The Bloody Tower

by Carola Dunn

  “Nothing in writing. Sometimes I wonder if it was all a bad dream. Sometimes the whole War seems like a bad dream. Six . . . nearly seven years ago! Surely no one’s going to start talking about it now.”

  “Most likely not. Once I’ve had a word with Rumford, I’d be very surprised if he starts telling tales.” Yet Alec had seen so many lives ruined by secrets and lies supposedly long buried. In vain, he told himself he was a copper, not a parson. It was none of his business to advise anyone of anything but the right to send for a lawyer. He blamed Daisy’s influence, she who was always taking lame ducks under her wing, to coin a phrase. “But if it were to come out,” he found himself saying, “would you rather Lady Devereux heard it from a stranger, or from you?”

  The captain regarded him with a frown for a long moment. “I’ll consider the matter,” he said at last. With a return to his usual sardonic manner, he went on, “Now you’ve heard the pathetic tale, you can see why I’d rather it didn’t become common knowledge. I don’t exactly cut a heroic figure. In fact, I’d be the laughingstock of the regiment.”

  “I’d say it’s highly unlikely we’ll need to use it. I appreciate your frankness and cooperation, Captain.”

  “And you believe I had nothing to do with the murder?”

  “My belief is neither here nor there. We have to look at the evidence.” Alec stood up. “I’m afraid we may well have more questions for you at a later date, but we’ll let you go back to your marchers now. Thank you for your time.”

  “My time is the army’s,” Devereux said dryly. “Anything I can do to help, Chief Inspector, just let me know.”

  Alec and Piper left the room. Outside, Lieutenant Jardyne was standing opposite the door, shifting from foot to foot. Alec gave him an enquiring look.

  Not meeting Alec’s eyes, he mumbled, “Waiting for Captain Devereux. Ah, there you are, sir!” With obvious relief, he pushed forward past the policemen.

  From Devereux, Jardyne received exactly the same raised-eyebrow look he had just had from Alec. Jardyne went on past him into the small room. Devereux shrugged his shoulders, raising his eyebrows at Alec with a “What’s got into him?” expression. But he followed the young man and closed the door behind him.

  Conspirators? Surely not!

  Alec and Piper found their way out of the barracks. Emerging into bright sunlight, they stopped to watch the marching and countermarching. Time was kept by the tramp of booted feet now, the drummer giving only an occasional rat-tat.

  “Sad story, the captain’s,” Piper commented.

  “Yes.”

  “You reckon it’s true, Chief, or is it a load of codswallop?”

  “On the whole, I’m inclined to credit the French marriage. I’m not at all convinced he really expects his father to take it calmly if the story comes out. Whether Lord Devereux would be so furious as to cut off his allowance—well, that’s pure speculation. I hope we shan’t have to delve into his lordship’s temperament!”

  “Seems to me a bit far-fetched, paying out like that to keep his ma happy.”

  “I dare say there are a few discreditable details he didn’t see fit to pass on to us—which would make his parents’ reactions the more to be dreaded. What’s more to the point, as he acknowledged eventually, the story would make him the laughingstock of the regiment. He’s the sort who likes to deride, not to be derided.”

  “Aren’t we all, Chief!”

  “You’re right, of course. In any case, you’ll have to talk again to the sentries who were on duty when the captain made his inspection, to get a rough idea of the time.”

  “It’s a pity no one saw him leave the Guard House.”

  “Yes, though even if he did his round long after midnight, it won’t prove he didn’t go out earlier and shove Crabtree down the steps. I’d say it would be out of character, though.”

  “It’s got to be him, Chief. Unless we can work out how the Governor could’ve got out of his house, or Sarge finds a way over the wall, Devereux is the only one left with means, motive, and opportunity, and enough money to make it worth Rumford’s while to make a push for a big final payment.”

  “If Tom finds a way over the wall, all bets are off. But remember, it’s only a theory that Rumford suddenly asked for more, and if he did, that he went for a big sum from just one person. No one has admitted it. Methinks it’s time we had a little chat with the Yeoman Gaoler.”

  21

  Lunch seemed to Daisy to go on forever. General Carradine was preoccupied. Fay and Brenda’s babbling was more inane than ever. Webster and Miss Tebbit gazed into each other’s eyes and ate nothing. Mrs. Tebbit, despite her earlier complacency at bringing the couple together, made acerbic comments on the idiocy of lovers, to which they were fortunately oblivious.

  And all the time, Daisy had a nagging sense of something she ought to have told Alec, something she couldn’t quite pin down, something that would change the shape of everything, or at least open new doors.

  Doors?

  The beginnings of enlightenment slipped away as Fay said, “Oh, Mrs. Fletcher, Mrs. Germond won’t cancel the tennis party because of the mur—” She caught her father’s kindling eye. “I mean because of what’s happened, will she?”

  Daisy wanted to reassure her, but in all honesty, she could not. Melanie was dismayed at the prospect of introducing to her friends the daughters of a man suspected of murder. On the other hand, rescinding invitations once issued was simply not done.

  “I doubt she’ll cancel it, but you must expect some delay. Once Alec has made an arrest . . . Sorry, General!”

  “Never mind,” said Carradine gloomily. “It’s on all our minds. Are we to expect an arrest anytime soon?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t tell you. That is, I don’t know. It’s not that Alec’s forbidden me to say.”

  Mrs. Tebbit cackled. “A lot of good it does him forbidding you anything if you decide it ought to be done.”

  Much as Daisy would have liked to deny this statement, she could recall more than one occasion when she had gone against Alec’s expressed wishes. Always for excellent reasons, of course, though he didn’t always see it that way.

  General Carradine didn’t look as if he saw it that way, either. His view of her suitability as a model for his daughters was definitely not in the ascendent. But then, he had more than enough causes for disgruntlement, from the disruption to the demesne he ruled as Resident Governor to being suspected of murder, not to mention the revelation that he had a murky secret in his past.

  Poor man! Daisy thought. Time to change the subject to something innocuous, but the only thing that sprang to mind was the weather, which had been done to death . . . had been exhausted on her first visit. She almost wished she’d stayed at home with the twins.

  Twins—now there was a subject that might bore but could hardly offend. She started talking about a study of twins she had read recently, and how her babies were already so very alike in some ways and so different in others. Fay and Brenda and Mrs. Tebbit all turned out to be interested. Daisy found herself babbling on about her children like a second Cornelia.

  Cornelia? Whence did that name pop into her head?

  Oh yes, ancient Rome. Though Daisy’s school had considered Latin too weighty for female minds, they had read tales of Rome and Greece. Cornelia was the mother of someone or other—the Gracchi brothers, that was it, who had done well in ancient Roman terms. Daisy wasn’t sure whether they’d been twins. But Cornelia had spoken memorable words about them. . . .

  And something niggled at Daisy’s mind, insisting that she needed to know.

  Ruthlessly, she broke into love’s not-so-young dream. “Mr. Webster, you must have had a classical education, didn’t you? Do you recall the story of Cornelia and her children? What was it she said about them?”

  The frog who would a-wooing go blinked at her. “Cornelia?”

  “The Gracchi?”

  “Oh, that Cornelia! There are different versions, but it seems a vi
sitor found her plainly dressed and asked where were her jewels.”

  “Thoroughly ill-bred,” commented Mrs. Tebbit.

  Ignoring the interruption, Webster continued. “Cornelia called her children to her and replied, ‘Haec ornamenta sunt mea.’ ”

  “ ‘These are my jewels,’ ” Carradine translated, looking happier, whether because he understood the Latin or because he was reminded that his daughters really were rather nice girls on the whole.

  “Too sweet!” said Brenda.

  “Are we your jewels, Daddy?” Fay asked.

  Daisy didn’t hear his answer. She remembered what she had been about to tell Alec when Mrs. Tebbit had interrupted. Perhaps he already knew, but if he didn’t—

  “Don’t you agree, Mrs. Fletcher?” asked Mrs. Tebbit.

  “Sorry, I was woolgathering.” Daisy returned to the conversation, wondering how soon she could politely get away.

  She managed to escape without coffee and made straight for the Guard House, taking the shortcut steps in her haste. However, Alec wasn’t there, nor Tom, nor Ernie Piper, and no one was certain exactly where they were.

  Rather than wander about the Tower, just missing them at every turn, Daisy decided to go and sit on one of the benches at the top of Tower Green. From there, she’d have a good chance of spotting them wherever they went. The sun was warm, and she could do with a bit of peace and quiet to try to think. She might even come up with solutions to all the questions before she found Alec.

  Outside the Guard House, she turned up the slope and ascended the wide, shallow steps where she had watched the salute to the Keys only two days ago. It seemed more like two weeks.

  To her right, on the Parade Ground, Hotspurs in full dress uniforms were marching to and fro to the beat of a drum. To her left, on one of the benches she was aiming for, a man was sitting. She hoped it was no one she was acquainted with, but as she approached, she saw that it was Dr. Macleod, dressed in khakis except for his white coat. She couldn’t very well ignore him.

  “Beautiful afternoon,” she said. “May I join you?”

  “By all means, Mrs. Fletcher.” He looked far from well, but he half-rose, tipped his cap, and summoned up a smile. “This is the sort of weather that makes me think I’d like to live somewhere where it’s always warm.”

  “Really? I expect the army would post you to India if you asked, or Egypt.”

  “Not really. I’m too much a Scot at heart. Besides, I’ve got to get out of the army.” His voice rose. “I can’t stand it much longer!”

  “Oh?” Daisy said cautiously.

  “It’s being around soldiers all the time. Do you know how many soldiers’ arms and legs I’ve cut off? How many soldiers’ bellies I’ve sewn up? How many soldiers I’ve watched die of gangrene? How can I forget when they’re all around me all the time? I’ve got to get out!”

  “You were in Flanders? My fiancé drove an ambulance there. He was with the FAU.” As always on the rare occasions when she talked about Michael, she was on the defensive. Even seven years after the Armistice, people regarded conscientious objectors as cowards.

  “Conshie, was he?” said Macleod. “The Friends’ Ambulance Unit did marvellous work. Without them, many of our patients wouldn’t have stood a chance. I wonder if I met him?”

  “Michael Ramsay.” Her heart still tried to skip a beat when she uttered his name. A corner of it would always be his, much as she loved Alec.

  “Ramsay—yes, I knew him. A good chap. He didn’t make it, did he? I’m sorry. So many dead. So many dead! Look at them!” He waved his arm wildly at the drilling soldiers. “They go on marching, but they’re all dead. They just don’t know it yet. All it’ll take is a squabble between politicians who never leave their comfortable clubs. They should be the ones in the front lines. I’ve got to get out!”

  Though desperately sorry for him, Daisy was beginning to feel a trifle nervous. “What will you do when you leave the army?” she asked.

  “I’m going to buy into a practice somewhere peaceful, somewhere that hasn’t heard the sound of bugles in centuries.” His voice was dreamy now. The rapid changes of mood were bewildering. “And now I have enough for one big stake, one final chance to escape.”

  “You’re going to use your money to bet with? But you might lose everything.”

  “Not me. There are ways to hedge one’s bets. One is not likely to win a large amount, though, which is why I have to start with a decent stake. At last I have it. The end is in sight.”

  His feverish intensity sounded hardly rational. Daisy could only hope he knew what he was talking about.

  Absorbed in Macleod’s dreams and nightmares and her own memories, she hadn’t been watching for Alec. “Have you by any chance seen my husband?” she asked, glancing around.

  “No, not today.”

  The Guards were still marching back and forth, passing through one another’s ranks, wheeling and turning. Here and there, a Yeoman Warder patrolled with partizan in hand. The King’s House could have been uninhabited, for all the signs of life it showed. From the house next door to the right, another yeoman emerged, staff in hand.

  The Yeoman Gaoler, Daisy thought. That was his house. He must be out of hospital and ready to take up his duties, in spite of the threat of prosecution for blackmail hanging over him.

  He stood there, his stance bearlike, with shoulders hunched, turning his head back and forth as if bewildered by the familiar scene.

  “Are you sure Mr. Rumford is well enough to leave the hospital?” Daisy asked.

  “Good Lord no!” Macleod jumped up. “I gave no order for his release.”

  The sudden movement caught Rumford’s attention. He peered at them, and then set off at a lumbering run towards them, using his fearsome axe-topped pike to boost and balance his strides, like a mountaineer. As he ran, he roared out something incoherent.

  Macleod took a couple of steps backwards, hands held out in front of him as if to calm the Yeoman Gaoler—or to ward off a blow. “Don’t be a fool, man!” he shouted. “You’re not well.”

  His obvious alarm infected Daisy. Feeling a bit silly, she got up and moved round onto the grass behind the bench.

  Rumford rushed onward up the slope. He came close enough for Daisy to make out his slurred words: “You took it, you sodding son of a bitch! You had my keys!”

  He made a wild swipe with the axe at the doctor, who wheeled round and fled. Turning the end of the wall, he started down the steps and out of Daisy’s view, Rumford in hot pursuit.

  Daisy screamed. “Help! Stop him! Help!”

  The King’s House sentry raced across Tower Green, jumped up on a bench standing against the wall, and aimed his rifle down the other side.

  Daisy closed her eyes.

  A shot rang out, immediately followed by two or three more.

  When Alec and Piper left the barracks, they had turned right and walked along between the building and the marching soldiers.

  “Who next, Chief?” Piper asked.

  “General Sir Patrick Heald.” Alec acknowledged to himself that he had been postponing the Keeper of the Regalia. Though he was perfectly capable of dealing with chief constables and generals and earls and countesses, even an occasional marquis, he’d never before had to tackle a member of the Royal Household.

  Putting off Sir Patrick had probably been a mistake. The man must be fuming by now over his evening engagement, for which he’d be late, if he didn’t miss it altogether. On the other hand, the fact that he hadn’t departed suggested he had a healthy respect for Scotland Yard, so perhaps the interview wouldn’t be too bad.

  “On Rumford’s list, but outside the walls,” said Piper. “So it’s just to confirm Rumford’s methods. Unless Mr. Tring’s found a way to fly over the walls. Here he comes now.”

  DS Tring emerged from between the chapel and the end of the barracks, accompanied by a yeoman with a raven on his shoulder. Spotting Alec and Piper, he exchanged a few words with the Raven Master, then c
ame towards them, leaving man and bird patiently waiting.

  “Any luck, Chief?”

  Quickly, Alec brought him up-to-date on Jardyne and Devereux. “And you?” he asked.

  “Mr. Webster says Rumford has asked about retirement procedures but hasn’t yet completed any of the formalities. The chaplain couldn’t or wouldn’t say anything helpful about his flock. He’s certain sure Crabtree’s death must somehow have been an accident. The walls—we haven’t quite finished going round inside, but from what I’ve seen, anyplace with the slightest possibility—” He stopped, looking beyond Alec.

  Alec turned. Devereux was approaching.

  “Thought I’d better just come and tell you that young fool Jardyne begged me to assure you of his—Good God, what the deuce?”

  Above the tramp of feet sounded a shrill scream. All three detectives swung round.

  “It’s Mrs. Fletcher!” Tom cried.

  They all started running.

  Daisy stood near the scaffold site, yelling for help. Past her ran a yeoman with a huge axe, chasing a man in a white coat down the steps.

  Alec recognized Dr. Macleod even as he saw him stumble. He saw the gleaming axe rise and fall, saw the bright blood spurt, heard the rattle of rifle fire.

  “Captain, go to my wife,” he shouted. “Police! Hold your fire!”

  22

  Daisy had her eyes shut and her fingers in her ears. She had stopped screaming, but her own screams still echoed in her ears.

  An urgent voice close beside her penetrated: “Mrs. Fletcher, it’s Devereux. Your husband asked me to help you.” She lowered her hands as the captain continued. “You can’t see anything from here, but you needn’t open your eyes. I’m taking you to the King’s House.”

  She produced a sort of gulp, hoping he’d interpret it as thanks and consent. He put his arm around her waist and led her forward.

  Their footsteps crunched on gravel, and then they were on grass again. Sure now that whatever had happened on the steps was out of sight, Daisy opened her eyes. The sun still shone down on the green and pigeons in iridescent spring finery bowed and cooed to one another under the sceptical gaze of a pair of ravens.