The Tigers in the Tower Page 6

“Humph! Well, I don’t expect you’d admit if you weren’t,” Mr Cops added.

  “I am, sir,” Sahira said quickly.

  “Then, if you’re up to an outing, you’re needed at the Tower.” There was a note of desperation in Mr Cops’s voice.

  “Why, sir?” But Sahira knew – oh, she had feared this would happen!

  “I’m at my wits’ end, Miss. And I remembered what you said.”

  “What’s wrong, sir?” Sahira pleaded.

  Mr Cops looked at her, his expression grave. “One of the tigers is dying,” he said. “If you can’t save her, then nobody can.”

  CHAPTER 6

  Sahira had so desperately wanted to enter the gates of the menagerie, but not under these circumstances. She hurried along with Mr Cops, debating what could be the matter. Bad or unsuitable food and water? But if Rama were not ill then that was unlikely to be the cause.

  “What are the signs that Sita’s unwell, Mr Cops?” she asked.

  He counted them off on his blunt fingers. “I’ve had her a week and she hasn’t eaten. She lies in the corner with her head on her paws. Nothing I offer her tempts her. She’s dropping weight, fur dirty, eyes dull.” He steered Sahira around a pile of manure dropped by a carthorse. “It can’t be an Indian sickness as you’ve been at sea for months and anything of that nature will’ve worked its way out of her system. It has to be something she’s caught here. It started from the moment we took her out of the shipping crate.”

  Already Sahira was beginning to see a possible explanation. “And Rama, how is he acting?”

  “He’s not as happy in his pen as I’d hoped. Spends his day pacing to and fro.”

  “How big is the pen?”

  Mr Cops scratched his throat wearily. “Not as big as I would like but they have as much space as the lions. They’ve a shelter and a fenced yard that I let them into from time to time. There’s a viewing gallery overhead so the visitors can watch them. I keep them strictly separate from the other creatures.”

  “Indeed, they would fight another animal if they were put together. You mustn’t let that happen,” Sahira said.

  By keeping up a swift pace they reached the Tower in half an hour. Sahira’s leg was hurting – brisk walks were always a challenge – but she refused to show any weakness to Mr Cops and if he noticed her limping he did not mention it. At any rate, he’d probably attribute it to the fight with the Newtons. Sahira knew that this was her big chance: she wasn’t going to waste it. They went in through Lion Gate, the main entrance to the Tower from the western side. At some point in the fortress’s history, someone had decided to keep the animals separate from the royal inhabitants, troops, and prisoners who occupied the main buildings. The round Lion Tower and pens for the animals were the result. All people entering from land had to pass through it, then enter the rest of the fortress across a second bridge. The moat gave added security against animal escapes.

  Not that it would stop a tiger.

  A file of soldiers marched past Sahira, muskets on their shoulders, boots and buckles shining in the sunlight. With the Saturday crowd coming in to view the animals, jostling for space with the military, the Tower struck her as a very busy place, not at all like the menageries she had seen that belonged to the rich rulers in India. These were set apart in palace gardens, havens of peace where peacocks strutted and doves cooed under leafy canopies. Here the sergeant in his barracks and the fishwife on the wharf could hear the lions’ roar and smell the stench of over a hundred animals kept in close confinement.

  “She’s down there.” Mr Cops stopped Sahira on a bridge built over the yard. The semicircular walls of the enclosure were lined with cages set in archways. Her heart sank. She had hoped her tigers would have much more space, but they were in a prison little bigger than their crate. No wonder Sita was sickening.

  “If you can make her at least eat, I’d be grateful,” said Mr Cops. “I’ll take you down to the gate we keepers use.”

  He led her through a door marked “No Entry” and down a steep flight of stairs. A passageway ran along the back of the cages. They passed lion and lioness, ocelot, black bear, and grinning hyena, until they reached Rama and Sita.

  “Salam,” Sahira said, running to the bars. Immediately, Sita’s ears pricked and Rama bounded to the bars. He stared at Sahira, the unnerving amber gaze of the tiger. Sahira felt her heart quicken.

  If only I could have stayed with them, this never would have happened, she thought.

  “What will you do?” asked Mr Cops, keeping back. “Go in with them and check on her?”

  Sahira turned to him, astonished he’d suggested such a reckless thing. “These are tigers, Mr Cops, not kitchen cats! We are friends, that is true, but we respect our differences. I would never treat them so lightly and none of your keepers should. Just because they are beautiful and have fur that begs to be stroked doesn’t mean that you should try to pet them.”

  Mr Cops looked rather embarrassed by his words. “I thought you had a special gift, Indian magic or whatnot?”

  Sahira shook her head. “My father was a man of science – a zoologist – not a wizard. The only special knowledge I have is that I understand them.”

  “So you know what is wrong with the tigress?”

  “Oh yes.” Sahira couldn’t believe that it hadn’t been obvious to Mr Cops too, or to anyone who bothered to stop and look.

  Mr Cops’s eyes brightened. “And you know how I should dose her to make her better?”

  “Indeed I do.” Sahira kept her gaze fixed on Sita.

  He sighed. “I hope it’s not going to be expensive. What does she need?”

  “She needs a dose of me – at least once a day.” Sahira smiled as Sita heaved herself off her straw and padded to the bars, mouth open in her familiar yawn which Sahira took as her equivalent of a smile. Sahira spread her hands in a gesture of helplessness to change things. “You have to eat, Sita,” she told the tigress, gently but sternly. “This is how it is going to be now, this life here in this land, and there’s no point sulking.”

  “She was sulking?” asked Mr Cops dubiously.

  Sahira shrugged. “Maybe, though I think she was really pining for me. I’m the human she trusts.”

  Mr Cops paused, his brow furrowed in thought. “Can you teach me how to gain her confidence?”

  And do herself out of a job? Not likely! “I think it would be better and much cheaper in the long run if you just let me come here daily until she’s settled.” Please, please let me come! Sahira sent a little prayer up to God, hoping he was watching and would nudge the keeper in the right direction. The Almighty had answered so few of her prayers recently, surely she was due?

  Mr Cops looked from Sahira to the tigers. “How long will that take?”

  As long as Sahira could spin it out. “I don’t know. Sita will decide.”

  As if to strengthen the girl’s plea, Sita ambled over to the feeding trough and picked out a meaty bone. She carried it back to her corner and began to chew, all the while her eyes on Sahira to be sure that she didn’t slip away again.

  Mr Cops dug his hands in his pockets. He sighed. “I suppose I can arrange for a few visits if Mr Pence allows.”

  Sahira sat cross-legged by the bars, feeling the pieces of herself settle into their old pattern. She was wrong about not having a home: where these animals were, that was her place. “The Company is giving him my money.”

  Mr Cops picked a stray strand of hay from his shabby trousers. “They’re doing what? But I don’t understand. It was to come to you. I made that clear.”

  “Mr Godstow arranged for the fee for the tigers to go directly to the orphanage. I’m never going to see a penny.” Even though she was a child, she knew this would be the case. She shrugged at Mr Cops’s seeming outrage.

  “From what I understand, it’s a charitable institution. They’re not supposed to charge you to stay there,” Mr Cops continued.

  “It’s the only way they could be persuaded to take me. I
t isn’t a good place, Mr Cops, you must’ve realized that.” Sahira touched the bump on her head, hoping for sympathy. “Can I not stay here instead?”

  Mr Cops gazed at Sahira, then at the tigers, both of whom had settled down near her, much more contented now she was there. “I’m sorry, Miss Clive, I simply can’t do that. You’re a little girl. You can’t move in with the keepers over the stable, and my wife won’t be impressed if I announce I’m taking in a stray. Mrs Cops is in the family way. Our first child.” He blushed and rubbed his whiskery cheeks. “I’m afraid you have to stay at the orphanage, but I’ll see what I can do about Mr Pence, concerning the money.”

  Sahira was sceptical he could have any influence over that man. Mr Pence was sitting in a nice little bower he had built himself, bringing home to his nest all the shiny coin he could. He would not be impressed by a raven from the Tower squawking at him. “What can you do to change his mind?”

  Mr Cops smiled and tapped his nose. “You catch more flies with honey than vinegar.”

  Sahira frowned. “I’m not sure that’s true. Flies actually quite like the sweeter vinegars. We used them as traps in the jungle.”

  He chuckled. “Lass, you’d best not take things so literally. It’s a saying. I mean that we need to find the right bait. It’s a lesson you could do with learning, if your fight with those boys was anything to judge by.”

  “They started it, sir.” It wouldn’t do for him to think she was a troublemaker.

  “I’m sure they did, but you shouldn’t be too quick to resort to fighting back, especially against a foe who is bigger or more numerous than you.”

  “They were trying to steal my boots!” The outrage still stung. The tigers’ ears pricked at this sudden change in tone.

  “Then you need to offer them something they want more.”

  “Like what?” Sahira was conscious that she had nothing but a trunk of clothes left to her and she couldn’t see either of the Newtons being interested in her animal-trimmed dresses. Nor, on point of principle, did she want to give them anything. They would strip her of everything she owned if she gave in the once.

  “Tickets to the menagerie would be a start, now wouldn’t it? It’s a perk of being an unofficial tiger tamer, ’cause that’s what you’ll be.” He smiled.

  Sahira jumped up. “So you’ll let me come back? Every day?”

  He clicked his tongue, a sound of scepticism. “I’m not sure about that – it will depend on Mr Pence. And there’s your education to think of. But you’ve shown me that the tigers need you. If you sleep at the orphanage and come here as often as you can be spared, then I’ll be much obliged.”

  Surely she could be spared all the time – there was nothing new that Mrs Pence could teach her, unless it was how to spoil all her enjoyment in poetry. Sahira’s parents had given her a complete education. “Thank you, thank you! You won’t regret it, I promise you.” Sahira felt as if she could have danced around the menagerie with him, but he didn’t look the sort to kick up his heels unless he’d made too free with the ale, and maybe not even then.

  “Now, if the tigers will let you go for a moment, there’s a question I want to ask you about the python.”

  “Of course!” Sahira bade farewell to Rama and Sita, reassuring them she’d be back and cautioning Sita against refusing her food. She hoped it was enough for now.

  In the course of the next few hours before the menagerie closed, Sahira met the other notable inhabitants that filled the yards. Mr Cops had built an aviary where birds were able to fly – a huge improvement on the cages in which they used to be kept. He explained how he had taken the previously unthought-of approach among keepers of researching the best methods for making captive animals happy. Only the lack of space was stopping his dreams of making a good home for all the creatures from being fulfilled. She recognized quite a few birds from her country, among them the parrots that had travelled with her from Calcutta. It was by no means a replacement for the jungle but at least the sounds and smells were familiar and the birds could flap and flutter short distances from perch to perch. There was also a monkey room where visitors could meet the various simian species in relative warmth and comfort – not Sahira’s favourite place as she knew just how dangerous those creatures were. They might look fetching but if upset or mishandled they had a vicious bite. One young man she knew in India had got such an injury from a rabid monkey and gone mad soon after. It worried Sahira that Londoners seemed to think monkeys were playthings, but her invitation to return was not secure so she had to keep such views to herself for the moment.

  Most visible to the visitors, though, was a mischievous African zebra who was tame enough to wander among them. This was Sahira’s first time seeing one up close and she marvelled at his black and white stripes – the equine equivalent of a tiger’s pelt. He had the unfortunate habit of stealing anything that the people left untended: bonnets, sandwiches, newspapers, and, most particularly, ale, for which he had developed a taste. When she met him, he had his nose in a pint pot left on a bench by the beer stall.

  “This zebra needs someone to keep an eye on him,” she suggested.

  “Can’t spare a keeper,” said Mr Cops regretfully, pulling the stubborn creature away by his halter.

  And that prompted another idea, but Sahira didn’t want to spring all of her suggestions at once. Like any animal, Mr Cops needed to be coaxed in the direction she wanted him to go. All the better if he went because he thought it his idea, rather than hers.

  “So where is the python?” she asked, thinking that there wasn’t much daylight left and she would have to return to the orphanage soon.

  “I’ve put him in a basket near the stove at my house. The wife’s keeping an eye on him. Come.” Mr Cops took her to his house, which was built into the wall of Lion Tower and was named, logically enough, “Lion House”. He called out a cheerful “How do?” to his wife as they entered. Mrs Cops bustled out of the backroom where, from the evidence of her needles and ball of white wool stuffed in her apron pocket, she had been knitting for the new baby.

  “Is this the little Indian girl?” she asked, looking dubiously at Sahira’s auburn hair. Having this gingery brown colouring made it hard for anyone to imagine the jet-black hair of her mother.

  “Yes, ma’am.” Sahira bowed, hands together.

  Mrs Cops laughed and clapped her hands. “Ah, I see it now. Alfred says you have a way with animals. I hope you do, because I refuse to house that snake on the stove much longer. I know the lid is fastened but it gives me the shivers just thinking about it in there. I had a nightmare about him swallowing me up in one gulp last night.”

  “That was the fault of the pickled herring you served for dinner, dear, not the python.” Mr Cops gave her a kiss and a pat on the shoulder, not taking her fears too seriously.

  Sahira realized then that being married to the animal-mad keeper must be no easy thing. Her parents had been blessed that they were both equally keen on animal collecting. “I’ll do my best, Mrs Cops, to get the snake better and on its way to its cage.”

  Mrs Cops gave her a grateful look. “That’s all we can ask. I’ll put together a spot of supper while you make your inspection.”

  Mr Cops lifted the lid on the python. Sahira knew immediately what was the matter. In fact, she was a little surprised that the experienced keeper had not seen this before. The scales around the snake’s eyes had turned bluish white and the body had lost its healthy sheen.

  “It don’t look good, does it?” Mr Cops said regretfully. “Do you think it’s the cold? March in London must be like the dead of winter from where he comes from.”

  “We don’t really have winter like yours near the Equator but I don’t think that’s the problem.”

  “What is?” Mr Cops stroked the diamond patterned scales. “Is it dying of old age?”

  “Only the skin. Your python is shedding, Mr Cops. In a few days, it’ll emerge as good as new. You just have to let it get on with the process.”
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  He sat back on his heels. “I should’ve thought of that! But it was a new creature to me and I assumed he was sick, like the tiger.”

  “I don’t think either of them is really sick. I would say they are both adjusting.” Sahira knew only too well how they felt. Fitting in with this new London life felt a little like sloughing off her old ways, revealing a new and vulnerable skin. She could cope for a while but then she would remember the loss of her parents. It was like walking along contentedly in the jungle, and then suddenly plunging through the camouflage of branches into a tribesman’s pit. In Sahira’s case, it was filled with grief-sharpened spikes at the bottom. She knuckled the tears from her eyes, hoping the keeper wouldn’t notice her weakness.

  Mr Cops replaced the lid. “Moulting. That’s good. I’ll leave it here then. I’ll just tell the wife to work around it for a day or two.”

  Sahira recalled poor Mrs Cops’s nightmares. “I’m sure the snake will manage quite happily in a quiet cage somewhere.”

  “No, no, I want to keep an eye on him. He’s doing well enough here so I won’t move him again.”

  After a generous supper of bread and cheese, Mr Cops looked out the window at the darkening skies as his wife cleared the dishes.

  “I’d better arrange for you to be escorted back to the orphanage by one of my keepers, lass.”

  “I’d be most obliged, Mr Cops. I’m not yet certain of the way, but I promise I’ll learn. I don’t need special treatment.”

  “I’m sure you will learn but I like to look after everyone under my care. I’ll send Joseph Croney with you – he’s no use for aught else around here at the moment.” He stepped out and rang a bell by the door to his house.

  “How’s that, sir?” Sahira asked, wondering if there was another employment opportunity in the Tower if one of the keepers was slacking.

  Mr Cops shook his head. “Poor lad’s not been the same since January. He was victim of a serious leopard attack.”

  “Oh my word!” Sahira hugged her arms to herself protectively, knowing far too well what that would’ve been like.