In its time the Tower of London has played many parts – prison, palace, mint and zoo – and staring at the citadel Jake saw how its tangled history had been converted into stone. Medieval walls were overlaid with Tudor and Georgian additions and a terraced street protruded over the walls; the cube-shaped White Tower rose above the hotchpotch. When it was built this was one of the tallest buildings in Europe. Now the keep was dwarfed by Gherkin, Shard and Tower Bridge alike, yet still it held its own, drawing the eye back.
The queue to get in was six abreast and foreign tongues commingled in the spring air; there were interested glances at the blonde with the expensive camera as Jenny and Jake strolled to the entrance.
A Beefeater stopped the pair with an open hand. “There is a queue, you know.”
“Jake Wolsey, reporter. And this is my photographer.”
The Beefeater was unimpressed.
“I’m here to interview the Constable of the Tower.”
“He’s expecting you, is he?”
“We’ve got an appointment.”
There was a cursory bag search and they were in.
Rudolph Hess had been imprisoned in a building known as the Queen’s House, a wattle-and-daub lodge in the central courtyard. It was the finest surviving pre-Tudor house in London, protected by moat and wall from the Great Fire of 1666. But there was a complication. The Queen’s House was now the private residence of the Constable of the Tower, and this was no lowly guardsman. Only a General or Field Marshal could take the role, personally appointed by the Queen. The incumbent, General Sir Richard Mayflower, had been commander of the British Forces in Afghanistan; he’d briefly run the whole shebang, during the interregnum between two American commanders.
But there was always a way of getting in to these places.
Wearing his journalist’s hat Jake had cooked up some feature about interviewing residents of historic houses. And the Tower’s press office jumped at the chance for free publicity, strong-arming the general into giving up an hour of his time. The plan was for Jenny to ask Sir Richard to show her the most photogenic rooms, leaving Jake to scour the chamber in which Hess was held prisoner.
The Beefeater led them past Traitors’ Gate, where Anne Boleyn had arrived by boat, lifting her dress over effluvial waters before her appointment with the block. Then came the Bloody Tower, where two princes had met their end.
Jake caught Jenny’s eye as they threaded through the complex. She smiled sadly and, with an effort, looked ahead. Finally they penetrated the inner wall. To the east of the courtyard stood the keep, sucking the tourists in, and to the west was what might have passed for a village green; ravens trotted about with clipped wings. Beyond that stood the Queen’s House, busby-wearing Fusiliers standing guard. The Beefeater led them to the door and knocked three times. It was opened by a red-faced man with a shock of white hair. His back was very straight and his jaw looked as if it had been hewn from iron and bolted to his head as an afterthought.
“Wolsey, is it?” He crushed Jake’s hand. “Richard Mayflower. And this is …?” The general’s eyes darted to the left.
*
Sir Richard led them through the house, stopping at rooms of interest. At one point he announced they were in the room where Guy Fawkes was interrogated; Jake could feel history seeping from the floorboards.
“We’re particularly interested in seeing the room where Rudolf Hess was held,” said Jenny.
“Ah! Well, you’re in luck.” Sir Richard seemed able only to grin or frown, face segueing between the two states on order. “That happens to be my sitting room. I was thinking we’d take tea in there while your colleague gets this wretched interview out of the way …”
The room was built for the medieval stature and Jake ducked to avoid the beams. Antique rugs were cast about and a red-brick fireplace dominated the far end of the room. Framed photographs were everywhere: Sir Richard meeting the Queen, Sir Richard shaking hands with President Obama, Sir Richard with his arm around General Colin Powell.
The interview began. The general wasn’t a bad old boy when he got going, with plentiful anecdote and a good line in self-deprecation. And all the while Jake was studying the room, wondering where he would stash a document of importance if he was a desperate man.
Presently Jenny announced she wanted to photograph the house – would Sir Richard accompany her?
“Charmed.” Sir Richard ordered another grin. “You’ll be all right amusing yourself here, I trust, Wolsey?”
The general escorted her out, chest thrust forward as if headed for the ballroom. Jenny looked back as they promenaded from the room – she was rolling her eyes.
First Jake checked the fireplace, exploring the brickwork with his fingers.
A brick was loose.
Jake clawed it out to reveal an empty space and a few crumbs of desiccated mortar. The rest of the brickwork was solid; so were the flagstones. Next he inspected the floorboards, but there no nail out of place, no suggestion of a compartment. Jake strained his ears for the general’s return. Nothing could be heard but the collage of creaks and tics as the timber-framed lodge breathed, shifting itself minutely. Jenny was doing well; Jake hoped the old goat wasn’t being too lecherous. But he was ten minutes into the search and he’d got nowhere.
Jake paused, forcing himself to think. The windows consisted of diamond-shaped panes held in place with strips of lead, the White Tower distorted by imperfect glass. Aged planks formed a box beneath the window to sit on – Jake pictured Hess rocking there for hours as his predicament hit home. He knocked on the window box. It was hollow. And the cracks between the planks were wide enough to slip sheets of paper through.
Jake snatched up a poker – its end tapered like a crowbar – and listened for the general’s return. He dreaded to imagine what Sir Richard would do if he caught him tearing up the period features. But there was no sign of the general and Jake smiled at the thought of Jenny leading him on, endlessly retaking the same photograph.
He squeezed the poker into a crack between the beams and pulled. There was no give at all; the oak was centuries old and hard as steel. Jake heaved again, putting his back into it this time, but still the wood held. He clambered onto the window seat, bent double to avoid the ceiling. A group of Chinese tourists peered up at him from the green, but there was little light in the room and the warped glass would hide his vandalism. Jake stamped on the poker; the plank snapped with a sound like a gunshot.
There was a bundle of papers inside.
Old papers.