Chapter 5 #2
They walked along the wall and round the end, then down the two wide, shallow flights of steps, Fay and Brenda hanging on to each other and giggling.
The steps were indeed slippery, as was the cobbled slope leading down to the Bloody Tower archway.
Lamps at either end of the tunnel only rendered the darkness underneath more complete.
Daisy, gloved hands deep in her pockets, felt Mrs. Duggan’s hand slip through her arm.
“I hate this place,” the colonel’s wife whispered, “even in the daytime. I can’t help thinking about the little princes murdered just over our heads.”
“Almost five centuries ago,” said Daisy comfortingly, wishing she hadn’t been reminded.
As they passed under the portcullis, invisible above, they heard fog-muffled marching footsteps coming after them. Daisy glanced back and, by the light at the far end, caught a fleeting glimpse of shakoed silhouettes before they disappeared into the darkness.
“The escort,” Brenda explained.
“The sergeant of the watch,” Fay elucidated.
“And three privates.”
“One’s a drummer.”
“That’s his official title.”
“But he plays the bugle.”
They both laughed, their youthful insouciance driving away any lingering ghosts.
The marching footsteps stopped under the Bloody Tower. The four ladies continued, turning right along Water Street, walking close to the wall, towards the Byward Tower. For all they could see of it, the tower might as well not have existed.
Its lamp came into view, and at the same time two yeomen materialized, coming towards them.
Except for the Tudor bonnets, their uniforms were hidden by scarlet capes.
They walked with solemn tread, on official business now.
As they came closer, Daisy recognised the Chief Warder’s beard.
His companion carried a lantern, its candle doing absolutely nothing to illuminate the scene.
She and her companions turned to trail the yeomen. At the Bloody Tower, they halted, and Crabtree’s voice rang out, “Escort for the Keys!”
Followed by the five Hotspur Guards, they marched back along Water Street, under the Byward Tower and across the moat to the Middle Tower.
As they reached it, a large motor-car nosed through the arch, its acetylene lamps creating two glowing spheres of fog.
Their dazzle hid the driver, but Daisy recognized Sir Patrick’s voice: “Just in time, eh, Crabtree? The damn fog suddenly thickened at the top of the hill.”
The silver Hotchkiss crept past.
The second yeoman helped the Chief Warder close the great gates.
Crabtree locked them with a huge key from his huge bunch of keys as the sentries and escort presented arms. With Daisy and her friends doing their best to keep out of the way but in sight, Yeoman Warders and Hotspur Guards returned to the Byward Tower.
“Quick,” Fay urged, “we don’t want to be locked out on the bridge overnight!”
She and Brenda skipped through; Mrs. Duggan and Daisy slipped through after them. The closing and locking were repeated. Here the second yeoman was left on guard. Crabtree and his escort and their four shadows returned to the Bloody Tower.
From under the arch a challenge rang out: “Halt! Who comes there?”
“The Keys,” Crabtree responded.
“Whose keys?”
“King George’s Keys.”
“Pass, King George’s Keys. All’s well.”
Back through the tunnel they went, less eerie now with the tramp of marching boots ahead. At the top of the slope, a ghostly platoon awaited them, arrayed on the steps with the Officer of the Guard in front, his sword drawn.
“Guard and escort, present arms,” he commanded.
“That’s Billy Playdell,” Brenda whispered in Daisy’s ear. “He’s our croquet champion.”
Crabtree took two steps forward, raised his bonnet, and called out, “God preserve King George!”
“Amen!” bellowed the Guardsmen.
Through the fog came the fog-deadened sound of a clock striking ten. The Drummer raised his bugle to his lips and played the Last Post. Always a melancholy sound, in this setting it was positively ghostly.
“That’s the end,” said Fay. “Mr. Crabtree takes the keys to Daddy now. Why don’t you go with him, Mrs. Fletcher, and we’ll see Aunt Christina home.”
“Good idea,” her sister agreed. “Mr. Crabtree!”
The Chief Warder came to meet them. “Now, Miss Brenda, you know I’m not supposed to do nothing this minute but deliver the King’s Keys to the Governor.”
“Oh but, it’s such a foul night, we can’t let Mrs. Duggan try to find her way home alone, can we?” Brenda coaxed.
“My sister and I will go with her, Mr. Crabtree—”
“But you wouldn’t want Mrs. Fletcher to have to traipse all that way with us, would you?”
“Or to go to the King’s House by herself in this fog?”
“When you’re going straight there.”
Crabtree shook his head, but he said, “No indeed. I’ll be honoured to escort Mrs. Fletcher.”
Daisy shook Mrs. Duggan’s hand and promised to meet again soon. Aunt and nieces disappeared up the steps into the fog.
“We’ll take the shortcut, madam, if that’s all right with you.”
“Yes, it shouldn’t be too bad going up, though we funked it coming down.”
“Very wise, madam. A nasty night it is for sure, but I’ve got my lantern to show us the way.”
“It’s a very fine lantern,” said Daisy, with a dubious glance at the remaining stub of candle and its wavering flame.
“Presented by the Artillery Company in ’19, when they were garrisoned here. They gave us a nice inkstand for the Warders’ Hall, too. Good chaps, that lot.”
In contrast to the present garrison? Daisy wondered. With luck, Mrs. Tebbit’s caustic comments on the futility of family feuds might alleviate the discord between Yeoman Warders and Hotspur Guards for the rest of the battalion’s residence here.
“You’ll see better if I go first, madam, so the light hits the steps ahead of you.”
Daisy followed him up. The candle end did help a little, but she couldn’t see a thing beyond its light.
She heard someone, though, someone with a bad cough standing at the top of the steps—there hadn’t been much coughing during the ceremony, perhaps because coal smoke hadn’t yet suffused the fog.
As they neared the top, the fuzzy globe of a gas lamp dimly illuminated a Tudor bonnet and a red cape like the Chief Warder’s.
A hoarse whisper: “Evening, madam.” Cough, cough. “Evening, Mr. Crabtree. Can I ’ave a word wi’ you?”
“Not just now, Mr. Rumford. I have the Keys, and this lady . . .”
“That’s all right,” said Daisy. She could just make out the lamp on the corner house, the one that now blocked Ralegh’s Walk. “I can find my way now.” She almost offered to take the King’s Keys to the general, but decided that would be a breach of etiquette.
“Only take ’alf a mo.” Rumford started coughing again.
“All right, then, if you don’t mind waiting, Mrs. Fletcher. I promised the young ladies to see you home.”
The Yeoman Gaoler pulled Crabtree a couple of paces aside. Daisy couldn’t hear what he said, but the Chief Warder replied, “Right you are. You sound bloody ’orrible all right.”
Rumford went off, his cough still echoing back after he’d vanished.
“Gassed,” said Crabtree briefly, rejoining Daisy. “He’s mostly right enough, but the fog brings it on.”
Daisy made sympathetic noises, wondering why he sounded disgruntled. Perhaps Rumford used his damaged lungs to pass off some of his duties on his superior, but the cough had sounded bad enough to be a reason, not an excuse.
The King’s House was easy enough to find now.
Crabtree knocked on the door. General Carradine’s batman opened it and there was a moment’s confusion while the general stepped forward to receive the keys while the Chief Warder stepped back to usher Daisy inside.
They sorted themselves out, the keys were handed over in due form, and Daisy thanked Crabtree.
As the batman closed the door, Carradine demanded, “Where are my girls, Mrs. Fletcher?”
Daisy explained, adding, “It was very thoughtful of them, wasn’t it?”
“As long as they don’t hang about with the officers when they get there.”
“I’m sure they intend to come straight home, as straight as is possible in the fog.” She hid a smile as she envisioned an officer or two offering to escort the young ladies home and, in turn, having to find their own way back to their quarters.
They went upstairs, where Mrs. Tebbit immediately echoed her cousin: “Where are the girls, Mrs. Fletcher?”
Again, Daisy explained.
“Hm, very proper. I suppose you gave them the hint.”
“Not at all. It was their own notion.”
“Well, I ascribe it to your influence anyway. They seem to consider you a model to be emulated. There is something to be said for an aristocratic young lady who is also a modern working woman.”
“Oh, Mother!”
Half an hour later, Fay and Brenda turned up, damp and chilled and calling for cocoa.
When the household retired to bed, Daisy found herself wakeful.
While the details of the ceremony itself had not particularly inspired her, the idea that it had taken place in more or less the same form for seven hundred years was impressive.
The ancient setting and the atmosphere of mystery lent by the fog made it unforgettable.
Yet when at last she slept, her dreams were haunted not by huge bunches of giant keys but by visions of the little princes murdered in the Bloody Tower. As with Alice and Anne Boleyn, Queen Mary and the Red Queen, the princes became confused with her own twins.
When she awoke next morning, she was desperate to see her babies. Not that she believed dreams foretold the future; she just wanted to see them.
Though it was still very early, she thought the posterns at least might be unlocked by now.
She got up and dressed. To sneak out would be very bad form, but she couldn’t help herself.
She tore a page out of her notebook and wrote a grovelling apology to Mrs. Tebbit, whose maternal feelings were probably not strong enough to help her understand. With any luck, she might be amused.
Slipping down the stairs, Daisy left the note on the hall table, unbolted the door, and stepped out.
A brisk, blustery breeze had driven off the fog, thank heaven. Passing the sentry posted near the Resident Governor’s front door, she thought he gave her as much of a strange look as was consonant with his duty. Ignoring him, she made for the shortcut stair.
As she reached the top step, she saw a scarlet heap at the bottom. Puzzled, she started down. Then she realized the scarlet was a Yeoman Warder’s cape.
And the yeoman was still inside it.
And sticking out of the middle of his back was a partizan.