Balthazar Jones spent the rest of the day studying documents and records he prised from the covetous fingers of the Keeper of Tower History. When night fell, he closed each set of curtains he had made for his son's bedroom. He then drew the duvet up to the boy's chin and sat down on the side of his bed.
The menagerie was started in the reign of King John, he explained, possibly with three crates of wild beasts he ordered to be brought from Normandy in 1204 when he finally lost the province. Then, in 1235, his son, King Henry III, was prodded awake while sleeping off a disappointing lunch in the Tower. The bony finger belonged to an anxious courtier who informed him that a surprise gift making the most villainous of noises had just arrived by boat courtesy of the Holy Roman Emperor, Frederick II. The King, thrilled at the thought of an unexpected present, quickly pulled on his boots and scurried down to the banks of the Thames. The crates were prised open to reveal three malodorous leopards. But no amount of persuasion could convince the monarch that their spots were an integral part of their beauty rather than an indication of disease. And some of the rarest beasts in England were left alone to pace their cages in the Tower.
Milo, who had listened transfixed, asked: "But if spots are beautiful, why does Mummy always get cross when she gets one?"
"Because spots are beautiful on leopards, but not on ladies," Balthazar Jones explained.
The following night, Milo returned to his own bed, lured by the promise of the next installment. The Beefeater sat down, saw in his son his wife's dark good looks, and continued his tale.
In 1251 another present arrived at the Tower, this time from Norway. The polar bear and its keeper turned up unannounced outside the fortress in a small, salty boat. By then the pair, who had been travelling for months after being blown off course, could no longer abide one another's company. Their journey up the Thames only increased their foul mood. Both had a rabid dislike of being stared at, and the hysteria caused by the sight of the white bear, the first to be seen in England, to say nothing of the comments made about the keeper's dress sense, brought about a monumental double sulk that grew worse as soon as they saw their ruinous lodgings within the fortress. Assuming the creature to be aged well over three hundred on account of its white fur, Henry was content to simply look at it, as if it were a rare antique.
"What's an antique?" Milo asked.
"Something that's very old."
There was a pause.
"Like Granddad?"
"Exactly."
Harald, the bear's keeper, who would take the creature to fish for salmon in the Thames while it was attached to a rope, soon realised that no one understood him, the Beefeater continued. Nor he them. He gave up trying to communicate and spent all his time in the company of his white charge, sleeping in the animal's pen, their quarrels long forgotten. Eventually each knew what the other was thinking, though neither of them ever spoke. At night the pen would fill with dreams of their homeland, with glinting snowy expanses and air purer than tears. When scurvy eventually claimed Harald's life, the white bear was dead within the hour, felled by a broken heart.
When Balthazar Jones had finished, he noticed a line of tears running down each of Milo's cheeks. But the boy insisted that his father carry on. In 1255 Henry was sent yet another animal, courtesy of Louis IX, which was also the first of its kind in England, the Beefeater continued. A number of ladies who had stopped on the banks of the Thames to witness its arrival fainted when they saw that it drank not with its mouth, but with an excessively long nose.
The King ordered that a wooden house be constructed for it within the Tower. But despite the creature's docile disposition and wrinkly knees, the monarch was too terrified to enter, and he would gaze at the beast through the bars, much to the hilarity of the Tower's prisoners. It came as some relief to the King when, two years later, the animal took one final breath with its mysterious trunk and keeled over, trapping its keeper for several days before help eventually arrived.
"But why did the elephant have to die as well?" Milo asked, clutching the top of his stegosaurus duvet.
"Animals die too, son," Balthazar Jones replied. "Otherwise there would be no animals in heaven for Grandma, would there?"
Milo looked at his father. "Will Mrs. Cook go to heaven?" he asked.
"Eventually," said the Beefeater.
There was a pause.
"Daddy?"
"Yes, Milo."
"Will I go to heaven?"
"Yes, son, but not for a long time."
"Will you and Mummy be there?"
"Yes," he replied, stroking the boy's head. "We'll be there waiting for you."
"I won't be alone, will I?" the boy asked.
"No, son. You won't."
CHAPTER SIX.
AFTER MAKING HIMSELF SOME GINGER TEA in his sorrowful teapot for one, Rev. Septimus Drew carried it up the two flights of battered wooden stairs to his study, lifting the ends of his nibbled skirts so as not to trip. The only trace of comfort in the room was a forlorn leather armchair bearing a patchwork cushion made by one of his sisters. Next to it stood a mail-order reading lamp that had taken months to arrive as the address was assumed to be a joke. Above the mantelpiece hung a portrait of the Virgin Mary, resolutely Catholic in origin, the brushwork of which had seduced his father into buying it for his bride on their honeymoon. Feeling the draught from the sash windows, the clergyman looked with regret at the fireplace that he had been forbidden from using since a coal escaped and set ablaze the ancient rag rug in front of it. It was assumed that the chaplain must have been deep in prayer for him not to have noticed the foul-smelling smoke that reeked of thousands of pairs of unwashed feet. However, the truth was that he had been in his workshop trying to fashion a miniature replica of the Spanish Armada on wheels, fitted with fully functioning cannons. in his sorrowful teapot for one, Rev. Septimus Drew carried it up the two flights of battered wooden stairs to his study, lifting the ends of his nibbled skirts so as not to trip. The only trace of comfort in the room was a forlorn leather armchair bearing a patchwork cushion made by one of his sisters. Next to it stood a mail-order reading lamp that had taken months to arrive as the address was assumed to be a joke. Above the mantelpiece hung a portrait of the Virgin Mary, resolutely Catholic in origin, the brushwork of which had seduced his father into buying it for his bride on their honeymoon. Feeling the draught from the sash windows, the clergyman looked with regret at the fireplace that he had been forbidden from using since a coal escaped and set ablaze the ancient rag rug in front of it. It was assumed that the chaplain must have been deep in prayer for him not to have noticed the foul-smelling smoke that reeked of thousands of pairs of unwashed feet. However, the truth was that he had been in his workshop trying to fashion a miniature replica of the Spanish Armada on wheels, fitted with fully functioning cannons.
He took off his cassock and dog collar, which he deemed inappropriate attire on such occasions, and hung them on the hook on the back of the door. His heart afloat with relish for the task ahead of him, he sat on the dining chair at the simple desk and took out his writing pad from the drawer. As he unscrewed the lid of the fountain pen that had remained at his side like a trusty sword ever since school, he read the last sentence he had written, and continued with his description of the rosebud nipple.
While the clergyman's imagination was one of his many assets, he had never envisaged becoming one of Britain's most successful writers of erotic fiction. When he started to pursue creative writing, inspired by the effect George Proudfoot's storytelling had had on his mother, he had assumed that if his work were to encounter success, it would be in the mainstream market. When he finished his first novel, he sent it off to the country's leading publishers with a silent prayer of hope. It was only after waiting eleven months for a reply which never came that he assumed that there was no interest. By then he had already penned another work. Convinced that his address at the Tower was preventing him from being taken seriously, he rented a post office box and sent out his new manuscript, his heart aflutter with the thrill of expectation. The unequivocal rejection slips that eventually arrived only served to encourage him, and when each new novel was finished it was swiftly sent off with the same benediction, uttered with closed eyes.
Just as he was about to put copies of his eighteenth work into the post, he received a number of envelopes that his fingers detected did not contain the standard printed card of rejection. Such was his excitement, he was unable to open them for a week, and the envelopes remained on the mantelpiece, glowing more brightly than the halo of the Virgin Mary above. But when he finally worked his ivory letter-opener into their spines, instead of the offers he was expecting, he discovered letters requesting him to refrain from ever submitting a manuscript again.
For a week Rev. Septimus Drew laid down his pen. But he soon found his holy fingers reaching once more for its slender barrel, and, having exhausted every other genre, he submerged himself in the musky vapours of erotica. His chastity was his advantage as there were no experiences to limit his imagination: everything was possible. Assuming the pseudonym Vivienne Ventress in an attempt to slip under the barbed wire erected in front of him, he sent his first effort, The Grocer's Forbidden Fruit The Grocer's Forbidden Fruit, to the prohibited addresses, minus a benediction. By the time he checked his post office box, several of the publishers had sent their third letter imploring Miss Ventress to sign a six-book deal. All of them had seen a uniqueness in her work: the glinting chinks left open for the reader's imagination; the strong moralistic tone that gave her work a distinctive voice never previously heard in the genre; and her absolute belief in the existence of true love, a theme none of her contemporaries had explored. Rev. Septimus Drew assumed a position of infinite coyness, drizzling his replies with the lustiest of fragrances as he wrote to each one turning them down. The tactic worked, as the offers were immediately raised. The chaplain accepted the highest, insisting on a clause in the contract allowing good to triumph over evil in every plot. He kept the huge advance cheque hidden underneath the brass crucifix on his study mantelpiece. And when the royalties started arriving, there were sufficient funds for him to set up a shelter for retired ladies of the night who had been ruined by love in its many guises.
The chaplain continued writing until lunchtime, when he rose to the surface again, distracted from his forbidden romances by a sudden gust of loneliness. As he thought of the woman who had reduced him to a cursed victim of insomnia, he gazed down out of the window hoping to see her. But all he saw was the first of the day's tourists, one of whom had just made the instantly regrettable error of trying to pet an odious raven. His mind filled with the chaste thoughts that permeated his own romantic fantasies, and he wondered whether she could ever think of him as a husband. The ambulance had already collected the sightseer by the time Rev. Septimus Drew, lost in the devastation of love, came round from his reverie. He slid open the desk drawer, put away his pad, and got up to prepare himself for an afternoon of ministry with the retired pedlars of love whose shattered souls he sheltered. He left the house holding an umbrella in one hand and a treacle cake in the other, having long ago recognised its pagan ability to comfort.
THE RAIN HAD BEEN DRIVING against the door of the Rack & Ruin with such ferocity that it started to seep underneath it, spreading like a pool of blood across the worn flagstones. Not that Ruby Dore noticed. The landlady, who had been alone since the lunchtime drinkers finally left, was looking into the cage at the end of the bar trying to coax her canary to sing. The bird was suffering from chronic agoraphobia brought on by its dramatic fainting fit into the slops tray. Despite her previous attempts, which had started with cajoling, progressed to bribes, and ended in threats, nothing could induce from it even the most humble of melodies. Much to Ruby Dore's consternation, the bird was also suffering from what gut professors euphemistically called "the trots." They had been brought on by the feast of dainties fed to it by a succession of Beefeaters to encourage it to sing, in the hope of securing a free pint. Paper napkins had been unwrapped on the bar containing crust from a steak and ale pie, leftover Christmas pudding discovered at the back of the fridge, and the remains of a Cornish pasty. But the only sound that came from its cage was an intermittent quiver of yellow tail feathers followed by an unladylike splat. against the door of the Rack & Ruin with such ferocity that it started to seep underneath it, spreading like a pool of blood across the worn flagstones. Not that Ruby Dore noticed. The landlady, who had been alone since the lunchtime drinkers finally left, was looking into the cage at the end of the bar trying to coax her canary to sing. The bird was suffering from chronic agoraphobia brought on by its dramatic fainting fit into the slops tray. Despite her previous attempts, which had started with cajoling, progressed to bribes, and ended in threats, nothing could induce from it even the most humble of melodies. Much to Ruby Dore's consternation, the bird was also suffering from what gut professors euphemistically called "the trots." They had been brought on by the feast of dainties fed to it by a succession of Beefeaters to encourage it to sing, in the hope of securing a free pint. Paper napkins had been unwrapped on the bar containing crust from a steak and ale pie, leftover Christmas pudding discovered at the back of the fridge, and the remains of a Cornish pasty. But the only sound that came from its cage was an intermittent quiver of yellow tail feathers followed by an unladylike splat.
Plump lips close to the bars and her cinnamon-coloured ponytail running down her back, Ruby Dore whistled a final salvo of random notes assembled in an order that no one of musical persuasion would ever choose. But the bird remained mute. In an effort to distract herself from her failure, she set about dusting the cabinets of Beefeater souvenirs mounted on the tavern's walls. The collection had been started by her father, the previous landlord, who had retired with his second wife to Spain, suffering from a surfeit of bearded conversation. The cabinets contained hundreds of Beefeater figurines, ashtrays, glasses, mugs, thimbles, and bells-anything on which could be stamped the famous image of a hirsute gentleman in crimson state dress, complete with rosettes on his shoes and the sides of his knees.
The Rack & Ruin had been her only home since the day she emerged from her mother, slipped through her father's tremulous fingers, and slithered headfirst onto the kitchen linoleum in the family's quarters upstairs. The night Ruby Dore was due to make her entrance into the world, the Tower doctor was in the bar below, having long given in to the addiction that was to be his life's torment. When he was politely informed that the landlord's wife's contractions had started, he waved away the messenger. "She's got plenty of time," he insisted. He then turned back to the game of Monopoly he was playing with a Beefeater that had already lasted more than two hours. The man was the only Tower resident whom the doctor hadn't beaten, simply because the pair had never previously played together.
The doctor's reign was absolute. While Beefeater after Beefeater languished in jail, the general practitioner would rampage across the board, buying up property in a monstrous display of avarice. Once he had acquired all the title deeds of a colour group, he would double the rent and, without so much as a blush, hold out his palm for payment when his opponent landed on his holdings. It was a strategy that many claimed to be illegal. The rules were searched for but declared lost, and a number accused the doctor of having hidden them. Tempers flared in the fortress to such an extent that arbitration had to be sought from the board game's manufacturer. It sent back a closely typed letter stating that the doctor's methods did not contravene the holy regulations.
The general practitioner, who would secure the Strand, Fleet Street, and Trafalgar Square as the epicenter of his colossal hotel empire, put his supremacy down to the fact that he always played with the boot. He was offered all manner of bribes to swap it for the hat with its alluring brim, the motorcar with its tiny wheels, or even the Scottie dog with its cute shaggy coat. But nothing could persuade him to surrender the boot.
When a much more urgent whisper sounded in his ear about the alarming frequency of the contractions, the doctor turned to the messenger and snapped: "I'll be up in a minute." But when he looked back at the board, the boot had vanished. He immediately blamed the Beefeater, who vehemently denied the accusation of theft. The game was stopped for thirty-nine minutes while the corpulent doctor stuffed his stash of pink 500 notes into his breast pocket and hunted between the chair legs for the sacred object. When he returned to his seat, red-faced and empty-handed, he insisted that his opponent turn out his pockets. The Beefeater obliged, and then offered the doctor the iron with a limp smile. Just as the medic was about to declare a suspension of play, the Beefeater started to choke. Instantly suspecting what he had done, the doctor stood him up, turned him around, and proceeded to perform the Heimlich maneuver. And, as Ruby Dore skidded onto the kitchen floor, the disputed boot sailed from the Beefeater's mouth and landed on the board, scattering a row of tiny red hotels.
Once she had finished the dusting, the landlady returned to her stool behind the beer taps. She rested her feet on an empty bottle crate and reached for her knitting, a diversion started to relieve the desire for a cigarette but which had since become an even more compulsive habit. Before long, her mind drifted to the test she had done in the bathroom that morning, and she thought again how the result didn't make sense. Unable to stand the uncertainty any longer, she stood up. Sidestepping the creeping pool of water on the worn flagstones, she grabbed her coat, opened the door, and pulled it shut behind her.
Lowering her chin to her chest to keep the rain out of her eyes, she ran past the Tower Cafe, where some of the tourists had taken shelter, much to their regret after sampling its fare. Turning the corner at the White Tower, she continued past Waterloo Barracks, and when she reached the row of houses with blue doors overlooking Tower Green, a now sodden ponytail swung heavily behind her.
After a vigorous knock, Dr. Evangeline Moore eventually appeared and stepped back to let the landlady in out of the rain. Apologising for her wet feet, Ruby Dore walked down the hall to the surgery. She sat in front of the desk, in a chair with a cracked leather seat, and waited until the Tower doctor had taken her place opposite her. It was only then that she announced: "Sorry to barge in, but I think I might be pregnant."
SEVERAL HOURS LATER, when darkness had crept over the parapet, Balthazar Jones hesitated outside the Rack & Ruin waiting for the courage to enter. He hadn't bothered changing out of his uniform since coming off duty, as he had been too preoccupied about the meeting he had called to inform the Tower residents of the new menagerie. Numerous rumours had swept round the fortress, the most alarming of which involved tigers being able to roam freely once the visitors had been locked out for the day. Suddenly the sign above the door depicting a Beefeater operating the rack let out a screech in the wind. He went in and saw that his colleagues, who hadn't changed either, were already sitting at the tables, each armed with a pint and a wife. when darkness had crept over the parapet, Balthazar Jones hesitated outside the Rack & Ruin waiting for the courage to enter. He hadn't bothered changing out of his uniform since coming off duty, as he had been too preoccupied about the meeting he had called to inform the Tower residents of the new menagerie. Numerous rumours had swept round the fortress, the most alarming of which involved tigers being able to roam freely once the visitors had been locked out for the day. Suddenly the sign above the door depicting a Beefeater operating the rack let out a screech in the wind. He went in and saw that his colleagues, who hadn't changed either, were already sitting at the tables, each armed with a pint and a wife.
Knowing there would be considerable opposition to the project, as nothing unsettled Beefeaters more than a change to their routine, Balthazar Jones headed straight for the bar. Ruby Dore, who still hadn't forgiven him for provoking her canary's fainting fit, eventually served him a pint of Scavenger's Daughter, ordered not out of admiration but as a gesture of atonement. The only ale brewed on the premises, it was, according to some of the Tower residents, even more gruesome than the method of torture after which it had been named. Balthazar Jones had managed only three reluctant sips when the Chief Yeoman Warder stood up, called for silence, and invited him to explain to everyone the catastrophe that he was about to inflict on the Tower.
Placing his pint on the bar, he turned towards his colleagues, whose hair, still bearing the imprint of their hats, spanned a dozen hues of grey. He felt for the security of his beard as he suddenly forgot the words he had carefully rehearsed. He then caught sight of the chaplain, sitting at the back next to Dr. Evangeline Moore. The clergyman smiled and raised both his thumbs in a gesture of encouragement.
"As most people here already know, there was a royal menagerie at the Tower of London from the thirteenth to the nineteenth centuries," he began. "At first the animals were just for the amusement of the monarch, but they became a public attraction during the reign of Elizabeth I. A lion was actually named after her. The health of the monarch and the menagerie's lion was said to be interlinked, and the creature did in fact die several days before her."
"Get on with it, man," called the Chief Yeoman Warder.
"The tradition of giving the monarchy live animals continues to this day, and they are kept at London Zoo," Balthazar Jones continued. He paused before adding: "The Queen has decided to transfer them to the Tower and reinstate the menagerie. She very much hopes that their presence will attract more visitors. The animals are due to arrive next week, and the menagerie will open to the public once they have settled in."
There was an instant chorus of protests.
"But we don't need any more tourists. We're overrun by the buggers as it is," called the Ravenmaster.
"One knocked on my door the other day and had the cheek to ask whether he could have a look around," said one of the Beefeaters' wives. "I told him to get lost, but he didn't seem to understand. Then he asked whether I would take some photographs of the inside for him. So I took a picture of the loo, gave him his camera back, and shut the door."
"Where, precisely, are these animals going to be kept?" demanded one of the Beefeaters. "There's no room at my place."
Balthazar Jones cleared his throat. "The construction of a penguin enclosure has already started in the moat, and it will be joined by a number of other pens. There will also be one on the grass outside the White Tower. Some of the disused towers will be used as well. The birds, for example, will be located in the Brick Tower."
"What type of penguins are they?" asked the Yeoman Gaoler, whose sprawling beard covered his mountainous chins like grey heather. "They're not the type that live on the Falkland Islands, are they? They're more vicious than the Argies. Nip your arse as soon as look at you."
Balthazar Jones took a sip of his pint. "All I remember is that they're short-sighted when out of the water and are partial to squid," he replied.
"Ex-servicemen looking after animals ... I've never felt so humiliated in all my life," raged the Chief Yeoman Warder, his embalmer's fingers even paler than usual as he gripped the handle of his glass. "I hope you prove better at looking after animals than you are at catching pickpockets, Yeoman Warder Jones. Otherwise we're all doomed."
A number of Beefeaters got up to go to the bar, while the others continued to protest about the four-legged invasion. Balthazar Jones picked up his glass and walked over to inspect the canary, hoping that he would be forgotten. Bending down, he looked at the thinning bird. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a Fig Roll filched from a packet in the office bearing the words "Yeoman Gaoler" in black marker. He broke some off and offered the biscuit crumbs to the mute creature through the bars. Refusing to look him in the eye, it slowly sidestepped along its perch, then took a morsel in its beak with the speed of a pickpocket. The assembled Beefeaters turned in amazement to look at the crazed creature suddenly disgorging a surfeit of notes that had built up in its chest during its protracted period of silence. But while everyone gazed at the noisy bird, Rev. Septimus Drew turned his dark eyes once more to the heavenly Ruby Dore.
As the Beefeaters struggled to hear themselves above the yellow racket, the Ravenmaster finished his tomato juice. Despite the lure of the well-stocked bar, he avoided the soothing temptation of alcohol, as he needed his wits about him when handling his charges to avoid losing an eye.
"I'm just going to check on the birds," he said to his wife, patting her on the knee. After blowing her a kiss from the door, which confused the Yeoman Gaoler who happened to be in his eye-line, he put on his hat and stepped outside. One of the few Beefeaters who had resisted growing a beard, he was immediately hit by the bitterness of the evening. Just as he was about to cross Water Lane, he saw Hebe Jones approaching on her way home from work, clouds of breath visible in the darkness as she hurried to escape the sadistic cold.
He paused in the doorway, taking his time to put on his black leather gloves. The pair had barely spoken since one of the odious ravens had relieved Mrs. Cook of her tail. In keeping with the duties of a mother, Hebe Jones had helped Milo in his fruitless search for the severed appendage. The boy was adamant that it could be sewn back on like the finger Thanos Grammatikos, his mother's cousin, had lost during a misguided return to the dark art of carpentry. The six-year-old spent several hours scouring the Tower grounds, Hebe Jones on all fours next to him. Every now and again he would joyfully hold aloft a bit of twig, only to cast it aside upon closer inspection. Eventually, he came to the reluctant conclusion that it had been swallowed, one that his parents had reached much earlier, and the hunt was finally called off.
During the ensuing years, Balthazar and Hebe Jones had been obliged to remain civil with the Ravenmaster on account of the friendship that had developed between their two children. It started when Charlotte Broughton, who was eight months older than Milo, appeared at the Salt Tower one morning with what she insisted was a new tail for Mrs. Cook. Hebe Jones immediately invited her inside and followed her up the spiral staircase. The family sat on the sofa and held their breath as the girl slowly unfurled her tiny clenched fist. While his parents instantly recognised what was undeniably the end of a parsnip, Milo was thrilled with the new appendage. The two children immediately went in search of Mrs. Cook, whom they eventually found in the bathroom, and lay down on the floor next to her trying to fathom how to attach it. And, with the help of a piece of green wool, for a whole morning the oldest tortoise in the world dragged behind her the browning tip of a root vegetable, until Balthazar Jones spotted the creature and put a stop to the indignity.
THE RAVENMASTER TOUCHED THE BRIM of his hat as Hebe Jones walked past, and she nodded stiffly at him in return, her nose reddened by the cold. Once she was out of sight, he waited a few more minutes until he was certain that she had reached the Salt Tower. He then headed towards the wooden bird pens next to Wakefield Tower, barely visible for the clouds masking the moon. But when he reached them, he simply glanced at the closed doors and carried on walking, smoothing down his pigeon-grey mustache in anticipation. Arriving at the Brick Tower, he checked behind him, then felt for the enormous key he had slipped into his pocket while in the office. of his hat as Hebe Jones walked past, and she nodded stiffly at him in return, her nose reddened by the cold. Once she was out of sight, he waited a few more minutes until he was certain that she had reached the Salt Tower. He then headed towards the wooden bird pens next to Wakefield Tower, barely visible for the clouds masking the moon. But when he reached them, he simply glanced at the closed doors and carried on walking, smoothing down his pigeon-grey mustache in anticipation. Arriving at the Brick Tower, he checked behind him, then felt for the enormous key he had slipped into his pocket while in the office.
He cursed under his breath at the noise the lock made when it eventually turned, and looked behind him once more. He then pushed open the door, and shut it behind him. Flicking on his lighter for a moment to get his bearings, he made his way up the steps of the tower that had once imprisoned William Wallace. Reaching the first floor, he groped in the darkness for the door latch and entered the empty room. He looked at his watch, a present from his wife, which glowed in the gloom. Still a few minutes early, he sat down on the wooden floorboards, took off his gloves, and waited, his heart clenched with anticipation.
Eventually, the Ravenmaster heard the bottom door open and gently close again. He rubbed his moist palms on his trouser legs as the sound of heels climbing the steps echoed up the stone staircase. It hadn't taken him long to discover the delights of the Tower Cafe when it re-opened. However, his appreciation had nothing to do with the menu, which horrified the Beefeaters as much as the tourists, but everything to do with the delicious new chef. He immediately forgot Ambrosine Clarke's lack of talent, which some believed bordered on cruelty, the moment he saw the glow of her formidable cleavage as she leant over to stir what was allegedly turnip soup. Her mind enfeebled by poor nutrition, she agreed to meet him at the Pig in a Poke pub, a short walk from the fortress. Sitting on the bar stool, she forgave him his lack of imagination regarding the choice of venue when he whispered into her ear his insurmountable appreciation of her eel pie. She forgave his repeated assertions that ravens were more intelligent than dogs when he placed a hand on her sturdy thigh and muttered exaltations about her tripe and mash. And she even forgave the fact that he had a wife when he ran the back of his fingers over her cheek, still flushed from the heat of the kitchen, and assured her that her suet pudding was better than his mother's.
The Ravenmaster watched as the glow from a match crept its way up the wall towards him. Suddenly it was blown out, and the tower was plunged back into darkness. He listened as the footsteps approached the door, and passed slowly through the threshold. Recognising the smell of cooking fat, he got to his feet and reached for her. And when the Ravenmaster got to taste the succulent Ambrosine Clarke, he finally forgave her catastrophic cuisine.
ONCE SHE HAD LET HERSELF into the Salt Tower, Hebe Jones climbed to the roof to take down the sodden washing. It was stubbornness, rather than optimism, that had made her peg it out that morning before going to work. Lit up by a bone-coloured moon that had momentarily broken free of the clouds, she worked her way along the line, dropping into the plastic basket the heavy clothes that reeked of damp from the Thames. As she struggled to take down the bed sheets without trailing them in the puddles, she glanced over to Tower Bridge, and she remembered having to convince Milo, when he was still terrified of the place, that it had been old London Bridge, down the river, that had been mounted with severed heads. into the Salt Tower, Hebe Jones climbed to the roof to take down the sodden washing. It was stubbornness, rather than optimism, that had made her peg it out that morning before going to work. Lit up by a bone-coloured moon that had momentarily broken free of the clouds, she worked her way along the line, dropping into the plastic basket the heavy clothes that reeked of damp from the Thames. As she struggled to take down the bed sheets without trailing them in the puddles, she glanced over to Tower Bridge, and she remembered having to convince Milo, when he was still terrified of the place, that it had been old London Bridge, down the river, that had been mounted with severed heads.
When she walked into the kitchen with the basket, she found her husband sitting at the table with his head in his hands, his mustache still damp from a final swig of Scavenger's Daughter to complete his reparation.
"Feeling all right?" she asked, squeezing behind his chair to get to the tumble dryer.
"Fine," he replied, moving in his chair. "How was work? Anything interesting brought in?"
Hebe Jones's mind immediately turned to the urn still sitting on top of the gigolo's diary. "Not really," she replied, feeding the sheets into the machine.
Once she had finished cooking supper, she reached for the two trays propped up against the bread bin. The couple no longer ate at the kitchen table in the evening, as neither could stand the silence that sat like an unwanted guest between them. After serving out the mousaka, a recipe passed down generations of Grammatikoses which she had hoped to teach Milo, she carried the trays to the living room and placed them on the coffee table in front of the settee. It was there that she found her husband again, dressed in a pair of ancient trousers with a hole at each pocket from the weight of his hands. They ate with their eyes on the television, rather than on each other. As soon as they had finished, Balthazar Jones got up to wash the dishes, which he no longer left until the end of the evening as it gave him an excuse to leave the room. Once he had finished, he stepped over Mrs. Cook and headed for the door to the staircase.
"What do you think Milo would have looked like now?" Hebe Jones suddenly asked as he raised his hand to the latch.
He froze. "I don't know," he replied, not turning round. After closing the door behind him, Balthazar Jones made his way up the spiral staircase, the scuff of his tartan slippers amplified by the ancient stone that surrounded him. Arriving at the top floor, he felt in the darkness for the handle and pushed open the door to the room that his wife never entered, as the chalk graffiti left on the walls by the German U-boat men imprisoned during the war gave her the creeps. He switched on the light, revealing the night at the lattice windows surrounding him on all sides, and sat down on the hardback chair at the table. Picking up his pen, he started to compose his next batch of letters that he hoped would secure him a fellow member of the St. Heribert of Cologne Club. And two floors below him Hebe Jones sat alone on the sofa trying to answer her own question as the cracks of her heart opened.
CHAPTER SEVEN.
THE DAY EXOTIC BEASTS RETURNED to the Tower of London, Mrs. Cook's ancient bowels defeated her. Balthazar Jones discovered the disgrace as he made his way to the bathroom in the early hours of the morning. Still seeking the courage to tell his wife about the animals' imminent arrival, he hadn't slept. He had hoped that the news would have reached her, sparing him the onerous task. But she remained completely oblivious. This was due, he concluded, to her having given up all social activities within the fortress, which included folding herself up into mysterious positions after one of the Beefeaters' wives indoctrinated her into the cult of yoga. to the Tower of London, Mrs. Cook's ancient bowels defeated her. Balthazar Jones discovered the disgrace as he made his way to the bathroom in the early hours of the morning. Still seeking the courage to tell his wife about the animals' imminent arrival, he hadn't slept. He had hoped that the news would have reached her, sparing him the onerous task. But she remained completely oblivious. This was due, he concluded, to her having given up all social activities within the fortress, which included folding herself up into mysterious positions after one of the Beefeaters' wives indoctrinated her into the cult of yoga.
He sat in the darkness on the side of the bath, his pajama leg pulled up to his knee as he washed Mrs. Cook's indiscretion off his foot. He gazed out of the lattice window towards the Thames, glowing with the sparks of a new day. And, as he looked at the Tower wharf, his thoughts turned to the tale he had told Milo of when the ship bearing England's first ostriches arrived, courtesy of the Dey of Tunis, the North African ruler, in the eighteenth century. He and his son had been collapsed on deck chairs on the lawn by the White Tower, the loathsome tourists long since locked out for the day. After handing him a glass of lemonade, the Beefeater told the boy how the curious crowd that had gathered when the vessel docked at the fortress recoiled with dread as two giant birds stalked down the gangplank, shook their dusty behinds, and released a volley of evil-smelling droppings.
The Londoners quivered at the sight of their hideous two-toed feet, he continued, and gasped when a beaming crew member held above his orange turban a white egg almost the size of his head. The onlookers' horror was complete when the birds fluttered their long, lustrous eyelashes at the crowd and lunged their pitifully small heads at the nearest bystanders to snatch a pearl button and a clay pipe, which were immediately swallowed. The pair were swiftly housed in a roofed pen to prevent them flying away. But it wasn't long before one of them was dead, having swallowed too many nails fed to it by an eager public convinced of the rumour that the creatures could digest iron.
Milo listened in silence, gripping the sides of his seat as the story unfolded. Afterwards he kissed his father on the cheek and ran off to ride his bike around the moat with the other Tower children. Balthazar Jones didn't give the ostrich tale another thought until two days later, when they rushed Milo to hospital white with pain, and the doctor tapped his pen on the X-ray of the boy's twisted gut, indicating the edges of what was unmistakably a fifty-pence piece.
BALTHAZAR JONES ROLLED DOWN his pajama leg and returned to bed. Convinced his wife was safely settled on the seabed of slumber, he turned his head towards her and muttered that not only was the Tower about to have a new menagerie, but that he had been put in charge of it. Satisfied that he had finally done his duty, he turned away and closed his eyes. But Hebe Jones immediately rose to the surface of her sleep with the thrust of a sea serpent. his pajama leg and returned to bed. Convinced his wife was safely settled on the seabed of slumber, he turned his head towards her and muttered that not only was the Tower about to have a new menagerie, but that he had been put in charge of it. Satisfied that he had finally done his duty, he turned away and closed his eyes. But Hebe Jones immediately rose to the surface of her sleep with the thrust of a sea serpent.
"But you know how much I hate animals," she protested. "Putting up with that geriatric tortoise has been bad enough, and I only did that because you insisted that she was part of the family."
The argument only came to an end when Balthazar Jones got up to go to the lavatory again, where he remained for so long battling against the obstinacy of constipation that Hebe Jones fell asleep.
When the shriek of the alarm woke them several hours later, they got dressed on either side of the bedroom in silence. Neither had breakfast so as to avoid having to sit at the kitchen table together. And when they eventually bumped into each other the only thing they exchanged was the word "goodbye."
After his wife had left for work, Balthazar Jones ran a clothes brush over the shoulders of his tunic and grabbed his hat from the top of the wardrobe. He drove out of the Tower headed for London Zoo, his hands clamped tightly on the wheel as he tried to concentrate after so little sleep. Sliding around next to him was his partisan, an eight-foot pike-like weapon that could gut a man in an instant. Though it was usually reserved for ceremonial occasions, Oswin Fielding had insisted that he bring it along as the equerry wanted him to look as "Beefeatery" as possible for the press.
When he eventually found a parking space between the television satellite vans, he remained behind the wheel for a few moments trying to summon enough courage for the task ahead of him. But it never came, so he got out anyway, forgetting his partisan. He walked through the wrought-iron gates and stood watching as a single file of penguins waddled up a gangplank into a van following a trail of glistening fish. Once they were inside, a solitary bird stood at the door looking back towards the enclosure. The driver, the sleeves of his checked shirt rolled up to his elbows, shooed it inside, swiftly removed the gangplank, and closed the door. Suddenly the Beefeater heard the sound of slapping. He turned to see a solitary penguin following the wet footprints, rocking from side to side as it attempted to run.