The Tigers in the Tower

by Julia Golding

  He shook his head. “Sadly, I don’t think my competition is very strong, but thank you, all the same.”

  Twenty minutes later, John sat up.

  “Wait a moment: I think I recognize this farm!” he exclaimed.

  Taking directions from a tinker, they’d turned off the main road and headed north away from Maidenhead.

  “Been here before, sir?” asked Ann, who couldn’t be persuaded to call the young gentleman “John” like Emily and Sahira.

  “We’re near my family’s estate. Most of the land round here on the left belongs to Fenton Park, and on the right is our neighbour’s land.”

  Sahira knew that local knowledge would be very helpful. When on an expedition with her parents, they’d always relied on natives from that region to direct where they should go. Surely this would be the same?

  “Who lives round here who would want some tigers?” asked Sahira.

  John furrowed his brow. “Colonel Wilmot rents Tinsbury Court from your grandfather, one of the minor houses, only eighteen rooms. It’s just down here, a mile or so to the turn-off.”

  “Only eighteen?” said Emily with a laugh. “That’s more than twice as many as the orphanage.”

  “He’s an old East India hand, retired to the countryside. It could be him.”

  “Does he hunt?” asked Sahira.

  “Everyone around here hunts. It is the main pastime in the winter. He –” John broke off.

  “He what?” Sahira didn’t like where this conversation was heading.

  “I was going to say that he already has a tiger-skin rug in his study. I used to play on it when I was little, pretending I was riding on its back. Why would he want any more? But, of course, a hunter always wants more trophies.” John rapped on the roof. “I’d better go up top and keep an eye out for someone to ask. They’ll be more likely to give me an answer, knowing I’m connected to the big family at Fenton Park.”

  Yet when they reached the fork in the road that led to Tinsbury Court, a local shepherd swore that the carts had carried on straight.

  “They’re going to Fenton Park,” the shepherd said in his rolling country accent. “I heard how the old lord thinks they killed his son, but that don’t make no sense. His son died of a fever, not as a meal for some big cats.”

  Sahira gulped. Her grandfather had bought the tigers so he could punish them? That was even worse than giving them some slight chance of escape in a hunt.

  “Are you sure, sir?” she asked, standing beside her cousin, who had been doing the questioning.

  “Oh aye.”

  “But I thought my… the old lord was ill?”

  “Ah, you’re right.” The shepherd pointed a finger at her. “Maybe it were that sister of his. Lady Dorothy. She don’t like those exotic creatures, not like poor old Captain Dickie Clive, God rest his soul.”

  John and Sahira exchanged a look.

  “You could stay in the carriage – I could talk to Great-Aunt Dorothy without her even knowing you’re there,” John offered.

  It was tempting to leave it to John but Sahira asked herself what her father would have wanted. He had intended to present her to his father in her swallow dress and she was coming dressed in a work-stained tunic and Indian trousers. He had hoped her relatives would love her and care for her; so far they – with the honourable exception of John – had done nothing but reject and ignore her. He had given her responsibility for the tigers as a sacred duty to care for God’s creatures.

  “No, John, I’ll argue my own case. You never know, wanting to get rid of me as quickly as possible might mean they just hand over the tigers. We might not even need to argue with Mr Jamrach about who owns them.”

  “Jenks, we’re heading for the big house,” called John.

  “Right you are, Master Bracewell.”

  It was a bittersweet homecoming for Sahira. She had heard so much about Fenton Park that she felt she knew the copses, the ponds, the meadows, from her father’s tales. Even the pheasants that flew up as they passed, the deer scattering across the hills, the squirrel that leaped from branch to branch to keep up with them, seemed familiar, like storybook characters stepping out to make her acquaintance at long last. As for the house, this was exactly as she had pictured it: an expanse of honeyed stone, layered like a ziggurat temple from Persia. It was a fit home for a pantheon of gods, not one little noble family.

  “How many rooms?” asked Emily, even her usual spark somewhat quashed by the formidable prospect.

  “I’m not sure anyone has ever managed to count. Three hundred?” guessed John.

  And they didn’t even have one spare for her, thought Sahira, refusing to let the view daunt her. She would take her tigers and go.

  Jenks drew the coach up at the bottom of an impressive flight of steps. A footman hurried toward them, ready to receive the important guests. He looked somewhat taken aback when the visitors proved to be two young gentlemen, two girls in the simplest of uniforms, a rather ragged boy, and an Indian young person.

  “Where are the tigers?” asked John.

  “Master Bracewell!” The footman finally recognized one of the party. “The tigers? They’re by the stables.”

  At least they had come to the right place.

  An elderly lady now appeared at the top of the flight of stairs.

  “John, what on earth are you doing here? And who are these with you? Is your mother quite well?”

  John bowed. “Great-Aunt Dorothy. Mother is well, thank you. We’re here for the tigers.”

  The lady came nearer, using a stick to help her on the stairs. The footman rushed up to provide support. Sahira could now see that she looked as formidable as her reputation: iron-grey hair twisted and curled into a style of yesteryear when there was still an emperor in France. Her dress was of similar vintage: high-waisted and in a navy blue silk, trimmed with black. Was that a sign that the house was observing a period of mourning for her father?

  The lady was inspecting her visitors more closely. “Who is that?” she asked, pointing with her stick at Sahira. “And who are they?” The stick now pointed to a second carriage rattling down the drive.

  “This is Sahira Clive, your great-niece,” said John stoutly. “As for the other visitors, I’ve no idea.”

  But Sahira did. She could see the unmistakable uniforms of Robert Peel’s new policemen, crowded on the roof of the carriage, which meant the inside must be full already of the same. The Home Secretary had sent his best men after his errant son, possibly fearing the worst.

  “Peelers,” said Ned in horror.

  “Bobbies,” said Bobby, looking pleased rather than aghast at the prospect. “Isn’t that splendid? We can get them to arrest the Newtons!”

  Sahira did not think it would turn out that way.

  The coach slowed then stopped at the bottom of the steps and an officer with ginger sideburns jumped down.

  “Master Peel, we’ve come to rescue you!” The police officer clicked his fingers at his entourage. “Arrest them!”

  “What? All of ’em?” asked one young constable, looking at Great-Aunt Dorothy warily.

  “Not the lady, numbskull – or the young gentleman – or the footman,” the officer clarified after further thought. “The gang of kidnappers.” He picked out the three girls and Ned in a waving gesture to say that their clothing spoke for itself.

  “Hang on a moment,” said Bobby. “But I haven’t been kidnapped. We’re on a tiger hunt.”

  “According to a member of staff at your father’s house you were kidnapped. He saw you leave in the company of disreputable types and raised the alarm. Arrest them. We’ll sort this out later in London.”

  The young constable went so far as to put his hand on Sahira’s shoulder.

  Lady Dorothy rapped her cane on the bottom step. “Unhand that child, officer!” Sahira thought for a wild moment that maybe her great-aunt was coming to her rescue. “You have no power over anyone on our land. Lord Chalmers is a magistrate. If anyone is
doing any arresting it will be under his orders, and not yours!”

  “But I’m acting on the instructions of the Home Secretary,” protested the policeman.

  “I don’t care if your orders were handed down on tablets of stone by Moses himself: this is our estate and you will abide by our rules!”

  The policeman glowered. “Then fetch his lordship and we’ll see if we can get this settled.”

  “I don’t like your tone, young man,” sniffed Lady Dorothy. The policeman was far from young but to a woman of her advanced years she could get away with this set down. “And Lord Chalmers is indisposed.”

  During the ensuing argument about landowners’ rights and the laws of England, a third delegation arrived – this time on a hired hack, a big brown horse capable of pushing on through miles of mud and potholes. Mr Cops swung from the horse’s back and came forward, cap in hand. He took a quick survey of the quarrellers, much as he would the monkeys in the menagerie, noted the children standing helpless while the adults argued, and the absence of tigers. Sahira couldn’t anticipate what frame of mind he was in as he had been so angry with her that morning. He was the last person she expected to turn up here – unless, that was, he came to claim that she was lying about owning the tigers? He cleared his throat.

  Neither the policeman nor Lady Dorothy noticed.

  He took more drastic action.

  “Excuse me, your ladyship? But I’ve come about the delivery of tigers. You see, there’s been a mistake.”

  The two quarrellers paused and turned to him.

  “Tigers, what tigers? This is about a kidnapping!” said the policeman.

  “Those horrible beasts!” said Lady Dorothy. “What kind of mistake? Please say you’ve come to take them away.”

  Her friends were quick to fill in the slight pause in hostilities with suggestions and explanations.

  “There’s no kidnapping but there are tigers,” said Bobby helpfully.

  “They’re not ’is,” said Ned, “but ’ers.” He pointed to Sahira.

  “She really is your great-niece, Aunt Dorothy,” added John.

  “You should arrest the lady for buying stolen goods,” said Ned for good measure.

  A slow clapping came from the top of the flight of steps. So unexpected, so disrespectful was the sound that they all looked up. An elderly man sat in an invalid chair wheeled by a muscular footman. He waved a wrinkled hand at them.

  “Please, do carry on. This is the most fun I’ve had in ages!”

  “Grandfather!” John bounded up the steps. Sahira was riveted to the spot in shock: her father’s father, the very man whom she had hoped would take her in, was well enough to be out and about, looking quite fit despite the wheelchair. Why then hadn’t he sent for her – or even come to the orphanage himself?

  “John, my boy: this is a scrape worthy of your Uncle Dickie. I’m so proud of you!” the old man exclaimed.

  Lady Dorothy forgot her argument and also hastened to his side. “Samuel, shouldn’t you be inside?”

  “That quack you keep sending to me would have me muffled up against every little breeze and miss all the fun, but that’s not the way a Clive behaves, even if he’s at death’s door. So, tell me, John, what’ve I missed?” Lord Chalmers rubbed his bony hands together.

  The policeman cottoned on to the fact that the very lord he had asked to see was among them so he approached with his hat doffed in deference.

  “My lord, I’ve come to arrest the kidnappers of the son of Robert Peel.”

  “Very good. Where are they?” asked the lord, his eyes glowing. The policeman turned and looked down at the children from the orphanage. From his perspective they must have looked very small indeed, all of them shorter than their supposed kidnap victim. “Those four.”

  “I wasn’t kidnapped,” repeated Bobby. “I came of my own accord.”

  “Hmm. Now if you’d said the kidnappers were any of the shifty-looking fellows who delivered my tigers just an hour ago then I would’ve believed you. They went off with their gold and a couple of smaller silver objects from my study, thinking my age meant I wasn’t wise to their game. I’ve men chasing them, but if you want to make yourself useful I suggest you give my people a hand.”

  “He’s talking about the Newtons,” added Bobby.

  “The Newtons?” repeated the policeman.

  “Yes, Harry and his sons, Tommy and Alf.”

  “You have a chance to arrest the Newtons out of London with the stolen items on their person,” said John. “They’re driving two carts with Mr Jamrach from Ratcliffe Highway.”

  “Really?” asked the policeman and for a moment he looked lost in thought. Then, making up his mind, he reached for his whistle and issued a sharp blast, unnecessarily, as all his men were within earshot. “About turn, lads. We’re off for bigger prey!” The policemen piled back into their carriage and the driver manoeuvred it on the drive to face the way they had come. “Master Peel, I trust you will send word to your father of our chase – and that you are unharmed?”

  “Indeed. What’s your name, officer?” said Bobby soberly.

  “Mulgrave, Josiah Mulgrave.”

  Bobby gave him a military salute and the policeman climbed up beside his driver.

  “Follow those carts!” Mulgrave ordered. The carriage surged away with its cargo of swaying policemen.

  “That got rid of them,” said Lord Chalmers with satisfaction. “Now, where were we? You children came for the tigers, thinking they’re yours; and this man… who are you exactly?” He beckoned Mr Cops.

  “Cops, sir, His Majesty’s Keeper of the Lions,” said the man.

  “How splendid. That sounds like the best job in the world,” said Lord Chalmers, clearly thoroughly enjoying himself. “And, let me guess, you think the tigers are yours and that you were within your rights to sell them to me?”

  Mr Cops looked down at Sahira, who by now was standing quite alone at the bottom of the steps as the others drifted up to surround the old man.

  “No, sir, I came to admit to a mistake. I should never’ve sold them, not only because I’d not paid for them, but because I let down that young lady there. They belong to her in spirit and in law.”

  “That’s a young lady?” marvelled Lord Chalmers. “Good gracious. I thought her an Indian servant boy. Come closer, my dear. Who exactly are you? An Indian princess? A character from the tales of Arabian Nights?”

  Sahira took the slow climb up the stairs, hampered by her bad leg.

  “No, sir. I’m your granddaughter.” She took the turban from her hair. “Sahira Eleanor Clive. And I won’t let you shoot my tigers.”

  The old man stared at her in wonder, as if she were a magician who’d conjured herself out of a hat.

  “Sahira? Dickie’s girl?” asked Lord Chalmers in the tone of one asking if an angel had just appeared in the courtyard. “You’re here – in England?”

  “I am. But I’m only here to fetch Sita and Rama. You don’t have to worry: I won’t stay long.”

  “What do you mean, you won’t stay long? Dorothy, what’s going on? Why is Dickie’s girl here? You said she’d gone back to India to be with her mother’s people.”

  Great-Aunt Dorothy glared at Sahira as if she were a viper that had slithered out from under a bush. “I said she… she was preparing to go back,” she stammered.

  “You said no such thing! I may be frail, but I’m not foolish. When I asked what had happened to the girl, you said she’d gone back on the same boat that brought her with a kind lady escort from the Company. Where have you been, child?” Lord Chalmers held out his hand. “Why didn’t you come before?”

  Is this a trick? wondered Sahira. Was he just pretending not to know about her?

  “Go on, Sahira,” whispered Ann. Emily nudged her forward. With feet like lead weights, Sahira came to his side and he gripped her hand like it was his last handhold on a cliff edge before he fell.

  “My Dickie!” he said reverently, tracing the shape of h
er eyebrows that she knew were so like her father’s. “You’ve got his eyes.” He smiled, his own eyes damp with tears. “Thankfully, you don’t have his – or should I say our – chin.” He tapped hers, which was rounded like her mother’s, not the square one of the Clives.

  “You really didn’t know?” whispered Sahira.

  “Know what, dearest?”

  So he hadn’t known. “You’re not going to shoot my tigers?”

  “Now why would I do that? I thought they were the last link to my dear boy. I bought them so I could look on them and be reminded of him – but now I have you – and you, my dear, I have to say, are so much better than tigers, however fine they are in their own way.”

  EPILOGUE

  Sahira pushed her grandfather along the path outside the tigers’ enclosure, Jeoffry curled up on the old man’s lap as he hitched a ride. The Garden of Eden, that’s what they’d called the tigers’ new enclosure when the workmen put the sign up over the gate. When God answered her prayer, he had done so generously. She could not have imagined this: a home for both her and the tigers that went beyond all hopes.

  “Will we see them today, do you think?” Grandfather asked, using a telescope to peer into the further reaches of their woodland.

  “We may see Rama, but Sita will probably stay with the cubs,” said Sahira.

  “Quite right. The proud mother has her hands full.” Grandfather paused to allow a coughing fit to pass. “Do you think the enclosure is big enough for them now they’ve got a family?” Together Sahira and her grandfather had drawn up the plans to section off a portion of the parkland to make a home for the tigers. It had a high fence and many warning signs. So far the tigers had stayed within and trespassers without.

  “For now I think it’ll be enough. When the cubs grow up we’ll have to find new homes for them – or a bigger park.”

  Grandfather chuckled. “Perhaps we should just fence off the house and leave them to it?”

  “I don’t think your farmers or gamekeepers would approve.”

  Even this was not a perfect paradise for the tigers, Sahira knew that, but it was the best she could provide outside of India – better than the menagerie, better than the zoo. She felt that this was the best way to keep them if they had to be caged and confined – and she believed in her heart that they agreed, for they had gone on to produce a litter of cubs almost immediately after they’d moved into their new home.