The Tigers in the Tower Page 12

  “Actually, I’m not here for the snake, Mrs Cops. Your husband said you might be able to help me with this?” Sahira held out her hands.

  “Oh, you poor love! Who did that to you?” She swooped down on the girl and gathered her to her apron, tight as a drum with the baby inside her.

  Her unexpected tenderness broke the dam again. It seemed permissible to let go in front of another woman, a motherly one at that. Sahira wasn’t crying just for the beating but for everything: losing her parents, being adrift in a strange land, being rejected by her family. So many hurts queued up inside, they jostled to escape.

  Mrs Cops let her sob out the story in incoherent gasps, interjecting her “poor love” and “what a horrible man” at suitable intervals. By the end, the front of Mrs Cops’s apron was damp with Sahira’s tears. She let the girl wind down, then guided her gently into a chair. “Sit there. This demands a cool wrap and some tea and cake.” She bound Sahira’s hands in strips of cloth soaked in icy well water, then set about boiling a kettle. “Nothing seems so bad when you have a cup of tea and something sweet to lift the spirits. Not that I’m making light of your loss, sweetheart, but your parents would be pleased that you survived. They would be wishing you happy too.”

  “I don’t think I’m ever going to be happy again,” Sahira admitted.

  She stroked the girl’s tear-stained cheek. “You say that, but people come back from the most terrible setbacks. Life finds a way. Just give yourself a chance to grieve and heal.” She put a piece of ginger cake down next to her. “Try this. Made with treacle to my mother’s own recipe. Guaranteed to mend a broken heart.”

  Sahira took a bite, trying without success to keep fresh tears back. She had always prided herself on being strong. She’d not cried when her parents died. Mrs Tailor had encouraged her to weep but instead she had just felt numb. Now she couldn’t seem to stop. This was the second time she’d cried that morning – more times than she’d cried for months.

  “I’d say you were due a good cry,” Mrs Cops said, pouring a cup of tea. “Tell me about your parents – stories of the good times. When I think of my own parents, God bless them, I always try to remember the best days we had, not the sadness of their passing.”

  It was a relief to talk about them rather than just remember them on her own as she’d been doing constantly since they died. No one in London knew them so she’d not had a chance to share her memories. “There was the time that Ammi – that’s my mother – found a mongoose in her dressing table drawer curled up on her pearls. She did shriek so.”

  “I don’t blame her! I don’t suppose someone put it there on purpose?”

  “Might’ve.” Sahira found a genuine smile on her lips. “Baba was rearing it to help with our snake problem. It was only a baby one. Baba and I teased her for days. She was normally so brave about animals, like the time she killed a cobra with a stick when she found it in my cradle.”

  “Oh my goodness!” exclaimed Mrs Cops.

  The misery inside melted away as Sahira spun tales for Mrs Cops of their rambles in the jungle, of the elephants bathing in the Ganges, and the temples lost under vines. “And the butterflies! You’ve never seen anything like it, Mrs Cops. Some are as big as dinner plates and the colour of sapphires.”

  “And to think you gave up all that to come here. You must find us quite a disappointment.” She blew the steam away from the surface of the tea in her cup.

  “It wasn’t supposed to be for ever. Baba wanted me to be educated in England as girls aren’t usually put through school in Hyderabad. He then hoped I’d return to join them in India, and perhaps marry a young clerk from the East India Company, someone who shared our love for animals. He said I shouldn’t be alone but it was hard to find a place for me: I belonged to two worlds, neither of which wanted me. He said that it was his only regret about his marriage – that Ammi and he had put me in this position.”

  “You have no brothers or sisters?” Mrs Cops served her a second slice of ginger cake.

  “There was one little brother who died as a baby. After that there were no more. I don’t think my parents could bear the idea of losing another one. The climate of India is terribly cruel to little ones. But in the end, it was me who lost them, wasn’t it?” Sahira was feeling sad again, but it was a nicer kind of sadness, a pure feeling of missing with less anger mixed in, calm like the sky after the monsoon had swept through. “I have no one now but the tigers.”

  “You will make a new family for yourself, Sahira. You’ve already started by making so many new friendships.” She patted the girl’s narrow shoulder. “Hands any better?”

  Sahira unwrapped the cloth and peeked. “Yes.”

  “I’ll get some cold water for you to dip them in. Sit in Fred’s chair by the fire. No work outside for you today, young lady. You can occupy your time as our python expert, keeping watch over his moulting.”

  Sahira’s hands returned to their usual size the next day with only a little soreness to remind her of the beating. They hurt most when she clenched them or tried to hold a needle or chalk in her lessons. At the menagerie, Mr Cops handed her a pair of his wife’s old gloves before she set about any work, and that helped. She was soon back to her old self, or as close as she could come. She couldn’t shake off the feeling of being more vulnerable than she had realized. She had never been beaten before, her parents preferring other methods of discipline that appealed to her sense of right and wrong rather than brute force. It was a rude awakening to find out that there were adults who had that power over her and she couldn’t do anything about it. Her respect for Ned grew. How he had retained his cheerful nature despite a lifetime of such treatment was a marvel. He had to be very resilient.

  Sahira told him so one sunny afternoon while she rested with him on the lawn, Nebbie standing quietly nearby in the zebra equivalent of a snooze.

  “You speak funny, you know?” observed Ned. “Long words, like the vicar uses.”

  “What long words?” she asked, watching the clouds form their dance of shapes, sheep becoming dragon, shifting to crocodile.

  “Resi-something. Where did you learn that?”

  “I don’t know. My father, I suppose. He loved the Bible and other books and used to read to me all the time – Shakespeare, Dryden, Pope, Wordsworth. He enjoyed novels too. I think his favourites were the ones by Sir Walter Scott – Scottish mountains and derring-do.”

  “He read to you? Why did he do that?” Ned asked.

  Once again Sahira was reminded that Ned had never known such care from an adult. “It was fun. And it helped me learn. Even Mrs Pence reads to us when we’re sewing, though that’s because she’s trying to make us good.”

  “You are good.” Ned plucked a blade of grass and tickled her under the chin.

  She batted his hand away. “Pest. I’ll read to you if you like. I miss proper stories. Mrs Pence’s taste is limited to ‘improving works’.”

  “I don’t have any books,” he admitted.

  “I’ll see if I can get hold of some. There might be a few battered ones that no one will miss from the orphanage.”

  “Don’t let them catch you or they’ll accuse you of stealing – and that’s a hanging offence, or you might get transported to Australia. No story is worth that.” He was deadly serious.

  “Don’t worry, I have lots of stories lodged in my memory too.”

  “Miss Clive?” A shadow fell across her face. Ned and Sahira scrambled to their feet. It was Bobby Peel, back again, this time with a thin gentleman in tow. The man must have been in his early twenties and was dressed in a black swallow-tailed jacket. He had a keen light in his eyes, warning Sahira that he was not to be dismissed despite his slight stature. “Miss Clive, this is my tutor, Mr Evesham.”

  Confused by being in her work clothes, Sahira bowed Indian style before switching to a curtsey. Mr Evesham smiled.

  “Can I pet the zebra?” Bobby asked Ned.

  “Go ahead, sir.” Ned waggled his eyebrows at
Sahira, silently asking how she knew the rich boy.

  She shrugged, lost for an explanation. She hadn’t expected him to remember her.

  “So, Miss Clive, when can you come to tea?” Bobby asked her over his shoulder as if they were just picking up their old conversation after a second’s lapse rather than several days. “Mr Evesham, is Friday convenient for us? At my birthday party?”

  “Yes, that will be excellent.” The tutor’s voice was a soft baritone with the lilt of a Welshman.

  “Can you bring the zebra?” Bobby was serious.

  Sahira opened her mouth to refuse, but Ned jumped in first. “I’m the new zebra keeper. How far away do you live, sir?”

  “In the West End, Upper Grosvenor Street,” Bobby replied.

  Ned shook his head in a show of not very convincing doubt. “That’s a fair way to walk.”

  “Can he manage it?” Bobby nodded to his tutor who slipped several coins into Ned’s hand.

  “Oh, I think so.” Ned grinned, pocketing his tip.

  “I’ll send a footman to escort you both. A zebra walking across London might attract quite a crowd. Miss Clive, would you like me to send a carriage for you?”

  Once again, Bobby had taken her consent for granted. “I’m not sure I’m free, Master Peel.”

  “You are, Sahira. I checked the duty roster. Not much happening on Friday,” said Ned, the traitor.

  “You are the daughter of Captain Richard Clive, aren’t you?” asked Bobby, thoughts taking another track.

  “Yes,” replied Sahira.

  “Hmm, thought so. I’ll see if I can arrange it,” Bobby said.

  “Arrange what? And I still haven’t said I’ll come,” Sahira protested.

  “She’ll come,” said Ned, “but she has a poorly leg because an elephant trod on her. The carriage is a good idea.”

  “Ned!” she exclaimed. Was no secret safe around him?

  “An elephant? African or Indian?” asked Bobby, getting out his notebook.

  Sahira growled just as Bobby’s tutor laid a restraining hand on his sleeve.

  “Ah yes, sorry.” He tucked it away.

  Screams from the first yard tore the air. Visitors were running out of the predator enclosure, but many others were heading toward the trouble. Under the shrieks came the angry roars of the tigers. Abandoning Bobby and his tutor, Sahira ran as fast as she could to Rama and Sita, taking the keepers’ route around the back. If someone was hurting them, there’d be trouble!

  When she arrived at their cage, she found it empty. Not so the old lion’s den. Her tigers were rolling in a knot of orange and black, interlaced with tawny, as they wrestled the poor old king. On the bridge over the yard, men were laying bets on the outcome but anyone could see the lion was outclassed and outnumbered.

  “Stop!” Sahira shouted, but she had no chance against the fighting instinct of big cats. Grabbing the broom, she rattled the bars with the wooden end. Rama had the lion’s throat in his jaws.

  “Get back, Sahira!” warned Mr Cops. He turned a hose kept for washing out the pens on the creatures, ordering his men to pump the water up from the well. The force blasted Sita off the lion and she skulked back to her den. Rama was not so easily dislodged. Ben Poulter and Mike Kerry entered the cage, one armed with a whip and rake, the other with a rifle.

  “Don’t shoot!” Sahira begged.

  Mike cracked his whip and Rama dropped the lion to snarl at him. His muzzle was red.

  “Rama, back in your den! Please!” she called.

  Tail whipping in displeasure, Rama circled. For one terrible moment she thought he might attack Ben. So did the keeper because he levelled the gun to his shoulder.

  “Rama, I beg you!” cried Sahira.

  With a final roar, he backed into his den, flinching from the whip’s crack. Mike slammed the door closed.

  “Who left this door unlocked?” shouted Mr Cops, rushing to the lion.

  “Not me,” said Mike.

  “Who was on lion duty today?”

  “Me,” said Ben, raising a shaking hand. “But it was closed, I swear it, when I left him.”

  Mr Cops turned to the poor lion. Sahira crouched as close as she could on the other side of the bars.

  “Is he going to make it?” she asked.

  Mr Cops shook his head. “Ben, clear the place of visitors. Give me your gun. Sahira, you’d better leave too. You won’t want to see this.”

  Her eyes glazed with tears. “You… you won’t do anything to the tigers, will you? Please, Mr Cops?”

  His eyes flicked up to hers, understanding in their depths. “The tigers were just following their nature – I can’t punish them for that. No, the one who’ll catch it is the stupid person responsible for leaving that door unlatched. Run along now.”

  Sahira stumbled along the corridor that ran behind the pens. She collided with Joseph Croney, who was listening from the safety of the stairs.

  “The lion’s a goner?” he asked eagerly.

  She nodded, wiping the back of her hand across her eyes.

  “All right then.” He went back to his barrow, whistling.

  A gunshot ripped through the menagerie. The ravens of the Tower fluttered their clipped wings and cawed in distress.

  The lion king was dead. Long live the King.

  CHAPTER 12

  Sahira was relieved that Mr Cops did not blame her tigers. The only punishment they received was to be in lockdown until their bloodlust subsided and Rama had stopped his snarling and pacing. Poor old George though: he was carried off to the anatomist’s house for dissection. Exotic animals were much sought after by those who studied the creatures, and the menagerie could always do with the extra coin. As predicted by Croney, into his place was ushered young William, now to be known as George, and no one was to mention the fate of his predecessor to Buckingham Palace.

  That was the plan. What actually happened was someone in the menagerie leaked the story to the press and the papers carried the sad tale of the demise of one of the Tower’s favourite creatures. They even illustrated the confrontation so no one, not even those who couldn’t read, would be unaware of the disaster.

  The next few days in the menagerie, Mr Cops walked around with a scowl.

  “He’s worried the duke will use it as an excuse to close us down,” said Ben as Sahira stood beside him, washing out the animal feed bowls by the pump. “You heard what the duke said on his last visit?”

  She nodded.

  “And now there’s that old story about the lions representing the king of the day. That’s a dangerous one, what with all these revolutions across Europe. Some hothead might make it a reason to try it here. They might claim the people are the tigers or some such story.”

  Sahira could see how someone might try to turn it into an omen. “But it was an accident!”

  Ben shook his head. “Was it? I swear I shut the door properly. I don’t make mistakes about that – not when my life, and the lives of the animals, are at stake.”

  Sahira could vouch from her own observation that he was not a careless keeper. “Who do you suspect?” She had her own ideas but she wondered if Ben thought the same.

  “Can’t say for certain but I know someone who’s had a spring in their step since it happened.” He looked across at Joseph Croney, who was repainting the door to the aviary. He didn’t seem to mind the birds and Sahira noticed that Mr Cops had kept him well away from the larger animals since old George was killed. They all suspected him but no one could come right out with their accusation.

  “Hadn’t you better leave these bowls and spruce up?” asked Ben as the Tower clock struck the hour. “Don’t you have a carriage coming for you?”

  Sahira rolled her eyes. “I still haven’t said if I’m going. I don’t like to be bullied into something by any boy. I have enough people telling me what to do at the orphanage.”

  “Sahira, you’ve got more pride than any number of lions! It don’t matter what you think with the likes of Mr Peel
or any of the high-ups. If there’s a carriage coming, they expect you to be in it.”

  “It seems they teach their children the same thing too.”

  “Oh, that Bobby’s all right for a toff. And the menagerie needs all the friends it can get.” Ben nodded over to the White Tower, where the Constable had his apartment.

  Sahira felt that horrible twist of fear in her chest again. “The duke is really going to shut it down, after centuries, in the face of tradition?”

  Ben shrugged. “He’s going to give it a good go, I’d say. Times are changing and we have competition now from the new zoological gardens in Regent’s Park. Only the old King stands between us and closure – and you’ve seen what happens to a king when tigers like the duke get them in a corner.”

  Deciding she could agree to the outing with honour if she were doing it for the menagerie, Sahira changed in the storeroom where she had stowed her trunk. She decided that she wouldn’t waste any of the more flamboyant gowns on the boys and settled on a quiet forest green one with a border of tree frogs. She combed her hair and tied it back in a black ribbon, the only scrap of clothing she had of the right colour to show that she was in mourning. She rubbed the worst of the dirt off the scuffed toes of her boots, wondering where in London she could get blue polish, and then presented herself to Mrs Cops for a final inspection.

  Removing a strand of straw from the hem, she gave Sahira a nod. “Tree frogs! How original. You look very fine, Sahira. Have a lovely time. I’m sure the food will be very superior to anything you’ve tried so far in England.”

  “Aren’t you going to tell me to behave?” asked Sahira.

  Mrs Cops kissed the top of Sahira’s head. “I’m sure you’ll do us credit.”

  It was lovely to hear that she was representing the menagerie and considered part of their team. Sahira went outside to take the baskets of animals Mr Cops had prepared for the excursion. He’d chosen well: a quiet little marmoset who clung to his sleeve, a tortoise, some harmless snakes, and a parrot in a cage that could whistle sea shanties.