It was categorically essential to determine why the murderer had chosen Mr. Grummidge as his victim. Although I wished to speak with his widow again, it would not serve my purpose to call on her too soon, so the following day I went in search of other leads, starting at her late husband’s shop. The two men employed at the greengrocery, Bob Hayner and Gareth Jones, had agreed to stay on at Mrs. Grummidge’s request. She needed the income her husband could no longer provide himself.
Mr. Jones explained, in a (naturally) heavy Welsh accent, that he had been at the store for more than five years and insisted there could be no better employer than Mr. Grummidge. Mr. Hayner concurred, although with somewhat less enthusiasm. When pressed, he admitted to resenting being paid less than Mr. Jones, whom he believed did not have a thorough understanding of produce. This started a bitter argument, much of which I did not try to follow. Regardless of the veracity of the accusations against Mr. Jones, there could be no question that I, at least, lacked a thorough understanding of produce.
I left the shop frustrated. After managing to calm the clerks down enough that I could question them, neither told me anything of use. They knew of no one who would wish to harm their employer, they sang the praises of Mrs. Grummidge, who brought dinner to her husband most afternoons, and could offer no insight into the character of the slain man beyond that he was a fair and successful businessman.
After equally fruitless conversations with nearby shopkeepers, I decided there was nothing more to be done in the East End, where the victim’s acquaintances had taken to heart the adage de mortuis nil nisi bonum. Feeling deflated only for a moment, I set off for the second of my planned destinations, the Tower. Sleet started to fall as my carriage crossed the steel gray river, and I insisted that my driver wait for me in a nearby pub so that he would stay warm. He objected at first and was obviously distressed that a lady would make such a suggestion, but I pressed some coins into his hand and told him not to disobey me.
I tightened my scarf around my neck and then buried my hands in my muff as I joined the short queue for tickets at Lion Gate. Sadly, there were not many tourists willing to brave the weather for a glimpse of our nation’s glorious history. Once inside the grounds, I proceeded to Traitors’ Gate, where a Beefeater was regaling a small tour group with tales of the Tower’s famous prisoners. I stopped, pretending to listen, and inspected the area. Given the coroner found river water in Mr. Grummidge’s lungs and given that he had not been killed where his body was found, I considered that he might have been stabbed in a boat, and perhaps fallen out as he struggled for his life, inhaling water before succumbing to his wounds. Once he had stopped flailing, his murderer could have brought him here, somehow gaining entrance to the ancient fortress. But how?
I hadn’t noticed the yeoman warder had finished his story, nor that the paltry collection of tourists was continuing on to the next stop on their tour. The guard, however, noticed me.
“Have you a special interest in Traitors’ Gate, madam?” he asked. “Remembering Queen Anne Boleyn, perhaps?”
“It’s such a shame it’s bricked up now,” I said. “Quite ruins the romance of the place, don’t you think?”
“Well, I suppose so, if you’re inclined to find traitors romantic. Of course, you wouldn’t be the first lady to succumb to the charms of Sir Walter Raleigh. Queen Bess herself was quite taken with the man. Do you know the story?”
“I do. He was too good for her if you ask me.” I bestowed on him my most charming smile. “Is there no longer any way into the Tower from the river?”
“No, madam. The water you see on this side of the gate comes either from rain or when we flood the moat, but one can no longer pass through from the river.”
I thanked him and continued on my way, climbing the stairs to the battlements that joined the fortress’s medieval towers, hoping to gain a vantage point suitable for discovering how Mr. Grummidge’s body might have been brought into Wakefield Tower. The sleet was falling harder now, and my coat was nearly soaked through. St. Thomas’s Tower, directly above Traitors’ Gate, loomed in front of me, its thick walls menacing. This was a place that held on to its secrets. I turned away from the river and looked back beyond Wakefield Tower toward William the Conqueror’s White Tower. It was time to look for Colin’s lance.
The Council Chamber in the White Tower, the very room in which Richard II had abdicated his throne, now served to display armor and weapons. I climbed down from the walls and marched across slick cobbles to the ancient structure, where, once inside, I began examining every lance I could find. The long, sleek weapons did not hide another clue, so I turned my attention to the walls and cases around them. There, tucked into a space in the mortar behind a rack holding fifteenth-century examples, I saw an envelope. The map—albeit in vague terms—had, in fact, led to a clue. The smooth paper bore no name or address, only a coat of arms: that of the Hargreaves family. I debated opening it. Was I not, after all, a Hargreaves? In the end, however, I knew I should take it to Colin. With a little sigh of resignation, I slid it into my reticule and set off to find my driver.
I had not told him to meet me for another half an hour, so I walked along the embankment until I reached the pub. The poor man was a picture of shock and distress when he saw me, and did his best to bundle me back to the carriage, but I was half frozen and insisted on having a cup of tea before I went back outside. The landlord brought me a sad little cup, but I cannot say it offered much satisfaction. Next time I would ask for ale. Just a half pint, my driver insists. Anything more and I’d have a scandal on my hands.
We left the warmth of the pub and were immediately pelted with more sleet. The wind had started to howl, but not louder than the voice of a newsboy who was shouting with a mixture of horror and glee.
“Special edition! Another king’s dead! Special edition! Another king’s dead!”
My heart nearly stopped and I froze in my tracks. Surely Bertie had not been cut down in, well, not quite the prime of his life, but so soon after inheriting the throne for which he had so long waited! I approached the boy and started to quiz him for more information, but he insisted on my buying the paper if I wanted to know more. I fumbled for a coin and took the damp tabloid from him, noticing his bare hands. I took more coins from my purse and gave them to him, crouching down so that I could look in his eyes and make him promise to use the money to buy gloves. He nodded enthusiastically and then ran down the pavement, continuing to shout about the king’s death.
I shook as much of the sleet from the newsprint as I could. The ink had started to run, but it was obvious at a glance that Bertie was not the subject of the headline story. Rather, a man called Clive Casby had been brought to an inglorious end by the same heinous method inflicted upon King Edward II. Should the reader be unfamiliar with the indelicate manner in which this fourteenth-century sovereign was killed, I recommend the excellent play by Sir Christopher Marlowe. Short of that, I will say only that red hot pokers ought never meet any part of the human anatomy.