by Carola Dunn
“Yes, isn’t it?”
They went through the arch and across the bridge. Fog flowed along the moat channel as if the Thames were returning to refill it. Tendrils twisted up to twine about the gas lamp in the middle of the bridge.
“Getting thicker. We’ll have a pea-souper by morning, I shouldn’t wonder.”
Daisy was dismayed. She didn’t want to have to choose tomorrow between being stuck in the Tower and trying to find her way home through one of London’s infamous yellow fogs. The mixture of smoke from countless coal fires and the river’s natural exudations could become almost as impenetrable as it was unbreathable.
Under the Byward Tower arch, a yeoman was on guard. From the right came the sound of jollity. Seeing Daisy glance that way, her yeoman said, “The Warders’ Hall, madam.” He turned to the door on the left. “I’ll just pop in here and tell Mr. Crabtree you’ve arrived, if you don’t mind waiting a half a tick.”
“Please give Mr. Crabtree my regards.” Daisy hoped he meant “half a tick.” If he was gone any longer, she’d seek refuge among the merry warders in their hall.
But he returned very quickly, conveyed the Chief Warder’s respects, and accompanied her along Water Street, under the Bloody Tower, and round to the King’s House.
To Daisy’s surprise, Colonel and Mrs. Duggan were dining with the Resident Governor.
“I don’t believe in family feuds,” Mrs. Tebbit told her loudly. “Such a lot of childish fuss and bother over nothing! Besides which, I’m far too old to rein in those resty fillies, and Myrtle’s quite incapable of managing them on her own.”
“Oh, Mother!” Miss Tebbit succumbed to a fit of coughing.
General Carradine turned purple. The Duggans looked uncomfortable. Jeremy Webster remained as impenetrable as a pea-souper. Fay and Brenda grinned.
Mrs. Tebbit winked at them. “If Mrs. Duggan is willing to lend a hand, let her, say I.”
While Carradine fussed over drinks, the back of his neck gradually returning to its normal colour, Fay and Brenda converged on Daisy.
“Isn’t she marvellous?”
“We simply adore her.”
Though the girls were oblivious of constraint, the others struggled to make polite conversation. Mrs. Duggan made a brave attempt to chat with Miss Tebbit, who coughed periodically and dabbed at her eyes, apologizing and saying she hoped she was not coming down with something. Mr. Webster and Colonel Duggan remained speechless, the latter harrumphing now and then, which gave a curious effect of ventriloquism, as if the croaks of the fictional Jeremy Fisher were issuing from Duggan’s mouth. Fortunately, dinner was soon announced.
On the way downstairs, Daisy recalled Mrs. Tebbit’s mention of Lord Nithsdale’s escape from the room at the head of the stairs. Once seated, she asked General Carradine if he could tell her the details. The story turned out to be a favourite of his.
Everyone listened to the tale of how Lady Nithsdale, hearing her husband had been arrested for his part in the Jacobite rebellion of 1715, rode from the North through icy winter weather to plead for his life. Failing to move George I, she had persuaded the Governor of the Tower to let her visit the prisoner.
“The evening before the execution,” Carradine related, “she brought several women friends with her to the Tower, and women’s clothes hidden under her cloak. It’s said the earl wasn’t happy about dressing as a woman, but his wife convinced him of the necessity. She used rouge to redden his eyes, as if he’d been weeping, and with a shawl over his head and the others around him bemoaning Nithsdale’s fate, they all trooped down the stairs and away. He escaped the country dressed as a servant to the Venetian ambassador.”
“A good story,” said Colonel Duggan. He laughed. “That must have taken the Governor and the warders down a peg, letting him run off like that.”
The general glared at him. If looks could kill, the colonel’s dinner would have gone to waste.
Mrs. Tebbit flung fuel on the flames. “It sounds to me as if someone must have been bribed. Not the Governor, I dare say,” she added with a vestige of discretion, as her cousin appeared about to burst a blood vessel. “A Yeoman Warder or two.”
“The very first prisoner at the Tower escaped,” said Webster, his enigmatic glasses making it impossible to gauge his intent, pacific or inflammatory. “He was a churchman, Bishop of Durham. He had a rope smuggled to him in a cask of wine, made his guards drunk, and climbed down from the White Tower.”
“Oh, yes,” Daisy put in, “the rope was too short, wasn’t it? He fell but then picked himself up and scurried away. But that was when the Tower was still a royal palace—that is, when the royal family still lived here—centuries before the Yeoman Warders existed. Mr. Rumford, the Yeoman Gaoler, told me about it. You said he knows everything, General, and there wasn’t a single question I asked that he didn’t have the answer to. You couldn’t have chosen a more helpful guide.”
She succeeded in turning his attention from escaping prisoners. At least he ceased to look apoplectic, though his expression could hardly have been described as cheerful. “Glad the fellow made himself useful,” he muttered, and sank into a depressed silence.
Mrs. Tebbit glanced around the table. “What a lot of long faces,” she declared. “You all dislike him? What’s wrong with the man?”
“I’ve only spoken to Mr. Rumford once, briefly,” said Mrs. Duggan. “I can’t claim to know him.”
“He really was very knowledgeable and amusing,” Daisy reaffirmed. “But I must admit I found the Chief Warder more likable. Mr. Crabtree’s information was less useful for my purposes, but he was very pleasant and friendly. I gather he plays a major part in the ceremony tonight, General?”
At last she’d hit on a topic that offended no one. Both garrison and Yeoman Warders, as well as the Resident Governor himself, had their parts to play in the seven-hundred-year-old ritual. Everyone at the table had something to say, though all agreed one had to watch it to appreciate it. Even when Mrs. Tebbit pointed out that on such a foggy night the solemnities would no doubt be interrupted by a good deal of coughing, Carradine kept his good humour—through gritted teeth at times, Daisy suspected.
Having been invited for dinner and the night because of the ceremony, Daisy had expected company when she went out to view it. However, the night was much too unpleasant to expect an old lady to venture forth, and Mrs. Tebbit ordered her daughter to take her cough to bed. The Resident Governor’s part in the proceedings demanded that he stay at home to receive the King’s Keys from the Chief Warder. Daisy hadn’t much faith in either Brenda or Fay abandoning the comfort of the Council Chamber for the cold, clammy fog for the sake of mere manners, though Fay might for a cigarette. Jeremy Webster had some papers to be dealt with before morning; Colonel Duggan had military duties awaiting his return.
“You go along, Sidney,” Mrs. Duggan proposed, “and I’ll watch the goings-on with Mrs. Fletcher.”
“I’d love to have your company,” Daisy said gratefully. “I expect I’d get lost out there alone in the dark and the fog.”
Fay and Brenda exchanged a shamefaced glance.
“We hadn’t thought . . .”
“Of course we’ll come with you, too.”
“It’s going to be beastly outside.”
“Would you like to borrow a woolly hat?”
“And a muffler?”
They rushed off and returned with a selection of warm gloves, scarves, and hats.
“Come on, let’s go.”
“They start at seven minutes to ten.”
“On the dot.”
“The gates are locked at ten.”
“After which no one can enter or leave the Tower.”
“Absolutely no one.”
“Not even Daddy.”
“Except the King.”
“They’re like a music-hall act, aren’t they?” said their aunt fondly.
Well wrapped, the ladies set out. The fog had thickened, but it still smelt of river muck,
not yet of coal smoke and petrol fumes. Only the nearest of the gas lamps scattered about the Inner Ward were visible, haloed beacons that cast little light.
“I don’t fancy going down the shortcut in this,” said Brenda, shivering.
“We’d probably break our necks on those steep steps,” Fay seconded her.
“They’ll be invisible.”
“And slippery.”
“We’ll go round,” Mrs. Duggan agreed.
“Oh yes, let’s.” Daisy remembered the sinister impression of those walled-in steps in broad daylight.
They walked along the wall and round the end, then down the two wide, shallow flights of steps, Fay and Brenda hanging on to each other and giggling. The steps were indeed slippery, as was the cobbled slope leading down to the Bloody Tower archway. Lamps at either end of the tunnel only rendered the darkness underneath more complete. Daisy, gloved hands deep in her pockets, felt Mrs. Duggan’s hand slip through her arm.
“I hate this place,” the colonel’s wife whispered, “even in the daytime. I can’t help thinking about the little princes murdered just over our heads.”
“Almost five centuries ago,” said Daisy comfortingly, wishing she hadn’t been reminded.
As they passed under the portcullis, invisible above, they heard fog-muffled marching footsteps coming after them. Daisy glanced back and, by the light at the far end, caught a fleeting glimpse of shakoed silhouettes before they disappeared into the darkness.
“The escort,” Brenda explained.
“The sergeant of the watch,” Fay elucidated.
“And three privates.”
“One’s a drummer.”
“That’s his official title.”
“But he plays the bugle.”
They both laughed, their youthful insouciance driving away any lingering ghosts.
The marching footsteps stopped under the Bloody Tower. The four ladies continued, turning right along Water Street, walking close to the wall, towards the Byward Tower. For all they could see of it, the tower might as well not have existed.
Its lamp came into view, and at the same time two yeomen materialized, coming towards them. Except for the Tudor bonnets, their uniforms were hidden by scarlet capes. They walked with solemn tread, on official business now. As they came closer, Daisy recognised the Chief Warder’s beard. His companion carried a lantern, its candle doing absolutely nothing to illuminate the scene.
She and her companions turned to trail the yeomen. At the Bloody Tower, they halted, and Crabtree’s voice rang out, “Escort for the Keys!”
Followed by the five Hotspur Guards, they marched back along Water Street, under the Byward Tower and across the moat to the Middle Tower. As they reached it, a large motor-car nosed through the arch, its acetylene lamps creating two glowing spheres of fog. Their dazzle hid the driver, but Daisy recognized Sir Patrick’s voice: “Just in time, eh, Crabtree? The damn fog suddenly thickened at the top of the hill.”
The silver Hotchkiss crept past.
The second yeoman helped the Chief Warder close the great gates. Crabtree locked them with a huge key from his huge bunch of keys as the sentries and escort presented arms. With Daisy and her friends doing their best to keep out of the way but in sight, Yeoman Warders and Hotspur Guards returned to the Byward Tower.
“Quick,” Fay urged, “we don’t want to be locked out on the bridge overnight!”
She and Brenda skipped through; Mrs. Duggan and Daisy slipped through after them. The closing and locking were repeated. Here the second yeoman was left on guard. Crabtree and his escort and their four shadows returned to the Bloody Tower.
From under the arch a challenge rang out: “Halt! Who comes there?”
“The Keys,” Crabtree responded.
“Whose keys?”
“King George’s Keys.”
“Pass, King George’s Keys. All’s well.”
Back through the tunnel they went, less eerie now with the tramp of marching boots ahead. At the top of the slope, a ghostly platoon awaited them, arrayed on the steps with the Officer of the Guard in front, his sword drawn.
“Guard and escort, present arms,” he commanded.
“That’s Billy Playdell,” Brenda whispered in Daisy’s ear. “He’s our croquet champion.”
Crabtree took two steps forward, raised his bonnet, and called out, “God preserve King George!”
“Amen!” bellowed the Guardsmen.
Through the fog came the fog-deadened sound of a clock striking ten. The Drummer raised his bugle to his lips and played the Last Post. Always a melancholy sound, in this setting it was positively ghostly.
“That’s the end,” said Fay. “Mr. Crabtree takes the keys to Daddy now. Why don’t you go with him, Mrs. Fletcher, and we’ll see Aunt Christina home.”
“Good idea,” her sister agreed. “Mr. Crabtree!”
The Chief Warder came to meet them. “Now, Miss Brenda, you know I’m not supposed to do nothing this minute but deliver the King’s Keys to the Governor.”
“Oh but, it’s such a foul night, we can’t let Mrs. Duggan try to find her way home alone, can we?” Brenda coaxed.
“My sister and I will go with her, Mr. Crabtree—”
“But you wouldn’t want Mrs. Fletcher to have to traipse all that way with us, would you?”
“Or to go to the King’s House by herself in this fog?”
“When you’re going straight there.”
Crabtree shook his head, but he said, “No indeed. I’ll be honoured to escort Mrs. Fletcher.”
Daisy shook Mrs. Duggan’s hand and promised to meet again soon. Aunt and nieces disappeared up the steps into the fog.
“We’ll take the shortcut, madam, if that’s all right with you.”
“Yes, it shouldn’t be too bad going up, though we funked it coming down.”
“Very wise, madam. A nasty night it is for sure, but I’ve got my lantern to show us the way.”
“It’s a very fine lantern,” said Daisy, with a dubious glance at the remaining stub of candle and its wavering flame.
“Presented by the Artillery Company in ’19, when they were garrisoned here. They gave us a nice inkstand for the Warders’ Hall, too. Good chaps, that lot.”
In contrast to the present garrison? Daisy wondered. With luck, Mrs. Tebbit’s caustic comments on the futility of family feuds might alleviate the discord between Yeoman Warders and Hotspur Guards for the rest of the battalion’s residence here.
“You’ll see better if I go first, madam, so the light hits the steps ahead of you.”
Daisy followed him up. The candle end did help a little, but she couldn’t see a thing beyond its light. She heard someone, though, someone with a bad cough standing at the top of the steps—there hadn’t been much coughing during the ceremony, perhaps because coal smoke hadn’t yet suffused the fog. As they neared the top, the fuzzy globe of a gas lamp dimly illuminated a Tudor bonnet and a red cape like the Chief Warder’s.
A hoarse whisper: “Evening, madam.” Cough, cough. “Evening, Mr. Crabtree. Can I ’ave a word wi’ you?”
“Not just now, Mr. Rumford. I have the Keys, and this lady . . .”
“That’s all right,” said Daisy. She could just make out the lamp on the corner house, the one that now blocked Ralegh’s Walk. “I can find my way now.” She almost offered to take the King’s Keys to the general, but decided that would be a breach of etiquette.
“Only take ’alf a mo.” Rumford started coughing again.
“All right, then, if you don’t mind waiting, Mrs. Fletcher. I promised the young ladies to see you home.”
The Yeoman Gaoler pulled Crabtree a couple of paces aside. Daisy couldn’t hear what he said, but the Chief Warder replied, “Right you are. You sound bloody ’orrible all right.”
Rumford went off, his cough still echoing back after he’d vanished.
“Gassed,” said Crabtree briefly, rejoining Daisy. “He’s mostly right enough, but the fog brings it on.”<
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Daisy made sympathetic noises, wondering why he sounded disgruntled. Perhaps Rumford used his damaged lungs to pass off some of his duties on his superior, but the cough had sounded bad enough to be a reason, not an excuse.
The King’s House was easy enough to find now. Crabtree knocked on the door. General Carradine’s batman opened it and there was a moment’s confusion while the general stepped forward to receive the keys while the Chief Warder stepped back to usher Daisy inside. They sorted themselves out, the keys were handed over in due form, and Daisy thanked Crabtree.
As the batman closed the door, Carradine demanded, “Where are my girls, Mrs. Fletcher?”
Daisy explained, adding, “It was very thoughtful of them, wasn’t it?”
“As long as they don’t hang about with the officers when they get there.”
“I’m sure they intend to come straight home, as straight as is possible in the fog.” She hid a smile as she envisioned an officer or two offering to escort the young ladies home and, in turn, having to find their own way back to their quarters.
They went upstairs, where Mrs. Tebbit immediately echoed her cousin: “Where are the girls, Mrs. Fletcher?”
Again, Daisy explained.
“Hm, very proper. I suppose you gave them the hint.”
“Not at all. It was their own notion.”
“Well, I ascribe it to your influence anyway. They seem to consider you a model to be emulated. There is something to be said for an aristocratic young lady who is also a modern working woman.”
“Oh, Mother!”
Half an hour later, Fay and Brenda turned up, damp and chilled and calling for cocoa.
When the household retired to bed, Daisy found herself wakeful. While the details of the ceremony itself had not particularly inspired her, the idea that it had taken place in more or less the same form for seven hundred years was impressive. The ancient setting and the atmosphere of mystery lent by the fog made it unforgettable.
Yet when at last she slept, her dreams were haunted not by huge bunches of giant keys but by visions of the little princes murdered in the Bloody Tower. As with Alice and Anne Boleyn, Queen Mary and the Red Queen, the princes became confused with her own twins.