CHAPTER FOURTEEN

AFTER ONE FINAL CATASTROPHIC SHUDDER that travelled down to his arthritic knees, the Ravenmaster collapsed on top of Ambrosine Clarke. He lay breathing in the smell of suet from her hair as the birds continued to fly in hysterical circles in the aviary next to them. They had been startled by the chef’s cries of exhalation as she slid back and forth on the wooden floorboards with each thrust of his hips. Eventually the sound of frantically beating wings subsided, and only the toucans continued carving their multi-coloured loops.

As he pulled on his black ankle socks, he glanced at the cook, rounding up her large, white breasts into her bra, the top of her hair still flattened where he had gripped her head for better purchase. Taken aback, as always, by how quickly the inferno of desire could be extinguished, he reached for his uniform, covered in seed husks. As he pulled on his trousers, his stomach turned at the thought of the torment that followed their clandestine meetings. Sure enough, as soon as they were both dressed, Ambrosine Clarke reached for her basket. Ignoring the Ravenmaster’s protests that his appetite had deserted him, the chef unpacked its contents. As he cast an eye over the dishes, he saw that his penitence that morning was the full Victorian breakfast that she had been threatening for several weeks, which included kidneys, haddock in puff pastry, and jelly in the shape of a hare. And as the Ravenmaster forced it down, he was convinced that it was an even greater torture than that inflicted on William Wallace, whose pitiful moans from being racked were sometimes heard echoing through the Brick Tower.

The cook left first, taking care to look through the window before opening the heavy oak door. After pulling on his black leather gloves, the Ravenmaster followed her a few minutes later, the stench of the zorilla causing his stomach to turn again. As he crossed the fortress, which hadn’t yet opened to the tourists, his anger at the Queen’s animals being housed in the Tower smouldered more fiercely than his heartburn. The visitors had shown little interest in the ravens since the menagerie opened, despite the birds’ reputed historic pedigree and their intelligence, which scientists had proved rivalled that of great apes and dolphins. He had frequently complained about the royal beasts in the Rack & Ruin, the sweetness of his orange juice no match for the bitterness spilling from his mouth. However, he rarely found the consensus that he sought. Despite their initial reservations, most of the Beefeaters had developed an affection for the animals, seduced by the glutton’s breathtaking appetite; the softness of the reclusive ringtail possums that fell asleep in their arms; the showmanship of the fancy rats, which Ruby Dore had taught to roll tiny barrels along the bar; and the charm of the blue-faced Duchess of York, which clambered into their laps and searched their scalps with the ruthlessness of a nit nurse.

A downpour forced the Ravenmaster into an ungainly run, and he hunched his shoulders to prevent the rain going down his collar. Suddenly the sight of a body stopped him dead in his tracks. He stared in disbelief, then rushed over, emitting a low moan of dread. As the rain pummelled his back, he knelt down on the grass and picked up the raven from a pile of bloodied feathers, searching for signs of life. But its neck lolled backwards, and its glassy eyes failed to flinch despite the rain. He hurried back home with the creature, placed it on the dining-room table, and with frantic gasps began to administer the kiss of life.

AS BALTHAZAR JONES TRUDGED through the rain, a common variety that fell in fat droplets from the brim of his hat, he noticed the Ravenmaster running in the distance and wondered what he was up to. The previous night, when he had eventually got round to doing his laundry, he picked up the vest he had found and noticed the label of a certain gentlemen’s outfitters which the Ravenmaster swore by. He stood next to the washing machine for a considerable time trying to work out how the man’s undergarment had come to be on the Brick Tower steps, until the sight of a piece of shrivelled carrot on the floor distracted him, and he started another fruitless search for Mrs. Cook.

Clutching a swede for the bearded pig, the Beefeater arrived at the Bowyer Tower to feed the crested water dragons. He was greeted in the doorway by one of the sullen press officers, who had been forced to abandon their comfortable office on the ground floor in order to accommodate the bright green reptiles. Their resulting loathing of the President of Costa Rica on account of his cursed gift had stretched to a ban on coffee drinking in their cramped new premises on the first floor. Not only had the three women suffered the indignity of shifting their desks, but they were now faced with almost constantly ringing phones on account of the number of enquiries from around the world about the new royal menagerie.

“Ah, Yeoman Warder Jones, I was hoping to catch you,” the woman said, a pink cashmere scarf wrapped around her neck. “We’ve had a call from one of the papers in Argentina. They’re wondering where the rockhopper penguins are.”

The Beefeater scratched at his wet beard. “They’re at the vet’s,” he replied.

“Still?” she enquired.

Balthazar Jones nodded.

“I told her that, but she didn’t seem to believe me,” the press officer said.

The Beefeater looked into the distance. “Penguins won’t be rushed,” he replied.

“I see. We’ve also had an enquiry from the Catholic Times wondering why the crested water dragons are also known as Jesus Christ lizards.”

“Because they can walk on water in emergencies,” he said.

There was a pause.

“The other thing is we’ve had a couple of calls about the giraffes,” she continued. “Who were they from again?”

The Beefeater’s eyes fell to the vegetable he was holding. “The Swedes,” he replied.

ONCE HE HAD FED the crested water dragons, Balthazar Jones headed through the rain for the Develin Tower, hoping the bearded pig would like its new ball. Just as he was passing the White Tower, he heard footsteps running up behind him. The next thing he knew he was pinned up against the wall by a hand round his throat.

“Which one of the animals did it?” demanded the Ravenmaster.

“Did what?” the Beefeater managed to reply.

“Savaged one of my birds.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The Ravenmaster pressed his face up to Balthazar Jones. “I’ve just found Edmund on the lawn. His leg and neck were broken. Which one was it?” he repeated.

“They’re all locked up. Always have been.”

The Ravenmaster increased his grip on his colleague’s neck. “Well, one of them must have escaped,” he hissed.

“Maybe it was a fox, or even the Chief Yeoman Warder’s dog,” croaked Balthazar Jones.

“I know it was something to do with you,” the Ravenmaster said, then pointed a black leather finger at him and strode off.

Once he had caught his breath, Balthazar Jones readjusted his hat and picked up the swede that had tumbled to the ground. While it went against the creature’s nature, he wondered whether the bearded pig was responsible, as it was the only animal he hadn’t checked on that morning. But when he reached the tower, he found that the door was still locked. Glancing over his shoulder to make sure that he wasn’t being watched, he turned the key. As he entered the room, the animal bounded up to him, its tasselled tail flying like a flag over its fulsome buttocks. After scratching the pig behind its ears, the Beefeater presented it with the root vegetable, which it immediately knocked across the floor and chased. He sat down on the straw, rested his back against the cold wall, and closed his eyes. Raising a hand, he felt his neck with the tips of his fingers.

After a while, he reached into his tunic pocket and drew out some of the love letters he had written to Hebe Jones all those years ago. He had taken them from her hidey-hole during the night while unable to sleep, but hadn’t brought himself to read any of them. He looked at the first envelope, with its address confused by love, and took out the letter. As he began to read, he remembered the girl with dark hair meandering down the front of her turquoise dress, and her eyes of a fawn that had fixed on him in the corner shop. He remembered that first night together and their horror as they realised they would be parted in the morning. He remembered the first time they had made love during a weekend in Orford, when a power cut in the bar of the Jolly Sailor Inn, built from the timbers of wrecked ships, had driven them to their room earlier than expected. The light from the candle given to them by the landlady lit up the ancient murals of ships, their sails engorged with wind. And, after they had sealed their love, they promised to be with each other until they were so old they had grown a third set of teeth, just like the Indian centenarian they had read about in the paper.

As the bearded pig came to sit by him, resting a whiskered cheek on his thigh, the Beefeater unfolded another letter, feeling the creature’s hot breath through his trousers. After reading the outpouring of devotion, he remembered the butterfly that had danced above the pews during their wedding, sending each member of the Grammatikos family into raptures over such a good omen. He remembered how they had vowed to stay together forever, despite what life threw at them, and how at the time it had seemed inconceivable to do otherwise. Looking down at his old man’s hands holding the letter he had composed all those years ago, he saw the scratched gold band that had never left his finger since his bride slipped it on at the altar. And he decided to write her another letter.

Carefully locking the door of the Develin Tower behind him, he headed home, a wind of hope behind him. He climbed to the top of the staircase, pressed down on the latch, and entered the room where German U-boat men had been imprisoned during the war. Ignoring the chalk swastikas and portrait of Field Marshal Göring drawn on the wall, he pulled back the wooden chair, which scraped mournfully against the pitching floorboards, and sat down at the table he had found in a junk shop. He selected a piece of writing paper from one of the piles and, with the same penmanship that hadn’t altered in three decades, wrote the words “Dear Hebe.”

The outpouring of affection that followed was as fulsome as it was frantic. He told his wife how the seed of their love had been planted during their first night together when she kissed the tip of each of his fingers that would have to get used to holding a gun. He told her how he had bitterly regretted having to leave her for the Army in the morning, but that the shoots of their love had grown despite the distance between them. He told her how the butterfly had flown into the church and danced over their heads, attracted by their blossoming love. And he told her how Milo, the fruit of their love, had been his life’s greatest joy, along with being her husband.

Pausing for a moment, he raised his eyes to the mantelpiece on the other side of the room, seeing nothing but their son a few hours old in his mother’s arms, a moment for which they had waited so many years. But his thoughts suddenly turned to that terrible, terrible day, and the blade lodged in his heart plunged even deeper. Knowing his wife would never forgive him if she ever found out what he had done, he tore up the letter. And he sat at the table for the rest of the morning, head in his hands, bleeding with guilt as the rain pounded the windows.

WHEN THE DOOR of the cuckoo clock sprung open and the tiny wooden bird shot out to deliver eleven demented cries, Hebe Jones put out the “Back in 15 Minutes” sign and pulled down the shutter. She waited at her desk, hoping that her colleague’s resolve had finally cracked. But when Valerie Jennings stood up from rummaging in the fridge, instead of the butter-rich dainty Hebe Jones was hoping for, she drew out the same green apples that her colleague had had to endure longer than she cared to remember.

Despite the fact that Valerie Jennings had already told her every detail of the picnic lunch the previous week, Hebe Jones listened to her reminiscences, sipping her jasmine tea. She heard again about the rug Arthur Catnip had handed her to keep out the cold. She heard again about the glasses he had brought for the wine, which were real crystal rather than plastic. And she heard again about the hours he must have spent the previous night preparing all the food, and how it was only polite of her to have tried his rhubarb and custard, despite her regime.

When elevenses were over, Hebe Jones stood rinsing the cups, remembering how her husband had always offered her a rug to defend her against the cold in the Salt Tower, and while he had never subjected himself to the torment of making pastry, he had been an expert at making tomato chutney, until the Chief Yeoman Warder spotted the plants he and Milo were growing up the side of their home and ordered their destruction.

As she hauled up the shutter, one of the ticket inspectors was already waiting at the counter. Standing next to him was a wooden sarcophagus with a chipped nose.

“Anything in it?” asked Hebe Jones, looking it up and down.

“Just a bit of old bandage,” he replied. “The mummy must have got out at an earlier stop.”

After noting it down in the ledgers, Hebe Jones helped him carry it down the aisle to the Egyptology section, a troublesome journey due to their vastly differing heights.

Back at her desk, she picked up the phone and called the Society of Woodworkers, having been assured by Thanos Grammatikos when he returned with the urn that morning that it was made from pomegranate wood. She spoke to the chairman, hoping he could put her in touch with someone who specialised in it. But he didn’t know of anyone, and promised to send her a list of members who took on commissions to help her in her search. After hanging up, she glanced at her colleague to make sure she wasn’t looking, and opened the gigolo’s diary.

“The treachery of the Swedes,” Valerie Jennings suddenly announced.

“Pardon?” asked Hebe Jones, who had been engrossed in an encounter with an ice cube.

“The treachery of the Swedes,” her colleague repeated, closing the Latin dictionary she had borrowed from one of the bookshelves. “That’s what perfidia Suecorum means. It’s one of the few things I can make out on this manuscript. Terrible handwriting.”

Hebe Jones stopped to peer at it over her colleague’s shoulder on her way to answer the Swiss cowbell. As she rounded the corner, she saw Tom Cotton in his blue uniform standing at the counter. She raised a hand to her mouth and asked: “You haven’t lost something else, have you?”

“I was just wondering whether you fancied a coffee,” he said.

WHILE TOM COTTON STOOD in the queue, Hebe Jones chose the same table at the back of the café where they had sat the previous time. As she waited she looked at him, trim in his uniform, talking to the girl behind the counter, and wondered why his wife had let him slip through her fingers. She lowered her eyes as he approached with a tray.

“So,” he said, sitting down and putting a cup and plate in front of her. “Anything interesting been handed in recently?”

Hebe Jones thought for a moment. “A tuba, which my colleague plays during moments of despair, and a sarcophagus,” she said.

She took a bite of her flapjack. “Saved any lives recently?” she asked.

“It’s the donors and doctors who save lives. I just fetch and carry,” he insisted, raising his cup to his lips.

Hebe Jones looked at the table. “We didn’t donate any of Milo’s organs,” she said, eventually raising her eyes. “They took his heart to be examined by a specialist. It was weeks before we got it back. I couldn’t stand the thought of him being without it.”

There was silence. Eventually Tom Cotton spoke: “You haven’t lost Milo completely, you know. I lost my sister when we were both very young. We always carry a part of those we loved tucked inside us.”

After she had dried her cheeks on the soft, white handkerchief that was offered to her, she looked at him through a shimmering kaleidoscope of tears. “Thank you,” she whispered, placing her tiny hand on his.

BALTHAZAR JONES HADN’T INTENDED to go out once he had finished work for the day. But the top floor of the Salt Tower no longer felt like the sanctuary it once was, and after sitting slumped on the sofa in the darkness for an hour, he left to walk the battlements. As he strode, his hands sheltering in his pockets from the cold, he found that his problems had followed him. He stopped for a moment and gazed at Tower Bridge, lit up like a fairground attraction in the darkness, but his troubles rose around him like a fog, and he was forced to move on. No matter how fast he walked, he was unable to shake them off.

Eventually, he sought refuge in the Rack & Ruin. Pushing open the great oak door, he stood for a moment on the worn flagstones wondering whether he could bear the company of so many people. Spotting an empty table next to a cabinet of Beefeater souvenirs, he ordered a drink, hoping that no one would notice him. But as he waited to be served, one of the Beefeaters standing at the bar turned to him and said: “Sorry to hear about your wife.”

He took his pint to the table, where he sat, head slumped in his hand, drawing lines in the condensation on his glass. The sound of the chair opposite him scraping against the flagstones suddenly interrupted his rumination. He looked up to see Rev. Septimus Drew sitting down, and placing his glass of red wine on the table. With the wild enthusiasm of a man who had just unearthed the Holy Grail, the clergyman started telling him about his amazing discovery. It had taken him many months of endeavour, he explained, but finally he had managed to prise the archives from the covetous fingers of the Keeper of Tower History. He had spent night after night bent over the age-stained pages looking for a hint of an explanation, and had been about to give up, when suddenly he found what he was looking for: the scandalous story behind the bullet hole in the bar.

Balthazar Jones’s eyes dropped to the table in disinterest, but the clergyman continued. One night in 1869, two Beefeaters got so drunk in the Rack & Ruin that the landlord was unable to rouse them after calling time. Leaving them to sleep with their heads collapsed on the tables, he retired upstairs. During the night, one shook the other awake, convinced that he had seen the ghost of a Jesuit priest. The Beefeater told his terrified colleague that he must have been dreaming, returned his head to the table, and went back to sleep. But the man went to the bar to retrieve the landlord’s pistol and sat with his back against the wall, waiting for the apparition to return. The Tower chaplain, who was always armed at night in case one of the Beefeaters attempted to steal his bells, crept into the tavern to help himself to the gin. At the same time, the landlord appeared on the bottom step brandishing his wife’s pistol, roused by the noise downstairs.

“Suddenly a shot was fired!” Rev. Septimus Drew cried, gripping the Beefeater’s arm as he worked himself up to his explosive denouement. But before the clergyman could reveal who shot whom, the door to the Rack & Ruin burst open, and the Yeoman Gaoler stormed in.

“Where’s Yeoman Warder Jones?” he demanded.

The Beefeater stood up.

“I’ve just seen the Komodo dragon running past the White Tower!” the Yeoman Gaoler shouted.

The Keeper of the Royal Menagerie was followed out of the door by the rest of the drinkers, who immediately abandoned their pints in order to see the spectacle. As soon as they reached the White Tower, they discovered that the giant lizard wasn’t the only creature to have escaped. Two howler monkeys were running across Tower Green, and judging by the stench that flooded the air, the zorilla was also on the loose. As he started after the monkeys, Balthazar Jones noticed that the door to the Brick Tower was wide open. Charging up the spiral steps, he reached the aviary and found that it was also open. All the birds had vanished, apart from the wide-eyed albatross sitting alone in the middle of the enclosure, its white head sunk into its body. The Beefeater ran down the stairs and searched the night sky. But all he saw was the sugar glider’s pale stomach as it sailed over his head like a tiny furry kite. Spotting the Duchess of York in the distance, he immediately headed after her. But sprinting towards him on their hind legs as he turned into Water Lane were the Jesus Christ lizards. He stopped for a moment, resting his hands on his knees as he caught his breath, watching the golden snub-nosed monkey turn into Mint Lane. As he shot clouds of panic-fumed breath into the night, the Komodo dragon lumbered past him, flicking its forked tongue. Turning to see where it had come from, he spotted the reclusive ringtail possums lying motionless on the cobbles. He ran over and knelt down beside them, taking each one in his arms. But no matter how often he ran a trembling hand across their silken heads, not one of them could be roused.