The Tower, the Zoo and the Tortoise.
by Julia Stuart.
For Joan
We can judge the heart of a man by his treatment of animals.-IMMANUEL KANT
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS.
I am indebted to the authors of numerous guidebooks for sale at the Tower of London. The Funeral Effigies of Westminster Abbey The Funeral Effigies of Westminster Abbey, edited by Anthony Harvey and Richard Mortimer, provided insight into the Abbey's curious exhibits, though the story told here of the Duchess of Richmond and Lennox's very real stuffed parrot is a flight of fantasy. Daniel Hahn's wonderful The Tower Menagerie: The Amazing True Story of the Royal Collection of Wild Beasts The Tower Menagerie: The Amazing True Story of the Royal Collection of Wild Beasts was a fascinating source of information. My thanks also go to Dr. Elijah R. Behr, my super agent Grainne Fox, and all at Doubleday. No animal was harmed in the writing of this novel. was a fascinating source of information. My thanks also go to Dr. Elijah R. Behr, my super agent Grainne Fox, and all at Doubleday. No animal was harmed in the writing of this novel.
CAST OF CHARACTERS.
Balthazar Jones: Beefeater, overseer of the Tower's royal menagerie, father to Milo, and collector of rain Beefeater, overseer of the Tower's royal menagerie, father to Milo, and collector of rain Hebe Jones: Balthazar's wife, who works at London Underground's Lost Property Office Balthazar's wife, who works at London Underground's Lost Property Office Mrs. Cook: Balthazar and Hebe's one-hundred-eighty-one-year-old tortoise-the oldest tortoise in the world Balthazar and Hebe's one-hundred-eighty-one-year-old tortoise-the oldest tortoise in the world Arthur Catnip: London Underground ticket inspector of limited height London Underground ticket inspector of limited height Rev. Septimus Drew: Tower chaplain, who writes forbidden prose and pines for one of the residents Tower chaplain, who writes forbidden prose and pines for one of the residents Ruby Dore: Barmaid at the Tower's Rack & Ruin pub, who has a secret Barmaid at the Tower's Rack & Ruin pub, who has a secret Valerie Jennings: Hebe's eccentric colleague, who falls for someone of limited height Hebe's eccentric colleague, who falls for someone of limited height The Ravenmaster: Philandering Beefeater, who looks after the Tower's ravens Philandering Beefeater, who looks after the Tower's ravens Sir Walter Raleigh: Former Tower prisoner and its most troublesome ghost Former Tower prisoner and its most troublesome ghost Chief Yeoman Warder: Suspicious head Beefeater Suspicious head Beefeater Oswin Fielding: Equerry to The Queen Equerry to The Queen Samuel Crapper: Lost Property Office's most frequent customer Lost Property Office's most frequent customer Yeoman Gaoler: Deputy to the Chief Yeoman Warder, who is terrorized by ghostly poetry at night Deputy to the Chief Yeoman Warder, who is terrorized by ghostly poetry at night
Beefeater b-f-tr: the popular name for the official guardians of the Tower of London. They are descended from the warders who, from early in the fortress's history, guarded the gates and royal prisoners. From the reign of Henry VIII (150947), these duties were carried out by the King's Yeomen at the Tower, who were entitled to wear the royal livery, a version of which is still worn. The warders were also responsible for carrying out torture under the command of the Lieutenant of the Tower during the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. b-f-tr: the popular name for the official guardians of the Tower of London. They are descended from the warders who, from early in the fortress's history, guarded the gates and royal prisoners. From the reign of Henry VIII (150947), these duties were carried out by the King's Yeomen at the Tower, who were entitled to wear the royal livery, a version of which is still worn. The warders were also responsible for carrying out torture under the command of the Lieutenant of the Tower during the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries.
The full and proper title of a Beefeater is Yeoman Warder of Her Majesty's Royal Palace and Fortress the Tower of London, and Member of the Sovereign's Body Guard of the Yeoman Guard Extraordinary. The most likely explanation for the warders' less glamorous nickname, which dates from at least 1700, is that they were given a daily ration of meat for their duties. They much prefer being called Yeoman Warders.
They have been showing people around the Tower for centuries. Early visitors came by royal or government invitation, but from the middle of the seventeenth century records show that people were simply turning up ready to pay to be taken around. In 1838 the Tower reformed its entry fees and produced guidebooks and tickets. In three years annual visitor numbers rose from 10,500 to 80,000. It was during this time that the Yeoman Warders became official guides.
Today, as well as guarding the fortress and leading tours, Yeoman Warders attend the Coronation of the Sovereign, the lying in state, the Lord Mayor's Show, other state functions, and charity events. They are all former warrant officers from Her Majesty's Forces with an honourable service record of at least twenty-two years.
CHAPTER ONE.
STANDING ON THE BATTLEMENTS in his pajamas, Balthazar Jones looked out across the Thames where Henry III's polar bear had once fished for salmon while tied to a rope. The Beefeater failed to notice the cold that pierced his dressing gown with deadly precision, or the wretched damp that crept round his ankles. Placing his frozen hands on the ancient parapet, he tilted back his head and inhaled the night. There it was again. in his pajamas, Balthazar Jones looked out across the Thames where Henry III's polar bear had once fished for salmon while tied to a rope. The Beefeater failed to notice the cold that pierced his dressing gown with deadly precision, or the wretched damp that crept round his ankles. Placing his frozen hands on the ancient parapet, he tilted back his head and inhaled the night. There it was again.
The undeniable aroma had fluttered past his capacious nostrils several hours earlier as he lay sleeping in the Tower of London, his home for the last eight years. Assuming such wonderment was an oasis in his usual gruesome dreams, he scratched at the hairs that covered his chest like freshly fallen ash and descended back into ragged slumber. It wasn't until he rolled onto his side, away from his wife and her souk of competing odours, that he smelt it again. Recognising instantly the exquisite scent of the world's rarest rainfall, the Beefeater sat bolt upright in the darkness, his eyes open wide like those of a baby bird.
The sudden movement of the mattress caused his wife to undulate for several seconds like a body drifting at sea, and she muttered something incomprehensible. As she turned away from the disturbance, her pillow fell into the gap between the head of the bed and the wall, one of the many irritations of living within circular walls. Balthazar Jones reached down into the dusty no-man's-land and groped around. After carefully retrieving the pillow, he placed it gently next to his wife so as not to disturb her. As he did so, he wondered, as he often had throughout their marriage, how a woman of such beauty, the embers of which still glowed fiercely in her fifty-fifth year, could look just like her father as she slept. For once, he didn't feel the urge to poke her awake in order to rid himself of the harrowing illusion of sharing his bed with his Greek father-in-law, a man whose ferocious looks had led his relatives to refer to him as a good cheese in a dog's skin. Instead, he quickly got out of bed, his heart tight with anticipation. Forgetting his usual gazelle's step at such times, he crossed the room, his bare heels thudding on the emaciated carpet. He peered out, nose and white beard against the pane, which bore the smudges of numerous previous occasions. The ground was still dry. With mounting desperation, he scanned the night sky for the approaching rain clouds responsible for the undeniable aroma. In his panic not to miss the moment for which he had been waiting for more than two years, he hurried past the vast stone fireplace to the other side of the bedroom. His stomach, still bilious from the previous evening's hogget, arrived first.
Grabbing his dressing gown, its pockets bearing the guilty crumbs of clandestine biscuits, the Beefeater pulled it across his pajamas and, forgetting his tartan slippers, opened the bedroom door. He failed to notice the noise the latch made and the subsequent incomprehensible babble it produced from his wife, a slither of hair skimming her cheek. Fingers sliding down the filthy rope handrail, he descended the corpse-cold spiral stairs clutching in his free hand an Egyptian perfume bottle in which he hoped to capture some of the downfall. Once at the bottom of the steps, he passed his son's bedroom, which he had never brought himself to enter since that terrible, terrible day. Slowly, he shut behind him the door of the Salt Tower, the couple's quarters within the fortress, and congratulated himself on a successful exit. It was at that precise moment that his wife woke up. Hebe Jones ran a hand along the bed sheet that had been a wedding present all those years ago. But it failed to find her husband.
BALTHAZAR JONES HAD BEEN COLLECTING RAIN for almost three years, a compulsion that had started shortly after the death of his only child. At first he thought that rain was simply an infuriating part of the job, which, along with the damp from their abominable lodgings, produced in all the Beefeaters a ruthless specimen of fungus that flourished on the backs of their knees. But as the months grated by following the tragedy, he found himself staring at the clouds, frozen in a state of insurmountable grief when he should have been on the lookout for professional pickpockets. As he looked up at the sky, barely able to breathe for the weight of guilt that pressed against his chest, he started to notice a variety in the showers that would invariably soak him during the day. Before long he had identified sixty-four types of rain, all of which he jotted down in a Moleskine notebook he bought specially for the purpose. It wasn't long before he purchased a bulk order of coloured Egyptian perfume bottles, chosen not so much for their beauty but for their ability to conserve their contents. In them he started to collect samples, recording the time, date, and precise variety of rain that had fallen. Much to the annoyance of his wife, he had a cabinet made for them, which he mounted with considerable difficulty on the living room's curved wall. Before long it was full and he ordered two more, which she made him put in the room at the top of the Salt Tower, which she never entered because the chalk graffiti left on the walls by the German U-boat men imprisoned during the Second World War gave her the creeps. for almost three years, a compulsion that had started shortly after the death of his only child. At first he thought that rain was simply an infuriating part of the job, which, along with the damp from their abominable lodgings, produced in all the Beefeaters a ruthless specimen of fungus that flourished on the backs of their knees. But as the months grated by following the tragedy, he found himself staring at the clouds, frozen in a state of insurmountable grief when he should have been on the lookout for professional pickpockets. As he looked up at the sky, barely able to breathe for the weight of guilt that pressed against his chest, he started to notice a variety in the showers that would invariably soak him during the day. Before long he had identified sixty-four types of rain, all of which he jotted down in a Moleskine notebook he bought specially for the purpose. It wasn't long before he purchased a bulk order of coloured Egyptian perfume bottles, chosen not so much for their beauty but for their ability to conserve their contents. In them he started to collect samples, recording the time, date, and precise variety of rain that had fallen. Much to the annoyance of his wife, he had a cabinet made for them, which he mounted with considerable difficulty on the living room's curved wall. Before long it was full and he ordered two more, which she made him put in the room at the top of the Salt Tower, which she never entered because the chalk graffiti left on the walls by the German U-boat men imprisoned during the Second World War gave her the creeps.
When his collection had swollen to the satisfying figure of one hundred, the Beefeater promised his wife, who now detested wet weather even more than was natural for a Greek who couldn't swim, he would stop. And for a while it seemed that Balthazar Jones was cured of his habit. But the truth was that England was going through an extraordinary dry patch, and as soon as the rain started to fall again, the Beefeater, who had already been reprimanded by the Chief Yeoman Warder for gazing up at the sky while he should have been answering the tourists' tiresome questions, returned to his compulsion.
Hebe Jones satisfied herself with the thought that eventually her husband would complete his collection and be done with it. But her hopes evaporated when he was sitting on the edge of the bed one night and, after pulling off his damp left sock, revealed with the demented conviction of a man about to prove the existence of dragons that he had only touched the tip of the iceberg. It was then that he had some official writing paper printed with matching envelopes, and set up the St. Heribert of Cologne Club, named after the patron saint of rain, hoping to compare notes with fellow wet weather enthusiasts. He placed adverts in various newspapers around the world, but the only correspondence he ever received was a heavily watermarked letter from an anonymous resident of Mawsynram, in northeastern India, which suffered from one of the world's heaviest rainfalls. "Mr. Balthazar, You must desist from this utter madness at the most soonest. The only thing worse than a lunatic is a wet one" was all that it said.
But the lack of interest only fuelled his obsession. The Beefeater spent all his spare time writing to meteorologists around the world about his discoveries. He received replies from them all, his fingers, as lithe as a watchmaker's, quivering as he opened them. However, the experts' politeness was matched by their disinterest. He changed tack and buried himself in dusty parchments and books at the British Library that were as fragile as his sanity. And with eyes magnified by the strength of his reading glasses, he scoured everything ever written about rain.
Eventually, Balthazar Jones discovered a variant that, from what he could make out, hadn't fallen since 1892 in Colombo, making it the world's rarest. He read and reread the descriptions of the sudden shower, which, through a catalogue of misfortunes, had resulted in the untimely death of a cow. He became adamant that he would recognise it from its scent even before seeing it. Every day he waited, hoping for it to fall. Obsession eventually loosened his tongue, and one afternoon he heard himself telling his wife of his desperate desire to include it in his collection. With a mixture of incredulity and pity, she gazed up at the man who had never shed a tear over the death of their son, Milo. And when she looked back down at the daffodil bulbs she was planting in a tub on the Salt Tower roof, she wondered yet again what had happened to her husband.
STANDING WITH HIS BACK against the Salt Tower's oak door, the Beefeater glanced around in the darkness to make sure that he wouldn't be spotted by any of the other inhabitants of the fortress. The only movement came from a pair of flesh-coloured tights swinging on a washing line strung up on the roof of the Casemates. These ancient terraced cottages built against the fortress walls housed many of the thirty-five Beefeaters who lived with their families at the Tower. The rest, like Balthazar Jones, had had the misfortune of being allocated one of the monument's twenty-one towers as their home or, worse still, a house on Tower Green, the site of seven beheadings, five of them women. against the Salt Tower's oak door, the Beefeater glanced around in the darkness to make sure that he wouldn't be spotted by any of the other inhabitants of the fortress. The only movement came from a pair of flesh-coloured tights swinging on a washing line strung up on the roof of the Casemates. These ancient terraced cottages built against the fortress walls housed many of the thirty-five Beefeaters who lived with their families at the Tower. The rest, like Balthazar Jones, had had the misfortune of being allocated one of the monument's twenty-one towers as their home or, worse still, a house on Tower Green, the site of seven beheadings, five of them women.
Balthazar Jones listened carefully. The only sound emerging through the darkness was a sentry marking his territory, his footfall as precise as a Swiss clock. He sniffed the night again and for a moment he doubted himself. He hesitated, cursing himself for being so foolish as to believe that the moment had finally come. He imagined his wife emitting an aviary of sounds as she dreamt, and decided to return to the warm familiarity of the bed. But just as he was about to retrace his steps, he smelt it again.
Heading for the battlements, he noticed to his relief that the lights were off at the Rack & Ruin, the Tower's tavern that had been serving the tiny community for two hundred and twenty-seven uninterrupted years, despite a direct hit during the Second World War. He did well to check, for there were occasions when the more vociferous arguments between the Beefeaters took until the early hours to be buried. Not, of course, that they remained that way. For they would often be gleefully dug up again in front of the warring parties by those seeking further entertainment.
He started down Water Lane, the cobbles slimy underneath his bare feet from the fallen leaves. As he approached Wakefield Tower, his thoughts turned to the odious ravens, which had been put to bed in their pens in the tower's shadow. Their luxurious accommodation, with its running water, under-floor heating, and supply of fresh squirrel meat at the taxpayers' expense, had been a constant source of irritation ever since he had discovered the true depth of their villainy.
His wife had taken an instant dislike to the famous birds when the family first arrived at the Tower. "They taste of shrouds," announced Hebe Jones, who, with the exception of peacock, which she deemed inauspicious, claimed to have eaten most species of animals.
However, the ravens had been an instant source of curiosity to Balthazar Jones. During his first week, he wandered over to one perched on the wooden staircase leading to the entrance of the White Tower, begun by William the Conqueror to keep out the vile and furious English. As the bird eyed him, he stood admiring the thousands of colours that swam in the oily blackness of its feathers in the sunlight. He was equally impressed when the Ravenmaster, the Beefeater responsible for looking after the birds, called the creature's name, and it arrived at the man's feet following a shambolic flight due to its wings having been clipped to prevent it absconding. And when Balthazar Jones discovered that they had a weakness for blood-soaked biscuits, he went out of his way to provide them with a splendid breakfast comprised of the delicacy.
Several days later, Milo, who was six at the time, shrieked "Daddy!" and pointed to a raven standing on top of Mrs. Cook, the family's historic tortoise. All affection instantly vanished. It wasn't just that it was extraordinarily bad manners to hitch a ride-albeit at the most sedate of paces-aloft another creature that infuriated Balthazar Jones. Neither was it the fact that the bird had just left a copious runny deposit on top of his pet. What drove the Beefeater into a state of fury was the raven pecking at Mrs. Cook's fleshy bits with its satanic beak. And given the tortoise's age of one hundred and eighty-one, there was a noticeable delay before she was able to draw her head and limbs into her worn shell, away from the vicious assault.
It was by no means an isolated incident. Several days later, Balthazar Jones noticed that the ravens had assembled into what was indisputably an attack formation outside the Salt Tower, once used to store saltpeter. One of the birds squatted on top of the red phone box, three stood on a cannon, another perched on the remains of a Roman wall, and a pair sat on the roof of the New Armouries. The situation continued for several days, as it took considerable time for Mrs. Cook to explore her new lodgings. Eventually, she was ready for a change of scenery. As soon as she set a wizened leg out of the front door, there was a uniform advance of one hop from the massed ravens. The birds displayed remarkable patience, for it took several hours for Mrs. Cook to make sufficient ground out of the door to warrant a second hop. The Ravenmaster blamed the fact that it was well past their lunchtimes for what happened next. Balthazar Jones, however, vehemently insisted that their scandalous behaviour was not only a result of their allegiance to Beelzebub but how they had been raised, an insult that pierced so deeply it was never forgotten. Whatever the reason, one thing was for certain: by late afternoon Mrs. Cook, the oldest tortoise in the world, no longer had a tail, and one of the Tower ravens was too full for supper.
AS BALTHAZAR JONES PASSED WAKEFIELD TOWER, the sound of the Thames lapping through Traitors' Gate seemed louder than usual in the darkness. He looked to his left and saw the vast wooden watergates that had once opened to let in the boats carrying trembling prisoners accused of treason. But he spared not a thought for such matters, the details of which he had to relate countless times during his working day to the tourists, who were interested only in methods of torture, executions, and the whereabouts of the lavatories. Instead, he pressed on, past the Bloody Tower with its red rambling rose, said to have produced snow-white blossoms before the murder of the two little princes. Neither did he notice the dancing candlelight at one of its windows, where the ghost of Sir Walter Raleigh nibbled the end of his quill as he sat at his desk in what had been his prison for thirteen years. the sound of the Thames lapping through Traitors' Gate seemed louder than usual in the darkness. He looked to his left and saw the vast wooden watergates that had once opened to let in the boats carrying trembling prisoners accused of treason. But he spared not a thought for such matters, the details of which he had to relate countless times during his working day to the tourists, who were interested only in methods of torture, executions, and the whereabouts of the lavatories. Instead, he pressed on, past the Bloody Tower with its red rambling rose, said to have produced snow-white blossoms before the murder of the two little princes. Neither did he notice the dancing candlelight at one of its windows, where the ghost of Sir Walter Raleigh nibbled the end of his quill as he sat at his desk in what had been his prison for thirteen years.
Climbing up the stone steps, the Beefeater quickly reached the battlements. In front of him stretched the Thames, where Henry III's white bear had once swum for its dinner. But Balthazar Jones kept his pale blue eyes raised as he tried to work out from which direction the precious rain would come. Touching his white beard with his fingertips as he made his calculations, he scoured the sky, through which the dawn was starting to leak.
UNABLE TO SLEEP SINCE HER HUSBAND woke her as he left, Hebe Jones sneezed twice, irritated by the dust on her pillow. Rolling onto her back, she dragged a clump of damp hair from the corner of her mouth. Instead of coursing down her back as it had done during the lusty days of youth, it meandered slowly to her shoulders. Despite her age, apart from the odd strand that flashed like a silver fish in certain lights, it was the same luminous black it had been when Balthazar Jones first met her, a defiance of nature that he put down to his wife's obstinacy. woke her as he left, Hebe Jones sneezed twice, irritated by the dust on her pillow. Rolling onto her back, she dragged a clump of damp hair from the corner of her mouth. Instead of coursing down her back as it had done during the lusty days of youth, it meandered slowly to her shoulders. Despite her age, apart from the odd strand that flashed like a silver fish in certain lights, it was the same luminous black it had been when Balthazar Jones first met her, a defiance of nature that he put down to his wife's obstinacy.
As she lay in the darkness, she imagined her husband walking through the Tower's grounds in his pajamas, clutching an Egyptian perfume bottle in a hand that no longer caressed her. She had tried her best to rid him of his compulsion. During his first few attempts, she had caught him before he reached the bedroom door. But he soon improved his technique, and before long he was able to make it halfway down the stairs before he heard the seven words which he had grown to dread, uttered with the same red breath as his mother's: And where do you think you're going? And where do you think you're going? However, dedication to the high art of vanishing resulted in a number of spectacular successes. However, dedication to the high art of vanishing resulted in a number of spectacular successes.
Hebe Jones began to monitor the escape manuals he borrowed from the public library, and locked the bedroom door before they turned out their reading lights, hiding the key while her husband was in the bathroom battling the loneliness of constipation. But the trick backfired one morning when she could not remember where she had put it. Through a mouthful of humiliation which threatened to choke her, she asked him to help her in her search. He removed the loose stone next to one of the lattice windows, but all he found were the more aromatic love letters he had sent her during their courtship. He then strode to the fireplace, put his hand up the vast stone hood, and retrieved an old sweet tin from a ledge. Upon opening it he discovered a pair of silver cufflinks bearing his initials in the most alluring of scripts. His wife revealed that it was a gift she had bought for him four Christmases ago, which she had never been able to put her hands on. Her joy at seeing them again, and Balthazar Jones's delight at suddenly receiving an unexpected present, distracted them both from their predicament. But before long, the hunt resumed until Balthazar Jones found what was indisputably a sex aid in the drawer of his wife's bedside table. "What on earth is this for?" he asked, pushing a button. Their dilemma was forgotten again for the next thirty-four minutes, during which many questions were asked. The answers that were forthcoming led to further questions, which in turn produced a series of accusations from both sides.
It was over an hour before they returned to their search. By then the cufflinks were back in the tin up the chimney with the announcement that he would have to wait until Christmas for them. Eventually, the pair admitted defeat, and Balthazar Jones reached for the phone and called the Chief Yeoman Warder to release them. The man made four attempts before the spare key sailed through one of the open windows. It was then that Hebe Jones spotted the original still in the keyhole, and she secretly removed it.
From then on the bedroom door would remain unlocked, and no amount of protest would keep the Beefeater from his nocturnal wandering. It was with relief that Hebe Jones took the news one morning that her husband had been caught by the Chief Yeoman Warder. However, her relief turned to indignation when the rumours quickly followed that Balthazar Jones was carrying out a secret liaison with Evangeline Moore, the Tower's young resident doctor, who quickened the heart rate of many of her patients. The claim was not without credibility as most affairs conducted by the Tower's inhabitants took place within its walls, as they were locked in from midnight. While Hebe Jones knew instantly that there was no truth in the rumour-since Milo's death her husband hadn't allowed himself the pleasure of love-making-she nevertheless banished him from the matrimonial bed for a fortnight. Feet either side of the taps, Balthazar Jones slept in the bath. He endured the cramped, damp conditions, dreaming amongst the spiders of being lost at sea in a sinking boat. Each morning Hebe Jones would get up early to run a bath, being careful not to remove her husband beforehand, and always ensuring that she ran the cold water first.
NOW, AS SHE LOOKED AT the bedside clock, fury coursed through her veins at yet another night of disturbed sleep. Her usual revenge, performed each time her husband returned to bed reeking of the night, was an anatomical master stroke. Once she heard the muddy breath of a man descended deep into his dreams, she would suddenly leap from the bed and make the short journey to the bathroom with the gait of a demented sentry. Once installed on the lavatory, she would proceed to empty her bladder with the door wide open. The clamour of the catastrophic downpour was such that her husband would immediately wake in terror, convinced that he was lying in a nest of snakes. When the infernal hissing eventually came to an end, the Beefeater would instantly sink back to his dreams. But several seconds later, in a feat of immaculate timing, his wife would release a second much shorter but equally deafening cascade, which would finish in a pitch-perfect rising scale and wake her husband as brutally as the first. the bedside clock, fury coursed through her veins at yet another night of disturbed sleep. Her usual revenge, performed each time her husband returned to bed reeking of the night, was an anatomical master stroke. Once she heard the muddy breath of a man descended deep into his dreams, she would suddenly leap from the bed and make the short journey to the bathroom with the gait of a demented sentry. Once installed on the lavatory, she would proceed to empty her bladder with the door wide open. The clamour of the catastrophic downpour was such that her husband would immediately wake in terror, convinced that he was lying in a nest of snakes. When the infernal hissing eventually came to an end, the Beefeater would instantly sink back to his dreams. But several seconds later, in a feat of immaculate timing, his wife would release a second much shorter but equally deafening cascade, which would finish in a pitch-perfect rising scale and wake her husband as brutally as the first.
Pulling the shabby blanket up to her chin, Hebe Jones thought of the cabinets of Egyptian perfume bottles filled with rain in the top room of the Salt Tower, and then of the cruelty of grief. Compassion suddenly chilled her rage. Ignoring the glass of water on her bedside table that she usually drank in its entirety on such occasions, she turned back onto her side. And when her husband eventually returned home with his empty vessel after the clouds had fled, Hebe Jones pretended to be asleep as he clambered in beside her.
CHAPTER TWO.
IT WAS THE SIGHT OF HER HUSBAND'S dressing gown hanging on the back of the bedroom door, an Egyptian perfume bottle still in its pocket, that reignited Hebe Jones's anger the following morning. She pressed down on the latch with irritation, having lost all compassion for her husband because of a headache brought on by her broken night's sleep. She descended the stairs in her pink leather slippers and nightclothes, recalling the previous occasions that her dreams had been disturbed by her husband's obsession. When he joined her for breakfast at the kitchen table, she placed in front of him a plate of eggs that had been scrambled more vigorously than usual, then released the full fury inside her. dressing gown hanging on the back of the bedroom door, an Egyptian perfume bottle still in its pocket, that reignited Hebe Jones's anger the following morning. She pressed down on the latch with irritation, having lost all compassion for her husband because of a headache brought on by her broken night's sleep. She descended the stairs in her pink leather slippers and nightclothes, recalling the previous occasions that her dreams had been disturbed by her husband's obsession. When he joined her for breakfast at the kitchen table, she placed in front of him a plate of eggs that had been scrambled more vigorously than usual, then released the full fury inside her.
Several minutes later, the Beefeater's stomach shrank again as she suddenly veered away from his compulsion and launched into the many injustices of living within the fortress. She started with the Salt Tower roof that was such a poor exchange for her beloved garden at their house in Catford, which the wretched lodgers had let go to seed. Then there was the gossip that spread through the monument like fire. And finally there were the mournful sounds that permeated their home, once the prison of numerous Catholic priests during the reign of Elizabeth I, which both had pretended to Milo that they couldn't hear.
For a moment Balthazar Jones closed his ears, having heard the complaints on countless previous occasions, and picked up his knife and fork. But suddenly his wife came up with a wholly new deprivation that caught his attention. Despite her unrepentant aversion to Italian food, which her husband put down to her nation's historic distrust of Italy, she suddenly declared: "All I want in life is to be able to get a takeaway pizza!" He remained silent as there was no escaping the fact that they lived at an address that cab drivers, washing machine repairmen, newspaper boys, and every official who had ever given them a form to fill in assumed to be fictitious.
He put down his cutlery and looked up at her again with eyes the colour of pale opals, something people who met him never forgot. "Where else could you live surrounded by nine hundred years of history?" he asked.
She folded her arms across her chest. "Virtually anywhere in Greece," she replied. "And it would be a lot older."
"I don't think you realise how lucky I was to get this job."
"A lucky person is someone who plants pebbles and harvests potatoes," she said, evoking the Greek mysticism of her grandparents. She then hunted around, searching amongst the rubble of their relationship for past hurts that she held up again in front of him. Balthazar Jones responded in kind, taking her examiner's torch and shining it on ancient grievances. No shadow was left unlit and by the time they left the table, every fissure of their teetering love had been exposed to the damp morning air.
With furious, quick steps, Hebe Jones scuffed back up the stone spiral staircase to the bedroom. Dressing for work, she thought with regret of the part she had played in helping her husband secure a job at the Tower after his second career failed. As he had been a master stitch in the Army, responsible for altering the magnificent Foot Guard uniforms, tailoring had seemed an obvious choice when he finally hung up his bearskin hat. When he suggested renting some premises, his wife thought of the mortgage they were still paying off, and warned: "Don't extend your feet beyond your blanket." So he commandeered the front room of their terrace house in Catford and built a counter behind which he presided, his measuring tape hanging around his neck with the sanctity of a priest's stole.
A year later, Milo arrived after two fruitless decades of conjugal contortion. Balthazar Jones took care of him while his wife was at the office. In between customers, he would set the infant's basket on the counter, pull up a chair, and proceed to tell his son all he knew about life. There were warnings to work hard at school "otherwise you'll end up an ignoramus, like your father." The child was informed that he happened to have been born into a family whose members included the oldest tortoise in the world. "You'll have to look after Mrs. Cook when old age turns your mother and I cuckoo, for which your maternal grandparents have always shown a natural disposition," he said as he tucked in Milo's blanket. And it was pointed out that of all the blessings that would come to him in life, none would be greater than having Hebe Jones as a mother. "I've pitied every man I've ever met for not being married to her," Balthazar Jones admitted. And Milo would listen, his dark eyes not leaving his father for a moment as he chewed his own toes.
For a while it appeared that he had made the right decision in opening a tailor's. But gradually fewer and fewer customers knocked at the house with the tiny Greek flag flying from the roof of the birdhouse in the front garden. Some stayed away because they were unsettled by having to wait while a nappy was being changed. Later, others blamed the brevity of their trouser legs on the attention the bewitched tailor gave to the boy, who ran round the shop, as his father refused to send him to nursery. And when Milo was finally at school, some of the new trade that Balthazar Jones managed to pick up never returned after being measured, unsettled by the brutal honesty of a former soldier.
When he realised how precarious the family's finances were, Balthazar Jones thought about the ways in which other soldiers earned a living after leaving the Army. He remembered the time he had spent on sentry duty at the Tower of London, and the Beefeaters in their splendid uniforms, who went by the exalted title of Yeoman Warders of Her Majesty's Royal Palace and Fortress the Tower of London, and Members of the Sovereign's Body Guard of the Yeoman Guard Extraordinary. Not only were they all former warrant officers from Her Majesty's Forces, but each had an honourable service record of at least twenty-two years. Fulfilling both requirements, he posted off an application form. Four months later, a letter arrived informing him of a vacancy for the historic position, which had once entailed guarding (and torturing) prisoners, but since Victorian times involved acting as an official tour guide.
Hebe Jones, whose own earnings were modest, knew that their savings would never stretch to the university education they both wanted for their son. Ignoring the dread that set like cement in her guts, she dismissed her husband's warning that they would have to live at the Tower if he were successful. "It's every woman's dream to live in a castle," she lied, not turning round from the stove.
When Balthazar Jones discovered that she had never visited the famous monument, he asked how it was possible, since she had spent most of her childhood in London. She explained that her parents had only ever taken their four daughters to the British Museum to see the Elgin Marbles. The sound of Mr. and Mrs. Grammatikos weeping as they stood in front of the Greek exhibits pilfered by the English was so catastrophic that the family was eventually banned from the museum for life. The couple consequently refused to visit any British landmarks, a protest Hebe Jones had kept up in adulthood out of familial solidarity.
In case his wife wasn't aware, Balthazar Jones pointed out that not only was the Tower of London a royal palace and fortress, but it had once been England's state prison, had witnessed numerous executions, and was also widely believed to be haunted. But Hebe Jones simply disappeared into the garden shed and emerged with a blue-and-white-striped deck chair. She sat down and pulled out of a shopping bag a guide to the Tower that she had purchased to prepare her husband for his interview. With the ruthlessness of a gunner, she started to fire questions at the man who had failed his history O-Level to such a spectacular degree that the astonished marker kept a copy of his paper to cheer herself up during her most debilitating bouts of depression. Hebe Jones maintained the battery as her husband paced up and down the lawn, scratching the back of his neck as he searched for the answers in the empty birdcage of his head.
His wife's determination was absolute. Balthazar Jones would receive a call at lunchtime asking not what he fancied for supper, but the name of the woman who was sent to the Tower in the thirteenth century for rejecting the advances of King John, who subsequently poisoned her with an egg. She would return home from work and enquire, not how her husband's day had been, but in which tower the Duke of Clarence had been drowned in a butt of his favourite Malmsey wine. Bathed in sweat after love-making, she would lift her head from his chest and demand that he reveal not the depth of his devotion for her, but the name of the seventeenth-century thief who made it as far as the Tower wharf with the Crown Jewels. By the time the job offer arrived in the post, Balthazar Jones's brain had been unsettled by so much English history, that it provoked in him a mania for the subject that afflicted him for the rest of his life.
REV. SEPTIMUS DREW WOKE in his three-storey home overlooking Tower Green, and glanced at his alarm clock. There was still some time before the gates of the Middle Tower would open to let in the loathsome tourists, the worst of whom still thought that the Queen Mother was alive. At times the chaplain rose even earlier to capture more of this exquisite period. The place was never the same when the infernal hordes eventually left, and the gates shut swiftly behind them, as the air in the chapel remained as putrid as a stable's until nightfall. in his three-storey home overlooking Tower Green, and glanced at his alarm clock. There was still some time before the gates of the Middle Tower would open to let in the loathsome tourists, the worst of whom still thought that the Queen Mother was alive. At times the chaplain rose even earlier to capture more of this exquisite period. The place was never the same when the infernal hordes eventually left, and the gates shut swiftly behind them, as the air in the chapel remained as putrid as a stable's until nightfall.
His mind immediately turned to the new mousetrap he had painstakingly laid the previous evening. With the mounting excitement of a child about to inspect the contents of his Christmas stocking, the clergyman wondered what he would find. Unable to wait any longer, he swung his legs out of bed and opened the windows to clear the room of the mists of unrequited love that had clouded them overnight. The movement sent tears of condensation running down the panes. He dressed quickly, his long, holy fingers still stiff from his endeavours in his workshop the night before. Pulling on his red cassock over his trousers and shirt, he screwed his sockless feet into his shoes, not bothering to unlace them. As he rushed down the two staircases, he clutched the front of his cassock so as not to trip, the back pouring down the battered wooden steps behind him like crimson paint. Despite his purchase of a jar of thick-cut Seville orange marmalade from Fortnum & Mason, he didn't stop for breakfast in the tiny kitchen with its window overlooking Tower Green, screened with a net curtain to prevent the tourists seeing inside. Not, of course, that it stopped them from trying. The chaplain was forever coming out of his light blue door to find them with their hands cupped against the glass, jostling for position.
His beetle-black hair still in turmoil, he walked the short distance across the cobbles to the Chapel Royal of St. Peter ad Vincula. He had never got used to it being included in the Beefeaters' tours. Many of the sightseers ignored the instruction to take off their hats before entering, only to receive a retired soldier's reprimand once inside. Some even attended the Sunday service, and the chaplain would watch them from the altar, his fury mounting as they sat amongst the Beefeaters and their families, gazing at the walls around them. And he knew that their wonderment had nothing to do with being in the House of God, but everything to do with the thrill of sitting in a chapel which housed the broken remains of three Queens of England who had been beheaded just outside.
He naturally blamed the tourists for the rat infestation, assuming they showered the place with tantalising crumbs as they snacked while listening to the Beefeaters' talks. However, the sightseers were entirely blameless, for any food they made the grave mistake of purchasing from the Tower Cafe went straight into the bin after the first mouthful. The truth was that the current rat population were descendants of the rodents that moved in not long after St. Peter's was first built as an ordinary city parish church outside the Tower walls, before being incorporated into the castle following Henry III's extensions. The rats had decamped briefly on the two occasions when the chapel was rebuilt, and for a third time during the nineteenth-century renovations when more than a thousand human corpses were discovered under the floor. But the vermin soon returned, lured by the succulence of the new tapestry kneelers. They had harassed a succession of chaplains to such a degree that each was obliged to wear his cassock several inches above the dusty chapel floor to prevent the ends from being ravished whenever he stood in contemplation. But it did nothing to stop the nibbling while they knelt in prayer. Rev. Septimus Drew found such radical tailoring one humiliation too far, and had devoted his eleven years in the post to the extermination of the creature not worthy of a mention in the Bible.
His time had been spent studiously converting the humble mousetrap into a contraption of suitable robustness to annihilate a rat. First he turned one of the empty bedrooms, which he had hoped would be used by the family he had longed for, into a workshop. It was there that he laboured on his inventions late into the night, the shelves lined with books on basic scientific laws and theories. Numerous plans with perfectly to-scale drawings lay unfurled on a desk, weighed down by anemic spider plants. A series of models, made out of pieces of cardboard, off-cuts of wood and garden twine, were laid out on a table. The arsenal of weapons included a tiny sling and marble, a razor blade which had once formed part of a doomed guillotine, a tiny trebuchet, and a pair of minuscule gates complete with murder holes in the top, through which deadly substances could be poured.
Arriving at the chapel door, he pressed down on the cold door handle. His hopes mounting for a formidable body count, he pushed open the door and made his way across the worn tiles to the crypt. As he approached the tomb of Sir Thomas More, where he had set up his latest apparatus (which had taken two months of planning and execution, as well as a call to a weapons expert at the Imperial War Museum), he heard a sound in the main body of the church. Irritated at being disturbed at such a delicious moment, he retraced his steps to determine the source of the noise.
His resentment at being interrupted immediately evaporated the moment he recognised the figure sitting in the front row of chairs next to the altar. Caught off guard by the sight of the woman who had chased away his dreams, he quickly hid behind a pillar and stood with his palms flat against the cold, smooth stone. It was the moment he had been imagining for months: a chance to speak to her alone, take her hand in his, and ask whether there was any hope that she might feel for him the way he did about her. While still uncertain of the merits of such an antiquated approach, he considered it the best out of all those he had thought of since his heart had taken flight. But in all the wistful fantasies he had concocted as he stood at his window overlooking Tower Green hoping for a glimpse of her, his hair had always been perfectly combed into the style first inflicted at the age of eight, and his teeth had been brushed. Cursing himself for having left the house with hangman's breath, he looked down at his skinny, bare ankles and deeply regretted not having taken the time to put on his socks.
As he berated himself for his unsavoury state, a burst of sobbing echoed round the ancient walls. Unable to ignore a soul in anguish, he decided to offer her comfort, despite his wretchedness. But at that very moment came a thud and a high-pitched squeak from the crypt. The woman jumped to her feet and fled, no doubt in fear of one of the many spectral apparitions said to haunt the Tower. Rev. Septimus Drew remained where he was, playing the scene over in his mind with a spectacularly different ending as the incense, which he burnt in copious amounts to mask the stench of rat droppings, curled around his skinny, bare ankles. When, eventually, he returned to the crypt, not even the sight of a slaughtered rat improved his mood.
WHEN BALTHAZAR JONES HAD RECOVERED the will to report for duty after his disastrous breakfast, he clambered into his dark blue trousers and pulled on the matching tunic with the initials the will to report for duty after his disastrous breakfast, he clambered into his dark blue trousers and pulled on the matching tunic with the initials ER ER emblazoned in red across the front, surmounted by a red crown. He reached up to the top of the wardrobe for his hat, and pulled it on with both hands. Like all the Beefeaters before him, he had initially worn the Victorian uniform with pride. But it hadn't been long before it became a source of utmost irritation. The outfits were unbearably hot in the summer and insufferably cold in the winter. Not only that, but they itched from the clouds of moth repellent sprayed on them twice a year while the Beefeaters were still wearing them lest they shrink. emblazoned in red across the front, surmounted by a red crown. He reached up to the top of the wardrobe for his hat, and pulled it on with both hands. Like all the Beefeaters before him, he had initially worn the Victorian uniform with pride. But it hadn't been long before it became a source of utmost irritation. The outfits were unbearably hot in the summer and insufferably cold in the winter. Not only that, but they itched from the clouds of moth repellent sprayed on them twice a year while the Beefeaters were still wearing them lest they shrink.
Descending the Salt Tower's stairs, he locked the door behind him, and turned right past the Tower Cafe. Assigned the post outside Waterloo Barracks, which housed the Crown Jewels, he chose a spot at sufficient distance from the sentry who had won a fistfight with a Beefeater the week before. His pale blue eyes instinctively searched the sky, and his thoughts drifted with the clouds on their way to drench the washing of the residents of Croydon. When his concentration briefly returned, he braced himself for the battery of ludicrous questions from the tourists who had started to seep in.
An hour later, Balthazar Jones had failed to realise that it had started to rain. Such was his expertise, his subconscious had instantly dismissed the downpour as a particularly common variety for January. He remained in exactly the same position, staring intently but seeing nothing, while the visitors had long since run for cover. When the man from the Palace eventually found him, he was still standing in the same spot, completely sodden and smelling fiercely of moth repellent. On hearing his name, Balthazar Jones turned his head, causing a raindrop to fall from the end of his nose onto the red crown embroidered on the front of his tunic. The man in the dry coat immediately covered the Beefeater with his silver-handled umbrella. Introducing himself as Oswin Fielding, an equerry to Her Majesty, he enquired as to whether he might have a word. Balthazar Jones hurriedly wiped his beard to rid it of water, but then found that his hand was too wet to offer. The man from the Palace suggested that they have a cup of tea at the Tower Cafe. But as they approached, he sniffed twice, flinched at the affront to his nostrils, and headed straight for the Rack & Ruin.
The tavern, from which members of the public had always been barred, was empty apart from the landlady, who was cleaning out her canary's cage. Oswin Fielding walked past the empty tables and chose one against the back wall. He hung up his coat and approached the bar. Balthazar Jones, who had forgotten to remove his hat, sat down and tried to distract himself from his anxiety about what the man wanted by studying the framed signature of Rudolf Hess hanging on the wall. It had been given to a Beefeater during the Deputy Fuhrer's four-day imprisonment at the Tower. But Balthazar Jones had studied it so many times before, it failed to hold his attention.
The Beefeater's hope that Oswin Fielding would be seduced by the real ales evaporated when he returned with two teas and the last Kit Kat. He watched in silence as the man from the Palace removed the red wrapper and offered him half, which he refused on account of his fluttering insides. The equerry proceeded to dunk each finger before eating it, a process that doubled the length of consumption, while at the same time enquiring about the pub's history. Balthazar Jones answered as briefly as possible, and failed to mention the fact that the man had chocolate on his chin lest it deter him further from getting to the point. When the courtier spotted the framed signature of Rudolf Hess, the Beefeater instantly dismissed it as a fake, as he could no longer bear waiting for the executioner's axe to fall.
But much to his annoyance, Oswin Fielding started to talk about a golden monkey called Guoliang, which had belonged to the Queen. "It was a gift from the President of China following his state visit in 2005," he explained.
Balthazar Jones was not the least bit interested in golden monkeys, royal or not. He glanced out of the window and wondered whether the equerry had come about his lamentable record for catching pickpockets, which was the worst amongst the Beefeaters. By the time he opened his ears again, he realised that Oswin Fielding was still discussing the late Guoliang.
"The creature's death has caused Her Majesty immense personal sorrow," the equerry was saying, shaking his head, which barely possessed sufficient hair to warrant such a meticulous parting. "Someone at the Palace looked up its name and discovered it means 'May the country be kind,' which makes its demise even more unfortunate. It caused the most stupendous diplomatic row. Golden monkeys are indigenous to China and there aren't many of them left. We explained that we even got in a feng shui expert to redesign the enclosure as soon as the animal appeared off-colour, but the Chinese didn't seem that impressed. For some reason they had got it into their heads that it would be kept at Buckingham Palace. But with the exception of horses, the Queen keeps all animals given to her by heads of state at London Zoo. Which is just as well as the Palace is enough of a monkey house as it is." The courtier paused. "Don't repeat that," he added hastily.
Just as Balthazar Jones could take no more, Oswin Fielding adjusted his rimless spectacles and announced that he had something of the utmost importance to tell him. The Beefeater stopped breathing.
"As you will know, relations between Britain and China are in a rather delicate state, and as China is an emerging superpower we need to keep them on our side," the courtier said firmly. "No one has forgotten those unfortunate comments made by the Duke of Edinburgh, either. As a gesture of goodwill, China has sent Her Majesty a second golden snub-nosed monkey. Shame, really, as they haven't got the most attractive combination of features-a snub nose, obviously, blue cheeks, and hair the same colour as Sarah Ferguson's. Anyway, the Queen is stuck with it. To make matters worse, the Chinese also noticed the similarity in hair colour, and have named it the Duchess of York. The Queen is understandably rather unsettled by that."
The Beefeater was about to ask why exactly Oswin Fielding had wanted to see him, but the equerry continued.
"While the Queen has the utmost respect for London Zoo, she has decided to move the new monkey, as well as all her other gifts of animals that are kept there, to a more intimate location. The problem is that foreign rulers always take it as a personal slight if their creature dies."
The courtier then leant forward conspiratorially. "I'm sure you've guessed where the animals are to be newly lodged," he said.
"I can't imagine," replied Balthazar Jones, who was contemplating fetching himself a pint.
Oswin Fielding then lowered his voice and announced: "They are going to be transferred to the Tower to form a new royal menagerie."