Chapter 2
A sentry stood at the door of the King’s House. He remained immobile, expressionless, but his eyes slewed to watch them as Melanie rang the bell. They heard the bell ring inside, simultaneous with a bugle call from somewhere behind them.
A neat maid opened the door. She showed them up to the second floor—Daisy recalled Alec’s warning about the Tower having an awful lot of steps—and into a spacious drawing room.
A high, wide, mullioned oriel window faced north onto Tower Green.
Sunlight flooded in through a window in the opposite gable, overlooking Water Street, the outer wall, and the Thames.
The ceiling was open to the slanting rafters, and dark beams chequered the white walls.
This much, Daisy absorbed as a tall, painfully thin woman rose and hurried eagerly to greet them.
“I’m so glad you were able to come. Mother has been missing her friends in St. John’s Wood.
” Miss Tebbit, in her mid-forties, wore her greying hair in a bun confined with a net, despite which wisps escaped in all directions.
Her brown silk frock sagged at the hem. Admittedly, uneven hemlines were all the rage, but Miss Tebbit’s just plain sagged.
A tart voice came from behind her. “There’s no need to make me sound pathetic, Myrtle.
Life is much more interesting here than in that fusty suburb.
Just think, this very room is the Council Chamber where Guy Fawkes was questioned!
But I’m delighted to see you, Mrs. Germond, Mrs. Fletcher.
I hope you’ve come primed with all the latest scandal. ”
“Mother!”
Daisy was glad to see the move to the Tower had not banished the mischievous twinkle from Mrs. Tebbit’s eyes.
Ignoring, as usual, her daughter’s feeble protest, the old lady introduced the Resident Governor.
A slight, dapper gentleman with the erect bearing of a regular soldier, Major General Carradine had sprung to his feet when the visitors entered.
He looked to be in his mid-fifties, his fair hair and moustache fading to salt-and-pepper, but still thick.
He came forward to shake their hands with an affable smile.
“Welcome to my humble castle,” he said. “May I offer you some sherry? Or a cocktail, perhaps?”
Melanie opted for sherry, while Daisy requested gin and It without the gin. “Spirits at midday make me sleepy,” she explained.
Carradine laughed. “Vermouth coming up. Would you care for a dash of soda water in it?”
“That would be perfect. Yes, please.”
He poured Cinzano and sprayed soda water, then handed her the drink. She took a sip. “Just right.”
“I’ll have the same,” announced Mrs. Tebbit. “Never could abide sherry.”
“But Mother, you’ve always—”
“And gin makes me bilious. Thank you, Arthur. Hmm, not bad.”
He grinned at Daisy. In an undertone, he said, “I never expected inviting my cousins to live with me would provide such a source of amusement.”
“She’s splendid, isn’t she? Your gain is our loss.”
They chatted for a few minutes. Daisy liked him and thought he’d probably be amenable to giving her special access for her research. She was wondering whether to broach the subject at once or wait until lunch or after, when Mrs. Tebbit said commandingly, “Arthur!”
The general, looking a bit sheepish, excused himself to Daisy and went to join the old lady and Melanie. Miss Tebbit gravitated to Daisy’s side, with her usual air of vague anxiety.
“Oh dear, Mrs. Fletcher,” she said with a little gasp, “I do hope you won’t think we’ve brought you here under false pretences.”
“False pretences?” Daisy asked, astonished.
“The numbers!”
“Numbers? Are the general’s daughters going to join us?”
“Oh yes, they promised.”
“You and your mother moved here to chaperon them, didn’t you?”
“Yes.” Miss Tebbit wrung her hands. “But I’m very much afraid we shall be six ladies and only three gentlemen at table!”
Daisy laughed. “Well, I don’t mind a bit, but isn’t the Tower swarming with military men?”
“That’s the trouble.” She lowered her voice.
“You see, Mrs. Carradine died when the girls were quite small, and her sister brought them up. Cousin Arthur was away a lot, of course, being in the army. Then after the War, he was offered this post, Resident Governor of the Tower, so they all came to live here. And his sister-in-law went and married the lieutenant colonel in charge of the Hotspur Guards battalion quartered here!”
“How very shocking of her.”
“Oh no, I don’t blame dear Christina in the least, even though Cousin Arthur says Colonel Duggan is not a pukka sahib. It’s . . . it’s not always very pleasant being an aging spinster, my dear.”
“Not a pukka sahib?” Daisy asked, intrigued.
“He rose from the ranks, starting out as a common private. He got his commission and attained the rank of lieutenant colonel only because of the War, because so many officers were killed.”
“He must be exceptionally competent, then.”
“I wouldn’t know about that, I’m afraid.
In any case, when Christina married, Cousin Arthur sent the girls off to finishing school in Switzerland, so that was all right.
But now they’re seventeen and eighteen, such pretty girls, and they’ve come home, and as is only natural, they want to spend time with their aunt. ”
“Of course, since she brought them up.”
“And, you see, the Hotspur Guards are presently our garrison again, and the colonel’s quarters are positively haunted by young officers.
The battalion will be quartered in the Tower for only a few months, I understand, or is it weeks?
But in the meantime, Colonel Duggan just laughs, and Cousin Arthur has quarrelled with him, and, oh dear, it’s very uncomfortable. ”
“And you can’t invite any of the officers to lunch?”
“Exactly! So our numbers are all wrong. I know it’s not what you’re used to. . . .”
Daisy didn’t like to reveal that these days she usually ate lunch in the nursery with Nanny and the twins. “Who are the other two gentlemen?” she enquired.
“General Sir Patrick Heald,” Miss Tebbit said impressively.
“He’s Keeper of the Regalia, which makes him a member of His Majesty’s Household.
And Cousin Arthur’s assistant, Mr. Webster.
He’s a distant relative on the other side.
He’s sort of a secretary, really, but Cousin Arthur calls him his ADC, or sometimes his adjutant. Military terms, I believe.”
“He’s not a soldier, though?”
“No. And I must say,” she added with a shadow of her mother’s frankness, “it’s very pleasant to have someone to talk to who is not obsessed with the army!”
“I can imagine it might be.” Daisy looked round as the door burst open.
Two girls in tennis whites bounced in.
“Frightfully sorry we’re late, everyone,” the taller said breathlessly.
“But we won’t be half a tick,” vowed the other.
“We won’t stop to bathe. . . .”
“Just a lick and a promise . . .”
“And a quick change . . .”
“And we’ll be down for the soup.”
They disappeared as abruptly as they had arrived, leaving Daisy with an impression of exuberant energy, pink faces, and blond bobs ruffled by exertion. Nothing could have been more at variance with the Tower’s gloomy history.
“Allow me to introduce my daughters,” said the general with pardonable sarcasm. “Those were Brenda and Fay. And allow me to apologize for their excruciating manners.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Mrs. Tebbit remarked. “They did apologize on their own behalf. And tennis is healthy exercise these days, nothing like the genteel nonsense that was all girls were permitted in my young day. All we could manage, indeed, in our crinolines and corsets.”
Carradine looked as if he was no longer so certain that Mrs. Tebbit’s outspokenness was amusing.
Perhaps he was also wondering whether Brenda and Fay had been playing singles or doubles.
Daisy wanted to ask whether the amenities of the Tower included tennis courts, which would hint at doubles with military partners.
However, she was afraid anything to do with tennis might prove inflammatory just now.
Before she could make up her mind, they were interrupted by the arrival of two men.
The general introduced Sir Patrick Heald, Keeper of the Regalia, “A bit of a sinecure,” he boomed in a voice unexpectedly deep for his short, tubby frame and round pink face.
“I get free quarters in St. Thomas’s Tower, a nice pied-à-terre in town, in exchange for minimal services to the Crown. Pun intended, ha ha!”
“You disappoint me, Sir Patrick,” said Mrs. Tebbit. “I’ve been picturing you busily polishing the diamonds every day, or at least once a week.”
“No, no!” He laughed jovially. “Leave that sort of thing to our good Curator under the stern eye of our friend here.” He indicated the man who had come in with him.
General Carradine introduced him. “My adjutant, Jeremy Webster. Jeremy, Mrs. Fletcher and Mrs. Germond.”
Webster bowed, his solemnity scarcely lightened by a perfunctory smile.
A stocky man, he wore horn-rimmed glasses with lenses so thick, Daisy thought for a moment he must be blind.
He had no white stick, however, and he had entered the room without hesitation.
His mouth, wide and rather thin-lipped, in repose turned downward.
This, with the spectacles, a sallow complexion, and a receding hairline, gave him a froglike appearance, but the effect was melancholy rather than disagreeable.
He seemed about the same age as the general, perhaps a few years younger.
Jeremy Webster? Beatrix Potter’s Jeremy Fisher inevitably sprang to mind. Daisy would have to take care not to address him as Mr. Fisher.
Her attempts at conversation elicited only monosyllabic responses until Miss Tebbit mentioned that he was also a writer.
“Also?” He turned his bottle-bottom lenses on Daisy with a perceptible brightening not unmixed with scepticism.