Once he had finally accepted that the woman who invaded his dreams wasn’t coming, Rev. Septimus Drew got up, and headed through the chapel to the door. As he stepped out, the wind instantly rearranged his hair, and he headed home, the snowmen on his socks visible in the gap between the bottom of his cassock and the cobbles. He searched in his pocket for the key to his blue front door, which he kept locked ever since the day he returned home to find two Spanish tourists in his sitting room, eating their sandwiches on the sofa. After locking the door behind him, he went into the kitchen that still smelt of the treacle cake he had baked using his mother’s faded recipe, and took down his solitary teapot for one.
Balthazar Jones arrived at the gates of Buckingham Palace having spent the journey trying not to crush his ruff against the back of the seat each time the taxi driver hit the brakes. A police officer escorted him into the palace via a side door, then handed him into the care of a mute footman, whose polished buckled shoes were equally silent as they passed along a corridor of dense blue carpet. It was flanked with marble-topped gilt tables bearing billowing pink arrangements made that morning by a weeping Royal Household florist, whose husband had just asked her for a divorce. However, her tears were not those of sadness, but of relief, for she had never got used to the idea that her husband left for work each morning wearing what was irrefutably a skirt, tartan knee socks and no underpants. Married to the Queen’s Piper for three disappointing years, she had found his talent for the bagpipes as insufferable as the Monarch did. His historic duty, dreamed up by Queen Victoria at the height of her Scottish mania, was to play every weekday under the Sovereign’s window. The commotion started at the absurd hour of nine o’clock in the morning and lasted for a full fifteen minutes, much to Elizabeth II’s infuriation. There was no escaping the man as he would follow her to her other residences at Windsor, Holyrood and Balmoral, where he continued the loathsome ritual with undiminished devotion.
The mute footman opened the door to Oswin Fielding’s office, and indicated a green seat upon which Balthazar Jones was to wait. Once the door was shut silently behind him, the Beefeater sat down, and removed from his left crimson knee a piece of fluff that upon inspection he failed to recognise. Looking up, he surveyed the room. On the pale blue walls were hung several engravings of Buckingham Palace mounted in thin gold frames, which were part of the courtier’s private collection. As he leant forward to inspect the photographs on the formidable desk, a drop of sweat started its descent inside his thick crimson tunic, tickling the valley of his chest as it fell. He picked up the nearest silver frame and staring back at him was Oswin Fielding, almost unrecognisable with a profusion of hair, in hiking gear with his arm around a blonde woman in a baseball cap. He surveyed the man’s legs, which he immediately concluded were not as good as his own, despite his advanced years.
Suddenly the door opened and in strode the equerry accompanied by a waft of gentleman’s scent. ‘I must say you’re looking splendid,’ announced the courtier, undoing the button on his discreet suit jacket. ‘Her Majesty has been delayed unfortunately, so I’m afraid it’s just the two of us after all. Still, always fun to put on the old crimson breeches, I’m sure!’
The Beefeater slowly took off his black Tudor bonnet and rested it on his lap in silence.
‘What we both need is a cup of tea,’ the courtier announced as he sat down behind his desk. After making the call, he sat back. ‘It must be fun living in the Tower,’ he said. ‘When my children were younger they were always asking whether we could move there. Have you got any children? All I seem to know about your personal circumstances is your tortoise.’
There was a pause.
The Beefeater’s gaze fell to the desk. ‘A son,’ he replied.
‘Is he still with you or has he gone off to join the Army like his father?’
‘He’s no longer with us, no,’ replied Balthazar Jones, looking at the carpet.
The silence was broken by the arrival of a footman with a silver tray. After setting it down on the courtier’s desk, he poured two cups through a silver strainer, and left again without a sound. Oswin Fielding offered the Beefeater a plate of shortbread. Balthazar Jones declined, unsettled by the unruly shape.
‘Pity, they’re one of Her Majesty’s specialities. Almost as good as her scones. Admittedly, they do appear a little strange. Apparently she couldn’t find her glasses,’ said the courtier, helping himself.
The Beefeater looked with regret at the shortbread made by royal fingers, and then at the equerry who had just taken a bite and seemed to float in a momentary state of ecstasy. Once Oswin Fielding came to, he took a file from a locked drawer and opened it. He then went through the planned building works for the menagerie, pointing out that not only would enclosures be constructed in the moat, but a number of the disused towers within the monument would be converted for the keeping of the beasts.
‘I’ve no idea where any of them should go. I know nothing about exotic animals – I’m more of a labrador man, to tell you the truth – so I’m leaving all that up to you,’ said the courtier with a smile.
Balthazar Jones pulled at the band of his ruff to ease the constriction around his neck.
‘Now I expect you’re wanting to know which animals are to be transferred along with the Duchess of York,’ the equerry continued, turning to another page. ‘Some toucans. If I remember correctly, they came from the President of Peru. There’s a zorilla, which isn’t, as one might imagine, a cross between a zebra and a gorilla, but a highly revered yet uniquely odorous black-and-white skunk-like animal from Africa. In the Sudan they call it “father of stinks”. We were hoping to send that back before the Queen saw it, but she spotted it and said it was rude to return a gift, no matter how foul smelling. There are a number of Geoffroy’s marmosets from the President of Brazil, and a sugar glider from the Governor of Tasmania. Sugar gliders, by the way, are small flying possums that get depressed if you don’t give them enough attention. There’s also a glutton, sent by the Russians, which looks like a small bear and has an enormous appetite. It costs the Queen a fortune in food. What else? A Komodo dragon from the President of Indonesia. Komodo dragons are the world’s largest lizards, and can bring down a horse. They’re carnivorous and have a ferocious bite, injecting venom into their victims. So I’d watch that one, if I were you.’
The Beefeater gripped his armrests as the equerry turned a page.
‘What else?’ Oswin Fielding asked. ‘Ah yes, some crested water dragons, otherwise known as Jesus Christ lizards. The President of Costa Rica sent that lot, God knows why. And there’s also an Etruscan shrew from the President of Portugal. It’s the smallest land mammal in the world, and can sit in a teaspoon when fully grown. It’s also very highly strung – some die from anxiety just being handled. They say moving is one of life’s greatest stressors, so best of luck. Let me remind you that the Anglo-Portuguese Alliance, signed in 1373, is the oldest alliance in the world still in force. We wouldn’t want anyone to come along and mess that up. Well, here’s the list. You can read about the others at your leisure. There will, of course, be a vet at your disposal, should you need one, but it should all be pretty straightforward. Just make sure they’re fed and watered. And jolly them along, I expect.’
The Beefeater reached out a white-gloved hand and silently took the file. Just as he was about to stand up, the man from the Palace leant forward. ‘A word of warning,’ he said, lowering his voice. ‘Remember to keep the lovebirds separated. They hate each other…’
Hebe Jones ignored the urn sitting on her desk as she had done every day since its arrival, and picked up the false eye. As she held it up to her own, the two pupils looked at one another for several seconds. Eventually stared out, she admired the artistry of the tiny brushstrokes on the hazel iris. Her curiosity sated, she picked up the phone, hoping to reunite the item with its Danish owner.