him come out through that door there to take the air on the wall, and he’d walk along to call on the Governor at the other end. There are flats for warders in this house here that’s in the way now, and I don’t suppose Sir Walter would care to visit them. That’s really all I know about Ralegh, except that he dropped his cloak in a puddle so that the Queen wouldn’t get her feet muddy—frightfully romantic!”
“And he was the one who introduced tobacco from the Americas,” Daisy told her dryly.
“No, was he? Jolly good for him! This is really the best place for a smoke. One doesn’t want to huddle in a hidden corner—too uncouth! Here one can always pretend to admire the view.”
“Tell me about it.”
Fay peered over the parapet. “There’s St. Thomas’s Tower, where that frightful Sir Patrick lives, when he’s around. It’s built over Traitors’ Gate. And that monstrosity is Tower Bridge, of course.” She waved her cigarette at the scene, then took another puff. “Oh blast! That awful, slimy man is watching.”
With one hand, she stubbed out the cigarette behind her back, while with the other she waved to a man in the Yeoman Warders’ blue and red who was standing on top of the nearby Wakefield Tower. Daisy recognised the bushy beard of the man who had showed her and Melanie the way to the King’s House.
He sketched a salute and turned away.
“From that distance,” said Daisy, “I doubt if he could tell you were smoking, even if it was any of his business.”
“I swear he can see through walls,” said Fay gloomily, “and you never know, he just might happen to mention it to Daddy.”
“Who is he?”
“The Yeoman Gaoler. Sergeant Major Rumford. They’re all sergeant majors, come to that, but he’s second in charge after the Chief Warder. Oh, blast that bugle,” she said as a call rang out. “It always reminds me of the Rupert Brooke poem.”
“ ‘Bugles calling for them from sad shires’? Wilfrid Owen.”
“That’s the one. I don’t think I really want to marry a soldier.” Fay shivered. “It’s cold. Let’s go down.”
When Daisy and Fay reached the Council Chamber, Sir Patrick, the General, and his ADC had just arrived. They drew back to let the ladies pass, then followed them in.
Brenda jumped up. “Fay, Mrs. Germond has invited us to a tennis party! Isn’t it kind of her? Aunt Alice says we may go. Daddy, you should be thrilled to death. We’ll actually meet some young men who aren’t soldiers.”
“That is indeed very kind of you, Mrs. Germond.”
“Spiffing!” Fay exclaimed. “We’d love to come.”
“It depends on the weather,” Melanie warned. She looked a trifle harassed. Daisy wondered whether Mrs. Tebbit had somehow managed to make it impossible for her not to issue the invitation.
“The sun is shining madly,” said Fay with conviction. “Not a cloud in the sky. It’s going to be fine for days.”
The maid brought in coffee. General Carradine, having brought Daisy her cup and sat down beside her with his own, said, “I’ve been thinking about who’s best to show you around the place. I believe Rumford’s the man, my Yeoman Gaoler, second in command of the warders. He knows everything there is to know.”
Daisy gave a murmur of appreciation, managing not to say she’d been told Rumford could see through walls. Fay caught her eye and pulled a face, Webster looked even more melancholy than usual, and Sir Patrick pulled a comic face expressive of distaste.
“I’m afraid he’ll expect a gratuity,” the general warned Daisy.
“Oh yes, for the chapel.”
“I wonder,” Brenda mused, “how much of Sergeant Rumford’s gratuities actually reach the chapel.”
“You mustn’t say such things,” her father snapped, “even in jest. It’s a serious matter. Pocketing tips can get a man dismissed.”
“Sorry! I didn’t mean anything by it.”
“Anyway, that’s all right,” Daisy put in hastily. “My American editor is pretty generous about expenses.”
“Good, good.” Carradine rubbed his hands together. “I’ll have a word with Rumford this afternoon. Would tomorrow suit you? We’ll hope the weather holds.”
“Arthur,” said Mrs. Tebbit commandingly, “I trust you mean to invite Mrs. Fletcher to watch the Ceremony of the Keys. You’d have to stay the night here afterwards, my dear, as it takes place at ten o’clock and all the gates are locked.”
“I’ll have to consult Alec about that.”
“Anytime. Just let us know. We’ll be here.”
“Thanks. I expect I’ll be popping in and out for at least a week to make sure I’ve got it all right.”
Then Melanie started making time-to-leave noises. General Carradine offered to send the ladies home in his car and sent his batman to fetch it.
Fay and Brenda escorted Daisy and Melanie back to the exit under the Bloody Tower.
“Mrs. Fletcher,” said Brenda, “we’d like to introduce you to our aunt. Will you come and have lunch or tea or dinner or something one day when you’re here?”
“If she invites me, I’d be happy to.”
“And you, of course, Mrs. Germond,” Fay put in quickly. “You could come specially. I know Aunt Christina will want to meet both of you.”
As they passed under the portcullis and emerged from the tunnel, three officers came towards them. They all wore khaki uniform. Catching sight of the Carradine girls, the youngest cried out, “Well met!” Then, seeing the others with them, the three men stood aside to let them pass.
“Mrs. Fletcher,” said Fay urgently, “these are particular friends of ours. May we introduce them?”
“Would you mind awfully, Mrs. Germond?” asked Brenda.
Daisy and Mel nodded and smiled.
Brenda first introduced Captain Macleod, a doctor in the Army Medical Corps and in charge of the Tower’s hospital. In his midthirties, he was dark-haired, pale, too thin for his height, with a somewhat saturnine expression even when he smiled. The white line of a scar on his cheek did nothing to mar his good looks. Indeed, Daisy thought it might add a dangerous attraction in a young girl’s eyes.
In fact, Fay seemed to have difficulty tearing her gaze from the doctor to introduce Captain Devereux.
The captain was a few years younger than Macleod, but old enough to have fought in the War. He had a devil-may-care air Daisy had seen before in soldiers who had gone through hell in the trenches, the reverse of shell shock but, in its way, equally abnormal. Such men often found it difficult to take anything seriously. Life and death had lost their importance.
With a grin, he presented the third officer to the ladies. “This stripling is Jardyne, a mere lieutenant, as you can see. Macleod and I are doing our best to whip him into shape.”
Jardyne, fair, tall, and robust, smiled as he said, “How do you do?” but Daisy noticed a flash of anger in his eyes. She recalled that Brenda had said he was keen on Fay and did his best to hide his temper from her. He had cause enough for annoyance at present, what with his beloved making sheep’s eyes at the doctor and Devereux making fun of his juniority.
Was there such a word? If not, there ought to be, Daisy decided.
“I say, Miss Fay,” he said, “we were walking on the wharf and Dev has had a dashed good notion. How about you and Miss Carradine taking a boat trip on the river with us this afternoon? It’s such a beautiful day.” He hesitated. “Mrs. Fletcher and Mrs. Germond are welcome to come, too, of course.”
“Kind of you,” said Melanie, frowning slightly, “but we’re just leaving.”
; “Yes,” Daisy corroborated, “but why don’t you invite Miss Tebbit? I bet she hasn’t had such a treat in years, if ever.”
“Aunt Myrtle?” Fay blurted out. The girls, the lieutenant, and the captain stared at Daisy in shock.
Dr. Macleod’s smile became more saturnine than ever. “Yes, why don’t you?” he drawled. “Sick call will sound in a couple of minutes, so I can’t go along to play gooseberry. In fact, I should invite Mrs. Tebbit, too, if I were you.”
“The old lady?” Lieutenant Jardyne was aghast.
Brenda pulled herself together. “Yes, why don’t we?” she said brightly. “Thank you for the suggestion, Mrs. Fletcher.”
At that point, the Bentley arrived from the far end of Water Street, driven by the manservant dressed in a chauffeur’s peaked cap and motoring coat. The doctor and Captain Devereux handed Daisy and Melanie in and the car set off at a stately pace towards the Byward Tower. Daisy glanced back and saw the girls and the officers disappear under the Bloody Tower. They crossed paths with Sir Patrick. His face set in a frown, quite unlike his joviality in the King’s House, he crossed the lane and unlocked a door in the wall on the other side.
Daisy’s thoughts flitted involuntarily to Jeremy Webster, and the possibility that he had designs on the Crown Jewels. Was it possible the Keeper of the Jewel House suspected him?
“Who on earth am I going to invite to play tennis with Fay and Brenda?” Melanie demanded.
“You’ll dig up someone. Did Mrs. Tebbit force you to invite them?”
“Shhh!” She made a slight gesture towards the chauffeur.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake. Did she?”
“Not as blatantly as you forced those young men to invite the Tebbits. But you were quite right, of course. Most unsuitable for the girls to go off alone with the officers.”
“You’ll be doing a good deed inviting them to meet other people. That struck me as an explosive situation back there.”
“Oh Daisy, you do have a tendency to dramatize!”
“Well, maybe. Perhaps it’s just that I find the Tower rather sinister. I dare say it’s only the influence of those childhood nightmares, but I almost wish I’d never thought of writing about it. And all those steps!”
The early-morning post brought an invitation from Mrs. Duggan to lunch in the colonel’s quarters that very day. Daisy rang up Melanie. She had also been invited but had a prior engagement.
Daisy decided to accept anyway. Curiosity having overcome distaste, she wanted to observe the feud from the other side of the fence.
Approaching the Middle Tower at ten o’clock, when the Tower opened to the public, Daisy saw a tall, burly warder with a bushy beard chatting to the yeoman on guard. Her heart sank. She had hoped she was mistaken, that the Yeoman Gaoler, whom Carradine had chosen for her guide, the Sergeant Major Rumford whom Fay accused of spying on her, was not the man she had taken in instant dislike.
Not that I have any real cause for mistrust, she scolded herself. The unfortunate manner that had put her off could well be responsible for Fay’s accusations also. She must try to be fair.
As she drew closer, the bearded warder glanced round towards her, and she wondered if he was, in fact, the same man. She didn’t remember so much grey in the lush beard. The eyes she recalled as sharp, even hard, now crinkled at the corners when he smiled at her. His nose was different, too, she thought. It was difficult to be sure; one tended to observe the costume, not the man. She noted his insignia—crossed keys on three chevrons, rather than the White Tower.
“Mrs. Fletcher?” His voice confirmed that he was not the warder she had expected. This was a native of London, not a Cockney, but perhaps from the Borough, south of the river. “I’m Crabtree, Chief Yeoman Warder. Mr. Rumford had to take care of some unexpected business, so I hope you won’t mind starting your tour with me.”
“I shall be delighted,” said Daisy, with somewhat more emphasis than she had intended.
Mr. Crabtree, for all his friendliness, was a very tedious companion, alas. In his flat voice, he recited the history by rote, and told Daisy nothing that she hadn’t already read. When they went through the arch under the Byward Tower, he pointed out the postern door leading to the Queen’s Stair, the only entrance to the Tower after the gates were locked at night, for the sole use of the monarch. But he couldn’t tell when or why it was last used, or even which queen it was named after.
He even made the sinister Traitors’ Gate sound dull. As he talked, Daisy lent half an ear to another warder who was giving the same talk, word for word, to a small group of visitors. The tourists asked a few questions, then moved off along the lane just as Crabtree finished his lecture.
The other came over. “Message for you, Mr. Crabtree,” he said.
“What’s up, Mr. Pierce?”
“General Heald wants to show Mrs. Fletcher his gewgaws hisself.” Pierce touched his hat to Daisy as he uttered her name. “I’ll go tell him you’re heading that way, and he’ll meet you in the Wakefield Tower in ten minutes.”
Crabtree pulled out his watch. “Right you are. He’ll use his private entrance, I expect.”
They grinned at each other, sharing indulgence for the foibles of the brass-hats. Daisy had noticed that the Chief Warder was on excellent terms with all the Yeoman Warders they had come across.
Pierce went off towards St. Thomas’s Tower.
“No good waiting for the general here, ma’am,” said Crabtree. “He’ll go over by the bridge from his quarters. The Yeoman Gaoler’s going to come and find us in the Wakefield Tower soon as he can get away.”
They crossed the lane towards the Bloody Tower. Prompted by the sight of the motionless sentries on either side of the gate, Daisy asked, “You were a soldier, weren’t you, Mr. Crabtree. Tell me how the sentries know when it’s time to do their little march up and down.”
Crabtree laughed. “It’s up to them, madam. It’s blinking hard work standing absolutely still, you wouldn’t believe, even two hours on, two hours off. So when you feel a twitch coming on, or a cramp, or your legs going numb, you’re allowed to do a little stamping about in a regulation manner. We don’t want ’em dropping like flies.”
“How sensible.”
“Of course, in daylight, with people about, they’re always being watched. But at night—well, you see those rings of spikes sticking out from the walls just behind those chaps? Horrible things! Those were put there by the Iron Duke when he was Constable of the Tower. ‘Wellington’s Armchairs,’ they’re known as, or ‘Lazy Soldiers.’ ”
Delighted, Daisy scribbled in her notebook. That was the first morsel of interesting, unusual, and therefore useful information she’d received today.
4
The entrance to the Wakefield Tower was guarded by both a Yeoman Warder and a Hotspur sentry. Because of the sentry’s requisite impassivity, Daisy couldn’t tell whether they were at daggers drawn. For all she knew, the feud between the two factions might have been grossly exaggerated.
The Chief Warder greeted the yeoman, “Anyone up there now, Mr. Biggle?”
“Just a couple with small kiddies, went up a few minutes ago. Don’t s’pose they’ll be long. Waste of a shilling, if you ask me, taking the little ones up.”
“Right you are. Mrs. Fletcher here’s a friend of the Governor, don’t need a ticket. A journalist she is, too. Member of the press.”
Mr. Biggle saluted, looking properly impressed. Pleased by Crabtree’s recognition of her professional credentials, Daisy warmed further towards him. He couldn’t help being boring.
“I won’t take up any more of your time, Mr. Crabtree,” she said. Mentally crossing her fingers behind her back, she thanked him for getting her tour off to a good start. Wondering whether she ought to tip him, she decided his rank was too exalted, even in the interests of Saint Peter ad Vincula.
Ad Vincula? What was a vincula? Her school had considered Latin too exacting for female brains. Perhaps Sir Patrick would know.
; She went into the tower. Another two warders were posted in the ground-floor guardroom, their halberds—no, they were called partizans, Crabtree had told her—leaning against the wall, close at hand. Daisy nodded to them and started for the steps, only to meet Sir Patrick bustling down.
He was closely followed by a small boy at a gallop, who, in turn, was followed by a plaintive female voice. “Not so fast, Johnnie! You’ll take a tumble for sure!”
Daisy and Sir Patrick stepped aside to let the anxious mother collar her son.
The Keeper of the Regalia shook Daisy’s hand with enthusiasm. “Delighted, dear lady, delighted. It’s not often I get a chance to show off my little baubles. The yeomen handle tourists, and very nicely, too, and I leave my curator to cope with the general run of journalists, don’t you know. Excellent fellow, very hard worker. I gave him a few days off while I’m in town. Told him I’d take care of you.”
Daisy wasn’t sure whether she was above the general run because her husband was a Scotland Yard detective or because her father had been a viscount. Nor was she sure that Sir Patrick would prove the best person to tell her about the Crown Jewels. But she expressed her appreciation, and, as a man’s shoes and trousers appeared descending the stairs, she asked, “I’ve been wondering, what does vincula mean, as in ‘Saint Peter ad’? Do you happen to know?”
“Vincula?” Sir Patrick looked blank. “Good heavens, that’s quite a poser. Something to do with flowers, isn’t it? Periwinkle, that’s it, the Latin name for periwinkle. I dabble a bit in gardening down at my country place.”
Daisy’s botanical Latin was as sparse as her classical or church Latin, but what Saint Peter had to do with periwinkles was unclear to her. A second opinion was called for, she felt.