The Tower, The Zoo, and The Tortoise (37 page)

REV. SEPTIMUS DREW WAS ALREADY SNORING,
the award standing on the bedside table next to him, when Balthazar Jones took to the battlements to exercise the bearded pig. Halfway through their moonlit walk, he stopped and lowered himself to the ground. As he leant against the cold, ancient wall, hidden from the sentry, he was grateful for the warmth of the creature resting its head on his thigh, sending clouds of turnip-scented breath into the diamond-studded sky. Fingering its lead, he thought once again about the chaplain’s words in the Brick Tower. Eventually, when he had made his decision, he gently shook the pig awake and, making sure they wouldn’t be spotted, returned to the Develin Tower so it could continue its dreams.

As he headed home, he heard the mournful cry of the wandering albatross across the darkened fortress. Making his way to the Brick Tower in order to comfort it, he was joined by a group of Beefeaters returning home from the Rack & Ruin, having been asked to leave by the landlady for conspiring to seize the threepenny bit. They stopped outside the White Tower, where the men complimented him on the success of the menagerie, and each told him their favourite animal, which they admitted to visiting with a tasty little something when the tourists had left.

Suddenly the wind picked up and the hanging parrot,
giddy from a series of furious revolutions as it clutched the weathervane above them, opened its toes. And as it plunged headfirst towards the ground, it let out a lusty moan that reduced the Beefeaters to silence, followed by the words: “Fuck me, Ravenmaster!”

S
ITTING BARE-CHESTED
on his side of the bed, Balthazar Jones fed his pale feet into his crimson tights. He stood and hauled them up over his thighs and stomach, performing a low plié in order to raise the gusset. Striding across the room, the nylon hissing between his thighs, he pulled open the wardrobe door in search of his matching breeches. But the sudden movement caused it to collapse, having never fully recovered from being dismantled when it was first brought up the spiral staircase eight years ago.

Swearing in Greek, a habit picked up from his wife, the Beefeater hunted amongst the ruins for the rest of his red state dress uniform, which Oswin Fielding had advised him to wear when he rang moments earlier, requesting that he come to the Palace at once. Placing the tunic and breeches on the bed, he rushed to the trouser press and extracted his white linen ruff, which scalded his fingers. After attaching red, white, and blue rosettes to his knees and his shoes, he reached for his Tudor bonnet from the top of the wardrobe and fled down the stairs.

He spent the journey in the cab, pitched forward so as not
to crush the back of his ruff, gripped by fear. Had the Portuguese found out about the death of the Etruscan shrew, he wondered, or had someone discovered the bearded pig? Maybe the Queen had suddenly realised that no one had ever given her four giraffes, and had decided to hand his job to someone else? By the time he arrived at the Palace, he had worked himself up into such a state that he could barely talk.

After being shown into a side door by a police officer, he was met by a silent footman whose polished buckled shoes were equally silent as they passed along the corridor of dense blue carpet. He escorted the Beefeater to Oswin Fielding’s office and knocked. Given the order to enter, he opened the door and stood back to let in Balthazar Jones. The equerry immediately rose to his feet. “Yeoman Warder Jones! Do have a seat,” he said, gesturing to the chair in front of his desk.

Balthazar Jones silently took off his Tudor bonnet and sat down, holding on to the brim.

“What we need is a cup of tea,” the equerry announced, picking up the phone. After requesting that some be brought, he added hastily: “No shortbread.”

He then sat back in his chair, crossed his fingers over his stomach, and asked: “So, all well with you?”

The Beefeater ran his palms down the armrests to dry them. “Fine,” he replied.

“And the boy? How’s he?”

“What boy?” he asked.

“You said you had a son. What’s his name?”

There was a pause.

“Milo,” Balthazar Jones replied.

“Nice name. Italian?”

“Greek.”

“Has your wife … ?”

“No.”

At that moment the door opened and the mute footman appeared with a tray. He served in silence, then retreated, closing the door behind him. Oswin Fielding helped himself to some sugar and finally got to the point. “I have some news, Yeoman Warder Jones.”

“I thought as much,” the Beefeater replied evenly.

“As you know, things have been going rather well with the menagerie. Very well, in fact. The Tower has been enjoying its highest visitor numbers for years. Her Majesty is immensely pleased.”

Balthazar Jones continued to look at him in silence.

“However, as you also know, a number of giant otters arrived from Guyana not so long ago, followed by a pair of oryx from Qatar, and a herd of wildebeest from the President of Tanzania. Quite what that man was thinking of, I have no idea. Then this morning we heard that the Americans are sending over a couple of grizzly bears. At best these people are being generous. At worst they’re just PR stunts.”

The man from the Palace adjusted his rimless spectacles. “The Queen’s very great fear is that, the longer the menagerie stays open, the more it will encourage foreign rulers to send her increasing numbers of animals,” he continued. “Before we know it the Tower will be a veritable Noah’s ark.”

The equerry leant forward. “Between you and me, when she heard about the grizzlies she hit the roof. If you thought her shortbread was misshapen last time, you should have seen what came out of the oven earlier. Unrecognisable.”

Balthazar Jones swallowed.

“Her Majesty has made the decision to transfer the animals back to London Zoo before things get out of hand,” said the equerry.

“What do you mean?” asked the Beefeater.

“The menagerie is going to have to close, I’m afraid.”

Balthazar Jones was unable to reply.

“The Queen’s decision in no way reflects upon the efforts you have made, Yeoman Warder Jones. On the contrary,” the equerry continued. “She very much appreciates the care and attention you have shown to the collection of royal beasts and wanted to tell you in person, but she was suddenly called away. She has decided that you will remain Keeper of the Royal Menagerie, even though it will be just an honorific title. It will add a little intrigue for the tourists too. We’re sure that the renewed interest in the Tower will continue, what with all the coverage it’s had around the world. In appreciation of what you have achieved, Her Majesty has decided to make a small, but significant increase to your salary.”

“But what about the animals?” asked the Beefeater, clutching his armrests. “They’re all settled in. The Duchess of York is looking even better than when she first arrived. You should see the gloss on her coat. The fancy rats have learnt all sorts of tricks. And the Komodo dragon has just laid some eggs. It was a virgin birth. They can do that, you know.”

There was silence.

“And I’ve just put the glutton on a diet.”

The equerry closed the file in front of him and sat back. “I’m afraid the decision is final,” he said. He studied the penholder on his desk, while the Beefeater stared at the floor.

“So when are they going back to the zoo?” Balthazar Jones asked.

“Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” he asked, looking up. “That’s a bit soon, isn’t it?”

“The sooner we act, the sooner it will put a stop to this nonsense.”

Balthazar Jones brushed the black crown of his Tudor bonnet with his fingertips. Eventually, he stood up. “Make sure you don’t use the same removal people who lost the penguins,” he said, and headed for the door.

THE FOLLOWING MORNING,
the Beefeater flung back the waxy sheet that he hadn’t washed since Hebe Jones left, already feeling the blade of abandonment. He dressed as quickly as possible, clambering over the ruins of the wardrobe as he hunted for a clean pair of socks. Gripping the filthy rope handrail, he fled down the stairs to feed the animals one final time, and to say his goodbyes in private.

By the time he came out of the Brick Tower, a number of vans and lorries were already parked inside the fortress, and he spotted Oswin Fielding pointing at one of the towers with what looked to be a new silver-handled umbrella. As the animals were herded into the vehicles, the Beefeater stood issuing a stream of instructions to ensure their comfort and making sure that they had plenty of water for the journey. The equerry asked him to leave, insisting that he was getting in everyone’s way.

Unable to sit down, he paced the moat, and came to the
spot he had once shown Milo where two medieval lion skulls had been unearthed in the 1930s. He sat down on the damp ground, and, as he fiddled with a piece of grass, he remembered the time he had told his son of the original menagerie’s demise.

By 1822 the collection had dwindled to an elephant, a bird or two, and a bear, Balthazar Jones explained to the boy as they sat on deckchairs on the Salt Tower roof. That year, Alfred Cops, a professional zoologist, was appointed keeper, and he became the first to actively purchase animals for the menagerie, rather than relying on gifts to the king or souvenirs from explorers. A collector himself, he also exhibited his own animals alongside the royal beasts. Six years later, the menagerie had over sixty species, and nearly three hundred animals. As well as kangaroos, mongooses, and dog-faced baboons, it boasted a five-fingered sloth, a pair of black swans from Van Dieman’s Land, a kangaroo rat from Botany Bay, a boa constrictor from Ceylon, a crocodile from the River Nile, and a Malayan bear from Bencoolen presented by Sir Thomas Stamford Raffles. Visitors were charged nothing extra to watch feeding time at three o’clock, lion cubs were allowed to wander loose amongst the crowds, and there was always a long queue to see the female leopard with an appetite for umbrellas, muffs, and hats.

“So then why did they close it, if everyone wanted to go?” Milo asked.

“Unfortunately, the menagerie’s popularity was not enough to save it,” the Beefeater explained, resting his feet on one of his wife’s flower tubs.

After George IV’s death in 1830, the Duke of Wellington,
an executor of his will and Constable of the Tower, set in motion a plan to transfer the one hundred and fifty royal animals to the gardens of the Zoological Society of London in Regent’s Park, which later became known as London Zoo. The new king, William IV, who had little interest in the menagerie, gave his approval in 1831 and the move went ahead.

“But how did they get there?” asked Milo, feeding Mrs. Cook a fuchsia.

The animals made the long journey across London on foot, Balthazar Jones told his son, herded by Beefeaters carrying the small birds and pheasants in baskets. The elephants were placed at the front in an effort to prevent injuries, but the five-fingered sloth suddenly snapped out of its life-long stupor and darted ahead, producing the first casualty. Despite the bags of flour that had been placed inside their pouches to slow them down, the kangaroos arrived way ahead of the rest. They were closely followed by the ostriches, one of which kicked a zebra. A stampede broke out, which the Beefeaters struggled to contain. By the time the serpents turned up, many of their undercarriages had been rubbed raw, and for the next three months they continuously shed their skins. The last to arrive—two days after the storks—were the pair of black swans from Van Dieman’s Land, smelling strongly of ale. Issued with leather booties to protect their feet during the mammoth trek, they had been invited into numerous taverns along the way by drinkers seduced by their footwear. They didn’t refuse a single invitation, and a number of public houses across the country changed their name to the Black Swan in the creatures’ honour.