The Bloody Tower

by Carola Dunn

  She wrote as she spoke, then tore out the leaf, folded it in three and then in three again, tucked the ends into each other, and printed “DCI Fletcher” on the outside. She wished she had some way to seal it, but just because one yeoman was a murderous blackmailer, it didn’t mean the rest couldn’t be trusted to deliver a letter unread, especially one addressed to a police officer.

  The Byward Tower gate had been shut again after Sakari’s car passed through on arrival. Two yeomen opened it as they approached, and when the car didn’t move on, one came over.

  “What can I do for you, madam?”

  Daisy handed him the note. “Please see that this is delivered to Chief Inspector Fletcher at once. It’s urgent.”

  “I’ll see to it, madam, never fear.”

  Saluting, he stepped back, and Kesin drove on over the moat.

  “Now . . .” said Sakari.

  “Wait till we’re past the Middle Tower,” said Daisy. “All I want is to get outside this terrible place.”

  Alec, Tom, and Piper spent several hours dealing with the immediate aftermath of the murder of Dr. Macleod. At last, Alec sent the others to the Guard House to write up their reports while he went to make verbal reports to Lieutenant Colonel Duggan and the Resident Governor.

  He went first to the barracks, only to find that Duggan had just gone home. Wearily, he trudged over to the Officers’ Quarters. Mrs. Duggan greeted him with much clucking and tutting, asked after Daisy, and pressed him to take the most comfortable chair while she called her husband and made tea.

  “Mr. Fletcher’ll want a whisky, my dear,” said Duggan, coming in. “I’ll hear no nonsense about not drinking on duty.”

  Alec gratefully accepted. Mrs. Duggan tactfully removed herself. Duggan poured a good-size tot, handed it over, and poured himself another.

  “Well, now,” he said, sitting down, “I hope my lads haven’t rendered themselves liable to civil prosecution?”

  “That’s for the coroner to say, sir, but I doubt it. They were attempting to prevent a murder, after all.”

  “I’m sorry they didn’t succeed.”

  “It wasn’t a failure of marksmanship. Damn good shots. One in the leg, one in the shoulder, and one furrowed his scalp. He’ll live to hang. But even if they’d killed him instantly, the axe would have done for Macleod.” Alec suppressed a shudder. It was one of the most gruesome scenes he’d ever had to witness. But at least there was no question about who was responsible, no dearth of eyewitnesses.

  “Damn shame about the medic. Speak no ill of the dead, but I can tell you now, he’s been worrying me. Not under my command, I’m thankful to say. He answers—answered to the Resident Governor and the RAMC.”

  “His troubles are over. I hope your niece by marriage doesn’t take his death too hard.”

  “That’s right, potty about him, wasn’t she? I expect the wife’ll have young Fay weeping on her shoulder. It was all a lot of nonsense, if you ask me. A spot more?”

  “Thank you, sir, but I’d better go and let General Carradine know what’s going on. My superintendent will no doubt send you a copy of my report, or at least such parts of it as pertain to your men. I appreciate your cooperation throughout.”

  “Anything more we can do for you, just let me know.”

  They shook hands, and Duggan showed Alec out.

  Devereux, no longer in dress uniform, was lounging on the steps, smoking. “Good evening, Chief Inspector,” he said.

  “Good evening, Captain. I must thank you for removing my wife from the scene.”

  “A remarkable lady. To tell the truth, I was happy to remove myself. I’d thought I was hardened to anything, but time passes. . . . I was honoured to be entrusted with Mrs. Fletcher’s care. Dare I hope that I have been removed from your list of suspects for the Chief Warder’s murder?”

  “I wish I could say so. The best I can say is, it would seem my instinct is to trust you in an emergency. Congratulations, by the way, on recognizing that the second murder doesn’t solve the first.”

  “People do jump to conclusions.”

  “They do. I sincerely hope General Carradine is not so deluded, or I’m going to have to disabuse him of the notion.”

  Alec went on his way. The air was growing chilly, but the evening light of the sun shone golden on the ancient walls of the White Tower, belying their bloody history. The steps had been washed clean. Only the huddled groups of Yeoman Warders, no longer patrolling singly, suggested the horror of the past two days. One of their own had been murdered, and one of their own had committed murder.

  The Resident Governor was in his study. When the maid ushered Alec in, he was on the telephone, saying, “Yes, I expect to be able to tell you more very shortly. The Chief Inspector has just arrived. . . . Yes, I’ll ring you back immediately . . . . Of course, my lord.” He hung up the receiver and handed the apparatus to his secretary to set on a side table. “The Constable of the Tower,” he said gloomily. “I hope you have some good news, Fletcher, however little. You’d better take notes, Jeremy.”

  “Well, we know who killed whom and how, which in some investigations is a big step forward.”

  “I doubt if I can make much of that, since half the population of the Tower seems to have witnessed the murder. Sit down, man. Whisky?”

  Alec accepted a seat but refused the drink. “We also know why Rumford killed the doctor.”

  “That’s good going. It’s usually the other way round, isn’t it? The victim kills the blackmailer.”

  “Yes, as in the mistaken murder of Crabtree. But Macleod appears not to have been a victim of extortion. Our theory is that Rumford had the sense not to blackmail the doctor who held his life in his hands every time he was ill.”

  “Macleod did a good job, kept him going, so why kill him?”

  “Acting on information received—from my wife, as a matter of fact—my DC searched Macleod’s quarters. He found a satchel stuffed to bursting with banknotes, Treasury notes, and silver. We believe it to be the proceeds of Rumford’s blackmailing, taken from the Yeoman Gaoler’s House while he was in hospital, under sedation.”

  “Good Lord, you’re saying Macleod stole Rumford’s hoard? But how the devil did he know it was there?”

  “The nurses at the hospital say Rumford used to talk about it under the influence of morphia. They’re trained to take no notice of what patients say under the influence of drugs, which is nonsense more often than not. But Macleod obviously thought it was worth a try, since he had free access to Rumford’s keys and was able to keep him out of the way for as long as he wished.”

  “Not quite long enough,” put in Webster. “Dr. Macleod was due to go on leave tomorrow.”

  “Thank you, that’s another piece of the puzzle. Macleod told my wife he hadn’t given the order for Rumford’s release from the hospital, which the Sister confirmed. He could hardly have kept him in bed indefinitely. We assume he intended him to stay another day, but Rumford left under his own steam.”

  “With disastrous result,” said Carradine. “If you ask me, Duggan’s men are a trifle overeager.”

  “They did hope to prevent murder,” Alec pointed out. “How many shots did they fire?”

  “Four. Two each from two sentries. Three hit Rumford.”

  “Will he live?”

  “Yes. He’ll stand trial as soon as he’s recovered.”

  “And I have to find a new Yeoman Gaoler as well as a Chief Warder. We’ll need two new men on the strength, too.”

  “There are plenty of candidates, sir,” said Webster, waving a list.

  “Do you expect to arrest any more of my fellows, Fletcher?” the general asked with a touch of sarcasm.

  “I doubt it, sir.”

  “Good. Well, you and Mrs. Fletcher have cleared that one up nicely. Unfortunately, as far as I can see, it doesn’t help with Crabtree’s murder, does it?”

  “No,” Alec admitted with a sigh. “It doesn’t.”

  When Alec returned to
the room set aside for the detectives at the Guard House, Piper jumped up, waving a piece of folded paper.

  “A note from Mrs. Fletcher, Chief,” he announced. “The sergeant of the guard gave it to us when we arrived,” said Tom.

  “We’ve been dying to read it.”

  “But it’s addressed to you.”

  “What do you bet she’s solved Crabtree’s murder?”

  “The pair of you sound more and more like Brenda and Fay Carradine!” Alec unfolded the note and read it. “Great Scott!”

  “What does it say, Chief?”

  Alec sat down, flattening the sheet of paper on the table. “She wonders whether we’re aware of the bridge between St. Thomas’s Tower, the residence of the Keeper of the Regalia, and the Wakefield Tower, where the Crown Jewels are kept. She’s seen Sir Patrick Heald use it.”

  “What did I say?” crowed Piper. “She’s done it again!”

  “Now wait a minute, laddie,” Tom cautioned. “No jumping to conclusions. But I must say, Chief, this looks like the breach in the walls we’ve been looking for. Heald was one of the names Rumford gave us, the only one we haven’t talked to yet.”

  “It’s been niggling at the back of my mind,” said Alec: “Why hasn’t Heald made more of a fuss about missing that important engagement of his? General Carradine didn’t mention just now that Heald had been pestering him again. Yet he’s a member of the Royal Household, an eminent and influential man.”

  “He could have raised a real stink.” Tom stroked his moustache. “Or just walked out.”

  Piper’s eyes gleamed with excitement. “He didn’t want to draw attention to himself!”

  “You could have it, laddie.”

  “There’s a P.S.,” said Alec. He picked up Daisy’s note. “ ‘According to the Res. Gov., his money is his wife’s.’ ”

  “Then whatever shenanigans Rumford was blackmailing him for,” Tom said, “he’d be desperate to keep it from Lady Heald. But at the same time, as long as she didn’t know, he’d have plenty of money to keep paying Rumford.”

  “Until,” Alec theorized, “Rumford’s final demand was just too much to manage without going to her, cap in hand.”

  “And he couldn’t do that, Chief, without telling her what it was for.”

  “All right, it all holds together. Let’s just take a dekko at the plan of the Tower.”

  Piper produced a plan in an instant.

  Alec put his fingertip on St. Thomas’s Tower. “Here’s the Keeper’s residence. And here’s the Wakefield Tower. These dotted lines represent the bridge.”

  “No wonder we didn’t tumble to it,” said Tom in disgust. “I thought it was just another archway.”

  “It’s no excuse. We’ve all seen the damn thing, coming and going. Here’s the door to the ground floor of the Wakefield Tower—labelled ‘Entrance to Jewel House’—just opposite the end of the Guard House. All he’d have to do is come out here, cross the slope, and go up the shortcut steps, the fog hiding him from the Guard House sentry.”

  “What about the partizan?” Piper asked. “Where did he get that?”

  “From Yeoman Warder Parkinson.” Alec smiled at their puzzlement. “Parkinson asked my advice. He’d been on duty in the Wakefield Tower this week and left his partizan there overnight. He wanted it for patrolling. The tower was locked. He hoped I could help him retrieve it, but I said he’d have to approach the proper authorities. Tom, find Parkinson and ask if he managed to get into the Wakefield Tower and whether he found his partizan there.”

  “Doubt it, Chief.”

  “So do I. If he didn’t, bring him to meet me there. I’m going to see what the Governor can tell me about Lady Heald’s character. Ernie, you keep an eye on the Keeper’s residence and make sure our bird doesn’t get the wind up and flit before we’re ready for him.”

  “Unobtrusively, Chief, or d’you want him to know about it?”

  “ ‘Unobtrusively,’ is it, laddie? I’d better watch out or you’ll be using words I don’t know myself.”

  “Be as obtrusive as you like. If we’ve got it right, he’s already in a blue funk, and a bit more pressure before we strike can’t hurt. Post a couple of yeomen at the Wakefield Tower entrance, just in case. Let’s go.”

  24

  Not Lady Heald,” said the Resident Governor. “Lady Julia. She’s the daughter of an earl. Keep this under your hat, but it’s my opinion that’s the only reason he reached the rank of general officer. But my dear man, you’re not proposing—”

  “I have to ask him a few questions, sir,” said Alec. “I ought to have done so sooner. I can do so more effectively if I know a bit about his wife.”

  “If you say so,” Carradine said dubiously. “I must assume you know your own business best. What do we know about Lady Julia, Jeremy?”

  “I’ve never met her ladyship, sir. I gather she rarely comes to town.”

  “That’s it, exactly. Lady Julia doesn’t care for London. I believe she is a great horsewoman—rides to hounds and so on—and a scratch golfer. Shoots, too, if I’m not mistaken. And I do believe she’s a magistrate.”

  “A lady of some force of character, in fact.”

  “That about sums her up. Can’t really blame Sir Patrick for wanting his own little foothold in town. But look here, you’re not suggesting he smuggled her into the Tower to do in Rumford for him?”

  “Great Scott no!” All the same, the notion gave rise to other possibilities: Suppose Rumford had caught the Keeper smuggling in a chorus girl, or a merry widow, or, still more reprehensible, another man’s wife. Offhand, Alec couldn’t think of any secret Heald would be more anxious to keep from a domineering wife who held the purse strings. “Thank you for your frankness, General.” He stood up.

  “You’ll tread gently when dealing with Sir Patrick, won’t you? After all, he is a man of some consequence in the world. I’m rather surprised he hasn’t been round here again demanding to be allowed to leave.”

  “So are we, sir. When did you last see him?”

  “Quite early this morning. He hasn’t even made any enquiries about this latest dreadful business. For all I know, he’s not even aware of it.”

  “Surely his servant—”

  “He’s not likely to have heard,” Webster interrupted. “His man is a surly, silent type, who doesn’t so much as pass the time of day with the Yeoman Warders. He considers himself above the common herd. Like his master,” he added resentfully.

  “Sir Patrick is above the common herd, Jeremy.”

  “Not when it comes to the history of the Crown Jewels, sir. He may be Keeper, but he has no idea of academic rigour.”

  “Academic rigour, whatever that may be, is hardly a requirement for his position. I’m sure the Chief Inspector is not interested in your dispute over the Black Prince’s ruby. Is there anything else we can do for you, Fletcher?”

  “Have any of the yeomen asked to get into the Wakefield Tower for any reason since last night?”

  The Governor looked at Webster, who said, “No, no one.”

  “I’d like to borrow the key.”

  Carradine chortled. “Want to check the ruby for yourself, eh? You’d better go with him, Jeremy, even if he is a Scotland Yard man. We’re not supposed to let that key out of our sight.” He extracted a bunch of keys from his pocket, unlocked a drawer of his desk, and took out a large iron key.

  In the meantime, Webster had taken down a painting of a gaily caparisoned procession setting out from the Tower, banners waving. Set into the wall was an ancient iron safe that would have made any competent burglar snicker. Carradine opened it, took out another large key, and handed it to his aide.

  As Alec and Webster left the study, Brenda and Fay inevitably popped out of their sitting room opposite.

  “Are you arresting Mr. Webster?”

  “Aunt Myrtle will be devastated!”

  Webster turned a fiery red.

  “No, I am not arresting Mr. Webster.” Alec was glad to note th
at Fay, though a bit pink around the eyes, didn’t seem too devastated by Dr. Macleod’s grisly demise. “He’s coming with me, on your father’s orders, to make sure I don’t steal the Crown Jewels.”

  “Not really!”

  “Do you think they’ve already been pinched?”

  “May we come too?”

  “Certainly not. Go and reassure Miss Tebbit that Mr. Webster is not in imminent danger of arrest.”

  Alec waited until he and the secretary were beyond the hearing of the sentry outside before he asked, “Is there the slightest possibility that Sir Patrick had dishonest designs on the Crown Jewels?”

  “Which Rumford might have discovered? Such is our mutual antipathy that I’d happily say yes, but I’m afraid it’s most unlikely. He may have—as General Carradine puts it—little in the way of brains, and even less guts, but even he could hardly fail to realize he couldn’t get away with it. Do you still want to get into the Wakefield Tower?”

  “Oh yes. We’ll meet my sergeant there.”

  They reached the bottom of the shortcut steps and turned down the slope towards the Bloody Tower. Beside the tower, between it and the Guard House, a flight of steps (no wonder Daisy had complained about endless steps!) led down to the door of the ground floor of the contiguous Wakefield Tower. From the top, Alec saw Tom Tring waiting outside the door. He dwarfed his companion, a by no means undersized yeoman. Another pair of yeomen, armed with partizans, stood guard.

  Parkinson gulped visibly when he saw Webster. He stepped forward manfully as they descended. Tom winked at Alec over his head.

  “I know I didn’t ought to ’ve, sir,” the yeoman said to Webster. “But everyone does it.”

  “And did you ever accept that as an excuse when you were in the army, Mr. Parkinson?” Webster enquired acidly.

  “No, sir.”

  “Well, then! As it happens I have no idea what you’re talking about, but no doubt I’ll find out shortly.”

  Webster led the way to the door of the Wakefield Tower, unlocked it, stood aside for Alec to enter, and followed him into the gloomy circular room. Tom ushered Parkinson in after them and took out his notebook.