Chapter 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.”
“And Mr. Crabtree in particular. Oh, botheration!”
This latter exclamation was caused by the sight of a large man, a very large man, up on Ralegh’s Walk, standing on tiptoe to peer over the parapet.
Daisy instantly recognized the suit, maroon-and-green check, one of Tom’s less obtrusive. In fact, amid the glories of the yeomen’s Tudor costume and the Hotspurs’ red and white, it wouldn’t be in the least conspicuous.
“It’s Detective Sergeant Tring, my husband’s right-hand man. You haven’t met him?”
“No.”
“We couldn’t forget him if we had!”
“What on earth is he doing?”
“I’ve no idea. Perhaps he’ll tell us.”
She led the way up the steps. Tom turned and saw her. After a moment’s startlement, he grinned so broadly, his moustache couldn’t hide it. In fact, he seemed to be shaking with silent laughter, an impressive sight.
“Good morning, Mrs. Fletcher.”
“Good morning, Tom.”
“We weren’t expecting you here today.”
“I wasn’t intending to come,” Daisy retorted. “I was invited. Girls, Mr. Tring. Tom, this is Miss Carradine, and Miss Fay Carradine.”
Brenda said, “How do you do?”
Fay was much too curious to bother with the formalities. “What on earth were you peering over the wall for, Mr. Tring?”
“Ah.” He regarded the pair with bright, considering eyes. “That would be telling. On the other hand, maybe one of you young ladies could help me.”
Fay’s eyes widened. “With your investigation? I will. How?”
“You see, there’s something I need to check just the other side of this wall, and it’s too high to see over properly.”
“I don’t think even all three of us could lift you,” Brenda said dubiously.
“Bless your heart, I don’t imagine you could.
But I could lift one of you. You see, I’ve spread a newspaper.
. . .” As he spoke, a sudden gust of wind threatened to fly away with his newspaper.
One large hand clamped it in place. “So you wouldn’t dirty your clothes.
Now, suppose I was to brace my knee against the wall, like so.
” He raised a leg like a tree trunk and pressed his knee to the stone so that his thigh was horizontal.
“Do you think you could climb up, Miss Fay, and look over?”
“Of course.” She took his hand and placed one foot on the step formed by his leg.
“Brenda, hold her ankles!” Daisy ordered.
Balanced on high, Fay looked back down at them. “What am I to look for, Mr. Tring?”
“That there vine, miss, growing up t’other side of the wall. What I want to know is, is it sturdy enough up here for someone to use it to climb down?”
Fay leant against the wall and craned over the top.
“Be careful!” Brenda begged.
“No,” said Fay. “That is, Mr. Tring, the stems aren’t anywhere near strong enough to bear a climber. They’re not much more than tendrils, for several feet down.”
“That’s what I thought.” He helped her down. “Thank you very much, miss. I’m much obliged.”
“Why do you need to know?”
“Ah,” said Tom, “now that’s what I can’t tell you.”
“Can’t or won’t?” asked Fay pertly.
“Didn’t ought. The Chief Inspector’d have my guts for garters.”
The girls hooted with laughter at this expression, which hadn’t previously come their way. Tom smiled indulgently.
“I bet, if we weren’t here, you’d tell Mrs. Fletcher,” said Brenda.
“I might. Then again, I might not. And now I must be on my way. Does the Chief know you’re here, Mrs. Fletcher?”
“No. I suppose you’ll have to tell him.”
“I might. Then again, I might not.”
“Thanks, Tom, but it doesn’t really matter. He’s sure to find out one way or another.”
Tom went off. At the bottom of the steps, he looked up, and the Carradine girls waved to him.
“Is he a friend of yours, Mrs. Fletcher?” Fay asked.
“A very good friend.”
“But he’s not . . . you know . . .”
“His suit!” Brenda giggled.
“He’s a dear, and my son’s godfather,” Daisy said firmly.
She didn’t want to get involved in a protracted discussion.
The gust that had tried to steal Tom’s newspaper now proved to be the forerunner of a cold, persistent wind.
“Now let’s please get on with whatever it is you wanted to tell me, before I freeze to death. ”
“Oh dear, are you cold?”
“I can’t think of anywhere both indoors and private.”
“How about the Bloody Tower?”
“Won’t it be locked?” asked Daisy.
“It might not be. There’s not much in there worth pinching.”
“Just Ralegh’s History, and who’d want that?”
“People pay to go in just because the Little Princes were murdered there.”
“Ghouls!”
As they talked, they moved along the wall towards the Bloody Tower.
Brenda tried the door, and a moment later they entered the room where the princes were said to have been smothered by Sir James Tyrrell, on the orders of Richard Crookback.
Though draughty, it was considerably warmer than out on the wall.
If the ghosts of the boys were about, they didn’t make themselves evident.
Daisy wondered how long it would be before reports of a Yeoman Warder haunting the steps where Crabtree died started to circulate.
“Right-oh, tell me all.”
Between the two of them, Daisy could practically see the scene at the King’s House breakfast table that morning.
When Brenda and Fay went down to breakfast, their father and Mr. Webster were ensconced behind their newspapers, the Morning Post and the Times, respectively.
Both grunted in response to the girls’ greetings.
They were undismayed. The general was always grumpy at breakfast, and Mr. Webster was always grumpy, full stop.
Having filled their plates at the buffet, they sat down.
“Is there anything about our murder in the paper, Daddy?” Fay asked.
“Our murder! It’s not our murder.”
“I’m afraid, sir,” Webster remarked in his bland way, “in a sense it is ours. The Tower is your domain, the victim—”
“I won’t have another word about it at the breakfast table!” the general shouted.
Miss Tebbit arrived in time to receive the full force of the shout, without having any notion what it was about. “I’m so sorry, Cousin Arthur,” she said in a tremulous voice. “I didn’t mean to . . . I’m not certain just what . . .”
“My dear cousin,” said General Carradine irritably, “I beg your pardon for raising my voice. It was in no way your fault.”
“Oh dear, I can’t help feeling . . . I do apologize. . . .”
Webster, who had stood up to hold a chair for her, said in a soothing tone, “The general was disturbed by something I said, dear lady. Won’t you sit down and let me get you something to eat?”