by Carola Dunn
“And can you explain why he should want to meet on the steps in the small hours of a foggy night when their houses are next door to each other?”
“Oh!” Daisy was crestfallen. “I didn’t know Crabtree was Rumford’s next-door neighbour. Some of the yeomen’s houses are in the casemates, actually inside the outer walls. But the view is the inner wall across a narrow lane. I suppose it’s logical that their chief should have a nice view of the Green.”
“I don’t know that logic has much to do with the traditions of the Yeoman Warders. There’s no reason you should guess, but that’s how it was.”
“Pity. I’d still like to know what he said and where he went afterwards.”
“We’ll ask him,” said Alec, “but I can’t promise to tell you.”
Daisy sighed, then turned a considering look on the house beside which they stood, and its attached neighbours. “Someone might have watched out for him from one of these windows. Suppose he went home after dropping off the keys, and came out again later—”
“Daisy, I thought you were in a hurry to get home to the babies.”
“I am, I am.”
“And you’re feeling all right?”
“Yes.” She looked very well, but the red umbrella cast a deceptively healthy pink glow on her face. “The girls—Fay and Brenda—offered to go with me to the tube, but I’m perfectly all right.”
“You’d better take a taxi, all the same.” Alec felt in his pocket for change.
“I have enough cash, thanks, darling.” She looked as if she were going to kiss him. Tom’s presence wouldn’t have stopped her, but either the complication of her dripping umbrella and his dripping hat or the blank stare of the nearby windows dissuaded her.
“Go carefully, Mrs. Fletcher,” Tom admonished her. “These cobbles get slippery.”
As she departed, she said over her shoulder, “Oh, by the way, it may not mean anything, but this house has two back doors.”
“Back doors?” said Tom blankly to Alec, watching Daisy hurry past the fatal stairs.
“I would guess she was suggesting that had someone kept a lookout for Crabtree from this house, he could then have sneaked out through a back door, reducing the chance of being seen by the sentry.”
“Ah. Might as well take a dekko while we’re on the spot.”
They turned around the side of the house. At the back, against the inner bailey wall, a staircase went down to a tiny area and a door that must lead into a windowless cellar.
“One,” said Tom. “Where’s the second?”
“It must open onto the wall up there. I’ll go and see, but you’d better get on with the King’s House staff.” He knew that, far from ruffling feathers, Tom would soon have them all eating out of his hand, especially the women. “Then go over to the Waterloo Barracks. I hope by then to have arranged for you to talk to last night’s sentries.”
“All of ’em, Chief?”
“Those who were on duty at the King’s House at least. Ernie and Ross can handle the rest when they’re done with the yeomen.”
Consulting his map, Alec climbed the steps to the top of the wall. This was Ralegh’s Walk, apparently. Before the construction of the Victorian residences, the prisoner had been able to stroll along the wall from the door of the Bloody Tower at one end to the King’s House at the other. Now a wrought-iron gate marked private gave access to a few yards of wall top apparently used as a balcony, blocked at the other end by a two-story house wall with a door in it.
Conceivable, he thought, but unlikely that the murderer had come out that way to follow his victim. At the other end, the Bloody Tower had no window in the upper floor on this side, though the floor below had two, as well as the main entrance, where a sign read TICKET HOLDERS ONLY. Was it locked at night? It would make a good place to lurk unseen, for someone with a luminous watch who knew roughly when to expect Crabtree.
He looked over the rampart, towards the river. Tower Bridge loomed large to his left. From inside the Tower one didn’t notice it, but in height the bridge dwarfed even the White Tower, the mercantile structure eclipsing the royal fortress’s ancient preeminence. Closer, just across Water Street, was the wide, flattened archway of Traitors’ Gate. On either side of the gate stood a stone tower, outposts of St. Thomas’s Tower, connected by a brick and timber building constructed over the arch. On the near side, adjoining the Bloody Tower and blocking the view along Water Street, was the bulge of the Wakefield Tower, home of the Crown Jewels.
Had the Chief Warder possessed a key to the Wakefield Tower? Surely General Carradine would have mentioned it, would have been distraught about the possibility of its having been stolen, even in the midst of shock at the murder. Shock had odd effects on men’s minds, though. Something else to be checked.
As if summoned by his thoughts, the Resident Governor appeared as Alec descended the stair. In broad daylight, even with the drizzle turning to rain, and even with his hat pulled low, he was recognizable by the time he came level with the sentry at the top of the shortcut steps. So was his faithful shadow, the frog-faced Jeremy Webster.
They both looked up at Alec’s hail.
“Fletcher! Dare I hope?”
“Sorry, sir, it’s a bit early for results. In fact, I’m just beginning to realize how ignorant I am about the Tower and how it’s run, all the stuff they don’t put in this otherwise admirable brochure of yours. I don’t suppose you could spare Mr. Webster to go about with me, just for a while, to act as a sort of walking guidebook. If you would be so kind, Mr. Webster?”
His glasses spotted with raindrops in the shadow beneath his hat, Webster looked more enigmatic than ever, and a trifle supercilious. He did not speak, neither consenting nor demurring when the general agreed to lend his services. Alec understood why Daisy found him a trifle unnerving.
He decided it would be tactful to warn Carradine about Tom’s presence in his house. “By the way, sir, my sergeant, DS Tring, is talking to your servants,” he said.
Carradine looked taken aback, but after a moment he said quite mildly, “I suppose you are bound to suspect everyone.”
“Not so much suspect as need to rule out.”
“Even your wife?”
“Even my wife. To be honest, Daisy’s the main reason we’re starting with the King’s House and hoping to eliminate everyone residing there. If we can’t, I may have to hand over the reins to someone else.”
“I trust not,” the general said dryly. “Better the devil we know, if you’ll excuse the phrase, not to mention that clearing Mrs. Fletcher will also clear myself, along with my household.”
“And that,” Alec admitted with a wry smile, “is the other reason we’re starting there. Without the cooperation of the Resident Governor, the investigation would be ten times more difficult.”
“Believe me, I’ll cooperate.” With grim jocularity, he added, “I don’t know if you realize it, but if I have to keep the place closed to the public for more than a couple of days, there will be the sort of ructions that will inevitably lead to questions in the House.”
In fact, any case where the CID of the Metropolitan Police was called in had the potential to lead to questions in Parliament. This one, however, involved a royal palace, an ancient monument of national importance, and the murder of one of those picturesque, romantic beings the public called Beefeaters. Talk about fodder for the press!
“We always work as fast as possible, sir,” Alec assured the unhappy Resident Governor. “Trails grow cold. Unfortunately, there’s never enough manpower available. I was hoping to use some of your Special Constables, once we’ve sorted out their alibis, but perhaps I’d better ask Superintendent Crane to spare me a few more men.”
“No, no, I have every faith in your efficiency, my dear chap. Let’s at least wait until we see how it looks by the time you knock off this evening.”
He went off, leaving Alec with Webster.
“First question: Is the Bloody Tower locked at night?”
/> “No. It holds nothing of great value.”
“I assume the Wakefield Tower is locked. Did the Chief Warder have a key?”
“Certainly not.”
“Who does?”
“The Keeper of the Regalia has one, of course. That’s General Sir Patrick Heald. The Resident Governor is responsible for the other. Except when there’s work to be done inside, cleaning and so on, I lock the door as soon as the Wakefield Tower closes to the public, take the key to the King’s House, and lock it in the safe.”
“So, in essence, you control the second key.”
“Yes,” said Webster frostily. “However, I cannot see that the fact has any bearing whatsoever on the murder of Crabtree.”
“Nor can I,” Alec agreed. Nonetheless, it was interesting, if only because the man was so defensive about it.
9
Alec gave the fatal stairs a cursory examination. Though he learnt nothing new, he wanted to look again after seeing Tom’s photographs, so he left the sentries on guard.
He learnt much more as he walked with Webster to the Officers’ Quarters building. The Resident Governor’s adjutant was able to answer every query unless it pertained solely to the garrison. After a few minutes, he warmed up enough to actually volunteer information instead of having it prised from him by a direct question.
“The soldiers are ultimately under General Carradine’s command,” he explained, “but he doesn’t interfere in the day-to-day running of the garrison. The lieutenant colonel in charge of whichever battalion of whichever Guards regiment is currently posted here requests the governor’s permission for any unusual activity.”
“The battalions come and go? So the soldiers haven’t time to develop an intimate acquaintance with the Yeoman Warders.”
“On the whole, no. They don’t mix much. However, our warders served in many different regiments and may have known members of the garrison before they left the regular army.”
“I assume you have records of where each warder came from.”
“Certainly. Their last postings at least. I believe there was considerable reassignment during the late War.”
Which meant that though, en masse, the Hotspur Guards and the Yeoman Warders were not on familiar terms, any particular one might have known any other for many years. Unless an obvious suspect turned up soon, the victim’s service history would have to be delved into. Contemplating the possible network of connections leading from it, Alec blenched.
By this time, he and Webster were crossing the Parade Ground. On their left stretched the vast Waterloo Barracks, a curious hybrid typical of Victorian architecture, classically symmetrical but sporting Gothic towers and battlements and oriel windows. On their right loomed the massive Norman White Tower.
“What business would a yeoman have going this way at ten o’clock at night?” Alec asked.
Webster frowned. “None. Someone was seen here last night? In costume, presumably, or he’d not likely be recognized. Very odd. They all change out of it as soon as possible when they get off duty.”
“You’d expect the Chief Warder to change as soon as he’d handed over the keys?”
“Definitely.”
Crabtree’s behaviour was not the least puzzling aspect of this case. Supposing he had gone out to meet someone by appointment, why had he not changed into civvies first?
They reached the Officers’ Quarters, a smaller version of the barracks.
“Police,” said Alec to the sentry, and started up the steps.
Webster hung back. “You won’t want me in there with you,” he said gruffly. “If you need me again, I’ll be at the King’s House.” He turned and stumped off before Alec could thank him.
“Froggy hopped it in a hurry,” observed a grinning Hotspur officer, a captain in khakis, who was leaning against the doorpost, cigarette in hand. Alec’s face must have showed his distaste for the jibe, for the captain added, though with only the slightest diminution of the grin, “Sorry! Friend of yours, is he? He can’t help his face, I suppose.”
Recognizing Eton and Sandhurst in his voice, Alec wondered about the relationship between this mocking scion of the upper classes and his risen-from-the-ranks colonel. Himself at a disadvantage halfway down the steps, Alec continued upward as he announced himself. “Detective Chief Inspector Fletcher, Scotland Yard.”
“Oho, police!” The captain’s grin vanished and he straightened. “The Beefeater’s unexpected demise, I presume. Joking aside, what a rotten business! The poor old fellow had earned a bit of peace and quiet. I’m Devereux. What can I do for you, Chief Inspector?”
“I’m looking for Colonel Duggan.”
“He’s at the barracks. I’ll show you the way.”
“Thanks. But I might as well speak to Mrs. Duggan while I’m here. Do you know if she’s in?”
“I believe so. Word is that you chaps have stopped up all the rat holes and confined us to the Tower,” Devereux drawled. He eyed Alec’s RFC tie but didn’t comment. “In the absence of the lady’s husband and my commanding officer, ought I to insist on being present to protect her from police misconduct?”
Ignoring the persiflage, Alec responded with professional blandness, “If Mrs. Duggan desires a witness, I shall wait until the colonel is available. However, given her acquaintance with my wife, I doubt—”
“Don’t tell me you’re the other half of the formidable Mrs. Fletcher!” The captain laughed. “What a team you must make. Right-oh, I’ll hang about till you’re done with the colonel’s lady and then provide a military escort to the barracks.” He pointed out the way to the Duggans’ rooms.
Daisy formidable? Alec wondered what on earth she had said to the brash Guardsman. And was mockery his normal manner, or was it a shield to hide his thoughts? Yet what possible quarrel could Captain Devereux of the Hotspur Guards have had with the unfortunate Chief Warder, by all accounts a kindly and mild-mannered man?
Crabtree had been Regimental Sergeant Major, though. No man rose to that position without being as tough as the Iron Duke himself.
Alec knocked on the door.
A slightly nervous female voice enquired, “Who is it?”
Identifying himself, he heard bolts being drawn back as he continued speaking. “Mrs. Duggan? I’d like to ask you a couple of questions.”
“Do come in, Mr. Fletcher.” She twiddled a bolt, as if uncertain whether to shoot it closed again. “Sorry about all this. I’m not usually nervy, but Sidney—my husband—told me to lock the door when he left, and I started thinking . . . You see, no one could have had any reason to kill poor Crabtree, which means someone did it without reason. And since he killed Crabtree, he might go after anyone at all. Do sit down.”
They sat, she with her hands clasped tight in her lap.
“You were acquainted with Crabtree?”
“He came to the Tower about the same time we did.”
“When was that?”
“When my brother-in-law Arthur came home from Mesopotamia—he served there during the War—and was appointed Resident Governor. You see, my younger sister and Crabtree’s wife both died in the influenza epidemic, such a horrible time, just when the War was finished at last and we thought all the dying was over. He and I used to talk sometimes. He became a bit obsessed with trying to work out why God had sent such a . . . a scourge—that was the word he used—upon the world after the horrors of the War, and whether it was a punishment for the War. As if the War wasn’t punishment enough in itself!”
“ ‘Obsessed’?” Alec queried with interest. Obsession was a not uncommon factor in murder, in either killer or victim.
“Not in a mad sort of way,” Mrs. Duggan hurried to assure him. “He didn’t go around preaching fire and brimstone, or even talk about it to anyone but me, I think.”
“Do you know what church he belonged to?”
“None, not then. He called himself a ‘Seeker,’ and he went to Quaker meetings sometimes, because, he said, they understood about ‘seeking
.’ But he went to the Tower Chapel, St. Peter ad Vincula, without any qualms when his duty required it.”
Not the picture of a religious fanatic, so probably unconnected with his death. “Did he join some group later?”
“I don’t know.” She blushed. “I’m afraid we didn’t really chat anymore after Sidney’s battalion was sent here and I got to know him. Then we were married, and the battalion moved to other duties. Since we came back, I haven’t done more than pass the time of day with poor Crabtree.”
“You have greatly illuminated his character for me. Now I’d like to get to specifics. Last night, you attended the Ceremony of the Keys with my wife and your nieces?”
“Yes. It was such a nasty night, I thought Mrs. Fletcher would like some company.”
“Kind of you. I don’t need a description of the ceremony, but if you could tell me what happened after you parted from Daisy?”
“All right. I thought I wouldn’t go as far as the King’s House, and I was perfectly happy to walk home alone, in spite of the fog.” Mrs. Duggan shuddered. “I wouldn’t do it now, not for anything. In any case, the dear girls insisted on coming with me, as Crabtree had to go to the King’s House with the keys and was happy to accompany Mrs. Fletcher. It wasn’t then that he was attacked, though, was it?” she faltered.
“No, no, thank heaven! It was later. You and the girls—sorry, that’s a very informal way of referring to your nieces, but I’ve picked it up from Daisy.”
“Oh, please, it doesn’t matter in the least. We couldn’t see even as far as the barracks, just across the Parade Ground, so we stayed close to the White Tower.”
Alec was fairly sure the girls hadn’t invented the “frightful fiend,” but he had to avoid suggesting his existence to Mrs. Duggan. “Did anything happen on the way?” he asked.
“Happen? Not to say happen.”
Eyebrows raised, Alec gave her a look of enquiry.
“It wasn’t anything really. On a less eerie night, we wouldn’t even have noticed. We heard footsteps behind us and Fay—or was it Brenda?—one of them looked back. Fay, it was. She said one of the yeomen was coming along our way. So, you see, it was nothing.”
