by Carola Dunn
Amid objurgations from the anxious young woman—“Stop wriggling, Maryanne, or you’ll make your dad trip!”—the father reached the bottom, a girl child on his shoulders. The family departed.
Daisy preceded Sir Patrick up the winding stair. She came out into a spacious, high-ceilinged octagonal room. In the centre was a plate-glass enclosure, reinforced by steel bars, behind which lurked a fabulous treasure of gems. On each side of the room stood yet another armed Yeoman Warder.
“Plenty of guards,” Daisy observed with a smile.
“Good heavens, yes. Can’t be too careful. Wouldn’t want any funny business on my watch.” The Keeper scowled suspiciously at the man who came around the display at that moment. “Look at him, for instance. No part of his duties!”
Peering through bottle-bottom glasses at a sheaf of papers in his hand, the Resident Governor’s ADC was oblivious of Sir Patrick’s inimical stare.
“Good morning, Mr. F—Webster,” said Daisy.
Webster looked up. “Uh . . .”
“Mrs. Fletcher,” Sir Patrick reminded him testily. “You made the lady’s acquaintance yesterday.”
“Oh, ah, good morning, Mrs. Fletcher.”
“You must be working on your dissertation on the Crown Jewels,” Daisy suggested, wanting to deflect Sir Patrick’s suspicion, the more so since she had had the same unworthy thought.
“I am. I have here notes of ancient descriptions of the royal regalia, and some sketches made by an artist of original paintings of kings and queens. I intend to prove that the ruby now set in the King’s State Crown cannot possibly be that given to the Black Prince by Pedro the Cruel and worn by Henry the Fifth at Agincourt.”
“Balderdash!” Sir Patrick was furious. “Of course it is the same stone.”
Leaving them to their argument, Daisy wandered over to a sort of large alcove in one wall. One of the yeomen followed her.
“Henry the Sixth’s oratory, madam, where he was murdered at his prayers. Stabbed, he was. They send flowers on the anniversary every year still, Eton and King’s, Cambridge, the colleges he founded. White lilies and white roses. And his ghost walks—”
Sir Patrick overheard. “Balderdash!” he cried again.
“Stuff and nonsense!” muttered Webster. “Ghosts indeed!”
The Keeper glanced at him with a more kindly eye, then turned his disapproving gaze on Daisy. Busy scribbling down this useful tidbit in her own personal version of Pitman’s shorthand, she announced, “Readers love ghosts.”
The yeoman winked at her.
“Mrs. Fletcher,” said Sir Patrick severely, “allow me to point out the various items of the Regalia and tell you something of their history. Unhappily, as Mr. Webster has pointed out, they are not the original crowns worn by the kings and queens of England before the Commonwealth. Those were destroyed by Cromwell. These are, however, set with the same stones, as well as the Koh-i-Noor ruby and the Stars of Africa cut from the Cullinan diamond.”
Daisy dutifully admired the orb and sceptre and a multiplicity of crowns. The first two were constants, but no monarch, apparently, was content to be crowned with his predecessor’s headgear. It reminded Daisy of ladies who wouldn’t be seen dead at Ascot in last year’s hat. She didn’t voice the thought. Sir Patrick might consider it lèse-majesté and have her clapped up in one of the convenient dungeons.
Light reflecting off the polished glass made it difficult to appreciate the splendours of the collection. Daisy concentrated on noting down the few snippets of information she hadn’t already gleaned from her history book. The Keeper was more conversant with the Regalia than she had expected, since he had described his position as a “sinecure.” He told the stories well, too, making a fine dramatic tale of Captain Blood’s failed attempt to steal the Crown Jewels.
But she couldn’t help noticing that he kept a watchful eye on Jeremy Webster as he told it.
Webster was oblivious of the scrutiny. He went on poring over his notes and sketches and peering into the glass case, until a sudden ping startled him. He delved into an inner pocket, in the process scattering papers on the floor. While one of the yeomen picked them up for him, he brought out a repeater watch, opened and consulted it, and moaned, “Oh dear, I shall be late.”
Oh, my ears and whiskers! thought Daisy as Jeremy Fisher, now playing the part of the White Rabbit, grabbed his papers and dashed for the stairs.
Then he stopped abruptly and took a step backwards, looking appalled.
Sir Patrick gasped.
From the stairwell a huge curved axe-head rose up, on the end of a pole. After it came a blue Tudor bonnet, beneath which was a face Daisy recognized, much of it concealed by a huge bushy beard. The Yeoman Gaoler stepped into the room. With a bland glance at Webster, who scuttled past him and disappeared, he said, “I thought Mrs. Fletcher might like to see my ceremonial axe.”
The Keeper gave him a dirty look. “Mrs. Fletcher, this is Mr. Rumford, whom General Carradine has picked to give you a tour of the Tower. I’ll say good-bye for now, but I hope to see you again while you’re working here.”
With a slight bow, he shook her hand, then abandoned her. Taking from his pocket a large iron key, he unlocked a door across from the stairs; he disappeared through it, and locked it behind him with a click audible through the thick oak. Meanwhile, the yeoman at the oratory had sneaked round behind Rumford’s back and vanished downward after Webster. The remaining yeoman stood stiffly against the wall, holding his partizan with the butt resting on the floor.
No one wanted to be in the same room as Rumford and his axe.
He couldn’t be physically dangerous, Daisy told herself a trifle nervously. He wasn’t going to attack with that horrible instrument of death, or he wouldn’t be allowed to walk around carrying it, wouldn’t hold the position of Yeoman Gaoler. No, Fay claimed he had a nasty habit of “seeing through walls.” That was an unendearing trait, enough to make people avoid him, especially anyone with a guilty conscience.
Did Webster really have designs upon the Crown Jewels? What about Sir Patrick? As Keeper, he had far greater opportunities to abstract the odd diamond.
Stuff and nonsense! She was letting her imagination run away with her, all too easy in the melodramatic atmosphere of the Tower. Besides, Rumford’s inquisitorial scrutiny was enough to make anyone feel guilty.
“Good morning,” she said. “I’m looking forward to seeing everything.”
The Yeoman Gaoler turned out to be a good guide, if not exactly likeable. He considered most of those who had ever been shut up in the Tower to be rogues or fools, or both, and his opinion of the monarchs and judges who had imprisoned them was not much higher. Daisy found his cynical attitude a refreshing contrast to the usual maudlin melodrama.
However, he extended his scorn to the present residents. Not that he gossiped either about them, or to them when their paths crossed while he showed Daisy around, but anything he did say had a derogatory twist to it. He had a low opinion of his fellow men.
His fellow men returned the favour, judging by the way every yeoman not pinned to his post did his best to be elsewhere when Rumford approached. Even the officers Daisy had met yesterday altered their course to avoid him.
Daisy hoped they were not avoiding her. She had rather forced them to invite the Tebbits on their river excursion.
In any case, the result was quite satisfactory, as she was able to concentrate on her work without distraction. The Yeoman Gaoler did indeed know all the interesting stories, even the ghost stories, though he assured her he didn’t believe in ghosts.
“There’s them that won’t go into the Salt Tower after dark,” he said derisively. “One of the warders swears he was nearly throttled by invisible hands. It’s true dogs won’t go near the place, but if you ask me, those invisible hands came out of a bottle.”
“Like the djinn,” said Daisy.
“Like gin, could be. Like one kind of spirits or another, and not the ghostly kind.”
By lunchtime, Daisy had had quite enough of ghosts, prisoners, escapes, executions, steps, and Rumford. Slipping a couple of half-crowns for Saint Peter into his ready palm, she asked for directions to Lieutenant Colonel Duggan’s quarters.
The Officers’ Quarters building faced the parade ground, next to the Waterloo Barracks, behind the White Tower. A mere eighty years old, the garrison’s two grandiose buildings weren’t part of the historic tour. Daisy was halfway across the parade ground, enjoying the almost summery warmth of the sun in a cloudless sky, when Fay and Brenda caught up with her.
“Mrs. Fletcher, we’re glad you could come.”
“Aunt Christina is so much looking forward to meeting you.”
“Have you had a frightful morning?”
“With Rumford?”
“On the contrary, he was most helpful and obliging. As your father said, he knows everything.”
“Oh yes.” Brenda shuddered. “Always poking and prying.”
“And watching!”
“Daddy can’t stand him, really.”
“Nor can Uncle Sidney.”
“It’s about the only thing they agree on.”
“Here we are.”
“This way.”
“You’ll like Aunt Christina.”
“She’s a dear.”
Daisy was bustled into a cramped sitting room, its plain furnishings a reminder that Duggan was not a gentleman of private means. The austerity was relieved by a vase of narcissi, flower paintings on the walls, a number of family photographs in silver frames, and several well-filled bookcases. Two men in uniform rose as they entered. Another pair were standing by a tray of drinks. Fay and Brenda escorted Daisy across the room and presented her to their aunt rather as if they were retrievers bringing home a particularly fine pheasant.
Mrs. Duggan was a small, plump woman with a shy smile. “I’m so happy you were able to come at such short notice,” she said in a soft voice. “The girls insisted that after three hours of history, you would be sorely in need of sustenance.”
She introduced her husband, a stalwart figure of about fifty with very upright military bearing and old-fashioned mutton-chop whiskers. While Colonel Duggan poured Daisy a drink, Brenda said, “You met the others yesterday, Mrs. Fletcher—Dr. Macleod, Captain Devereux, and Lieutenant Jardyne.”
“We thought you’d prefer it if we invited officers you’d already met,” said Fay.
“Besides,” said the captain, a glint of mockery in his eyes, “Jardyne and I wanted to see you again to thank you for suggesting that we include Mrs. and Miss Tebbit in our river cruise.”
“I’m afraid it was very interfering of me, none of my business.”
“No, no, I mean it. The old lady and I got on like a house on fire. I believe I’ve found my soul mate.”
“Dev hardly spoke to the rest of us,” Brenda confirmed with a slight pout.
“But I did round up a couple more chaps to keep you entertained,” Devereux reminded her.
“We didn’t need those two idiots,” Jardyne protested.
“Oh, but it was fun,” said Fay, who had no doubt kept all three young men dancing attendance while her sister languished after the captain and Miss Tebbit languished alone. “We must do it again sometime when you can come, Dr. Mac.”
“Not really my kind of thing, Miss Fay.” Today the doctor seemed to be on edge, nervy. Several times he almost took a gunmetal cigarette case from his pocket, then dropped it back.
“You’ll have better luck if you ask him to take you to the races,” said Jardyne, not quite openly jeering.
Macleod flushed darkly. Fay was obviously on the point of following the young lieutenant’s advice when, to Mrs. Duggan’s obvious relief, luncheon was announced.
The dining room furnishings were as Spartan as the sitting room, but Daisy was more interested in the food, which was excellent. She sat next to Colonel Duggan. He was an inarticulate man, but having asked her about her writing, he listened with apparent interest. He ate a hearty meal, and was pleased when Daisy did likewise, pressing her to take another slice of this or spoonful of that.
“I like to see good vittles appreciated,” he said gruffly. “A soldier on campaign goes without often as not. I can’t abide waste.”
So Daisy took another potato and some more parsley sauce. She had been walking up and down stairs all morning.
At the other end of the table, Mrs. Duggan was finding it hard going with the doctor, whose nerviness led him to taciturnity rather than garrulity. In between, though, Fay and Brenda flirted merrily with Captain Devereux and Lieutenant Jardyne. Daisy noticed that Fay couldn’t resist an occasional glance at Macleod to see if he was reacting. He wasn’t.
When the ladies retired, the two younger men showed signs of wanting to accompany them. Colonel Duggan called them to order.
In the passage—it could hardly be dignified with the word hall—Mrs. Duggan said to the girls, “Off you go and powder your noses. I want a word with Mrs. Fletcher in peace.”
“Oh, Aunt Chris, don’t tell her anything too dreadful about us!”
“As though I should do such a thing, Fay.” Mrs. Duggan’s tone spoke of her affection for her nieces. “Run along now. Just give us ten minutes without your chatter.”
“Chatter! We were going to practise polite conversation.” Brenda’s mock-indignant protest was voiced over her shoulder as they obeyed.
As soon as Daisy and Mrs. Duggan were settled with coffee in the sitting room, the latter said anxiously, “I do hope you won’t mind if I ask your advice. I need the opinion of someone who can see the girls objectively. I . . . I feel I’m in an odd position, having acted as their mother for several years but not being their mother, and no longer being responsible for them. I can’t quite offer unconditional mother love, but neither can I view them as an unconcerned outsider. Do you see what I mean?”
“Yes,” said Daisy, “absolutely. I’m in sort of the same position as regards my stepdaughter—but she’s such a good little girl. . . .”
“You wouldn’t say Fay and Brenda are good?”
“Oh yes, from what I’ve seen, they’re charming and good-hearted and . . . well, as silly as girls that age usually are. I dare say Belinda will be just the same at seventeen.”
Mrs. Duggan sighed. “I still feel responsible. Especially as it’s in my home they’re meeting young men their father disapproves of.”
“Is there any particular reason for disapproval?” Daisy asked cautiously. She tried hard to repress her curiosity, but she couldn’t resist another question: “That is, any particular young man . . . ?”
After a moment’s hesitation, her hostess said, “To be frank, the three you have met are my greatest worry. Most of Sidney’s young officers are perfectly acceptable. Not that there’s anything wrong with Lieutenant Jardyne, if only he didn’t fancy himself madly in love with Fay.”
“He has a jealous temper, I suspect.”
“You’ve observed it, too? Oh dear! It’s a pity she isn’t fond of him, so that he’d have no cause for jealousy.”
“I don’t think it works that way. He’d find some reason, if that’s the way he’s inclined. I’d be glad she doesn’t care for him.”
“Really?” Mrs. Duggan brightened, then drooped again. “I expect you’re right, but I cannot believe it’s preferable that she should pine for Dr. Macleod. He’s an excellent physician, no doubt, but there’s something about him. . . .”
“No need to worry. I’ve seen no sign that he has the slightest interest in her. I’d be more concerned about Brenda and Captain Devereux.”
“Captain Devereux has several medals for bravery in the War.”
“I’d be surprised if he hadn’t. He’s a perfect Byronic hero, and I bet Fay and Brenda read Byron at that finishing school of theirs. But I rather doubt Byronic heroes make good husbands. Byron himself certainly didn’t.”
“N-no,” said Mrs. Duggan uncertainly.
“I’ve advised Fay to read Ja
ne Austen. I can’t really justify interfering any further.”
“Do you think I ought to talk to Miss Tebbit about them?”
Daisy bit her lip to suppress a snort of laughter. The only thing less useful than talking to Miss Tebbit would be talking to Mrs. Tebbit, who would doubtless treat the whole business as a great joke. “Have you met the Tebbits?” she asked.
“Briefly. I called, of course, when they first came here. But it’s so difficult, Arthur having taken against me for marrying Sidney. We can’t exchange more than the most formal visits.”
“I can tell you this much. Miss Tebbit sincerely sympathizes with you. However, I shouldn’t count on much assistance with the girls from that quarter.”
Brenda and Fay came in then, along with the men. Daisy stayed a little longer, chatting and observing, but she was anxious to get back to her babies. Tomorrow, unless Alec was sent off to some out-of-the-way corner of the provinces, she was to witness the Ceremony of the Keys and stay the night at the King’s House. The Carradine girls were just going to have to take care of themselves.
5
Daisy shivered as she walked down Tower Hill in the dusk. It was chilly, but her shivers had more to do with the veils of mist rising from the river, swathing the Tower in mystery, so that its menacing bulk loomed larger than ever. Hoots and whistles from shipping on the Thames added to the eerie atmosphere.
Public visiting hours were over, the ticket office and refreshment room closed. The gates onto the wharf would be locked, by now. The world outside had changed, but the Tower was still a mediaeval town, huddled behind walls to keep out unwelcome travellers.
One of the pair of sentries at the Middle Tower challenged Daisy. She was glad to see the unmistakable silhouette of a Yeoman Warder approaching in the hazy gaslight under the arch.
“Mrs. Fletcher? The Governor sent me to meet you.” He spoke to the sentry, who lowered his rifle to the ground.
“Thanks,” said Daisy. “For a moment, I was afraid I was supposed to know a secret password.”
“No fear, madam. Wouldn’t be secret then, would it? ’Sides, you wouldn’t want to walk alone around here on a nasty night like this. Lovely weather for ghosts, it is.”