The Tower, the Zoo and the Tortoise Part 4

"You've forgotten one!" he yelled.

"For Christ's sake!" said the driver, who had already reached for the cigarettes he had vowed to give up that morning. "I knew this job would be a nightmare. It'll have to come in the front with me. I'm not opening that door again. It's taken me over two hours and a trip to the fishmongers to get the ruddy lot in. They're worse than b.l.o.o.d.y kids. And I should know, I've got four of 'em. What's that you're wearing, anyway? Fancy dress or something?"

Things began to deviate wildly from what Oswin Fielding had referred to as "The Plan" when he approached Balthazar Jones and informed him that the press wanted to take a picture of him with some of the Queen's animals. After berating the Beefeater for leaving his partisan in the car, the equerry then herded the journalists towards the monkey house. He stopped outside the Geoffroy's marmosets' enclosure, seduced by the innocence of their white faces and their fluffy black ears. What he didn't know, however, was that the creatures' keeper had been trying all morning to entice them out of their cages in readiness for their journey to the Tower. But the longer she tried to lure them with pieces of chopped fruit, the more desperately they clung on to the bars, until she gave up and went to weep in the lavatory. When the man from the Palace introduced Balthazar Jones to the press as Keeper of the Royal Menagerie, and stood him in front of them, the marmosets displayed their most defensive behaviour yet. And the monkeys continued to flash their privates long after the most s.e.xually depraved of the journalists had blushed to the roots of their hair.

The Beefeater escaped the cameras and went to the aviaries to make sure that the two lovebirds were being loaded into separate vans. On his way, he stopped to admire the herd of bearded pigs, in a state of ecstasy as they rubbed their behinds against their itching post, and he regretted that they belonged to the zoo rather than the Queen. Much later, when the full ramifications of his actions dawned on him, he put his gross lack of judgement down to having been seduced by their stupendously hirsute cheeks, which were even more l.u.s.trous than his colleagues'. In his defence, it seemed that the animal had been entirely complicit. For when Balthazar Jones succ.u.mbed to the temptation of an open van door, and pointed in its direction, the pig quite happily trotted inside. And it only took the Beefeater seconds to shut the door behind it, in the wholly deluded belief that no one would notice its absence.

Just as he was about to fetch the Etruscan shrew, he saw the Komodo dragon lumbering away from its terrified keeper, who was attempting to shoo it into a lorry with flaps of his handkerchief. The giant lizard came to a stop next to the gift shop and stood perfectly still, flicking its forked tongue. Balthazar Jones followed its gaze and saw Oswin Fielding tapping a box of animal feed with his umbrella, the wind lifting the remains of his hair like a palm branch. As the animal headed towards the equerry with surprising speed, the Beefeater recalled the creature's ability to swallow a small deer whole, after which it would lie in the sun for a week to digest. It was then that he started to run.

Within seconds, the ugly reptile had thundered past the equerry towards its target of a discarded hamburger. But by then Balthazar Jones, who hadn't run so fast since rugby-tackling a pickpocket on Tower Green with five wallets down his trousers, had built up such a speed he was unable to stop. He collided with Oswin Fielding with a force that brought both men to the ground in an instant, and resulted in the equerry's silver umbrella no longer being splendid. It was only when both men confirmed that they were still conscious and struggled back to their feet, that the man from the Palace conceded it was a good job Balthazar Jones hadn't been carrying his partisan after all.

The Beefeater was still mournfully inspecting the hole in the knee of his uniform when the cavalcade of vehicles began to leave for the Tower. He watched as the first van pa.s.sed, a solitary penguin standing on the pa.s.senger seat looking at him through the window. He winced at the smell emanating from the second, carrying the zorilla, and then shouted as he saw the open-topped lorry bearing the giraffes approach the exit, the top of which threatened to decapitate all four of the beasts. Six members of the zoo's staff then stood around the vehicle holding out tantalising branches to encourage the creatures to lower their heads long enough to pa.s.s underneath the wrought-iron arch. As soon as they were safely through, the animals raised their necks again and closed their eyes in the breeze as the lorry picked up speed. Balthazar Jones waited until the final truck pulled out, then headed to his car carrying a cage bearing the Etruscan shrew. He placed it on the back seat, and lashed his partisan to the headrest to prevent disaster. Searching amongst his CDs, he selected Phil Collins's Love Songs Love Songs in the hope of calming his highly strung pa.s.senger. The Beefeater then started his journey back to the Tower, attracting all manner of honks and two-fingered gestures on account of his pitiful speed. in the hope of calming his highly strung pa.s.senger. The Beefeater then started his journey back to the Tower, attracting all manner of honks and two-fingered gestures on account of his pitiful speed.

RUBY DORE KNOCKED at the blue door facing Tower Green and stamped her feet to banish the cold as she waited for it to open. It had taken a week for the doctor to call, informing her that the test result was ready. She had spent the time feeling more and more distressed, knowing that as each bloodless day pa.s.sed, the future she had dreamed of-a husband first and children later-was increasingly unlikely. at the blue door facing Tower Green and stamped her feet to banish the cold as she waited for it to open. It had taken a week for the doctor to call, informing her that the test result was ready. She had spent the time feeling more and more distressed, knowing that as each bloodless day pa.s.sed, the future she had dreamed of-a husband first and children later-was increasingly unlikely.

When Dr. Evangeline Moore finally appeared, the landlady searched her face, but was greeted by the inscrutability of a poker player. Ruby Dore walked swiftly along the hall to the surgery and sat down. Taking her place opposite her patient, the doctor picked up a pen from her desk and held it with both hands in front of her. "I'm sorry it's taken so long," she said. "It's just as you thought, you are pregnant."

Ruby Dore remained silent.

"Is it good or bad news?" the doctor asked.

"Not the greatest, considering the circ.u.mstances," the landlady replied, fiddling with the end of her scarf.

Once the consultation was over, she ran back to the Rack & Ruin and bolted the door behind her. She climbed the narrow wooden staircase that led to her cramped home with its low ceilings, worn furniture she couldn't afford to replace, and smell of beer, which she never noticed.

Moving aside several books, she sat down on the only sofa she had known and closed her eyes. Immediately she saw the man she had met in the village bar while visiting her father in Spain, the white Rioja they had enjoyed, and the tumultuous hour they had spent together on the beach before she crept back to the villa, accompanied by the dawn. She thought of the woman and child whose hands he had been holding when she b.u.mped into him the following day, and his refusal to acknowledge her. And she wondered whether he lied as much to his family as he had to her in the brief time that she had known him.

Her thoughts turned to the humiliation of having to tell her parents she was pregnant. Her mother would naturally blame her father, as she continued to do for most things despite having divorced him more than two decades ago. Her father would blame himself for not having raised his daughter well enough after her mother left, unable to bear life in the Tower any longer. It had taken him weeks to admit to his daughter that she was gone for good. When the nine-year-old asked yet again where her mother was, Harry Dore finally gave her the answer: "Your mother is in India trying to find herself. G.o.d help her when she does."

Opening her eyes, the landlady looked around the living room at the display cabinets containing the family collection of Tower artefacts, ama.s.sed by generations of Dores while running the tavern. She remembered telling the man about it in the bar when he asked where she lived, and he had even feigned interest. There was the Tower report written in 1598 complaining that the Beefeaters were "given to drunkenness, disorders and quarrels." On the shelf below was the mallet used in 1671 by Colonel Blood to flatten the state crown before hiding it in his cloak during the only attempt to steal the Crown Jewels. Next to it was a piece of the cloak worn by Lord Nithsdale during his escape from the Tower in 1716 disguised as a woman.

Every piece had been researched and labelled, a project she and her father had shared. Harry Dore would recount the objects' history with the mesmerising delivery of an oral bard, after which his daughter would print the labels in her best schoolgirl's handwriting. But their time together had not been enough to heal the damage wrought by the years Ruby Dore had spent watching her parents serve each other their curdled devotion. Her mother had advised her to remain single. "There's nothing lonelier than marriage," she warned. However, Ruby Dore refused to believe her. But during her search for affection, she had found herself seeking it from the shadiest of hearts. And no matter how often she opened her bedroom window, never once had she been touched by the moonlight of love.

HEBE JONES HAD HAD NO LUCK with the register of deaths. She had searched it thoroughly, but all those listed under the name "Clementine Perkins" had died several decades ago. She had since put it out of her mind and got on with easier items that guaranteed the warm glow of victory, such as handbags containing their owners' phone numbers. But the sight of the urn still sitting on her desk unsettled her. with the register of deaths. She had searched it thoroughly, but all those listed under the name "Clementine Perkins" had died several decades ago. She had since put it out of her mind and got on with easier items that guaranteed the warm glow of victory, such as handbags containing their owners' phone numbers. But the sight of the urn still sitting on her desk unsettled her.

"Valerie," she said, looking at the bra.s.s plaque.

"Yes," came the m.u.f.fled reply. Hebe Jones turned to see that her colleague had squeezed herself into the front end of a pantomime horse, found on a bench at Piccadilly Circus station.

"It smells in here," said Valerie Jennings, positioning herself so that she could see through the small mesh window in the neck.

"What of?"

"Carrots."

"I need to ask your opinion about something," Hebe Jones continued, ignoring the reply.

Valerie Jennings sat down at her desk, and crossed her matted fur legs.

"If someone died, but their death wasn't officially recorded, what would that mean?" Hebe Jones asked.

Valerie Jennings scratched the back of her leg with a brown leather hoof. "Well, it could mean a number of things. Maybe the person hasn't died after all, and someone is pretending that they have," she said, tugging on a cord, which sent the horse's eyes shooting left. "Or maybe the person really did die, but someone wants to keep it a secret and they bribed the crematorium staff not to inform the authorities," she continued, tugging another cord, which sent the horse's eyes shooting to the right.

"I think you read too many books," suggested Hebe Jones.

"Then, of course, there's human error," she added, pressing a switch that sent both sets of l.u.s.trous eyelashes fluttering. Standing up, she then headed towards the fridge. But just as she secured the horse's long, yellow teeth around the door handle, the Swiss cowbell sounded. After a brief bout of wriggling and blaspheming, she found that she was firmly wedged inside. Hebe Jones got up and tried tugging on the creature's enormous felt ears. But eventually she gave up as they started to work loose.

The bell started up again, and continued with such urgency that Hebe Jones quickly went to answer it, not even stopping to try and open the safe that had been left on the Circle Line five years ago.

When she turned the corner she found a man at the original Victorian counter wearing a navy uniform. Middle age had run its fingers through his neat, dark hair.

"Is this London Underground Lost Property Office?" he asked.

Hebe Jones raised her eyes to the sign above the counter.

He followed her gaze. "Has anyone handed in a small green case in the last fifteen minutes? It's an emergency," he asked.

"What does it look like?" she asked.

"A bit bigger than a child's lunch box."

"Was there anything identifiable inside?" she asked.

"A kidney," he replied.

"As in steak and kidney pie?"

"As in organ donation."

Hebe Jones turned the corner and called: "Valerie! Has anyone brought in a green case in the last fifteen minutes?"

"No!" came the m.u.f.fled reply.

Hebe Jones came swiftly back to the counter. "Where did you leave it?" she asked.

"Nowhere," the man said. "It was by my feet as I was standing by the carriage doors. The next moment I looked down it was gone."

Suddenly the phone started ringing in the office. When it failed to stop Hebe Jones called: "Valerie, can you get that?"

But there was no reply. When she looked round the corner, she was confronted by the sight of Valerie Jennings bending over her desk, trying to knock the receiver off its cradle with threadbare nostrils. Hebe Jones picked up the phone. After a while she replied: "I've got the owner with me now. We'll come for it immediately."

Grabbing her turquoise coat from the stand, she called: "Valerie, I've got to go out. There's a man at the counter who's lost a kidney and it's just been handed in at Edgware Road. I'm going with him to make sure he finds it."

There was an equine nod.

Once Hebe Jones had left, Valerie Jennings sat down and looked around the office through the gauze. She peered up at the cuckoo clock and wondered how long it would be before her colleague returned to release her. Just as she was about to attempt opening the fridge door again, the cowbell sounded. She ignored it at first, but it continued clanking. Unable to bear it any longer, she got to her hoofed feet and headed to the counter with the reluctance of a beast on its way to the knacker's yard.

When she turned the corner, Arthur Catnip returned the bell to the counter without a word, and looked into the horse's eyes. "Is that Valerie Jennings?" he asked.

"It is indeed," came the buried reply.

"I was just wondering whether you'd like to go out for lunch sometime," he said.

"That would be fine."

Arthur Catnip hesitated. "Today?" he ventured.

"I'm a bit tied up."

"What about Thursday?"

"That would be lovely."

"One o'clock?"

"I'll see you then."

Arthur Catnip watched as the horse seemed to momentarily lose sense of direction, went cross-eyed, and then disappeared from view.

HEBE JONES MOVED ASIDE a discarded newspaper and sat down in the carriage, relieved that the organ courier had finally been reunited with his case. As the train began to rattle its way out of the station, she looked up and inspected the pa.s.sengers opposite. It was the boy who immediately drew her attention. "He must be around eleven or twelve," she calculated. Though he looked nothing like Milo, the sight of him wounded her just the same. She studied his mother sitting next to him absorbed in a magazine, and doubted she would ignore him if she knew how easy it was to lose a child. She closed her eyes, regretting yet again all the occasions she could have spent with Milo: the times when she had told him to go and play with the other children when she was trying to find a talent for painting on the Salt Tower roof; the times when she and her husband had left him with Rev. Septimus Drew so that they could go out to dinner; and the times when she had sent him out of the kitchen after finding plastic soldiers bobbing in the ca.s.serole. a discarded newspaper and sat down in the carriage, relieved that the organ courier had finally been reunited with his case. As the train began to rattle its way out of the station, she looked up and inspected the pa.s.sengers opposite. It was the boy who immediately drew her attention. "He must be around eleven or twelve," she calculated. Though he looked nothing like Milo, the sight of him wounded her just the same. She studied his mother sitting next to him absorbed in a magazine, and doubted she would ignore him if she knew how easy it was to lose a child. She closed her eyes, regretting yet again all the occasions she could have spent with Milo: the times when she had told him to go and play with the other children when she was trying to find a talent for painting on the Salt Tower roof; the times when she and her husband had left him with Rev. Septimus Drew so that they could go out to dinner; and the times when she had sent him out of the kitchen after finding plastic soldiers bobbing in the ca.s.serole.

The boy got up and offered his seat to an elderly lady who had been looking at him hopefully since the journey began. "Milo would have done that," Hebe Jones thought. She looked at the boy's hand holding the rail next to her. Suddenly she remembered the last time she had seen her son's hand, cold, white, and perfect as he lay on the hospital bed. And she thought what a neglectful mother she had been for not knowing there had been something so terribly wrong with him.

It had taken far longer than Hebe Jones had wished to become a mother. A year into the marriage, when there was still no grandchild, her mother had presented her with a small wooden statue of Demeter with the solemnity usually reserved for a holy relic. Hebe Jones put it into her handbag and carried it with her wherever she went. But it seemed that not even the Greek G.o.ddess of fertility could make anything grow inside her. Medical tests failed to find a reason for the couple's inability to conceive. By then her three sisters had produced so many offspring, the oldest was obliged to lock her husband out of the bedroom at night for fear of yet another nine months of craving ice.

The blood eventually stopped after twenty years of monthly disappointment. During that time, Hebe and Balthazar Jones had refused to let the thorns of infertility shred their marriage, and the roots of their love had wound round each other even more tightly. Convinced she had entered the black hole of menopause, Hebe Jones wept with joy when she discovered she was pregnant. And that night in bed Balthazar Jones laid his head on his wife's soft stomach, and started a conversation with Milo that continued for nearly twelve years.

While Hebe Jones escaped the horror of morning sickness, she found herself gripped by an even more pernicious compulsion than her sister's. Balthazar Jones would return home to find his wife sitting on the floor by the fire, her swollen belly resting on her thighs, helping herself to the coals. "I'm not doing anything," she would reply, her teeth blackened with soot. Her husband, convinced that she was lacking a vital mineral, searched through the dusty shelves of the local grocer's for something to satisfy the yearning. He brought back one hundred and fourteen tins of squid in black ink, and presented them to his wife with the pride of a hunter. And, for a while, the Spanish delicacy seemed to work. But one evening he caught her walking out of the living room with a telltale s.m.u.t on her cheek. It was then that he took irrevocable action. And Hebe Jones greeted the man who came to trade the coal fire for gas with silent tears in her eyes.

She spent her pregnancy in a state of bliss interspersed with bouts of terror that she would not be able to love anyone else as much as her husband. But her fears were unfounded. When the baby was born, she soaked him with an outpouring of affection that rained just as heavily on his father.

Balthazar Jones, who was equally lost in the madness of newborn love, thought his son so beautiful he suggested calling him Adonis. Still flushed with the effort of expelling the child, Hebe Jones, who had always wanted a Greek name, welcomed her husband's capitulation. But while her baby's allure was beyond doubt, she feared taunts in the playground and reminded her husband of the misery he had suffered being named after one of the Three Wise Men, particularly one who had turned up with such a lousy gift as frankincense.

When Hebe Jones's mother arrived at the ward to meet her eleventh grandchild, Idola Grammatikos looked at the baby and announced: "The old chicken makes good broth." Unable to take her eyes off her grandson for a moment, she declared him so delicious she could eat him. Milo, the Greek word for apple, was then suggested, and the boy left the hospital named after a fruit. But when Balthazar Jones eventually came round from his delirium, he denied any botanical influence and insisted that his son had been named in honour of Milo of Croton, the ancient Greek six-time Olympic wrestling champion.

CHAPTER EIGHT.

OPENING THE SALT TOWER DOOR, Balthazar Jones peered out at the silent fortress, glistening with a stubble of frost. He stood for several minutes listening for the Ravenmaster, who always rose early to feed his odious birds. But nothing could be heard. He closed the door swiftly behind him and headed to the Develin Tower clutching a grapefruit. Balthazar Jones peered out at the silent fortress, glistening with a stubble of frost. He stood for several minutes listening for the Ravenmaster, who always rose early to feed his odious birds. But nothing could be heard. He closed the door swiftly behind him and headed to the Develin Tower clutching a grapefruit.

The Beefeater slipped a hand into his trouser pocket and withdrew the key. After a quick glance behind him to make sure that he wouldn't be seen, he put it into the lock and turned it. Once he had closed the front door behind him, he pressed down on the latch to his right. The bearded pig immediately turned its head at the noise. The moment Balthazar Jones saw its marvellous hirsute cheeks, his guilt at having made off with the animal instantly vanished. Bending down, he held out the grapefruit, the only thing he had been able to find in the kitchen in his haste to check on the animals after their first night at the Tower. The pig, which had been in the middle of an orgy of scratching, instantly gave up pleasuring itself against the fireplace and scampered across the straw to inspect the yellow gift with its hairy snout. Instead of sinking its teeth into the fruit, the creature promptly knocked it to the floor, flicked it across the room with its nose, and charged after it. After another b.u.t.t, the pig continued the pursuit with undiminished enthusiasm, its ta.s.selled tail flying like a flag over its fulsome b.u.t.tocks. The Beefeater was entranced, and after more than ten minutes, neither man nor beast had shown any sign of tiring from either performing or watching the grapefruit spectacle.

Vowing to return with an alternative breakfast, Balthazar Jones locked the door behind him and headed down Water Lane to see whether the delivery of fish for the rockhopper penguins had arrived. Suddenly it dawned on him that he hadn't seen the creatures since the van pa.s.sed him on its way out of the zoo, a solitary bird standing on the pa.s.senger seat looking at him.

Balthazar Jones stopped running when he reached the bridge overlooking the moat. As he stood with both hands on the wall, firing hot clouds of desperate breath into the cold morning air, he saw that the penguin enclosure was empty. He opened the gate and clattered along the boardwalk erected to prevent the tourists' feet from turning the gra.s.s into mud. Standing at the window of the next enclosure, he looked for a huddle of short-sighted birds with magnificent yellow eyebrows. But all he saw was the reclined glutton, feeding itself another fresh egg with the self-indulgence of a Roman emperor. Moving to the next pen, he hunted between the k.n.o.bbly knees of the giraffes, but there wasn't a hint of a beak.

He ran back inside the fortress, climbed the steps of the Devereux Tower, and opened the door to the monkey house. But his sudden appearance set off the howler monkeys, and he was forced to retreat after a quick glance through the bars of the cage. Standing in front of the zorilla, he encouraged it to get to its feet, but his frantic arm movements produced from the animal a particularly pungent aroma, and he backed out as soon as he saw that the creature was alone. As he stood staring at the Komodo dragon, which refused to move, he realised that the birds would have stood no chance in its company anyway, and he rushed off to the enclosure next to the White Tower, hoping they had been herded inside. He then hunted between the reclusive ringtail possums sleeping on a tree branch, their tails coiled neatly below them. But never once did he glimpse a pair of beady black eyes.

Having searched the rest of the fortress, the Beefeater finally arrived at the Brick Tower. Telling himself that the removal man must have shooed the penguins in with the other birds, he climbed the stone steps two at a time. Once he had reached the first floor, he flung open the oak door and rushed to the aviary. As he peered through the wire fencing, his eyes didn't linger over the charming King of Saxony bird of paradise, its two prized brow feathers stretching twice the length of its body, a sight so extraordinary that early ornithologists dismissed the first stuffed specimen as taxidermic trickery. Nor did he gaze at the green and peach female lovebird that had been separated from its mate lest it be savaged. He didn't even admire the toucans given to the Queen by the President of Peru, with their alluring beaks believed by the Aztecs to be made from rainbows. Instead he kept his eyes on a pair of ugly feet sticking out of a small bush. Suddenly there was a rustle of leaves, and the Beefeater held his breath. But from out of the undergrowth stalked the wandering albatross, a species with such voluminous feet sailors once used them as tobacco pouches. The Beefeater sank to the floor, wondering how he was going to explain the penguins' disappearance to the man from the Palace. As he leant back against the circular wall, he let out a sigh of such momentous despair it woke the emerald hanging parrot from its upside-down slumber.

REV. SEPTIMUS DREW HITCHED UP his ca.s.sock and knelt down by the organ. It took a moment for him to summon the courage to pick up the creature by its tail. Once he had overcome his aversion, he held it aloft and inspected it with an eye that had seen into the dusty depths of countless tormented souls. Despite a disappointing week of mechanical failures, and more pestilent droppings than usual, the sight of its tiny front paws suddenly filled the chaplain with unexpected regret. He lowered his eyes to the rat's gruesome yellow teeth that had been sunk with unfettered ecstasy into the succulent tapestry kneelers, and all pity vanished. He noted that the creature had been cleanly slain with a single blow to the back of the neck by his latest innovation, a masterpiece of engineering that had been hidden inside a miniature Trojan horse. The whiskered enemy had been lured to its minutely plotted death by the most unholy of temptations: peanut b.u.t.ter. his ca.s.sock and knelt down by the organ. It took a moment for him to summon the courage to pick up the creature by its tail. Once he had overcome his aversion, he held it aloft and inspected it with an eye that had seen into the dusty depths of countless tormented souls. Despite a disappointing week of mechanical failures, and more pestilent droppings than usual, the sight of its tiny front paws suddenly filled the chaplain with unexpected regret. He lowered his eyes to the rat's gruesome yellow teeth that had been sunk with unfettered ecstasy into the succulent tapestry kneelers, and all pity vanished. He noted that the creature had been cleanly slain with a single blow to the back of the neck by his latest innovation, a masterpiece of engineering that had been hidden inside a miniature Trojan horse. The whiskered enemy had been lured to its minutely plotted death by the most unholy of temptations: peanut b.u.t.ter.

While part of him opposed a Christian burial for the vermin, rats were, nevertheless, G.o.d's creatures despite their nonappearance in the Bible. He dropped the stiffened body inside one of the old turquoise Fortnum & Mason paper bags that he kept for such occasions, and picked up his trowel. Pulling open the chapel's ancient door, he made his way to the Byward Tower, where he descended the steps to the moat, which had been used to grow vegetables during the Second World War. After a quick prayer for the creature's villainous soul, he buried it in the flowerbed that ran alongside the bowling green. While in life the rodents had little meaningful purpose, in death they played the exalted role of fertiliser to the chaplain's favourite rosebushes. He then turned his back on the carefully tended patch of lawn, which had witnessed so many accusations of cheating the previous season that all bowling matches had been suspended.

As he headed home, the Yeoman Gaoler, who was looking even more exhausted than usual, caught up with him and placed a plump hand on his arm. "No offence, but you haven't been pinching my Fig Rolls, have you?" he asked.

Rev. Septimus Drew considered the question. "While I'd hold my hand up to the odd bit of gluttony, theft isn't my thing, I'm afraid," he replied.

The Yeoman Gaoler nodded in the direction of the chapel. "n.o.body's happened to confess to it, have they?" he asked.

"Unfortunately we don't do confessions. Try the Catholics down the road. The priest gets to hear all manner of scandal, though from my experience he's a bit reluctant to pa.s.s it on."

As he crossed Tower Green, the clergyman spotted Balthazar Jones in the distance weighed down by what appeared to be a bag of fruit and vegetables. He watched his journey, troubled as usual by his old friend's perpetual air of despair. The chaplain had tried his utmost to encourage him to take up his interests again. He had even offered him the custodians.h.i.+p of the bowling green, a duty that had fallen to him that year, knowing that there was little that gave an Englishman more pleasure than the torment of tending a lawn. But the Beefeater had declined the offer with a shake of his white head.

Rev. Septimus Drew then tried to smoke him out of his grief by stoking his mania for English history. After service one Sunday, he cornered the Keeper of Tower History and asked him whether there was any new research that had been kept out of the latest edition of the Tower guide. Caught disarmed in the House of G.o.d, the man confessed to a revelation of such tantalising intrigue that the chaplain immediately went in search of Balthazar Jones to tell him.

He found him collapsed in his blue-and-white-striped deckchair on the battlements, gazing at the sky. The chaplain strode up to him, an undignified breeze lifting the ends of his nibbled crimson skirts, convinced that he had the key to set his friend free from the prison of his depression.

Sitting down on the ground next to him, the clergyman then recounted the astonis.h.i.+ng tale of the ravens' dubious historical pedigree. It was widely believed that the birds had been at the Tower for centuries. According to the legend peddled to the tourists, Charles II's astronomer complained that they were getting in the way of his telescope. The King was said to have called for them to be destroyed, only to be warned that the White Tower would fall and a great disaster would befall England if the birds ever left the Tower. He then decreed that there must always be at least six birds present.

"But it's all rubbish," exclaimed the triumphant clergyman. "A researcher just scoured the records going back a thousand years and found out that the earliest reference to the ravens being at the Tower was in fact 1895, and so the legend must have been a Victorian invention."

But instead of the delight he expected the Beefeater to display at the news, Balthazar Jones turned to him and asked: "Do you think it's going to rain?"

However the chaplain refused to give up. Sweeping into the British Library, he asked to see the most obscure t.i.tles he could find in the hallowed catalogue, much to the irritation of the staff, who were obliged to push aside curtains of cobwebs in the bas.e.m.e.nt in order to reach them. After several months, he finally fell upon a tale of historical fascination that had at its helm a number of doctors. Not only did it show the medical profession to be staffed by baboons, as the Beefeater insisted it was, but it was of such hilarity that the chaplain's library members.h.i.+p was terminated on account of his explosion of mirth when he read it.

With no hint as to the delight that lay in store for the Beefeater, Rev. Septimus Drew invited him round for supper, having selected his best bottle of Chateau Musar from his cellar. Once he had served the watercress soup, the clergyman proceeded to tell the story of Mary Toft, the eighteenth-century maidservant who one day began to give birth to rabbits. The local surgeon was called and he helped deliver nine of them, all stillborn and in pieces. The doctor wrote to numerous learned gentlemen about the phenomenon. George I sent his surgeon-anatomist and the secretary to the Prince of Wales to investigate, and both of them saw her deliver yet more of the dead creatures. The woman was subsequently brought to London, and the medical profession was so convinced of her affliction, rabbit stew and jugged hare disappeared off dinner tables across the kingdom. But she was eventually unmasked as a hoaxer when a porter was caught trying to sneak a rabbit into her room, and she confessed to having inserted the pieces inside her.

The tale, which the chaplain related over three courses, included a number of ambitious theatrical demonstrations. After they had finished the roast capon, the chaplain pulled back his chair and rubbed his back with both hands as if easing the pains of a rabbit gestation. After he refilled their gla.s.ses for a fourth time, he raised a finger to either side of his head, bared his front teeth, and twitched his nose. And just before bringing in the summer pudding, the six-foot-three clergyman proceeded to execute what were undeniably bunny hops around the dining room. The Beefeater's eyes didn't leave the chaplain for a minute as he related his uproarious tale. But when Rev. Septimus Drew finally wiped his tears of merriment on his white cotton handkerchief and asked his guest what he thought of the story of Mary Toft, Balthazar Jones blinked and asked: "Who?"