by Carola Dunn
They swarmed away towards the nearest public telephone booths.
“Neatly done, sir,” said one of the two Yeoman Warders on duty, backed up by a couple of Hotspur sentries. “We was wondering what to do about them pestiferous newshounds. I’ve a coupla messages for you. DS Tring and DC Piper got here a few minutes ago. They’ll be waiting for you in the Guard House. And the Governor gave orders not to let anyone leave, but he said to ask you if that’s what you want, sir.”
“Yes, I’d prefer to keep everyone within easy reach for the moment.”
“Right you are, sir. The Governor’d be glad to see you soon as you can spare a moment.”
Alec noted with interest the conciliatory wording of this request. Not only did a general outrank a chief inspector by any measure, but the Resident Governor was the Tower’s CO and, as such, surely entitled to demand a meeting at his own convenience. To the mind of a detective, such uncalled-for politeness had a slightly fishy odour.
Carradine had changed his tune since yesterday. Why? He had had time to reflect on Alec’s interest in Rumford, and there were hints that his relationship with the Yeoman Gaoler was not all sweetness and light.
“If you don’t mind me saying so, sir,” the other yeoman interrupted his thoughts, “we’re all hoping you’ll need us to give a hand again today. We want to have a hand in collaring the bastard that did for Mr. Crabtree.”
“I’ll bear it in mind. You’ve already helped enormously.”
Walking across the bridge, he noted more shakoed Guards spaced at intervals along the moat. They faced inward towards the outer walls, a reminder that the Tower had functioned as a prison for many centuries. Under a grey sky, it looked the part.
At the Byward gate, a sentry challenged Alec. He was fumbling for his identification card when a yeoman appeared from under the arch.
“It’s all right, laddie,” he told the sentry in patronizing tones. “This here’s the head detective. Glad to see you, sir. Your chaps just arrived. Think you’ll catch him today?”
“I hope so.”
“So do we all,” the yeoman said fervently. “Seeing no one had any call for wishing Mr. Crabtree ill, some of us is thinking it must be a madman, and we’re worried he may go for someone else. I’ve got a wife here, sir, and kiddies.”
A murmur of agreement arose from a group of men who had drifted out of the Warders’ Hall while their colleague was speaking. Some wore yeoman’s blue-and-red tunics, others civilian clothes, as if they weren’t sure how to dress with no tourists to impress. Alec addressed them all.
“I don’t believe it was a madman. But you’re all sworn police officers, and quite capable, I’m sure, of preventing anything of the sort. Not, however, while you’re gathered together here. If you have no other orders, I suggest you patrol all areas not directly overseen by Guardsmen. I’m sure you can work out among yourselves where you’re most needed.”
Sheepishly they dispersed, except two. The man who had first spoken to Alec took up a position to one side of the arch, with the other opposite. They were both armed with partizans and both looked ready to use them if given half a chance. As he continued along Water Street, Alec wondered whether the yeomen actually had training in using their mediaeval weapons.
The vivid green leaves of the flourishing creeper growing against the inner wall caught his eye. Would it be possible to climb up or down it? At the far end, where there were no houses backing onto the wall, it reached nearly to the top of the parapet of Ralegh’s Walk.
He went over to take a closer look. The stems seemed sturdy enough to support a climber, but a quick look showed none of the damage that would have been inevitable. Tom had better examine it carefully, though, he decided. If someone from the Outer Ward could have murdered Crabtree and then gone up the steps to Ralegh’s Walk and climbed down . . . Well, half of yesterday’s work would go up in smoke.
The feat could not have been accomplished soundlessly, however, and the sentries at the Bloody Tower gate were only a few yards away. But someone—the Carradine girls, he thought—had mentioned noise from the river, the usual hoots and whistles of fog-bound shipping. It might have been enough to cover the rustles and thuds of a climber, especially taking into account the deadening effect of fog. Yes, Tom must take a look.
Unchallenged by the two Hotspur sentries, Alec passed through the arch under the Bloody Tower and headed up the slope towards the entrance to the modern, ugly Guard House.
A burly yeoman appeared from the narrow passage between the Guard House and the Bloody Tower. “Chief Inspector, sir!”
“Yes?”
He saluted. “Parkinson, sir. I was on duty in the Wakefield Tower this week, sir. Left my partizan there evening afore last. I know I didn’t ought to’ve, but everyone does it. And I know that’s no excuse, sir—”
“I’m not responsible for your conduct as Yeoman Warder, and your partizan has nothing to do with your conduct as Special Constable.”
“But that’s it, sir. I want it for patrolling, like you said, sir, so I went along just to see could I get it, but the door’s locked up all right and tight. So I wondered, could you . . .” His voice trailed away as Alec shook his head.
“Sorry. Partizans are outside my purview. If you want to go and ask whoever has the key—the Governor’s secretary?—that’s up to you, but you can patrol perfectly well without it. It’s not as if there’s a shortage of able-bodied men around.” In fact, he’d only suggested patrolling to keep them happily occupied. A murderer who waited for a foggy night to ambush a blackmailer wasn’t likely to attack at random in broad daylight.
“Sir,” said Parkinson gloomily.
Alec went on into the Guard House. The sergeant on duty saluted and informed him yet again that Tring and Piper had preceded him. He did not, however, remark upon the urgency of laying hands on Crabtree’s killer. Hotspur Guards and Yeoman Warders lived in the same space but inhabited different worlds.
Tom was already leafing through a report and Ernie was diligently making notes. They both looked up as Alec came in and said in chorus, “How’s Mrs. Fletcher?”
Alec assured them that Daisy was her usual cheerful self.
“Resilient lady,” Tom commented. He paused, then said to Piper, “Aren’t you going to congratulate me on my extensive vocabulary, laddie?”
“Not likely, Sarge. I’ve been studying the dictionary, and that thesaurus you gave me. I know what resilient means. Didn’t know how to say it, though, till just this minute.”
“It sounds as if you’ve undercut your own advantage, Tom,” said Alec with a grin.
“Ah.” Tom’s moustache twitched in a matching grin.
“Resilient.” Piper savoured the word. “Just right for Mrs. Fletcher. She solved the case yet, Chief?”
“No. And, thank heaven, for once she has no excuse to get mixed up in it any further. Like us, she suspects Rumford was the intended victim, but she’s as baffled as we are as to who did it. I’ll go and see if I can talk to him in a couple of minutes. In the meantime: Ernie, what do we know about a yeoman by the name of Parkinson?”
“Married, three kids.” With his head for detail, Piper spoke even as he went straight to the appropriate page of his notes. “Lives in Mint Lane. That’s what they call the casemates where you turn left just after the Byward Tower. In the Outer Ward. Why, Chief?”
“He’s mislaid his partizan. It may—or may not—be locked up safe in the Wakefield Tower. But if he lives in the Outer Ward, he didn’t use it, unless . . . Tom, I want you to check whether it’s possible to climb down that vine on the wall below Ralegh’s Walk, and if so, whether there are any signs that someone did.”
“I couldn’t do it, Chief, that’s for sure.” Tom patted his own vast midriff. Much of it was muscle, but it tended to mislead villains, who didn’t realize in time that the big man was as quick on his feet as any sprinter. His size would be an insurmountable handicap for climbing down a vine, though. “Ernie might manage it, if yo
u want a practical demonstration. I don’t mind standing below to catch him.”
“Hey, Sarge!”
“I’ll go give it a dekko, Chief. What else?”
“You can put your mind to devising unobtrusive tests of athletic ability for the inhabitants of the King’s House. I don’t want to have to ask them all to attempt the climb from that balcony.” He gave them each some details to clear up. “We’ll meet here in an hour. If I’m not back and haven’t sent a message, come to the hospital and rescue me from the clutches of an unmasked blackmailer and/or a morphinomaniac.”
“Sure you don’t want us to go with you, Chief?” Piper asked anxiously. “How’d we explain it to Mrs. Fletcher if you got hurt?”
“I’m sure Daisy would appreciate the thought, Ernie, but there are orderlies about, and nurses. On the other hand, come to think of it, it may be important to have a competent witness other than myself to anything he says. Let’s leave Tom to get on with the rest and you come along. I’ll explain on the way how I intend to tackle him.” Straight-faced, he added, “Bring your notebook and several well-sharpened pencils.”
Piper gave him a reproachful look. “As if I ever go anywhere without ’em, Chief!”
Tom chuckled. “You’ve wounded him to the heart, Chief. Right, I’ll get on with this lot, and if you’re not back when I’m done, I’ll go and rescue the both of you.”
Dr. Macleod had not yet put in an appearance. A disapproving Sister admitted that he had left orders to let the police speak to Rumford.
“I’m sure I don’t know why you’d want to.” She sniffed. “Any nurse—any hospital orderly even—knows you can’t believe a word they say when they’re coming out from morphine.”
“Is he still very dopey, Sister?”
“Not really,” she said grudgingly. “The last dose wore off a few hours ago, and he was left to sleep it off. He’s drunk about a gallon of tea since he woke up, so he should be able to talk to you. But don’t take his word for anything.”
She showed them into a small, rather dreary ward with north-facing windows. Only one bed was in use, the occupant lying down, staring at the ceiling. At first glance, he could have been Crabtree’s twin.
“Wait here while I make sure he’s comfortable.” Starches rustling, the nurse went over to the bed and announced in the loud voice even nurses often use to the sick, “Gentlemen to see you, Mr. Rumford. Do we want the bedpan first?”
“Nay!” growled the patient.
Waiting at the door, Piper whispered, “Chief, why’s she so keen we shouldn’t believe him?”
“Protecting Macleod,” Alec guessed. “Come on. Thank you, Sister.”
They went over to the bed. Rumford was flat on his back. Indeed, he had little choice, since, in typical hospital fashion, the sheet was tucked down so tightly over his chest as to allow no activity but breathing. He turned his head on the pillow to look at them, and scowled.
Alec saw that his pupils were smaller than seemed normal for the dull grey light. Presumably he was still under the influence of morphine to some extent, and no doubt the Sister’s warning about not taking his word as gospel was justified.
“Good morning, Mr. Rumford. I hope you’re feeling up to a short interview.”
“Who’rt tha?”
“Detective Chief Inspector Fletcher of the Metropolitan Police. Of which you are a sworn Special Constable.”
“That’s right,” Rumford said grudgingly. “Sir.”
“I’m afraid I bring bad news. The Chief Warder, Mr. Crabtree, was attacked the night before last.”
“Night before . . . ?” He sounded confused.
“The night you were admitted to hospital. Mr. Crabtree was pushed down the steps by the Bloody Tower at midnight. I’m afraid he did not survive the attack.”
Rumford blinked. It took him a moment to assimilate the information. Then he sat up straight, bursting the bonds of the bed-clothes, and roared, “Some bastard tried to kill me!”
Alec couldn’t have hoped for a more useful reaction. As planned, he postponed “Why?”—which could lead to the need for a caution—and went straight to “Who?”
Rumford started spitting out names. Piper’s shorthand pencil flicked across the page.
“What’s going on in here?” The nurse’s sharp voice made no impression on her patient, who continued to reel out his list. Alec moved to head her off. “Chief Inspector, I can’t allow—”
“Is it dangerous for him to sit up?” he asked. “If not, I’ll have to ask you to leave, Sister. This is important police business. You may recall that we’re investigating a murder.”
“But—”
“You might also consider that anything Mr. Rumford says in answer to our questions is confidential and for our ears only.”
She bridled. “I’m sure nurses are every bit as good at keeping confidences as policemen,” she snapped.
“Good.” Behind him, he heard Rumford running down. He smiled at the nurse. “We’re nearly done. Your patient isn’t coughing. I think you’ll find he’s come to no harm.”
“No thanks to you.” She hovered in the doorway but didn’t follow as he rejoined Piper.
Rumford had stopped. Alec decided against pressing him. However unpleasant, the man had been ill. Anything he said was unlikely to be admitted in evidence, in view of the lingering effects of morphine. “Why” could wait. It might never have to be asked, now that they had the names of those he believed had cause to wish him dead.
They left the Sister fussing over him.
“You handled her a treat, Chief. Interfering old witch.”
“It’s her job to take care of her patients, Ernie. You got everything down?”
“Got the lot,” Piper said with satisfaction. “Mostly Beefeaters, I think, but would you believe—”
“Not here, Ernie,” Alec said grimly. “I heard the first couple. We don’t want to start any rumours. We’d better have them notify us when he’s released. Someone might have another go at him.”
16
Brenda and Fay were waiting at the Middle Tower, as promised, when Daisy stepped out of the motor-cab. They greeted her with one anxious eye on the taximeter and when, on reading the amount, they each uttered a sigh of relief, so did Daisy. She didn’t want to bankrupt them, but she did feel that having offered to pay, they should do so.
The matter of a tip caused a minor argument between the sisters, the cabbie listening in with a grin. When they gave him a shilling, he touched his hat and said it was a pleasure doing business with such generous young ladies. He drove off, still grinning.
“We gave him too much, didn’t we?” said Fay.
“The usual is sixpence,” said Daisy, “or even threepence for a short distance.”
“That’s what I said.”
“But it was a long way,” Brenda reminded her.
Forestalling further disagreement, Daisy said, “Never mind, he’s happy.”
“We’re not.”
“Everything is too dreadful.”
“We were—”
“Don’t you think you’d better wait till we’re alone to tell me?”
They were passing through the arch, with a pair of Hotspurs and a pair of yeomen within earshot. Abashed, the girls fell silent.
As they crossed the moat, Fay started talking again, but Brenda said, “Not here. We’ll only have to stop again at the Byward Tower.”
“Let’s go up to Ralegh’s Walk.”
“Good idea.”
“The Tower’s closed to the public.”
“So no one will go up there.”
“If you don’t mind standing, Mrs. Fletcher?”
“Couldn’t we sit on one of those benches on Tower Green? We’d see anyone who came near.”
“Yes, but everyone would see us.”
“And someone would be bound to come and join us.”
“No one looks up at Ralegh’s Walk.”
“Except tourists and Rumford.”
“And Rumford’s in hospital.”
“Right-oh,” sighed Daisy. “As long as it doesn’t start to rain.” She had brought her umbrella, but she didn’t fancy standing about on the wall under it. The clouds looked more and more threatening.
The sentries had been taken off the shortcut stairs. Fay, accustomed to going that way, turned under the arch without a second thought. Bracing herself to follow, Daisy made an effort to blank from her mind the vision of the red-cloaked figure lying on the flagstones Fay so heedlessly trod.
Just behind Daisy, as Brenda set foot on the bottom step of the long, steep flight, she uttered a wail. Daisy nearly jumped out of her skin.
“Fay, we shouldn’t have come this way!”
Fay turned, face aghast. “I forgot!”
“So did I.”
“How could we?”
“Poor Mr. Crabtree!”
“Too late now,” said Daisy, recovering her sang-froid. “Go on, Fay.”
Fay scampered up the rest of the flight. Daisy continued at her own pace, with Brenda crowding at her heels.
At the top, Brenda said, “Isn’t it awful: I suppose in a few months—”
“Or a few weeks—”
“Or even a few days—”
“We’ll go up and down without thinking of him.”
This was one of those odd instances Daisy had noted before, and Alec had commented on, when the sisters almost seemed to be reading each other’s minds. It was going to be interesting to see if the twins developed the same ability to finish each other’s sentences.
“Sorry, Mrs. Fletcher,” said Fay.
“It must be worse for you.”
“Because you saw him.”
“Let’s not talk about it,” Daisy said determinedly. “I hope you didn’t bring me here to ask for details.”
“Oh no!”
“We may be a bit gauche . . .”
“But we’re not totally insensitive.”
“I beg your pardon.”
“What we want to tell you about is much worse.”
“For us. Not for . . . for . . .”
“For society in general.”
