His eyes returned to the urn. "They gave me such a wretched thing to carry Clementine home in. I couldn't bear the thought of her being in it, so I had something special made for her. It's pomegranate wood. The fruit is a symbol of everlasting life."
They sat in silence as the gas fire hissed.
Reginald Perkins suddenly turned to his visitor. "I think I'd better find Clementine a resting place before I lose her again. Would you care to help me?" he asked.
Hebe Jones followed him into the back garden, where he stood, a trowel in one hand, contemplating the borders. He knelt down stiffly on his worn-out knees, and dug a hole in the earth. Picking up the urn that had spent so many weeks on Hebe Jones's desk, he gave it one final kiss, then placed it inside, and covered it with dark, moist soil. She helped him to his feet, and he stood surveying his handiwork.
"She'll get the sun there," he said with a smile. When there was no reply, he turned and looked at his visitor.
"Let's get you inside, luvvie," he said when he saw the tear fall.
When Hebe Jones was back on the sofa, warming her fingers on a fresh cup of tea, she told Reginald Perkins about the terrible, terrible day. When she had finished, she added: "We still haven't even scattered his ashes. We couldn't decide where. Neither of us could bear to talk about it."
"Where are they now?"
"Still in the back of the wardrobe."
It was Reginald Perkins who was left holding a cup of tea that had chilled as he listened. He put it down on the table and sat back. After a while he said: "At least you've still got your husband. That should be some comfort."
Hebe Jones stared at the ball of sodden tissue in her hand. "I haven't," she replied, and she told him how she had walked out with her suitcase and hadn't spoken to her husband since. "What I can't forgive is that he's never even cried."
The old man looked at her. "We might love each other in the same way," he said, "but it doesn't mean that we grieve in the same way."
Hebe Jones looked at him through a veil of tears. "It makes me wonder whether he ever loved him."
Reginald Perkins held up a crooked finger. "Did you ever wonder whether he loved the boy when he was alive?" he asked.
"Never."
"There's your answer, luvvie," he said, lowering his hand.
SITTING IN HIS WHITE WROUGHT-IRON CHAIR, Rev. Septimus Drew gazed out over the fortress from his rooftop garden. Through four varieties of sage ravished by winter he watched a group of tourists standing in contemplation at the scaffold site, and another wandering out of Waterloo Barracks mesmerised by the shimmering vision of the Crown Jewels. His eyes turned towards the chapel, and he thought again of what Ruby Dore had said to him in the Well Tower. Was he really fit to call himself a servant of God? It was a question that had plagued him since his literary career took off, but the transformation of the ladies, who nurtured the kitchen garden with more tenderness than they had ever shown themselves, had always chased away his doubts. Rev. Septimus Drew gazed out over the fortress from his rooftop garden. Through four varieties of sage ravished by winter he watched a group of tourists standing in contemplation at the scaffold site, and another wandering out of Waterloo Barracks mesmerised by the shimmering vision of the Crown Jewels. His eyes turned towards the chapel, and he thought again of what Ruby Dore had said to him in the Well Tower. Was he really fit to call himself a servant of God? It was a question that had plagued him since his literary career took off, but the transformation of the ladies, who nurtured the kitchen garden with more tenderness than they had ever shown themselves, had always chased away his doubts.
Filled with regret that his relationship with the landlady was over before it had begun, he saw himself in years to come still sitting on the sofa with the unruly spring in his melancholy bachelor's sitting room. Unable to bear the vision any longer, he rose to his feet and trudged down the stairs. Opening the door to his study, he sat down at his desk to write a sermon. But inspiration evaded him. He got up and looked for it out of the window, then studied the floorboards that he started to pace. When it still failed to arrive, he sat in his worn leather armchair with his eyes closed, waiting for it to descend from heaven. But the only thing that dropped was a dusty spider, its legs clutched neatly together in death. He got to his feet and stood on the singed rag rug before the hearth, gazing up at the portrait of the Virgin Mary, the brushwork of which had seduced his father into buying it for his bride on their honeymoon. But the memories of his parents' happy marriage immediately drove his thoughts back to Ruby Dore, and his torment increased. His gaze came to rest on the white embossed invitation to the Erotic Fiction Awards, propped up on the mantelpiece. He picked it up and looked at it, the gold edging glittering in the embers of the afternoon light. In a moment of utter lunacy, which he later put down to acute stress, he took off his cassock and dog collar, put on his coat, and headed out of the Tower to buy himself a wig.
It was easier than the chaplain had imagined to transform himself into Vivienne Ventress. He had known exactly where to go, having passed the shop on numerous occasions on his way to his favourite butcher's. The Spanish salesman, dressed in a frock that did nothing for a figure destroyed by patatas bravas, immediately came to his rescue. After picking out a shoulder-length brunette wig, the assistant riffled through his racks for something smart enough for dinner, but discreet enough not to attract attention. Rev. Septimus Drew contemplated each option with mounting horror, and refused to try any of them on. The salesman returned to his racks and with the furious, quick movements of the piqued, selected a second batch. Amongst them the clergyman spotted a plain black long-sleeved dress, which he was willing to take into the changing room. And not even the difficulty of clambering into it with his excessively long legs snapped him out of his madness.
When he drew back the curtain, his wig in place, the assistant clasped his hands together and ushered the chaplain to the mirror in the middle of the shop. Both men cocked their heads to one side and knew instantly that nothing could trump the long black frock with the charming row of pearl buttons. After broaching the delicate matter of underwear, the assistant disappeared into the back and returned with a large cardboard box. He opened it with a flourish, revealing a pair of black pumps of such colossal size an entire colony of rats could have set sail in them. By the time the assistant had finished his terrifying assault with the weapons in his make-up bag, Rev. Septimus Drew, looking at his reflection, was convinced that he looked even more alluring than the bearded Lord Nithsdale had when he escaped from the Tower in a skirt.
Wearing his heavy overcoat, he stood on the opposite side of the road to the Park Lane hotel, where the ceremony was being held, feeling the wind through his tights. When he had gathered his courage, he crossed the road with the cumbersome gait of a man not used to the feminine pitch of heels. Not daring to raise his eyes from underneath his crow's-wing lashes, he flashed his invitation at the woman on the door and slipped into the ballroom, where the guests were already seated around tables set for dinner. Standing at the back, away from the candlelight, he refused each invitation to sit down, having caught the attention of a number of single gentlemen. As the ceremony began, he resisted the urge to offer up a prayer for victory, and resorted instead to evoking the pagan god of good fortune by crossing his fingers. With his back against the wall to ease the ache caused by his footwear, he watched as the winners were called one by one to the stage, his only consolation being the conviction that his was the most elegant gown.
When the master of ceremonies left the stage and the waitresses filed in with the first course, the clergyman slipped out through the nearest door and found himself in the bar. He sank into an armchair and only remembered to close his legs when the waiter approached to take his order. He remained where he was for over an hour, distracted from the pinch of his shoes as he sat under the rockfall of failure. He was eventually brought round by the waiter asking him whether he wanted another drink, and he got up to go home. As he passed the door to the ballroom, he glanced in and saw that the master of ceremonies had returned to the stage.
"And now," the man said, leaning towards the microphone, "the moment you've all been waiting for. It gives me great pleasure to announce the overall winner ..."
Rev. Septimus Drew crept in for his final moment of humiliation. The man in the bow tie then opened an envelope, looked up, and uttered two words that sent the chaplain into a state of shock. He failed to hear the subsequent praise for Vivienne Ventress's unique prose: the teasing chinks left for the reader's imagination; the moralistic voice never previously heard in the genre; and her absolute belief in the existence of true love, which gave her work an extraordinary quaintness that rivals had tried to imitate without success.
It was the sight of his publisher getting to his feet to accept the award on Miss Ventress's behalf that catapulted the chaplain towards the stage. He glided up the steps with his head bowed and received the award with a flutter of his crow's-wing eyelashes. Despite the loud chorus of "speech!" he left the stage without uttering a word. And he maintained his demure silence all the way to the door, through which he escaped at speed, clutching his shoes before his publisher could shake his hairy hand.
REV. SEPTIMUS DREW WAS ALREADY SNORING, the award standing on the bedside table next to him, when Balthazar Jones took to the battlements to exercise the bearded pig. Halfway through their moonlit walk, he stopped and lowered himself to the ground. As he leant against the cold, ancient wall, hidden from the sentry, he was grateful for the warmth of the creature resting its head on his thigh, sending clouds of turnip-scented breath into the diamond-studded sky. Fingering its lead, he thought once again about the chaplain's words in the Brick Tower. Eventually, when he had made his decision, he gently shook the pig awake and, making sure they wouldn't be spotted, returned to the Develin Tower so it could continue its dreams. the award standing on the bedside table next to him, when Balthazar Jones took to the battlements to exercise the bearded pig. Halfway through their moonlit walk, he stopped and lowered himself to the ground. As he leant against the cold, ancient wall, hidden from the sentry, he was grateful for the warmth of the creature resting its head on his thigh, sending clouds of turnip-scented breath into the diamond-studded sky. Fingering its lead, he thought once again about the chaplain's words in the Brick Tower. Eventually, when he had made his decision, he gently shook the pig awake and, making sure they wouldn't be spotted, returned to the Develin Tower so it could continue its dreams.
As he headed home, he heard the mournful cry of the wandering albatross across the darkened fortress. Making his way to the Brick Tower in order to comfort it, he was joined by a group of Beefeaters returning home from the Rack & Ruin, having been asked to leave by the landlady for conspiring to seize the threepenny bit. They stopped outside the White Tower, where the men complimented him on the success of the menagerie, and each told him their favourite animal, which they admitted to visiting with a tasty little something when the tourists had left.
Suddenly the wind picked up and the hanging parrot, giddy from a series of furious revolutions as it clutched the weathervane above them, opened its toes. And as it plunged headfirst towards the ground, it let out a lusty moan that reduced the Beefeaters to silence, followed by the words: "Fuck me, Ravenmaster!"
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.
SITTING BARE-CHESTED on his side of the bed, Balthazar Jones fed his pale feet into his crimson tights. He stood and hauled them up over his thighs and stomach, performing a low plie in order to raise the gusset. Striding across the room, the nylon hissing between his thighs, he pulled open the wardrobe door in search of his matching breeches. But the sudden movement caused it to collapse, having never fully recovered from being dismantled when it was first brought up the spiral staircase eight years ago. on his side of the bed, Balthazar Jones fed his pale feet into his crimson tights. He stood and hauled them up over his thighs and stomach, performing a low plie in order to raise the gusset. Striding across the room, the nylon hissing between his thighs, he pulled open the wardrobe door in search of his matching breeches. But the sudden movement caused it to collapse, having never fully recovered from being dismantled when it was first brought up the spiral staircase eight years ago.
Swearing in Greek, a habit picked up from his wife, the Beefeater hunted amongst the ruins for the rest of his red state dress uniform, which Oswin Fielding had advised him to wear when he rang moments earlier, requesting that he come to the Palace at once. Placing the tunic and breeches on the bed, he rushed to the trouser press and extracted his white linen ruff, which scalded his fingers. After attaching red, white, and blue rosettes to his knees and his shoes, he reached for his Tudor bonnet from the top of the wardrobe and fled down the stairs.
He spent the journey in the cab, pitched forward so as not to crush the back of his ruff, gripped by fear. Had the Portuguese found out about the death of the Etruscan shrew, he wondered, or had someone discovered the bearded pig? Maybe the Queen had suddenly realised that no one had ever given her four giraffes, and had decided to hand his job to someone else? By the time he arrived at the Palace, he had worked himself up into such a state that he could barely talk.
After being shown into a side door by a police officer, he was met by a silent footman whose polished buckled shoes were equally silent as they passed along the corridor of dense blue carpet. He escorted the Beefeater to Oswin Fielding's office and knocked. Given the order to enter, he opened the door and stood back to let in Balthazar Jones. The equerry immediately rose to his feet. "Yeoman Warder Jones! Do have a seat," he said, gesturing to the chair in front of his desk.
Balthazar Jones silently took off his Tudor bonnet and sat down, holding on to the brim.
"What we need is a cup of tea," the equerry announced, picking up the phone. After requesting that some be brought, he added hastily: "No shortbread."
He then sat back in his chair, crossed his fingers over his stomach, and asked: "So, all well with you?"
The Beefeater ran his palms down the armrests to dry them. "Fine," he replied.
"And the boy? How's he?"
"What boy?" he asked.
"You said you had a son. What's his name?"
There was a pause.
"Milo," Balthazar Jones replied.
"Nice name. Italian?"
"Greek."
"Has your wife ... ?"
"No."
At that moment the door opened and the mute footman appeared with a tray. He served in silence, then retreated, closing the door behind him. Oswin Fielding helped himself to some sugar and finally got to the point. "I have some news, Yeoman Warder Jones."
"I thought as much," the Beefeater replied evenly.
"As you know, things have been going rather well with the menagerie. Very well, in fact. The Tower has been enjoying its highest visitor numbers for years. Her Majesty is immensely pleased."
Balthazar Jones continued to look at him in silence.
"However, as you also know, a number of giant otters arrived from Guyana not so long ago, followed by a pair of oryx from Qatar, and a herd of wildebeest from the President of Tanzania. Quite what that man was thinking of, I have no idea. Then this morning we heard that the Americans are sending over a couple of grizzly bears. At best these people are being generous. At worst they're just PR stunts."
The man from the Palace adjusted his rimless spectacles. "The Queen's very great fear is that, the longer the menagerie stays open, the more it will encourage foreign rulers to send her increasing numbers of animals," he continued. "Before we know it the Tower will be a veritable Noah's ark."
The equerry leant forward. "Between you and me, when she heard about the grizzlies she hit the roof. If you thought her shortbread was misshapen last time, you should have seen what came out of the oven earlier. Unrecognisable."
Balthazar Jones swallowed.
"Her Majesty has made the decision to transfer the animals back to London Zoo before things get out of hand," said the equerry.
"What do you mean?" asked the Beefeater.
"The menagerie is going to have to close, I'm afraid."
Balthazar Jones was unable to reply.
"The Queen's decision in no way reflects upon the efforts you have made, Yeoman Warder Jones. On the contrary," the equerry continued. "She very much appreciates the care and attention you have shown to the collection of royal beasts and wanted to tell you in person, but she was suddenly called away. She has decided that you will remain Keeper of the Royal Menagerie, even though it will be just an honorific title. It will add a little intrigue for the tourists too. We're sure that the renewed interest in the Tower will continue, what with all the coverage it's had around the world. In appreciation of what you have achieved, Her Majesty has decided to make a small, but significant increase to your salary."
"But what about the animals?" asked the Beefeater, clutching his armrests. "They're all settled in. The Duchess of York is looking even better than when she first arrived. You should see the gloss on her coat. The fancy rats have learnt all sorts of tricks. And the Komodo dragon has just laid some eggs. It was a virgin birth. They can do that, you know."
There was silence.
"And I've just put the glutton on a diet."
The equerry closed the file in front of him and sat back. "I'm afraid the decision is final," he said. He studied the penholder on his desk, while the Beefeater stared at the floor.
"So when are they going back to the zoo?" Balthazar Jones asked.
"Tomorrow."
"Tomorrow?" he asked, looking up. "That's a bit soon, isn't it?"
"The sooner we act, the sooner it will put a stop to this nonsense."
Balthazar Jones brushed the black crown of his Tudor bonnet with his fingertips. Eventually, he stood up. "Make sure you don't use the same removal people who lost the penguins," he said, and headed for the door.
THE FOLLOWING MORNING, the Beefeater flung back the waxy sheet that he hadn't washed since Hebe Jones left, already feeling the blade of abandonment. He dressed as quickly as possible, clambering over the ruins of the wardrobe as he hunted for a clean pair of socks. Gripping the filthy rope handrail, he fled down the stairs to feed the animals one final time, and to say his goodbyes in private. the Beefeater flung back the waxy sheet that he hadn't washed since Hebe Jones left, already feeling the blade of abandonment. He dressed as quickly as possible, clambering over the ruins of the wardrobe as he hunted for a clean pair of socks. Gripping the filthy rope handrail, he fled down the stairs to feed the animals one final time, and to say his goodbyes in private.
By the time he came out of the Brick Tower, a number of vans and lorries were already parked inside the fortress, and he spotted Oswin Fielding pointing at one of the towers with what looked to be a new silver-handled umbrella. As the animals were herded into the vehicles, the Beefeater stood issuing a stream of instructions to ensure their comfort and making sure that they had plenty of water for the journey. The equerry asked him to leave, insisting that he was getting in everyone's way.
Unable to sit down, he paced the moat, and came to the spot he had once shown Milo where two medieval lion skulls had been unearthed in the 1930s. He sat down on the damp ground, and, as he fiddled with a piece of grass, he remembered the time he had told his son of the original menagerie's demise.
By 1822 the collection had dwindled to an elephant, a bird or two, and a bear, Balthazar Jones explained to the boy as they sat on deckchairs on the Salt Tower roof. That year, Alfred Cops, a professional zoologist, was appointed keeper, and he became the first to actively purchase animals for the menagerie, rather than relying on gifts to the king or souvenirs from explorers. A collector himself, he also exhibited his own animals alongside the royal beasts. Six years later, the menagerie had over sixty species, and nearly three hundred animals. As well as kangaroos, mongooses, and dog-faced baboons, it boasted a five-fingered sloth, a pair of black swans from Van Dieman's Land, a kangaroo rat from Botany Bay, a boa constrictor from Ceylon, a crocodile from the River Nile, and a Malayan bear from Bencoolen presented by Sir Thomas Stamford Raffles. Visitors were charged nothing extra to watch feeding time at three o'clock, lion cubs were allowed to wander loose amongst the crowds, and there was always a long queue to see the female leopard with an appetite for umbrellas, muffs, and hats.
"So then why did they close it, if everyone wanted to go?" Milo asked.
"Unfortunately, the menagerie's popularity was not enough to save it," the Beefeater explained, resting his feet on one of his wife's flower tubs.
After George IV's death in 1830, the Duke of Wellington, an executor of his will and Constable of the Tower, set in motion a plan to transfer the one hundred and fifty royal animals to the gardens of the Zoological Society of London in Regent's Park, which later became known as London Zoo. The new king, William IV, who had little interest in the menagerie, gave his approval in 1831 and the move went ahead.
"But how did they get there?" asked Milo, feeding Mrs. Cook a fuchsia.
The animals made the long journey across London on foot, Balthazar Jones told his son, herded by Beefeaters carrying the small birds and pheasants in baskets. The elephants were placed at the front in an effort to prevent injuries, but the five-fingered sloth suddenly snapped out of its life-long stupor and darted ahead, producing the first casualty. Despite the bags of flour that had been placed inside their pouches to slow them down, the kangaroos arrived way ahead of the rest. They were closely followed by the ostriches, one of which kicked a zebra. A stampede broke out, which the Beefeaters struggled to contain. By the time the serpents turned up, many of their undercarriages had been rubbed raw, and for the next three months they continuously shed their skins. The last to arrive-two days after the storks-were the pair of black swans from Van Dieman's Land, smelling strongly of ale. Issued with leather booties to protect their feet during the mammoth trek, they had been invited into numerous taverns along the way by drinkers seduced by their footwear. They didn't refuse a single invitation, and a number of public houses across the country changed their name to the Black Swan in the creatures' honour.
"So what happened to the keeper?" asked Milo.
Alfred Cops also sold some of his own animals to the Zoological Society, Balthazar Jones replied, but continued to show the rest at the Tower, and the entrance fee was dropped from one shilling to sixpence to continue luring the crowds. Following the escape of a wolf, and a monkey biting a member of Wellington's garrison on the leg, in 1835 the keeper closed the attraction in accordance with the King's wishes. The remnants of his collection were disposed to an American gentleman and exported to America. Six hundred years of keeping wild animals at the Tower of London finally came to an end.
Milo picked up the tortoise. "Was he a good keeper, Daddy?" he asked.
"Yes, son, a very good keeper. He loved the animals very much. Hardly any of them died. Unfortunately the secretary bird, which had a particularly long neck, stuck it into the hyena den, and that was the end of it."
There was a pause.
Milo turned to his father. "A bit like Mrs. Cook's tail?" he asked.
"Exactly. Wouldn't have felt a thing."
STANDING ALONE ON THE WHARF as the early morning light flickered on the Thames, Balthazar Jones watched as the first vehicle slowly left the Tower, carrying the giraffes that had never been a gift from the King of Sweden. Next came the Komodo dragon with its eggs, the result of an immaculate conception. The reclusive ringtail possums followed, dreaming with their tails perfectly coiled below them, along with the sugar glider that had been given one final tickle with a toucan feather. Sitting in the lorry's footwell was the cage containing the male lovebird, its leg still in a splint following the assault by its partner. Sensing an emergency, the crested water dragons rose onto their back legs and started running back and forth inside their van, their hands stretched out either side of them to keep their balance. Then came the glutton, which, despite having been put on a diet, had managed to hide a number of raw eggs within its fur. The giant otters, which he had never gotten to know, were in the truck behind, and, judging by the smell, the zorilla left next. The monkeys followed them in a vehicle with blacked-out windows lest the Geoffroy's marmosets feel threatened during the journey. And finally came the birds, which were flying from one end of their lorry to the other, headed by the wandering albatross exposing its pink patches. The only creature that failed to take to the air was the concussed hanging parrot, which clutched its perch with its toes for the entire length of its upside-down journey. as the early morning light flickered on the Thames, Balthazar Jones watched as the first vehicle slowly left the Tower, carrying the giraffes that had never been a gift from the King of Sweden. Next came the Komodo dragon with its eggs, the result of an immaculate conception. The reclusive ringtail possums followed, dreaming with their tails perfectly coiled below them, along with the sugar glider that had been given one final tickle with a toucan feather. Sitting in the lorry's footwell was the cage containing the male lovebird, its leg still in a splint following the assault by its partner. Sensing an emergency, the crested water dragons rose onto their back legs and started running back and forth inside their van, their hands stretched out either side of them to keep their balance. Then came the glutton, which, despite having been put on a diet, had managed to hide a number of raw eggs within its fur. The giant otters, which he had never gotten to know, were in the truck behind, and, judging by the smell, the zorilla left next. The monkeys followed them in a vehicle with blacked-out windows lest the Geoffroy's marmosets feel threatened during the journey. And finally came the birds, which were flying from one end of their lorry to the other, headed by the wandering albatross exposing its pink patches. The only creature that failed to take to the air was the concussed hanging parrot, which clutched its perch with its toes for the entire length of its upside-down journey.
Feeling a chill as he watched the last vehicle leave, Balthazar Jones turned and walked to the van he had hired for the day, and drove out of the Tower headed for the zoo. Next to him on the passenger seat was the cage containing the common shrew, which had finally squeezed its colossal hips out of the door of the tiny house.
Arriving at the wrought-iron gates that had nearly decapitated the giraffes, he parked at the entrance and carefully carried the cage inside, putting the creature's breathtaking girth down to a diet of Fig Rolls fed to it by the equally corpulent Yeoman Gaoler. He checked to see that all the animals had arrived safely, and stood watching as they rediscovered their enclosures. After witnessing the extraordinary sight of the reunion between the wandering albatross and its mate, he gave a toucan feather to the sugar glider's keeper, who looked at it in confusion. Returning to his van, he stood on the pavement checking each direction. Once he was certain that he wouldn't be seen, he slid open the door and bowled a grapefruit along the ground through the main gates. The bearded pig hesitated for a moment, then bounded after it, its tasselled tail flying at full mast over its generous buttocks.
WHEN REV. SEPTIMUS DREW PUSHED OPEN the heavy oak door of the Rack & Ruin, one of the Beefeaters was standing on his head performing an ambitious impression of the hanging parrot's historic cry as it dropped from the White Tower weathervane. On recognising the chaplain's skinny ankles, the Beefeater immediately turned himself upright and apologised for his rendition of the unholy avian profanity. It wasn't the first time that the clergyman had heard it: the parrot's lusty shriek had been repeated around the Tower with unreserved enthusiasm whenever the Ravenmaster passed, much to the man's humiliation. the heavy oak door of the Rack & Ruin, one of the Beefeaters was standing on his head performing an ambitious impression of the hanging parrot's historic cry as it dropped from the White Tower weathervane. On recognising the chaplain's skinny ankles, the Beefeater immediately turned himself upright and apologised for his rendition of the unholy avian profanity. It wasn't the first time that the clergyman had heard it: the parrot's lusty shriek had been repeated around the Tower with unreserved enthusiasm whenever the Ravenmaster passed, much to the man's humiliation.
The chaplain approached the birdcage and looked at its yellow occupant, which suddenly started to disgorge a melody. Bending down to watch the creature empty itself of its cursed notes that threatened to choke it, he kept an eye on Ruby Dore. As soon as the landlady was free, he approached and asked whether he could talk to her in private. She looked up and hesitated. "They locked the Well Tower again after they took away the fancy rats," she replied. "I'll meet you in Wakefield Tower in a couple of minutes."
After looking at the small oratory, where the imprisoned Henry VI was said to have been murdered while kneeling in prayer, he joined the tourists heading to the lower chamber, which housed the instruments of torture exhibition. He listened to their murmurs of disappointment as they read the information panel stating that torture had been very rare in England. Their mood lightened, however, as soon as they saw the rack with its tantalising rollers that turned in opposite directions, the manacles from which prisoners would hang from their wrists, and the Scavenger's Daughter with its gruesome metal bars that compressed the body into an agonising kneeling position.