Chapter 6
Unbelieving, Daisy stared downward. The yeoman’s head was turned at a strange angle, not only suggesting he was well and truly defunct but also revealing the edge of a beard still rampant in death.
The Chief Warder! He might have stumbled or slipped on the steps in the fog last night, but the partizan was proof of dirty work. Even if Crabtree had been carrying it, he could hardly have stuck it in his own back. Who could have wanted to kill the kindly, boring old buffer?
Ought she to go down and see if he needed help? No, her first-aid skills were minimal, and she was practically sure it was too late. Besides, she didn’t want to see.
Shock struck. Daisy nearly sank down on the nearest step, but she had to go for help before the Tower community awoke and started its daily routine. She forced her leaden legs to carry her up the few steps she had descended.
She couldn’t get back into the King’s House without rousing the household.
The modern lock on the front door had clicked shut automatically behind her.
The sentry on guard beside that door was the only person in sight.
His job was to stand as still and silent as a lead soldier, responding to no overtures from the wandering public, until he was relieved.
What would he do when faced with a hysterical woman reporting a murder?
Daisy was going to find out. She had no choice.
Alec gazed down at his son in his arms. Busy sucking on his bottle, Oliver gazed back, his wide eyes just the same shade of blue as Daisy’s.
He snuffled like a little pink pig with a squashed nose.
His chin was practically nonexistent and his scalp showed through the fine down on his head.
Were all babies so unattractive? Belinda, for instance: Alec couldn’t remember his beloved daughter—elder daughter—ever looking so . . . so unfinished.
He glanced over at Miranda, snuffling at her own bottle on Nanny’s arm. She stopped suckling for a moment and blew a bubble. He hoped that when they were a little older he’d be able to tell which was the boy and which the girl without asking.
The cook-housekeeper peeked around the door, then came in, breathing heavily after climbing to the second floor. “Telephone, sir. It’s the Yard,” she said importantly, but in a hushed voice so as not to startle the babies. “That Mr. Crane.”
Alec groaned. “Thank you, Mrs. Dobson.” He detached the bottle from Oliver’s mouth and laid him carefully in his cradle, where he promptly set up a banshee howl.
“Poor lamb!” Nanny’s severity was aimed at Alec, not the howler. “They don’t like interruptions. That’s why we don’t care for daddies in the nursery.”
“Sorry.” Alec fled. He’d rather deal with his superintendent, happy or unhappy, than with an unhappy baby.
As he crossed the landing, he heard Mrs. Dobson beg in a tentative voice, “Couldn’t I finish off giving him his bottle, Nanny?”
Down in the hall, Alec picked up the telephone. “Hello, Fletcher here.”
“This is Crane. We have a situation, a deuced awkward situation.”
“Sir?”
“Murder at the Tower.”
Alec’s heart plunged into his slippers, then bounced back a little. “The Tower of London? Surely that’s the City force’s territory, sir.”
“Alas, no. It’s still a royal palace. You’re a historian, aren’t you?
You know how much trouble the monarchy had with the City of London through the ages.
They’ve never let the City police near the place.
But all the Yeoman Warders are sworn Special Constables of the Met, three dozen of them or so, and their top chap seems to have been bumped off. ”
“The Resident Governor? Great Scott!”
“No, no, the Chief Warder. That’s bad enough, isn’t it? He was a Special, too.”
Bad enough indeed, but not Daisy’s host, thank heaven.
Still, Daisy had spent the night at the Tower.
Superintendent Crane must be ignorant of that fact, or he would surely have mentioned it—not to say raved about it.
However, he was bound to find out. Alec decided the information had better come from him, and sooner rather than later.
“I see, sir. I . . . I’m afraid Daisy stayed at the King’s House last night. The Resident Governor’s residence.”
There was a long silence at the other end of the wire. Then Crane’s voice arrived with a note of cautious hope: “I must have misunderstood you, Fletcher. Tell me you didn’t say Mrs. Fletcher stayed at the Tower last night.”
“I’m sorry, sir. I did. She did.” Part of Alec wanted to rush to Daisy’s side, to comfort and protect; another part wanted nothing whatsoever to do with any murder case she’d managed to get herself mixed up in; and there was a bit left over that wanted to wring her neck.
“In the circumstances, I expect you’ll prefer someone else handling the investigation, sir. ”
“Not on your life!” Superintendent Crane exploded. “If you can’t control your own wife, who the devil else do you suppose has the slightest chance? Get over there immediately.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You’ll have a battalion of Hotspur Guards to contend with, too, and their lieutenant colonel.
You can guess how those chaps’ll feel about civilian interference.
I’ll send your sergeant—Tring, isn’t it?
And I suppose you’ll need a DC or two. The place may be swarming with Specials,” he added dryly, “but I imagine they’ll all be suspects. ”
Alec breathed a silent groan. “DC Piper, please, sir.” It wouldn’t hurt to have a detective constable who thought Daisy was the cat’s pyjamas, just in case any of the Yeoman Warders considered her a suspect. “And Ross, if he’s available.”
“All right, you shall have them. A police surgeon is on his way. Now get on with it. And Fletcher, for pity’s sake, don’t upset General Carradine. Just remember, he’s not only a general; as Resident Governor, he represents the Crown.”
Crane rang off. Alec dashed back upstairs to finish dressing. He put on his Royal Flying Corps tie, hoping it might smooth his way with the military. After a quick word with Mrs. Dobson in the hall, he was opening the front door when the telephone bell sounded again.
“I’m glad I’ve caught you, Fletcher. I’ve just reported to the AC, and he tells me there’s another general at the Tower.”
This time, Alec let his groan be heard. “Who’s that, sir?”
“Sir Patrick Heald, Keeper of the Regalia. Bad luck that he’s in residence at present, as he lives mostly at his country house. Officially, he’s a member of His Majesty’s Household. And he’s a friend of the Assistant Commissioner.”
Alec took the tube to Mark Lane. At this hour, the trains were crowded, but probably quicker than driving. As he made his way up from the depths, a breathless voice behind him called, “Chief!”
He was pleased to see Ernie Piper. The young DC’s phenomenal memory for detail would help him keep straight the names of the dozens of Yeomen Warders they were going to have to interview. With him was DC Ross, whose much longer stride accounted for Piper’s puffing and panting.
“We been chasing you up I dunno know how many steps, Chief.”
“Good practice. According to my memory and my wife, the Tower of London consists mostly of steps. Morning, Ross.”
“Good morning, sir.” Ross hadn’t worked with Alec often enough to address him as Chief. “Mrs. Fletcher’s involved in the case?”
“Peripherally, I trust. She was staying with the Resident Governor last night. I doubt she had anything to do with the victim—the Chief Warder, I gather.”
“I wouldn’t give you odds on that, Chief! Mrs. Fletcher’s bound to know exactly what’s going on,” said Piper.
“We’ll see.”
Hadn’t Daisy said something about the Chief Warder, when she was telling him about her tour of the Tower? He couldn’t for the life of him remember what. Not for the first time, he wished he’d listened to her more closely.
They walked down the hill under spitting rain and a sky that threatened worse to come. A gusty wind blew scraps of paper about their feet. Alec passed on what little information he had from Superintendent Crane, mostly concerned with not offending the eminent gentlemen involved.
“I should warn you also,” he added, “that many, if not most, of our suspects are likely to come from the ranks of colleagues of ours.”
“Colleagues, sir?” Ross exclaimed.
“All Yeoman Warders are Special Constables of the Metropolitan Police. By the way, don’t for pity’s sake call them Beefeaters, unless you want more murder done. My wife says they regard the term as an insult.”
“They must get insulted a lot, then,” observed Piper. “Most people don’t know any better.”
“I didn’t,” Ross admitted.
“Well, you do now. You two are going to have to handle initial interviews with them, and I don’t want any missteps. Besides, every single one is a sergeant major, so they outrank you. Think you can cope?”
“If you can cope with a couple of generals, Chief, and one of them a Sir into the bargain, me and Ross’ll manage a few dozen sergeant majors, never fear.”
“All right. To start with, we want some idea of the character of the victim—at least, how the others regarded him—and as many alibis as possible for the time of death, to weed them out a bit.”
“Do we have a time of death, sir?”
“Not yet. With luck, the doctor will get there before us. If not, we’ll surely be able to narrow it down. Actually, for all I know, he was in bed and his wife hit him with a frying pan.”
“Shouldn’t think so, Chief. If it looked like being that simple, they’d’ve told the Super so and he wouldn’t have sent you, even with Mrs. Fletcher being there.”
“He didn’t know she’s there.” Alec saw Piper and Ross exchange a glance, and realized he sounded irritable. They were not to blame for Daisy’s association with yet another murder case. “No, you’re right, Ernie. It must be more complicated than that.”