The Bloody Tower

by Carola Dunn

  “Did you notice where he went?”

  “I didn’t see him at all. I didn’t look round. And what with the girls’ chatter, and once we passed the White Tower we could hear the river shipping whistling and hooting, if he made any sound, I didn’t hear it. I’m sorry I can’t be more helpful.”

  “Have you any idea where he might have been heading for?”

  “No.” She gave a helpless shrug. “Certainly not here. The Hotspurs and the Yeoman Warders don’t mix much, and there wasn’t any reason for Arthur to send Sidney a message. Oh, but . . . No.”

  “Oh but what?” Alec said encouragingly.

  “It may have been my imagination. I did wonder if I heard a cough, before I heard the footsteps.”

  “Is that significant?”

  “Probably not. Only, the next building is the Tower’s hospital, so he might have been going to ask for cough mixture.”

  Daisy had said something about a cough. The yeoman waiting at the top of the fatal stair for a word with the victim had been coughing, and he, too, had been wearing his costume at an unlikely hour. The hospital was not labelled on the brochure’s plan, Alec saw, doubtless because it was of no interest to tourists. It would have to be looked into.

  “That seems very likely,” he said. “Did you notice the time when you reached home?”

  “No,” she said, absurdly guilty, as though she should have guessed she was going to be interrogated on that point. “I didn’t look at the clock. Sidney might have noticed. It must have been shortly after ten, because the ceremony is always exactly on time. For fear of disturbing Wellington’s ghost,” she added with an unexpected touch of whimsy.

  Alec smiled. “The Iron Duke was quite a martinet, they say, but I should have thought you had plenty of other ghosts here.”

  “We do,” she retorted, “if you believe everything the yeomen tell visitors. And another was added to their number today, I’m afraid. Mr. Fletcher, you will catch the murderer, won’t you?”

  “I expect so. We usually do, and in a closed community such as this, it’s largely a matter of sifting information. So the more information we have, whether it seems relevant or not, from as many people as possible, the sooner we’ll get there. You’re being extremely helpful.”

  “I’m happy to help. I like your wife so much. Such a comforting person.”

  As a reason for assisting the police with their enquiries, it was not what Alec would have chosen. He reminded himself with relief that Daisy was safely on her way home to the twins and unable to meddle further.

  “Tell me what happened next, after you got back here. Ten o’clock on a foggy night and your nieces were on the wrong side of the Inner Ward.”

  “Sidney was in—a commanding officer has most irregular hours!—and he said at once that he’d walk the girls back. But some of the boys, the younger officers, were here for cocoa, and—”

  “For cocoa?” Astonishment diverted Alec from his purpose.

  “Some of them really are boys, you know. And there’s such a temptation in the evenings, when they’re off duty, to drink too much alcohol in the mess. So I always have cocoa and biscuits available for any who want it. I think of their mothers.”

  “Admirable!”

  “Well, Sidney jokes about it, but it can’t hurt, can it?”

  “On the contrary.” Alec, who already liked Mrs. Duggan, in spite of his duty to be objective, warmed still further to the little lady. He hoped he was not going to have to arrest anyone near and dear to her. “A thermos bottle of cocoa kept me going through many a cold flight. But to get back to last night . . .”

  “Naturally, all the boys at once volunteered to escort Fay and Brenda. Sidney said two were sufficient, and he sent Captain Devereux and Lieutenant Jardyne. I said to him later that it would have been better not to pick Lieutenant Jardyne, because he is quite dotty about Fay and apt to make a bit of a nuisance of himself, but Sidney said, and of course he was quite right, that Captain Devereux would keep him in order. Captain Devereux sometimes seems a little thoughtless, but he’s really very reliable.”

  “Both officers returned for their cocoa?”

  “As a matter of fact, Lieutenant Jardyne didn’t. I heard Captain Devereux tell one of the others he’d gone off in a sulk.”

  Another loose end wandering about in the fog! With any luck, Jardyne had gone back to the mess and got drunk in company. Suppose he hadn’t, though. Suppose he had met Crabtree and quarrelled with him . . . . It was difficult to imagine what a youthful officer and a mature Yeoman Warder might find to quarrel about. He’d worry about that later, if necessary. More to the point was that he’d have had somehow to provide himself with a partizan. Malice aforethought, Alec and Tom had concluded.

  He asked Mrs. Duggan, “Do you happen to know which regiment Crabtree served in?”

  “Yes indeed, because it was the Hotspurs.”

  Aha, the plot thickens! Alec thought. “Did your husband go out again?” he asked.

  “Not last night. Sometimes on a fine evening, we take a stroll along the walls, but yesterday was a night for sitting by the fire. He had no duties to call him out. Sidney is most conscientious about performing all his duties to the letter, and beyond. You see—I expect someone has told you—he started out as a common soldier and was commissioned in France.”

  “So I’ve heard. How did that come about?”

  “Well, he was already a warrant officer before the War. He earned the Military Cross. I think it was in ’15. Then he saved an officer’s life at risk of his own. He won’t tell me about it—he says it would give me nightmares, but he got the DCM for it, so he must have been very brave, mustn’t he?” She giggled, suddenly looking remarkably girlish. “But the significant part is that the man he saved was the son of a field marshal, who was terribly grateful.”

  “I see.”

  “And so many officers were killed over there, or put permanently out of action, that Sidney was given a temporary commission. The field marshal made his commission permanent and has helped him rise through the ranks, though in a different Guards regiment. He’ll never be a full colonel, not in the Guards, he says, but that’s all right. He’s going to retire soon anyway, so even this horrible murder can’t harm him. Besides, it’s not as if he’s in charge of the Tower. That’s Arthur’s pigeon.”

  “Very true,” said Alec. He took his leave and went in search of the lieutenant colonel.

  He found Captain Devereux waiting for him, still lounging against the doorpost, smoking. The rain was falling more gently now. A break in the clouds had produced a magnificent rainbow over the Royal Chapel of St. Peter ad Vincula and the site of the scaffold.

  “We are told a rainbow is a symbol of a covenant,” Devereux murmured. “One wonders just what is being promised us.” Even as he spoke, the bright arc faded.

  Alec was reminded of Crabtree’s search for a meaning for Plague following on the heels of War. He doubted the captain would turn to Bible study for an answer.

  “Did you know Crabtree before he became a Yeoman Warder?” he asked.

  “Good Lord, yes! He was my drill sergeant major when I was a wet-behind-the-ears sublieutenant. But I assure you I didn’t hold it against him for a decade and then push him down the stairs. In fact, I wouldn’t be alive today but for one or two tricks he taught us.” His momentary earnestness carried conviction. “If there’s anything I can do to help you catch the bastard who killed him, Chief Inspector, I’m your man.” The habitual mockery returned: “I can at least be your Virgil. Let me show you the way to Colonel Duggan’s office.”

  “I’m no Dante,” said Alec, accompanying him down the steps. He couldn’t claim to have read the Inferno or whatever it was—and he wondered whether Devereux actually had—but at swapping vague references, he could hold his own. “Reports in verse are frowned upon at the Yard.”

  Devereux laughed. “An educated copper with a sense of humour,” he marvelled. “What is the world coming to?”

&nb
sp; “No doubt we shall find out in due course. Would you mind telling me how you spent yesterday evening?”

  “As you will no doubt find out, Chief Inspector, if you haven’t already, I was watch officer. That means I slept fully dressed on a damn uncomfortable cot in the Guard House, with men tramping in and out past my door at all hours, just in case the sergeant of the guard came across something he couldn’t cope with. A most unlikely contingency, and one that did not occur last night, leading me to the conclusion that no one noticed the Chief Warder’s body.”

  “A reasonable conclusion. So you were safely tucked away in the Guard House all night, with numerous witnesses.”

  “Oh, no, I’m afraid not,” said Devereux sardonically. “The watch officer’s room has its own door to the outside. One is expected to sortie at some point during the small hours to make an unannounced inspection.”

  “Which you did?”

  “Which I did.”

  10

  Daisy, having seen with her own eyes that Miranda and Oliver were safe and sound, woke them by kissing them, to Nanny’s displeasure. However, she was permitted to give each a bottle. Feeding them made her realize she was ravenous. Somehow, between one thing and another, she had had no breakfast, though she was wallowing in tea.

  She went down to the kitchen. Mrs. Dobson was pinning on her second-best hat, to go to the shops, while giving the daily help instructions for what was to be accomplished during her absence. They both looked round and said, “Good morning, madam.”

  “Good morning, ladies. Mrs. Dobson, I missed breakfast. I’ll just get myself some bread and butter and marmalade.”

  “That you won’t, madam!” The hat came off with a swish. “Sit yourself down right there and I’ll have eggs and bacon for you in a trice. Well, what are you waiting for?” she said severely to Mrs. Twickle. “You can get on with the bathroom while I’m busy in here.”

  Cowed, the charwoman went off with her pail and mop and scrubbing brush.

  Daisy also did as she was bade. She had no qualms about eating in the kitchen. As children at Fairacres, her family home, she and Violet and Gervaise had popped into the labyrinthine kitchens for a picnic or a snack whenever they escaped their nursemaids, governesses, and tutors.

  Melanie Germond would have been shocked. It was one of the odd differences between the customs of the aristocracy and the professional middle classes that Daisy felt she had at last more or less mastered.

  At first, when Daisy married and came to live in St. John’s Wood, Alec’s mother had been a complicating factor. The elder Mrs. Fletcher held so stringently to the most restrictive rules of Victorian propriety that Daisy found it difficult to distinguish between her quirks and the somewhat more relaxed etiquette of modern middle-class life. A year ago, Mrs. Fletcher had moved to Bournemouth. Daisy felt she now grasped which commandments were carved in stone and which she could safely ignore, at least as long as she didn’t draw her lapses to anyone’s attention.

  Her struggle made her sympathize with Fay’s and Brenda’s confusion over appropriate manners. They had been very sweet earlier when she returned to the King’s House in a state of shock. She was sorry she had abandoned them. Perhaps she should go back—but Alec would be furious if she reappeared in the middle of his investigation.

  Mrs. Dobson emerged from the larder and set about preparing breakfast. “Weren’t it a general you was going to stay with, Mrs. Fletcher?” she observed. “You’d think a general’s household could spare a body a bite of breakfast before you left.”

  “It wasn’t their fault. There was . . .” Daisy hesitated. She really didn’t care to discuss the murder with the housekeeper, though Mrs. Dobson was used to the subject, given the master’s profession, and would read about it in tomorrow’s newspaper. “They had some trouble at the Tower,” she said vaguely. “Mmm, the bacon smells heavenly, much better than when one actually eats it.”

  “It’s the best back bacon,” said Mrs. Dobson, bridling, then conceding the point. “But it’s like coffee and frying onions—the taste’s always a bit of a letdown after the smell.”

  Having served Daisy, she put her hat back on, adjured Daisy to leave the washing up for Mrs. Twickle, and set off to do the shopping. Daisy enjoyed the bacon; it tasted better in the kitchen, where the smell lingered, than in the dining room, she decided.

  With a slightly guilty feeling for disobeying Mrs. Dobson’s orders, she put her eggy plate into the sink and ran water onto it. In the days between the War and marriage, when she had shared a bijou residence in Chelsea with her friend Lucy, she had scrubbed many a plate on which egg yolk had congealed. It didn’t seem fair to leave such a mess for poor bullied Mrs. Twickle.

  She went to the office she shared with Alec now that the house was full of babies. Her article was nearly finished, but she had to add a bit about the Ceremony of the Keys, now that she had seen it. Americans seemed to believe London was always smothered in fog, so her description should please them. People always liked to have prejudices confirmed.

  Writing about the ceremony inevitably brought vividly to mind its chief figure. She couldn’t concentrate on the proud yeoman bearing his part in the ancient tradition. All she could see was the man she had found crumpled at the foot of the steps.

  She did, after all, need to talk to someone about it, though not Mrs. Dobson.

  Melanie would be ideal. She knew some of the people involved. But Mel would be shocked to the core that Daisy was mixed up in another murder. Sakari, on the other hand, would be interested and sympathetic, and would be a calming influence on Mel.

  Daisy abandoned her typewriter and went out to the hall to telephone her friends. Mel was free and delighted to come over for morning coffee, as she wanted to discuss the forthcoming tennis party for the Carradine girls. She wouldn’t want to talk about tennis when she heard the news, but Daisy cravenly didn’t warn her.

  Sakari knew at once from Daisy’s voice that something was wrong. “What is up, Daisy? Is it Belinda?” Sakari’s daughter, Deva, was one of Bel’s best friends, along with Melanie’s daughter, and the three were at the same boarding school.

  “No, Bel’s quite all right.”

  “That is fortunate. I was about to offer to lend you the car and chauffeur to go to her, and my lord and master claims to have some pressing need for them later today.” Mr. Prasad was something important at the India Office. “But you are troubled. I will come at once, of course. Shall I pick up Melanie on the way?”

  “Yes, please, Sakari. Bless you.”

  Daisy went to put on the percolator. Looking in the biscuit tin, she found only crumbs. She hoped Mrs. Dobson would be back before the others arrived. One couldn’t invite one’s friends to have their shoulders cried on and not offer biscuits to go with their coffee.

  Not that she meant to cry on anyone’s shoulder, but she just couldn’t get the picture of Crabtree’s body out of her mind. With any luck, talking about it would help. Thinking back over the various cases she’d stumbled into, she couldn’t remember ever having felt so isolated.

  The feeling ended the moment Sakari walked through the door and enfolded her in an exotic-scented rose-and-gold embrace. “Dear Daisy, we have decided that you must have discovered another body.”

  “Sakari has decided.” Mel kissed Daisy’s cheek. “I can’t believe it.”

  “I’m awfully afraid it’s true. Come and sit down, and I’ll tell you about it. If you don’t mind.”

  Mel couldn’t suppress a quiet sigh.

  “She cannot help it, Melanie,” Sakari said as they followed Daisy into the sitting room.

  “I know. It’s just that . . . these things never happen to other people.”

  “I’d much rather they didn’t happen to me, I assure you. I won’t talk about it if you’d rather not, Mel, but you’ve been to the Tower and met some of the people, so I thought perhaps you could help me get things straight in my mind.”

  “Oho, you are sleuthing, Daisy!” Sakari mad
e herself comfortable on the sofa, a plump bird of paradise in her colourful sari, and accepted a cup of coffee. No Mrs. Dobson; no biscuits.

  “Not really sleuthing. I’ve finished my work there, so I have no excuse to go back. Let’s talk about something else. Your tennis party, Mel.”

  “Daisy, I’m sorry. I can see you’re upset and you need to talk about the . . . the murder. I’m sure otherwise you’ll develop inhibitions, or something.” Mel smiled at Sakari. The Indian woman was a devotee of lectures on all subjects under the sun and still occasionally brought forth words of wisdom from a talk on psychology she had attended eighteen months ago. “It happened at the Tower?”

  “Who was killed?” Sakari asked.

  “The Chief Yeoman Warder.” Daisy told them about the ceremony and how Fay and Brenda had coaxed Crabtree into escorting her through the fog to the King’s House.

  “Not the one who showed us the way!” Mel exclaimed. “The one whose manner we didn’t care for? I remember he had some special insignia on his costume.”

  “The oily one? No, he’s Yeoman Gaoler. He’s second in charge, but he doesn’t play any rôle in the ceremony.”

  “My dear Daisy,” said Sakari, “I see no difficulty. Clearly, the murderer is this oily man, of whom even Melanie speaks ill. He wishes to be Chief.”

  “Well . . .” Daisy hesitated. “He was out and about, in spite of the frightful fog. But if he was planning murder, surely he’d have kept out of sight.”

  “Ah, I see what it is.” Sakari laughed. “This obvious solution is too simple. You want a mystery!”

  “Of course not! I just don’t think he’s stupid.”

  Melanie hastily intervened to keep the peace. “How did you come to be mixed up in the affair, Daisy?”

  “I found him.” She explained about getting up early because of her urgent need to see the twins. As mothers, they quite understood, though Melanie was rather shocked that she had departed without taking leave of her hosts.

  “I know, it was disgraceful of me. I found the Tower disturbing from the first, I must admit, so perhaps spending the night there was just too much for my poor nerves.”