by Carola Dunn
When Alec reached Colonel Duggan’s office, he found that the commander of the garrison had foreseen his needs and mustered all the Guardsmen who had taken sentry duty during the night.
“Thank you, sir, that’s a great help. My sergeant will be along shortly to deal with them. Meanwhile, I’d like to have your recollections of last night.”
Duggan’s account agreed exactly with his wife’s. Like his counterpart at the King’s House, the sentry at the front door of the Officers’ Quarters could hardly have helped seeing anyone who went in or out. Presumably, there was at least one other exit, for servants and deliveries and so on. Checking on that would be another job for Tom. However, Alec was inclined to believe the Duggans.
One last personal question remained. “I gather you transferred to the Hotspur Guards from another regiment. Was that during Crabtree’s tenure as RSM or after he left?”
“A year or so before he came to the Tower. He was a damn good soldier and a pleasant fellow. He could have made life sticky for me, me not being one of the ‘Gentlemen’s Sons’ who are supposed to officer the Guards, but he was always most cooperative, even positively smoothed my way. I’m damn sorry he came to such a nasty end, after managing to survive the War.”
“My wife gave me the impression there was a certain amount of strife between the garrison and the yeomen.”
Duggan laughed heartily. “Between the Resident Governor and myself, perhaps, though it was mostly in his mind. I married his sister-in-law, and not for what she inherited, whatever people say, though I’ll admit we couldn’t have married without it. But there’s nothing Carradine can do about it. Otherwise, I suppose there’s always some friction between the members of a temporary garrison and the permanent residents, but remember, the yeomen were all once serving soldiers, and NCOs at that. It’s not like being quartered in a civilian area.”
“So you’d reject the possibility of the murder being the result of some sort of feud between Hotspurs and Yeoman Warders?”
“Absolutely! I’d wager Mrs. Fletcher got her impression from Christina’s nieces. Nice girls, but given to dramatic embellishment. As for the personal matter with the general, that splendid old lady Mrs. Tebbit seems to be bent on putting an end to that, which I’m heartily grateful for. It was making my poor Christina damn uncomfortable.”
“Mrs. Tebbit is a force to be reckoned with,” Alec agreed. “All right, I won’t take that feud too seriously. What about any personal disagreements between members of your battalion and the yeomen? Since Crabtree was the Regimental Sergeant Major, it’s not unlikely that he had a few enemies.”
“Not many, I shouldn’t think. He was a disciplinarian, or he wouldn’t have got as far as he did, but always fair, no tyrant.”
“There are always some who take discipline as a personal affront.”
“True. But I wouldn’t necessarily know about it. Sergeants are perfectly capable of dealing with such matters—as I should know, having been one—except for the odd exception that goes to court martial, in which case the man concerned would no longer be among us. I don’t know of any festering resentments among the men.”
“And among your officers?”
The colonel’s lips thinned. “You’re putting me in a damn difficult position, you know. Half of them, the half who didn’t go through the War, still think they’re Public School boys and believe the only unforgivable sin is to snitch on their fellows.”
“I can’t help that,” Alec said impatiently. “They’re not schoolboys any longer, and I’m dealing with murder here. And loath though I am to remind you of the fact, you never were—”
“A Public School boy,” Duggan ruefully finished the sentence.
“No more was I. Not that snitches are exactly popular among their peers anywhere, but we’re not talking about swiping sweets from a tuck box or cribbing in an exam. A man has been murdered, and with or without your help, I’m going to find out who did it. I have evidence that at least two officers were out and about last night.”
Duggan hesitated. “I won’t ask you who.”
“I wouldn’t tell you if you did.”
“I suppose not.” He paused in thought. “As far as I’m aware, none of my officers was on bad terms with Crabtree.”
Alec heard the merest hint of a stress on the name Crabtree. Though at present his sole concern was the unfortunate Chief Warder, he made a mental note of the possibility that one or more of the Hotspurs officers was on bad terms with one or more of the Yeoman Warders.
He asked a few more questions, about the general procedures of the garrison. Except for the Keys Ceremony and certain shared guard duties, the garrison’s activities didn’t seem to have much to do with the yeomen’s, so there were few opportunities for disputes to arise. The motive for the murder probably lay in the past. That kind of case was almost always the most difficult for the poor hardworking policeman, especially when means and opportunity were available to so many and motive might be the only clue he had to rely on.
An orderly came in and, with a smart salute, announced, “There’s a couple of detectives outside, sir, asking for DCI Fletcher, and they’ve brung a swarm of Beef . . . of Yeoman Warders with them.”
The colonel looked startled.
“All the warders are Special Constables,” Alec explained, “sworn officers of the Metropolitan Police. I assume these are the ones whose alibis my men have accepted. I’m hoping their assistance will help to clear things up more quickly. Is there a room we can use to question your sentries?”
“The room where I’ve had them gathered will be easiest.” Duggan rang for his adjutant.
Alec went out to the anteroom, where DCs Piper and Ross awaited him. The door to the outside was open, and through it Alec saw a couple of dozen Yeoman Warders in full fig. Standing in a grim-faced group, they were an impressive sight, even without their partizans.
“Out for blood, Chief,” said Piper, following his gaze. “Aside from the deceased being a popular bloke, they don’t take it kindly that someone would attack one of their own. Most of the rest’ll join in soon as we’ve cleared ’em with the sentries, leaving just the ones that live inside the inner wall.”
“Excellent. I don’t know how many sentries there are, but with so much help, it shouldn’t take long to get some answers.”
“One-on-one, I shouldn’t wonder,” said Ross.
“I’ve explained to them what we need to know, Chief, what questions to ask.”
Alec nodded to the adjutant, a stout major, as he came out of the inner room. “This gentleman will introduce you to the sentries and give them their orders. Just a minute, Piper. How much police training do the warders have?”
“Just the standard Special Constable stuff, Chief, but at least it’s recent. Our own chaps were posted here till the beginning of last year.”
“Right-oh. Remind them they’re in the police, not the army, now. I don’t want any complaints. I’d like a word with you, Major, when you’re free.”
Alec and his men met in the late Chief Warder’s sanctum for a late lunch. There had been some competition for the honour of feeding the detectives, with several of the Yeoman Warders bearing offers from their wives.
“Nice to be so popular for once,” said Tom, removing the cover from his plate and contemplating with satisfaction a generous helping of steak and kidney pudding and buttered broad beans. “Though no one else’s pud ever measures up to the missus’s.”
“No one makes steak and kidney pud like Mrs. Tring’s,” agreed Ernie Piper, who had more than once profited from invitations to supper at the Trings’.
“Not half bad, though.” Ross had already dived in.
“Enjoy the fleshpots while you can, Ross,” Alec advised, listening to the murmur from outside, where a score of yeomen lingered in muttering clusters. As many more were in the Warders’ Hall opposite, just waiting to be called upon. “With so many willing helpers, I can’t justify keeping you. It’s back to the Yard for you as soon as you and Piper
have given me your reports.”
“Aw, sir!”
“Sorry. Others have greater need of your services. Tom, I’ll let you eat in peace, but just tell me, have you cleared the residents of the King’s House?”
His mouth full, Tom nodded. He swallowed. “The evidence proves Mrs. Fletcher did not murder Crabtree,” he said gravely.
“Sarge!” Piper was indignant. “That’s not something to joke about.”
“Wrong, laddie. If there was the slightest chance she might’ve, then it’d be nothing to joke about.”
“As it is,” Alec cut in, seeing Daisy’s champion not entirely mollified, “if she couldn’t have done it, neither could General Carradine or his daughters, for which I am profoundly grateful.”
“In a manner of speaking, Chief,” said Tom, and took another mouthful.
Alec took the hint and refrained from further discussion until they had finished eating. He observed that, however superior Mrs. Tring’s pudding, Tom’s plate was clean. Nor did he disdain the apple charlotte and biscuits and cheese that followed. His bulk took a good deal of keeping up.
Piper and Ross cleared the plates from Crabtree’s desk, where they had eaten, a sight to distress the Chief Warder had his ghost watched, for among his other virtues, he’d been an orderly man. As Alec had noticed earlier, the desktop was clear of everything except the Wait Book and the inkstand.
Alec opened the Wait Book. In a crabbed, painstaking hand was written out a timetable of duties for the week for the warders.
“Ernie, when we’re all up-to-date with one another’s reports, you’ll examine this and any other papers here, and then move over to his house and go through that thoroughly. Pick a yeoman to give you a hand. All right, Tom, let’s hear about the King’s House.”
Tom started explaining about keys and bolts, squeaking hinges, the cook who slept downstairs because the stairs were too much for her these days, and the housemaid who got up even earlier than Daisy to make up the fires. Alec stopped him.
“Never mind. If you say no one could have left by the side door unnoticed, I’m prepared to believe you and to assume you can write it up so that the Super can follow your reasoning, if necessary.”
Tom’s moustache twitched as he grinned. “Can do. There’s just one thing: You know that sort of balcony affair, Chief? It’d be easy to get out there with no one seeing or hearing, and not too hard to lower yourself to the ground. I can’t see Mrs. Fletcher doing it.”
“She’s not athletically inclined,” Alec agreed. “Nor is Mr. Webster, let alone the Tebbits. The general or his daughters—it’s conceivable but seems to me highly unlikely. What about the servants?”
“The batman could, and one or two of the maids, perhaps. But seems to me the general’s the only one’d find it comparatively easy to get hold of one of those pikes and keep it hidden somewhere.”
“The general will have to stay on the list, especially if we come across a motive. Did the servants have anything interesting to say about Crabtree? Or any other Tower resident, come to that?”
“Not really. They all seem to have liked what little they knew of Crabtree. The general’s a fair-enough employer, as employers go. The young ladies are a scream, a bloody nuisance, or a pair of flighty flibbertigibbets, depending on who you’re talking to. Mr. Webster keeps himself to himself. Miss Tebbit’s a hapless old maid, and they don’t none of them know what to make of Mrs. Tebbit.”
Alec laughed. “They’re not the first and they won’t be the last to be baffled by Mrs. Tebbit. I find Webster still more inscrutable, and not just because he hides behind his spectacles.”
“Ah,” said Tom. “I didn’t meet Mr. Webster.”
“He was very helpful to me in explaining the organisation of the Tower community. Which explanation I shall pass on to the rest of you only if it seems absolutely vital. He lives—sleeps—in the King’s House?”
“Yes. So he’s out of the picture.”
“Anything else?”
Tom frowned. “It seemed to me one or two of ’em were holding something back. The batman, for one, who’s butler and valet and chauffeur to the general, and maybe the parlourmaid. Holding back’s not exactly it, neither. They answered all my questions fair enough. But I got a feeling they had something on their minds they were glad I didn’t ask about. Maybe nothing to do with the case. You know how people are about their little secrets when us coppers come knocking.”
“Not much we can do about that, not knowing what to ask, but keep the pair of them in mind. That’s it? Piper, what did you learn from the sentries?”
“We split ’em into groups, Chief, according to where they were posted last night. After the business with the keys at ten o’clock, the Chief Yeoman Warder was seen going off in the direction of his house, as per usual. He wasn’t seen to arrive there, on account of the fog.”
“Have we any reason to suppose he didn’t get home all right?”
“Not that I know of, Chief. But his pals say he always made himself a little supper of toasted cheese after the key business, so I reckon when I go through his house, I ought to be able to tell whether he did that last night. If he didn’t, chances are he didn’t go home, which’d give us something to think about. And if he did, it’ll help the pathologist fix the time of death, won’t it?”
“Good thinking. Go on.”
“The fog was never so bad the sentries at the King’s House couldn’t see the front door, and no one came out that way all night, not till Mrs. Fletcher in the morning. But it was bad enough that they couldn’t see in the other direction past the next door along, the funny little house jammed in between. By the sound of it, a couple of men came along about eleven, told each other good night, and went into two of the other houses in the row. Two doors heard closing.”
“I got confirmation of that from the sentries at the Bloody Tower arch,” said Ross.
“And from the men themselves,” said Piper, “a couple of yeomen who live there. Liston and Edgemoor. Edgemoor’s the Yeoman Raven Master.”
“The what? You’re having us on!” Tom exclaimed.
“No, Sarge, that’s what he’s called. He takes care of the Tower ravens. Didn’t they teach you the kingdom will fall if the ravens ever leave the Tower?”
Tom snorted, his moustache puffing out. “What I learnt at school, laddie, was history, not fairy tales.”
Piper looked as if he was ready to take up arms on behalf of the ravens. Alec said calmingly, “Be that as it may, there are ravens at the Tower and a yeoman responsible for them. Daisy was telling me about them. The Raven Master lives in one of the houses near the steps, does he?”
“Yes, the nearest, him and his wife. The yeomen with special titles get quarters in the Inner Ward, being that it’s nicer than the casemates. That’s the outer walls, Sarge. Some of the poor buggers live right inside the walls, like mice, and that’s no fairy tale.”
“Enough!” said Alec. “I suppose he says his wife will give him an alibi?”
“He hopes so.” Piper grinned. “Seems she wasn’t too happy because he left her to cope with a poorly raven while he went to the Hall for a drink, and it pecked her. When he got home, he had to calm ’em both down and persuade the bird—Huw, its name is, spelt the Welsh way because it’s from Wales—persuade it to eat its dinner and go to sleep. Which took a long time, and Huw complained loudly throughout. The chap next door could hear them swearing at each other—”
“Literally?” asked Alec.
“No, Chief.” Piper was regretful. “It does say a few words, but he has to be careful what he teaches it, ’cause if there are complaints from visitors, it’ll be dismissed from the King’s service ‘for unsatisfactory conduct.’ ”
“Are you serious?” Tom wanted to know.
“That’s what Mr. Edgemoor said, Sarge. That’s what goes down in the Governor’s Daily Orders. Anyways, the neighbour looked at the time when the racket stopped, around twenty-five to one. So they’re neither one completel
y in the clear, but they don’t seem likely to me.”
Alec made a note. “Anyone else?”
“Yes, Chief.” Piper spoke with studied nonchalance. “Just before midnight, a Beefeater in his fancy dress comes along from the direction Crabtree went off before. Seems the fog was thinning a bit by then, just enough so the sentry saw this chap had a big beard.”
“Crabtree! Midnight, he said?”
“Five, maybe ten minutes before he was relieved. Crabtree went on in the direction of the steps, but it was still too foggy to see that far.”
“He didn’t hear anything? Running footsteps, a cry, a thud . . .”
“Nope. He did one of those stamp-abouts and couldn’t hear nothing but his own boots.”
“I doubt he’d be able to hear the victim landing at the bottom, Chief,” Tom commented. “That wall is pretty solid and backed by solid earth.”
“I wonder where he was going? And whether he got there and was hit on the way back . . . No, that’s unlikely. He landed face down.”
Ross spoke up. “He didn’t leave the Inner Ward, at any rate, sir. No one did except the relief sentries with the watch sergeant, and an officer doing the rounds. And that’s odd, because as a rule the Yeoman Gaoler goes along at midnight to check that all’s well with the yeoman on guard right here at the Byward Tower.”
“What does the Yeoman Gaoler have to say about his dereliction of duty?”
“We don’t know, Chief. He seems to have disappeared.”
12
So Rumford did it,” Tom Tring rumbled. “He lived here. He probably knows a hundred places to hide—secret dungeons and who knows what.”
“He probably knows ways to get out without being seen,” said Alec. “There have been numerous successful escapes from the Tower by those who were locked up and closely guarded. It must be even easier since the moat was drained. But the only motive we’re aware of for Rumford is the desire to step into Crabtree’s shoes.”
“By hiding or escaping, he’s shot himself in the foot as far as that’s concerned,” said DC Ross, keen to contribute.