The Tower, the Zoo and the Tortoise Part 5

ARRIVING BACK AT HIS HOUSE, the chaplain put the trowel in the cupboard under the kitchen sink, washed his hands carefully, and took down his sorrowful teapot for one. As he sat alone at the table sipping his cranberry infusion, his mind turned once more to the heavenly Ruby Dore. Unable to bear the stab of solitude any longer, he stood up, fetched his pile of recipes from the drawer next to the sink, and set about selecting his weapon of seduction. the chaplain put the trowel in the cupboard under the kitchen sink, washed his hands carefully, and took down his sorrowful teapot for one. As he sat alone at the table sipping his cranberry infusion, his mind turned once more to the heavenly Ruby Dore. Unable to bear the stab of solitude any longer, he stood up, fetched his pile of recipes from the drawer next to the sink, and set about selecting his weapon of seduction.

Once his choice was made, the clergyman picked up the mail he had collected from his post office box earlier that morning and made his way up to his study to compose his next sermon. Sitting at his desk, he worked his ivory letter-opener across the first spine and reached inside. When he had finished reading, he read the letter again to make sure that he had understood it correctly. He then folded it, returned it to its envelope, and slid it into the desk drawer. And, as he sat back in his chair in astonishment, he wondered whether there was any real hope that he would win the Erotic Fiction Awards, for which he had just been shortlisted.

BALTHAZAR JONES STOOD at number seven Tower Green and knocked on the door. When, after several long minutes, there was still no reply, he put down the cage, cupped his hands against the windowpane, and attempted to see through a gap in the curtain. Eventually, the Yeoman Gaoler appeared at the door, his dressing gown tied across the crest of his stomach, one hand raised against the glare of the marble clouds. at number seven Tower Green and knocked on the door. When, after several long minutes, there was still no reply, he put down the cage, cupped his hands against the windowpane, and attempted to see through a gap in the curtain. Eventually, the Yeoman Gaoler appeared at the door, his dressing gown tied across the crest of his stomach, one hand raised against the glare of the marble clouds.

"Are you all right?" Balthazar Jones asked.

The Yeoman Gaoler scratched at his chest. "I didn't get much sleep last night."

"May I come in for a minute?"

The Yeoman Gaoler stepped back to allow the man to pa.s.s. "It might be warmer in the kitchen," he said.

Balthazar Jones walked down the hall and placed the cage on the table. The Yeoman Gaoler sat down and ran a hand through his hair.

"What's that?" he asked, nodding at the cage.

"The Queen's Etruscan shrew. I was hoping you'd look after it. It's of a particularly nervous disposition."

The Yeoman Gaoler looked at him. "How will the public be able to see it if it's in my house?" he asked.

"They can make an appointment, but to be honest I'm not too bothered if they don't. I just want to make sure that it stays alive."

"Let's see it then."

Balthazar Jones stretched his arm into the cage and took the lid off the tiny plastic house.

The Yeoman Gaoler stood up and peered inside. "I can't see anything," he said.

"It's there in the corner."

The man reached for his gla.s.ses and took another look. "That thing there? Are you sure it's alive?" he asked.

"Of course I'm sure. I saw it move this morning."

The Yeoman Gaoler continued to gaze at the creature, then scratched the back of his head and declared: "To be honest, I don't think shrews are my thing."

The Beefeater studied him for a moment. "The other thing I had you pencilled in for was helping to look after the penguins," he said. "They were a gift from the President of Argentina. Apparently they're from the Falkland Islands after all."

After showing Balthazar Jones out, the Yeoman Gaoler returned to the kitchen, sat down, and looked at the cage with the unfocused gaze of the exhausted. He had gone to bed at a respectable hour the previous night, dressed in a celebratory new pair of pajamas, convinced that the horror was finally over. Before taking his evening bath, he had opened all the windows in the house and, according to the ancient remedy for driving out ghosts, stood in the corners of each room brandishing a smouldering bunch of dried sage. The vapours had curled up against the walls towards the ceiling and drifted off into the night. But shortly before dawn, he was woken by the sound of boots striding across the wooden dining-room floor below him, and the most heinous profanities deriding the Spanish uttered in a Devonshire accent. After mustering the courage to descend the stairs, which were flooded with the stench of tobacco, he found that the potatoes he had left out to fry for his breakfast were missing. Returning swiftly to bed, he locked the door, drew up his covers, and listened in a state of terror to the unearthly sounds that continued until well after dawn.

HEBE JONES ARRIVED at London Underground Lost Property Office earlier than usual, having been woken by the uproar of the red howler monkeys. Her irritation had been complete when she discovered that not only was her husband missing, but so too was the grapefruit she had bought herself for breakfast. As she waited for the water to boil for her cup of tea, she looked through the fridge for something to eat and discovered a solitary Bakewell tartlet belonging to Valerie Jennings behind a carton of carrot soup. Seduced by the lurid red cherry on top, she convinced herself that her colleague would not miss it, carried it back to her desk, and took a bite. But it was to be her only memory of the succulent almond filling. For her fingers immediately reached for the gigolo's diary, and she became so engrossed by an entry that involved the ruination of a boardroom table by one of his lovers' heels that she ate the rest without realising. at London Underground Lost Property Office earlier than usual, having been woken by the uproar of the red howler monkeys. Her irritation had been complete when she discovered that not only was her husband missing, but so too was the grapefruit she had bought herself for breakfast. As she waited for the water to boil for her cup of tea, she looked through the fridge for something to eat and discovered a solitary Bakewell tartlet belonging to Valerie Jennings behind a carton of carrot soup. Seduced by the lurid red cherry on top, she convinced herself that her colleague would not miss it, carried it back to her desk, and took a bite. But it was to be her only memory of the succulent almond filling. For her fingers immediately reached for the gigolo's diary, and she became so engrossed by an entry that involved the ruination of a boardroom table by one of his lovers' heels that she ate the rest without realising.

Just as she was wiping the evidence off her mouth, the phone rang.

"We do indeed," she replied, turning her eyes towards the inflatable doll with the red hole for a mouth. "She's blonde ... I see ... They're white ... Her shoes are definitely white, I can see them from here ... She doesn't appear to be yours then ... We'll be in touch if she shows up ... We always take great care of anything that's handed in ... I quite understand ... Not at all ... Each to their own ... Will do ... Goodbye."

Sitting back in her chair, her eyes fell to the urn, and she dusted the wooden lid with her tiny fingers. She reached for one of the London telephone directories on the shelf above her desk and leafed her way to residents called Perkins. Hebe Jones was not beyond looking for a needle in a haystack, a method both she and Valerie Jennings had been forced to adopt on numerous occasions. Its rare successes had meant that they both returned to it when desperate, with the dogged hope of a gambler. She looked at the first entry and dialled the number.

"h.e.l.lo, is that Mr. Perkins?" she asked.

"Yes," a voice replied.

"This is Mrs. Jones from London Underground Lost Property Office. I'm calling to enquire whether you might have left something on the Tube network recently."

"I wish I had, dearie, but I haven't left my house in over twenty years."

"I'm sorry to have disturbed you."

"That's quite all right. Goodbye."

She peered at the phone book and dialled again.

"h.e.l.lo, is that Dr. Perkins?"

"Who's speaking?"

"Mrs. Jones from London Underground Lost Property Office."

"She's at work. I'm the cleaner. Can I take a message?"

"Do you know whether she happened to have left a wooden box on the Tube recently? It has a bra.s.s plaque bearing the name Clementine Perkins."

"I doubt it," the woman replied. "There are no Clementines in Dr. Perkins's family."

As Hebe Jones put down the phone, Valerie Jennings arrived in her usual flat black shoes. But as she hung her navy coat on the stand next to the inflatable doll, there were none of her usual complaints about delays on the Northern Line during which she had to suffer the indignity of being tightly pressed against her fellow pa.s.sengers. Nor was there a word about the bitterness of the morning and a prediction of snow on account of the twitching of her bunions. And when she opened the fridge, there wasn't even a look of reproach when she searched in vain for the Bakewell tartlet that she had hidden behind a carton of carrot soup.

"You're not still worried about those ears, are you?" enquired Hebe Jones, thinking of Valerie Jennings's eventual release from the front end of the pantomime horse, which had resulted in the detachment of both appendages as she lurched backwards. "I took the horse home last night and Balthazar said he'd sew them back on and you'd never notice."

"It's much worse than that," said her colleague.

"What?" asked Hebe Jones.

"Arthur Catnip asked me out to lunch while you were gone yesterday afternoon."

"What did you say?"

"Yes ... He caught me off guard."

There was a pause.

"It gets worse," Valerie Jennings continued.

"Why?"

"I don't want to go."

FOLLOWING A DAY of defeat at the office, Hebe Jones made her way up Water Lane, hunching her shoulders in the darkness. While she welcomed the fact that the tourists had been shut out of the Tower by the time she returned each evening, she dreaded the solitary walk in winter when the only light came from the fleeting appearance of the moon. As she pa.s.sed Traitors' Gate, she remembered the time when Milo dived for coins dropped by tourists into the stretch of the Thames that seeped through its wooden bars. With no regard for the visitors still touring the monument, he and Charlotte Broughton had shed their clothes and descended the forbidden steps to the water's edge in their underpants and vests. They had retrieved several handfuls of coins by the time the alarm was raised. Running back up the steps, their underwear heavy with water, they dodged the Beefeater who had spotted them and took off down the cobbles. As they headed up Mint Lane, several off-duty Beefeaters who saw the pair from their living rooms joined the chase. They were eventually cornered against the Flint Tower, where they stood with their heads bowed, dripping with water. Not only did they endure the wrath of their parents and every Beefeater in the Tower, but they were summoned to explain themselves to the Chief Yeoman Warder. The coins were duly thrown back into the murky water, apart from a single gold sovereign that Milo slipped into the leg of his underpants and kept with his other treasures in a Harrogate Toffee tin until he presented it to Charlotte Broughton two years later in exchange for a kiss. of defeat at the office, Hebe Jones made her way up Water Lane, hunching her shoulders in the darkness. While she welcomed the fact that the tourists had been shut out of the Tower by the time she returned each evening, she dreaded the solitary walk in winter when the only light came from the fleeting appearance of the moon. As she pa.s.sed Traitors' Gate, she remembered the time when Milo dived for coins dropped by tourists into the stretch of the Thames that seeped through its wooden bars. With no regard for the visitors still touring the monument, he and Charlotte Broughton had shed their clothes and descended the forbidden steps to the water's edge in their underpants and vests. They had retrieved several handfuls of coins by the time the alarm was raised. Running back up the steps, their underwear heavy with water, they dodged the Beefeater who had spotted them and took off down the cobbles. As they headed up Mint Lane, several off-duty Beefeaters who saw the pair from their living rooms joined the chase. They were eventually cornered against the Flint Tower, where they stood with their heads bowed, dripping with water. Not only did they endure the wrath of their parents and every Beefeater in the Tower, but they were summoned to explain themselves to the Chief Yeoman Warder. The coins were duly thrown back into the murky water, apart from a single gold sovereign that Milo slipped into the leg of his underpants and kept with his other treasures in a Harrogate Toffee tin until he presented it to Charlotte Broughton two years later in exchange for a kiss.

The Salt Tower was in darkness as Hebe Jones approached, save for a light on the top floor. Pa.s.sing Milo's door at the foot of the spiral staircase, she wondered whether her husband would remember that their son would have been fourteen the following day. As she changed into something warmer in the bedroom, she thought of the time when she used to be greeted on her return home. She went down to the kitchen, and while searching in a cupboard for a pan, she recalled the evenings when there had been so much noise, she had had to shut the door. If it wasn't her husband playing Phil Collins. .h.i.ts on Milo's kazoo, a uniquely irritating habit that had led her to hide the instrument, it was his attempts to help the boy with his homework. Unless the subject was English history, Balthazar Jones would walk around the living room suggesting answers that were wholly arbitrary. When asked a question he was unable to even guess at, he would go to extraordinary lengths to conceal the fact that he was as mystified as his young son. Leaving the room under the pretext of needing the lavatory, he would riffle through the sacred text he kept hidden by his bed that held the key to the world's most troubling enigma: how to do fractions. He would emerge victorious through the living-room door, trying to hold the formula in his head, and the pair would wrestle with mathematics until the monster was eventually slain.

When supper was ready, she walked through the empty living room and called up the spiral staircase to the room at the top of the tower that she never entered. When they had finished their chops in front of the television, Balthazar Jones immediately got up to do the dishes, then disappeared once more to his celestial shed. And when they met each other again, several hours later in bed, Hebe Jones looked at the outline of her husband in the darkness and thought: "Please don't forget what day it is tomorrow."

CHAPTER NINE.

BALTHAZAR JONES WOKE EARLY and turned onto his back, away from his wife muttering in her dreams next to him. As he waited for sleep to reclaim him, the question Hebe Jones asked him the previous week about what Milo would have looked like had he lived floated back to him. He tried to imagine how tall his son would have grown, and the shape of his face that had always appeared to him to be that of an angel. He had never had the pleasure of teaching him how to shave, and the razor that had belonged to the boy's grandfather, which had travelled around India in its battered silver tin, remained in the Beefeater's sock drawer with no one to pa.s.s it on to. and turned onto his back, away from his wife muttering in her dreams next to him. As he waited for sleep to reclaim him, the question Hebe Jones asked him the previous week about what Milo would have looked like had he lived floated back to him. He tried to imagine how tall his son would have grown, and the shape of his face that had always appeared to him to be that of an angel. He had never had the pleasure of teaching him how to shave, and the razor that had belonged to the boy's grandfather, which had travelled around India in its battered silver tin, remained in the Beefeater's sock drawer with no one to pa.s.s it on to.

Unable to bear his thoughts any longer, he got up and dressed in the bathroom so as not to disturb his wife. He left the Salt Tower without stopping for breakfast, barely noticing the snow pirouetting down from the sky like feathers. He drifted from enclosure to enclosure, as he wondered how his son's voice would have sounded today, on his fourteenth birthday. When he led the eleven o'clock tour of the fortress, he didn't have the stomach to show the tourists the scaffold site, and only mentioned its location while standing at the chapel door as they were about to file out at the end. It caused such annoyance that even the Americans, whose mystification over English history the Beefeaters always forgave on account of their famous generosity, failed to press a tip into his hand. He crossed Tower Green and started to patrol Water Lane, but kept seeing his son amongst the visitors. He left to check that the Komodo dragon's enclosure was completely secure in readiness for the opening of the menagerie to the public, scheduled in a couple of days' time. But all he could think about as he tested the locks was how much Milo would have liked to see the mighty lizard that was strong enough to bring down a horse.

He remembered his meeting with the man from the Palace only when he spotted him striding across the fortress wrapped up against the cold. He hurried to the Rack & Ruin, cursing himself for not having come up with a credible explanation for the missing birds with yellow eyebrows, and pushed open the door.

"WHAT DO YOU MEAN that the penguins are missing?" Oswin Fielding asked, leaning across the table next to the framed signature of Rudolf Hess. that the penguins are missing?" Oswin Fielding asked, leaning across the table next to the framed signature of Rudolf Hess.

"They just never turned up," Balthazar Jones replied, lowering his voice lest someone hear.

"So where are they?"

The Beefeater scratched at his white beard. "I'm not quite certain at the moment," he replied. "The removal man says he stopped for petrol and when he came back from paying, both the back and the pa.s.senger doors were open and they'd vanished."

"Who was in the pa.s.senger seat?"

The Beefeater looked away. "One of the penguins," he muttered.

"d.a.m.n," said the equerry, running a hand through the remains of his hair. "The Argentineans are going to think we lost them on purpose. We don't want to get on the wrong side of that lot again. Listen, if anyone asks where they are, tell them that they got travel sickness or something and they're at the vet's. I'll make a few discreet enquiries."

Oswin Fielding took a sip of his orange juice while studying the Beefeater carefully. "Is there anything else I should know?" he asked. "I don't want any c.o.c.k-ups when the menagerie opens."

"Everything else has gone according to plan," the Beefeater insisted. "Apart from the wandering albatross, all the animals have settled in well. The giraffes are loving the moat."

The courtier frowned. "What giraffes?" he asked.

"The ones with the long necks."

"Her Majesty doesn't possess any giraffes."

Balthazar Jones looked confused. "But there are four in the moat," he said.

"But I gave you a list," Oswin Fielding hissed. "There were no giraffes on it."

"Well, someone thought they belonged to the Queen. They'd been loaded into a lorry by the time I arrived. I just a.s.sumed you'd forgotten to write them down."

There was a pause as both men glared at each other.

"So, to sum things up then, Yeoman Warder Jones," the equerry said, "the Queen's penguins are missing and the Tower of London has kidnapped four giraffes that belong to London Zoo."

The Beefeater shifted in his seat. "We can just send the giraffes back, and say there was a misunderstanding," he suggested.

Oswin Fielding leant forward. "I very much doubt that we will be able to sneak four giraffes back across London without being spotted. It'll be all over the papers and we'll both look like complete idiots. I'll call the zoo and explain that we've borrowed them. Hopefully they won't kick up too much of a fuss, and we'll send them back in a couple of months when things have quietened down. If they start being difficult, I'll remind them what they did to Jumbo the elephant."

"What did they do to Jumbo the elephant?" the Beefeater asked.

"They sold him to Barnum, the American circus man, for two thousand pounds. It caused an absolute stink: there were letters to The Times The Times, the nation's children were in tears, and Queen Victoria was furious."

Oswin Fielding sat back in his chair with a sigh that would have woken the dead. "Is that shrew still alive?" he asked.

"I saw it move this morning."

"That's something at least."

ONCE THE EQUERRY AND BEEFEATER HAD LEFT, Ruby Dore collected their gla.s.ses and looked to see if it was still snowing. But as she peered through the window, on which was scratched an eighteenth-century insult concerning the landlord's personal hygiene, she saw that there were no traces of it left. Filled with disappointment, she remembered the winters of her childhood: her father pulling her around the moat on her sledge, and the Beefeaters' s...o...b..ll fights, which were more furious than their historic battle to defend the Tower against the Peasants' Revolt in 1381. Ruby Dore collected their gla.s.ses and looked to see if it was still snowing. But as she peered through the window, on which was scratched an eighteenth-century insult concerning the landlord's personal hygiene, she saw that there were no traces of it left. Filled with disappointment, she remembered the winters of her childhood: her father pulling her around the moat on her sledge, and the Beefeaters' s...o...b..ll fights, which were more furious than their historic battle to defend the Tower against the Peasants' Revolt in 1381.

As the canary hopped from perch to perch in its cage, she returned to her stool behind the bar and finished writing an announcement that the thirty-five-year ban on Monopoly had been lifted. It had been introduced by her father, incensed that the Tower doctor had continued playing while his wife gave birth on the kitchen floor above. The board game's prohibition had forced it underground, and a number of Beefeaters descended to their bas.e.m.e.nts to brew their own ales with which to drown the torment of defeat as they played the Tower doctor in their sitting rooms. The practice, which had continued over the years, had resulted in a drop in the tavern's profits, and now that her life was about to change forever, Ruby Dore was determined to claw back some turnover.

After pinning the notice on the board next to the door, she reread the rules she had listed underneath the announcement. In order to avoid resurrecting historic grievances, playing with the boot would be prohibited. Anyone caught cheating would be obliged to pay a fixed levy on their pints for the next six months. And the Tower doctor was only permitted to play in the absence of a medical emergency.

Not long afterwards, when Rev. Septimus Drew pushed open the heavy door carrying his weapon of seduction, he was relieved to find that he was the only customer. But Ruby Dore was nowhere to be seen. He stood for several minutes on the worn flagstones wondering where she was, then placed the treacle cake on the bar, sat down on one of the stools, and took off his scarf. Picking up the nearest beer mat, he read the joke on the back of it. He then gazed around the bar, wondering whether it was unseemly for a man of the cloth to be looking for love armed with the fruits of his oven.

Fearing that one of the Beefeaters would come in at any moment and catch him in flagrante with his Tupperware box, he quickly got to his feet and strode out. As he stood in the cold tying his scarf, he heard a sound coming from the disused Well Tower. Unable to resist the lure of an open door, he stepped in. There, with her back to him, was Ruby Dore, instantly recognisable in the gloom by her ponytail. Just as he was about to reveal that he had left her a little something on the bar made according to his mother's recipe, the landlady turned and greeted the chaplain with the words: "Come and have a look at the Queen's fancy rats."

The chaplain saw behind her a flash of villainous yellow teeth.

"The Keeper of the Royal Menagerie said I could look after them," she continued, turning back towards them. "Aren't they sweet? I used to have one when I was little, but it escaped. One of the Beefeaters said he spotted him by the organ in the chapel once, but we never found him. It was such a shame. We'd taught him all kinds of tricks. My dad made him a tiny barrel, and he used to push it across the bar. The Beefeaters would give him a penny each time he got to the end. He was loaded by the time he escaped. Did you know that Queen Victoria used to have one?"

But when Ruby Dore turned round, all that was left of Rev. Septimus Drew was a hint of frankincense.

BY THE TIME VALERIE JENNINGS ARRIVED at work, Hebe Jones was already entombed in the magician's box used to saw glamorous a.s.sistants in two. Recognising instantly the horizontal position of defeat, Valerie Jennings unb.u.t.toned her navy coat, hung it next to the inflatable doll, and sat at her desk waiting for the restoration of her colleague's faculties. After a few moments, she glanced at her again, but her eyes were still closed and both her shoes had dropped to the floor. Eventually, she heard the telltale creak of the lid, and Hebe Jones emerged and muttered a greeting to her colleague, who watched as she returned to her desk, peered at the phone book, and picked up the receiver with renewed determination. at work, Hebe Jones was already entombed in the magician's box used to saw glamorous a.s.sistants in two. Recognising instantly the horizontal position of defeat, Valerie Jennings unb.u.t.toned her navy coat, hung it next to the inflatable doll, and sat at her desk waiting for the restoration of her colleague's faculties. After a few moments, she glanced at her again, but her eyes were still closed and both her shoes had dropped to the floor. Eventually, she heard the telltale creak of the lid, and Hebe Jones emerged and muttered a greeting to her colleague, who watched as she returned to her desk, peered at the phone book, and picked up the receiver with renewed determination.