"Just a minute."
Hebe Jones rounded the corner and swiftly returned with the gigolo's diary, which she slid across the counter with a fingertip.
"You didn't read it, did you?" the man asked, putting it into his pocket.
"Heavens no," she replied.
After washing her hands thoroughly, she returned to her desk, picked up the phone, and called the next number on the list. "Is that Sandra Bell?" she asked.
"Yes."
"My name's Mrs. Jones. I was wondering whether you've ever worked with pomegranate wood?"
"I have done, as a matter of fact, but unfortunately I don't have any left."
Hebe Jones explained where she was calling from and that she was trying to trace the owner of an urn made from the curious wood.
"I did make someone a box out of pomegranate, but I've no idea what it was for," the woman replied. "The gentleman just gave me the measurements and I got on with it as soon as I'd tracked down some wood. It's not easy to come by. But I can try and get in touch with him, if you like."
"God delays, but does not forget," thought Hebe Jones as she put down the phone. She looked over at Valerie Jennings, who was standing next to the inflatable doll putting on her coat.
"I'm just going to the Danish Church," she said, doing up her buttons.
Hebe Jones had suggested the place as a possible lead after Valerie Jennings came to a dead end in her attempts to trace the owner of the safe. All the documents she found inside had been signed by a Niels Reinking. When she called the shipping firm whose address was printed at the top of each one, she was told that he had left and it was against company policy to give out personal details. After she tried the phone book in vain, Hebe Jones pointed out to her that Reinking was a Danish name.
"I don't think I've ever met anyone Danish," Valerie Jennings had said.
"Nor me," Hebe Jones replied, adding that her mother had never allowed Danish bacon into the house, as Denmark had surrendered to the Nazis after just two hours of occupation. Then she suggested trying the Danish Church up the road in Regent's Park. "You never know, someone might have heard of him."
Before leaving the office, Valerie Jennings gave her lips another coat of Lilac Haze in the hope that she would bump into Arthur Catnip on her way out. But it was disappointment rather than a tattooed ticket inspector that accompanied her to the street. Wondering again why she hadn't heard from him since their second lunch, she thought what a fool she had been to mix up Edgar and Teddy Evans during her tale of the lost Antarctic boot. As she approached the church, she cursed herself, explorers, and finally their forsaken footwear.
Reasoning that if God understood Danish, he would also understand the anguish of constricted bunions, she took off her shoes and left them next to the umbrella stand. She padded up the cold aisle, grateful that neither big toe had bored through her tights. Standing at the altar, she looked around, but failed to find any sign of life, so she sat down on one of the pews to rest her feet. Opening the pamphlet she had picked up from the table at the entrance, she started to read about the services the church offered to Danish sailors. But her thoughts immediately turned to Arthur Catnip, and she wondered whether he had ever visited English chapels overseas, if such things existed, during his years in the Navy. Just as she was trying to find the resolve to stand up again, a side door opened and the pastor came out wearing a pair of jeans and a red sweater.
"You're in luck, we're not usually open at this time of the day. I've just popped in to catch up on some paperwork," he said, coming to sit beside her. He looked down at her feet. Valerie Jennings followed his gaze, then quickly explained that she worked at London Underground Lost Property Office and had found something belonging to a Niels Reinking. "I was wondering whether you might know him," she said.
The pastor gazed at the ceiling as he thought. "The name doesn't ring a bell," he said. "But I'll ask around. I'm better at faces than names."
He walked her to the door and watched as she forced her feet back into her shoes.
"Maybe I should try Jesus sandals," Valerie Jennings muttered, and reached for the door handle.
Back in the Lost Property Office, she put on the kettle and updated Hebe Jones on her progress with the safe while waiting for the water to boil. As she reached for the teacups, the Swiss cowbell sounded. Valerie Jennings was round the corner as fast as her footwear could carry her. But instead of the tattooed ticket inspector, she discovered a woman wearing a mac, clutching a large plastic shopping bag.
"I've just found this on the District Line and thought I'd bring it in," the customer said, pushing the bag across the original Victorian counter. Valerie Jennings reached in and drew out its contents. First came a black cloak, followed by a breastplate, a plastic lightsaber, and finally a black helmet with a pronounced mouthpiece.
After thanking the woman, and wishing that everyone was as honest as she was, Valerie Jennings noted down the items in the ledgers. Once she was certain that she was alone, she picked up the helmet and pulled it on. As she was holding the lightsaber in front of her with both hands, she looked up and saw through the eye slits someone standing in front of her. She turned her head slightly and instantly recognised the confused features of Arthur Catnip.
"Is that Valerie Jennings?" he asked.
"It is," came the muffled voice.
"I was wondering whether you would like to go to dinner tonight," he said, keeping his distance from the weapon.
The black helmet nodded.
"Would eight o'clock at the Hotel Splendid be okay?"
There was another nod.
The ticket inspector hesitated for a moment, then turned to leave. "May the Force be with you," he called over his shoulder.
THE BATHROOM CURTAINS DRAWN tightly against the night, the Yeoman Gaoler hauled himself out of the tub. He stood on the mat rubbing his back with his towel, his japonicas swaying underneath the full moon of his belly. Once in his pajamas, he brushed his teeth, and such was his contentment he even gave them a floss to please his dentist. tightly against the night, the Yeoman Gaoler hauled himself out of the tub. He stood on the mat rubbing his back with his towel, his japonicas swaying underneath the full moon of his belly. Once in his pajamas, he brushed his teeth, and such was his contentment he even gave them a floss to please his dentist.
Climbing into bed, he turned off the lamp and released the contented sigh of a silver-muzzled dog as he waited for the blissful uninterrupted sleep he had enjoyed ever since the chaplain had worked his magic. He had had little hope in the abilities of Rev. Septimus Drew, and had only asked for his help in an act of desperation. But the exorcism had been such an emphatic success that the Yeoman Gaoler, who had previously deemed religion to be a form of witchcraft, had even considered turning up for the chaplain's service on Sunday.
The explosion sounded sometime after midnight, terrifying the odious ravens to such an extent that they simultaneously discharged a hail of droppings. The Yeoman Gaoler woke from his dreams, convinced he was in the grip of the heart attack the Tower doctor had warned him about. When the painful beating finally slowed, he swung his legs out of bed and staggered to the window. Rubbing a hole in the condensation with his fingers, he cupped his hands against the pane and peered through. Unable to make out anything in the darkness through the streaks, he hauled up the sash window and saw the shimmering form of a converted henhouse, minus its front door. Lying flat on his back amongst the splintered wood was a man in a plumed hat and velvet breeches, his face covered in soot. It took a while for the ghost of the doomed explorer to come round following the botched experiment. He slowly sat up, lamenting the state of his pearl-encrusted jacket. He then got to his feet, dusted himself down, and set about mending the door.
"That bastard Raleigh," raged the Yeoman Gaoler and slammed down the window. He unhooked his dressing gown from the back of the bedroom door and pulled it on. As he tied it around his waist, he cursed the useless chaplain, with his skinny white ankles, who had simply transplanted the problem outside his house. Gripping the wooden handrail, he made his way down the narrow stairs in his bare feet and headed along the hall to the kitchen to check on the Etruscan shrew after the commotion. He found his glasses, opened the cage, and carefully took the lid off the plastic house. But no amount of nudging the creature's tiny ribs with his plump finger could make it reveal its pointed velvet nose.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN.
BALTHAZAR JONES CAREFULLY PLACED the Egyptian perfume bottle inside the cabinet and stepped back to admire it. It was a particularly fine sample taken from a light shower that had fallen the previous night. Giving the display a careful wipe with a duster, he ran his eyes over the other varieties, reading their labels with a collector's fixation. the Egyptian perfume bottle inside the cabinet and stepped back to admire it. It was a particularly fine sample taken from a light shower that had fallen the previous night. Giving the display a careful wipe with a duster, he ran his eyes over the other varieties, reading their labels with a collector's fixation.
Closing the door on the wartime graffiti, he was halfway down the stairs thinking about breakfast when the phone rang. He picked up speed, his hand burning on the filthy rope handrail. But when he answered it, instead of his wife, he found a salesman on the line trying to sell him the genius of double-glazing.
He hung up, and sat down heavily on his side of the bed. While he knew that Hebe Jones wasn't coming back, he still had the tormenting hope that she would get in touch. At one stage he had become obsessed with the thought that she would write, insisting that she had made a mistake in leaving. Several times a day he called in at the Byward Tower to check his pigeonhole, certain that if the letter hadn't arrived with the postman, it would be hand-delivered. But as the weeks continued without a word, he became convinced that the only letter that would come would be from her solicitor. From that moment on, he refused to collect his mail, and so much built up that the Chief Yeoman Warder threatened to dispose of it if he didn't take it away.
Sheltering his hands between his thighs from the draught, he looked around the room wondering what to do with his wife's belongings. There, on the dressing table, was the colourful pot he had bought her on their honeymoon in which she kept her earrings. Hanging from one of the knobs on the chest of drawers were her necklaces that once swayed across her neat chest as she walked. And on top of the wardrobe was the box containing her wedding dress that she had refused to leave in the loft in their house in Catford, insisting it was the first thing she would grab in the event of a fire. Deciding that everything belonged exactly where it was, the Beefeater put on his uniform, and left the Salt Tower without breakfast, not having the stomach for it alone.
Entering the enclosure on the grass next to the White Tower, he looked for the reclusive ringtail possums, which had gone into shock the night they were released. As he hunted for them amongst the leaves, his mind turned to the man responsible for the treachery, whose vest was still hanging in his airing cupboard. Without any proof of his culpability, he doubted whether the Ravenmaster would ever have to account for his actions.
Eventually he found the secretive animals hiding at the back of their enclosure, only their magnificent coiled tails visible amongst the foliage. Satisfied that they had fully recovered from the trauma, he opened the wire door that led to the tiny sugar glider, a gift from the Governor of Tasmania. The pearl grey creature, which suffered from depression when left alone, immediately opened its huge brown eyes. After teaching it to climb the little ladder he had made for it, he tickled its fur with a feather shed by one of the toucans. And after they had engaged in a mutually enjoyable game of hide-and-seek, he fed it pieces of fresh fruit to satisfy its addiction until it fell asleep in his hands.
Leaving the nocturnal creatures to their dreams, he headed for number seven Tower Green and looked up at the White Tower weathervane. He stared at the emerald dot still swinging upside down in the breeze and turned away in frustration. At the same moment, he felt what he recognised as a parrot indiscretion land on his shoulder. Furiously wiping his uniform with a tissue, he pressed on through the crowds of tourists that had started to seep in. After knocking on the pale blue door, he stood surveying the clouds as he waited. Several moments later, he rapped again. Suspecting that the Yeoman Gaoler was in, he took off his hat, bent down, and looked through the mail slot. The man was sitting on the bottom of the stairs in his pajamas, his head in his hands. Slowly his fingers opened, and two eyes looked at Balthazar Jones.
"Open the door. I've got some more crickets for the Etruscan shrew," the Beefeater called.
The Yeoman Gaoler approached the letterbox and bent down.
"Just pass them through," he replied.
As the Beefeater began to feed the plastic bag through the door, he was suddenly gripped by suspicion. Snatching it back out again, he declared: "I think it might be easier if I give it to you. It doesn't seem to fit."
The Yeoman Gaoler opened the door just wide enough to get his hand through. Ignoring the plump outstretched fingers, Balthazar Jones leant a shoulder against the wood and pushed. "If it's all right with you, I think I'll just check on the shrew while I'm here."
Once Balthazar Jones had got past the Yeoman Gaoler, a feat that required an ungentlemanly tussle, he walked straight down the hall to the kitchen. Placing his hat on the table, he opened the cage, reached inside, and lifted the lid off the tiny plastic house. He gave the creature a gentle prod. It failed to stir. He poked it again, but it was useless.
Turning to the Yeoman Gaoler he asked: "Any idea why it's not moving?"
The Yeoman Gaoler's eyes slid to the other side of the room, then returned to his visitor with a look of infinite innocence. "It's having a nap?" he suggested.
Balthazar Jones reached inside, drew out the creature by its tail, and held it up in front of him, where it swung as lifeless as a hypnotist's watch. "So when did it die?" he demanded.
Sitting down, the Yeoman Gaoler ran a hand through his hair and confessed that it hadn't stirred for almost a week. The two men looked at the stiffened corpse in silence.
"We'll just have to tell everyone it's gone into hibernation," Balthazar Jones decided. "And in the meantime you'll have to find another."
The Yeoman Gaoler looked at him in defeat. "I don't think they have Etruscan shrews in England," he pointed out. But Balthazar Jones ignored him, and let himself out.
As he walked towards the moat to feed the rest of the animals, the Beefeater remembered collecting the Queen's gift from the President of Portugal, and their pitifully slow journey across the city together listening to Phil Collins's Love Songs Love Songs. He thought of the night it had spent on the old dining table on the top floor of the Salt Tower, unknown to Hebe Jones, while he tried to think of the best person to look after it. And he remembered its pointed velvet nose that no longer quivered as it swung by its tail before the Yeoman Gaoler. He passed through Byward Tower and stood on the bridge over the moat. But not even the sight of the enormous queue outside the fortress waiting to see Her Majesty's collection of exotic beasts lifted his mood.
REV. SEPTIMUS DREW FILLED UP the orange watering can in the bathroom, then carried it to his workshop dedicated to the extermination of the orange watering can in the bathroom, then carried it to his workshop dedicated to the extermination of rattus rattus rattus rattus. It had been several weeks since he sat at the table with the Anglepoise light, toiling until the early hours on his latest apparatus aimed at bringing a swift and irrevocable end to a life nourished by his tapestry kneelers. The change had not come about because of a decrease in the whiskered population-which continued to discharge its droppings throughout the chapel without the slightest blush-but out of respect for Ruby Dore's unfathomable affection for the vermin.
As he watered the anemic spider plants, in a state of collapse from lack of attention, his thoughts turned again to the landlady's sudden froideur froideur. After the hours they had spent together in the Rack & Ruin following the recapture of the fancy rats, he had returned home high with exaltation. It wasn't the vintage champagne that had put him into a state of grace, though the year was certainly exceptional, but the conviction that Ruby Dore was without a doubt the most sublime woman he had ever met.
As they had sat alone in the tavern, the canary's head long tucked under its wing, the landlady had told him the most fascinating tale about Thomas Hardy's heart, which he had never heard before despite his lifelong passion for Westminster Abbey. As the landlady poured him another glass, she revealed that the author had stipulated in his will his desire to be buried in his home county of Wessex. However, after his death in 1928, the government had insisted that the national treasure be buried in the Abbey alongside the other famous poets. An undignified row broke out, after which Hardy's heart was removed to be buried at Stinsford and given to his wife. The rest of his body was cremated and ceremonially entombed in the celebrated Abbey. However, legend had it that the heart was placed in a biscuit tin and put in the garden shed for safekeeping, only to be found by the household cat, who consumed the delicacy. It was said that on discovering the atrocity, the undertaker promptly wrung Cobweb's neck, and placed its body in the casket before it was buried. When the landlady had finished her tale, it was all the chaplain could do to stop himself picking up her soft, pale hand and kissing the back of it in admiration.
But despite those intimate early hours spent with only the sticky wooden bar top separating them, the following evening Ruby Dore had acted as if they were little more than strangers. Every day since, no matter when he arrived at the bar, he would find himself the last to be served, the greatest indignity to befall an Englishman. Whenever the Beefeaters moved away to find a table, he would linger to talk to her, but the landlady would either pick up her knitting and start thrusting her needles, or disappear to change the barrels.
As he watched the soil greedily soak up the water, he wondered again what he had done to offend her, but was at a loss as to what it might be. Unable to stand the uncertainty any longer, he descended the battered wooden stairs, returned the watering can to the cupboard below the kitchen sink, and drew back the net curtain. As he feared, the chairwoman of the Richard III Appreciation Society was sitting like a sentinel on the bench by the White Tower, her knees pressed tightly together and the breeze lifting her gunmetal hair. Nevertheless, the clergyman grabbed his keys, and strode out of the house.
He made it as far as the Bloody Tower before he felt a tap on the shoulder. He turned round, and before the woman had a chance to speak, he held up his hand and told her that there was nothing she could say to convince him of the merits of the hunchback king. "If it's a Richard III apologist you're after, try the Yeoman Gaoler. He's convinced that the Duke of Buckingham murdered the two little princes. He lives over there," he added, pointing in the direction of number seven Tower Green.
As he continued towards the tavern, he felt a second tap on his shoulder. Assuming he still hadn't shaken off the chairwoman, he turned swiftly to tell her that he was engaged in a matter of utmost importance. But standing next to him was the Keeper of Tower History, wringing his covetous fingers.
"Have you seen Yeoman Warder Jones?" he asked.
"Not today," the clergyman replied.
"Well if you do see him, tell him that a couple of oryx have just arrived," he said.
Rev. Septimus Drew continued easing his way through the tourists. Passing the "Private" sign at the top of Water Lane, he pushed open the door of the Rack & Ruin. A crowd of Beefeaters stood in captivated awe around a table at which Dr. Evangeline Moore and the Ravenmaster were engrossed in a game of Monopoly started the previous evening. Since the game's ban had been lifted, the Tower doctor hadn't lost a single game, all of which she had played with the threepenny bit. After each win, during which the general practitioner would seize property with the ruthlessness of a bailiff, her next opponent would insist on playing with the coin that still bore the scars of having been lodged inside a flaming plum pudding. But nothing could convince the doctor to surrender the threepenny bit.
The chaplain approached the bar, and, when he was finally served, ordered a pint of Scavenger's Daughter. But his choice of beverage did nothing to mellow the landlady, who silently slid his change towards him through the puddles of beer on the bar. She returned to her stool, picked up her knitting, and lowered her head. Rev. Septimus Drew watched as each furious stitch was dispatched onto the other needle the instant it was formed. He set down his pint, looked around him, and leant forward. "May I have a word with you in private?" he muttered.
Ruby Dore looked up, said nothing for a moment, then replied: "I'll meet you in the Well Tower in a minute. You'd better go before me or the gossip will be unbearable."
As the chaplain waited in the gloom with his back to the fancy rats, he tried to keep his mind off the gruesome scrabbling by thinking about the magnificent carrots the retired ladies of the night were growing in the kitchen garden. It wasn't long before the landlady entered, closing the door behind her with such force that the rodents fled to their burrows. She reached inside her jeans pocket, pulled out a piece of paper, and offered it to him. "I think you might have lost this," she said. "One of the howler monkeys got hold of it when they ransacked your house and dropped it outside the pub."
Rev. Septimus Drew unfolded it and started to read. Instantly recognising his own prose, he quickly folded it up again, and pushed it deep into his cassock pocket. He then told her of his passion for creative writing, inspired by his widowed mother's love affair. He explained that he had attempted all other literary genres, but the country's leading publishing houses had banned him from sending any more submissions. And he added that every penny he received went to a shelter he had set up to help prostitutes find a more wholesome means of employment and stop peddling their self-destructive love.
But the succulence of the ladies' cabbages was not enough to appease Ruby Dore. She informed him that as a clergyman he had no place to be writing about rosebud nipples, and that he was putting not only the reputation of the Church in jeopardy, but also that of the Tower.
"Why aren't men ever who they say they are?" she finally hurled at him as she headed for the door, her ponytail swinging. As he stood alone in the dark, her words echoed with such volume that he no longer heard the gruesome sound of gnawing coming from the enclosure behind him.
FROM UNDER HER LUSTROUS LASHES, Valerie Jennings watched as Hebe Jones turned the corner to answer the call of the Swiss cowbell. She got to her feet, hoisted up the waistband of her floral skirt, and walked over to the bookshelves. As she searched the titles of the obscure nineteenth-century novelist Miss E. Clutterbuck for something with which to escape the world, it struck her as strange that the only ticket inspector ever to discover the books was Arthur Catnip. Her mind turned once more to the last time she had seen him: on the steps of the Hotel Splendid, where he had risen to his toes and given her a goodnight kiss. Valerie Jennings watched as Hebe Jones turned the corner to answer the call of the Swiss cowbell. She got to her feet, hoisted up the waistband of her floral skirt, and walked over to the bookshelves. As she searched the titles of the obscure nineteenth-century novelist Miss E. Clutterbuck for something with which to escape the world, it struck her as strange that the only ticket inspector ever to discover the books was Arthur Catnip. Her mind turned once more to the last time she had seen him: on the steps of the Hotel Splendid, where he had risen to his toes and given her a goodnight kiss.
There had been no time after work to go home and change for dinner. Instead, she had made her way to the dress section of the Lost Property Office and rummaged through the racks with frantic fingers. Eventually, she found a black frock with three-quarter-length sleeves still with a label on, which she immediately snipped off. She then hunted in the handbag section for something to match it and eventually found a black clutch with a large diamante clasp that closed with a satisfying snap. Scrabbling through the drawer of abandoned perfumes, she deliberated over Evening Sensation and Mystic Musk. Unable to choose between the two, she decided on both, and stood with her eyes closed as the heady precipitation descended upon her in a fragrant confusion. She opened the drawer below and found amongst the necklaces a string of cream pearls. Noticing that the diamante clasp matched the one on the bag, she put it on with tremulous fingers. In front of the lavatory mirror, she released her dark curls from their usual mooring at the back of her head, and they tumbled to her shoulders.
Standing on the meticulously swept steps of the Hotel Splendid, pitched forward by the shoes that forced her toes into two red triangles, she adjusted her freshly polished spectacles as she waited. When the tattooed ticket inspector arrived, she almost failed to recognise him as his hair had been shorn into what appeared to be a crop circle.
As they entered the dining room, she saw that it was even grander than the hotel's Victorian conservatory filled with orchids where Hebe Jones took her for lunch on her birthday. As the waiter pulled back her chair, she noticed that theirs was the only table with yellow roses. Arthur Catnip sat down opposite her and commented on how lovely she looked, and she no longer felt the humiliation of wearing a stranger's dress that didn't quite fit.
When their starters arrived, the ticket inspector looked at Valerie Jennings's oysters and pointed out that one of the few things he remembered from science lessons was that the shellfish could change sex several times during its lifespan. Valerie Jennings replied that the closest she had ever got to a sex change was going to a hospital to distribute Christmas presents dressed as Santa, and having to use the gents' lavatory so as not to confuse the children.
As the main courses were served, Valerie Jennings glanced uneasily at Arthur Catnip's goose and told him how one had attacked her while she was feeding the ducks in the park. The ticket inspector recalled the time when he was six and ate all the bread his mother had given him for the ducks. His brother subsequently pushed him into the pond, and the park keeper had to pull him out by his hair when he sank.
While Valerie Jennings was waiting for her Danish apple cake, Arthur Catnip mentioned that if she ever fancied getting out her Santa suit again, Denmark was the place to go, as it held an international Father Christmas convention every summer. As they sipped their dessert wine, Valerie Jennings replied that she would never go to Denmark, as they had surrendered to the Nazis after just two minutes of occupation during the war.
The couple only realised it was time to leave when the waiter approached and told them that the restaurant would shortly be closing. They stood on the immaculate steps, oblivious to the bitterness of the night as the uniformed doorman hailed them each a taxi. When the first cab pulled up, Arthur Catnip wished her goodnight, then rose several inches and planted a kiss on her lips. It sent her into such a state of rapture she remembered nothing about her journey back home.
Cursing herself for muddling the time Denmark had taken to surrender, Valerie Jennings selected a book, returned to her desk, and slipped it into her handbag. As she sat down, the phone rang. "London Underground Lost Property Office. How may I help you?" she said in the voice of a 1930s radio announcer.
A heavily accented voice asked whether he was speaking to Valerie Jennings.
"You are indeed."
The parson of the Danish Church explained that it had taken a bit of work, but he had managed to track down someone by the name of Niels Reinking. "I have no idea whether he's the man you're looking for, but I have his address. Maybe you could write to him," he added.
"What a good idea," she replied. "I've always thought it such a pity that the art of letter writing is no longer revered. What is it?"
Valerie Jennings had no intention of wasting time subjecting herself to the vagaries of Royal Mail. As soon as she put down the phone, she reached for her A to Z A to Z, and fetched her navy coat from the stand next to the inflatable doll.
Less than an hour later, she was standing outside an Edwardian house that rose gracefully to the sky, its front door flanked by two laurel bushes. She pressed the bell and glanced through the bay window as she waited. A blue-eyed man with a snowdrift of hair answered the door.
"May I help you?" he enquired, wiping his fingers on a rag covered in paint smudges.
"Are you Niels Reinking?" she asked.
"Yes."
"I'm Valerie Jennings from London Underground Lost Property Office. I was wondering whether you might have lost something."