Chapter 24
Not Lady Heald,” said the Resident Governor. “Lady Julia. She’s the daughter of an earl. Keep this under your hat, but it’s my opinion that’s the only reason he reached the rank of general officer. But my dear man, you’re not proposing—”
“I have to ask him a few questions, sir,” said Alec. “I ought to have done so sooner. I can do so more effectively if I know a bit about his wife.”
“If you say so,” Carradine said dubiously. “I must assume you know your own business best. What do we know about Lady Julia, Jeremy?”
“I’ve never met her ladyship, sir. I gather she rarely comes to town.”
“That’s it, exactly. Lady Julia doesn’t care for London. I believe she is a great horsewoman—rides to hounds and so on—and a scratch golfer. Shoots, too, if I’m not mistaken. And I do believe she’s a magistrate.”
“A lady of some force of character, in fact.”
“That about sums her up. Can’t really blame Sir Patrick for wanting his own little foothold in town. But look here, you’re not suggesting he smuggled her into the Tower to do in Rumford for him?”
“Great Scott no!” All the same, the notion gave rise to other possibilities: Suppose Rumford had caught the Keeper smuggling in a chorus girl, or a merry widow, or, still more reprehensible, another man’s wife.
Offhand, Alec couldn’t think of any secret Heald would be more anxious to keep from a domineering wife who held the purse strings.
“Thank you for your frankness, General.” He stood up.
“You’ll tread gently when dealing with Sir Patrick, won’t you? After all, he is a man of some consequence in the world. I’m rather surprised he hasn’t been round here again demanding to be allowed to leave.”
“So are we, sir. When did you last see him?”
“Quite early this morning. He hasn’t even made any enquiries about this latest dreadful business. For all I know, he’s not even aware of it.”
“Surely his servant—”
“He’s not likely to have heard,” Webster interrupted. “His man is a surly, silent type, who doesn’t so much as pass the time of day with the Yeoman Warders. He considers himself above the common herd. Like his master,” he added resentfully.
“Sir Patrick is above the common herd, Jeremy.”
“Not when it comes to the history of the Crown Jewels, sir. He may be Keeper, but he has no idea of academic rigour.”
“Academic rigour, whatever that may be, is hardly a requirement for his position. I’m sure the Chief Inspector is not interested in your dispute over the Black Prince’s ruby. Is there anything else we can do for you, Fletcher?”
“Have any of the yeomen asked to get into the Wakefield Tower for any reason since last night?”
The Governor looked at Webster, who said, “No, no one.”
“I’d like to borrow the key.”
Carradine chortled. “Want to check the ruby for yourself, eh? You’d better go with him, Jeremy, even if he is a Scotland Yard man. We’re not supposed to let that key out of our sight.” He extracted a bunch of keys from his pocket, unlocked a drawer of his desk, and took out a large iron key.
In the meantime, Webster had taken down a painting of a gaily caparisoned procession setting out from the Tower, banners waving. Set into the wall was an ancient iron safe that would have made any competent burglar snicker. Carradine opened it, took out another large key, and handed it to his aide.
As Alec and Webster left the study, Brenda and Fay inevitably popped out of their sitting room opposite.
“Are you arresting Mr. Webster?”
“Aunt Myrtle will be devastated!”
Webster turned a fiery red.
“No, I am not arresting Mr. Webster.” Alec was glad to note that Fay, though a bit pink around the eyes, didn’t seem too devastated by Dr. Macleod’s grisly demise. “He’s coming with me, on your father’s orders, to make sure I don’t steal the Crown Jewels.”
“Not really!”
“Do you think they’ve already been pinched?”
“May we come too?”
“Certainly not. Go and reassure Miss Tebbit that Mr. Webster is not in imminent danger of arrest.”
Alec waited until he and the secretary were beyond the hearing of the sentry outside before he asked, “Is there the slightest possibility that Sir Patrick had dishonest designs on the Crown Jewels?”
“Which Rumford might have discovered? Such is our mutual antipathy that I’d happily say yes, but I’m afraid it’s most unlikely.
He may have—as General Carradine puts it—little in the way of brains, and even less guts, but even he could hardly fail to realize he couldn’t get away with it.
Do you still want to get into the Wakefield Tower? ”
“Oh yes. We’ll meet my sergeant there.”
They reached the bottom of the shortcut steps and turned down the slope towards the Bloody Tower.
Beside the tower, between it and the Guard House, a flight of steps (no wonder Daisy had complained about endless steps!) led down to the door of the ground floor of the contiguous Wakefield Tower.
From the top, Alec saw Tom Tring waiting outside the door.
He dwarfed his companion, a by no means undersized yeoman.
Another pair of yeomen, armed with partizans, stood guard.
Parkinson gulped visibly when he saw Webster. He stepped forward manfully as they descended. Tom winked at Alec over his head.
“I know I didn’t ought to ’ve, sir,” the yeoman said to Webster. “But everyone does it.”
“And did you ever accept that as an excuse when you were in the army, Mr. Parkinson?” Webster enquired acidly.
“No, sir.”
“Well, then! As it happens I have no idea what you’re talking about, but no doubt I’ll find out shortly.”
Webster led the way to the door of the Wakefield Tower, unlocked it, stood aside for Alec to enter, and followed him into the gloomy circular room. Tom ushered Parkinson in after them and took out his notebook.
Alec turned to ask, “Where exactly did you leave your partizan, Mr. Parkinson?”
“Strewth, it’s gorn! Right here beside the door it was, leaning up against the wall, like, so’s I could grab it as I come in next morning.”
“The night before last, you left it here?”
“ ’Sright, sir, when I went off duty. Polished it down nice with a shammy I keep in me pocket, and leant it right here.”
“You may have to testify to that in court.”
“It’s true, sir, s’welp me, if it’s not. D’you mean—was it my partizan Mr. Crabtree was skewered with?”
“It may have been.”
“Let that be a lesson to you,” Webster said sententiously.
Alec took pity on the sweating Parkinson. “Mr. Crabtree was dead before he was . . . skewered. You’re not to say a word about this to anyone.”
“Mum’s the word, sir, I swear it.”
“All right, you can go. Mr. Webster, I don’t know what the penalty is for his dereliction of duty, but it’s not to be carried out until after any court case arising from this investigation is over.
Mr. Tring, make sure the two yeomen outside understand they are absolutely not to talk about what they have seen and may have overheard.
And after we leave, anyone coming out through this door is to be arrested. ”
“Right, sir.”
Tom went out and Alec turned back to Webster. “Who else has a key to this door?”
Webster grinned, an unnerving sight. “The Keeper of the Regalia. No one else. He also has the only key to the door on the first floor, communicating between the jewel chamber and the bridge across to St. Thomas’s Tower.”
“Thank you.”
“My pleasure,” said the secretary with relish as they moved outside.
“You may report to General Carradine, of course, but to no one else.”
“Of course.” He closed and locked the door behind them. “The net closes. Good luck, Chief Inspector.”
Alec and Tom followed him up the steps. He went up the slope and they turned under the Bloody Tower.
“Do we have enough circumstantial evidence?” Tom asked.
“Enough to take him in. Whether the public prosecutor will consider it sufficient to try a peer’s son-in-law for murder is another matter.”
As they walked down through the murky tunnel, a shadow detached itself from the wall at the end.
“No sign of life across the way, Chief,” Piper reported. “I strolled up and down the street a few times. Dunno if anyone saw me. If they were watching they kept well back. ’Course, a uniformed bobby’d’ve been more use to put the wind up him.”
“Not at all, laddie,” said Tom. “You’re enough to frighten the living daylights out of a scarecrow.”
“Cor, ta, Sarge.”
“Both of you come with me.” Alec stepped out from under the arch, looking across Water Street at the half-timbered dwelling above the long, low arch of Traitors’ Gate, between the two stone projections of St. Thomas’s Tower. “How does one get up to his place?”
“I asked, Chief. It’s that door, the one to the right of Traitors’ Gate.” Piper pointed out a heavy iron-bound door set back in the thickness of the stone wall.
“If he refuses to open it, we’ll need a battering ram!”
Ernie yanked on the bellpull. No sound was heard from inside. They waited.
Nothing happened.
“Maybe it’s not working,” said Piper, reaching for the handle.
“If it’s not working,” said Tom, “there’s no use pulling again. And if it is working, likely it’ll take ’em a while to get here.”
They waited.
“I wonder whether the Resident Governor has a key to this door,” Alec said at last. “It’s within his domain. Give it another try, Ernie.”
But just then the door swung open. Inside, the only light was a flickering gas lamp turned low. The black-clad manservant’s white shirtfront stood out in the gloom.
“Yes?”
“Police,” said Alec, his foot over the threshold. “I’d like a word with Sir Patrick.”
Without a word, the man turned and led the way upstairs. Piper closed the heavy door behind them with a reverberating thud.
The Keeper’s quarters could not be described as cosy. However, though the gas lights were turned down low, Alec saw at a glance that his sitting room was furnished in somewhat old-fashioned but luxurious comfort, like the smoking room of a very expensive club.
“The police, sir,” said the servant, and faded away.