Dark Matter

I pointed across the yard and Newton followed the line of my finger to one of the cages where, under the eyes of the animal keeper and several Tower warders, the lion was still making a quiet feast of Mister Kennedy’s leg. Putting his coat back on, Newton walked over to the cage and, removing a storm lantern from the wall, shone the light into the arched vault behind the bars that was the lion’s abode.

“I can see the leg well enough,” he remarked, “but not the arm.”

The keeper pointed at the back of the vault. “There it is, sir,” he said. “I’m afraid we’ve had no luck recovering either of the unfortunate gentleman’s limbs, sir.”

“‘The slothful man saith, There is a lion in the way,’” murmured Newton.

“Beg pardon, sir?”

“Proverbs, chapter twenty-six, verse thirteen.”

“Exactly so, sir,” said the keeper. “Rex, that’s the name of the lion. He refuses to give them up. Mostly it’s horse meat they eats, the lions. But he’s found a taste for human flesh and no mistake.”

“My eyes are not as keen as they were,” said Newton. “But is that a piece of cord tied around the wrist?”

“It is,” said I.

“Then it was murder all right. Someone brought Mister Kennedy down here, tied his hands, and then released the lion from its cage. How is the door fastened?”

“With those two bolts, sir.”

“No lock and key?”

“These are animals, sir. Not prisoners.” But even as the keeper spoke, the lion looked up from its human feast and roared fiercely at us, as if it might have disputed that remark. It was a fearsome-looking beast, a big male with mighty fangs, and its fur and great mane now much stained with blood.

“Mark well the colour of that lion,” Newton said to me. “It is quite red, is it not?”

At the time I thought this interested him because red was his favourite colour, and it was only later on that he explained how he perceived the significance of the red lion.

“Who found the body?” he asked.

“I did, sir,” said the keeper, whose posture was that of a man whose head was permanently bowed in prayer, so that Newton addressed all his questions to the man’s shiny pate. “I sleep with the Ordnance, sir. In the Tower barracks. I put the key there as usual, at about eight o’clock, sir. I went out of the Tower to a local tavern, sir, as is my wont, for I don’t much like The Stone Kitchen. Then to bed. I awoke to hear the animals roaring when they should have been asleep. And thinking that something was amiss with them, I came to take a look and found the bloody mess you see now, sir.”

“The door to the Lion Tower, Mister Wadsworth. Is it locked at night?”

“Aye, sir. Always. The key hangs in the guardroom at the Byward Tower. Except tonight. When I went to fetch it, the key was gone. I thought someone else had gone ahead of me to investigate the commotion. But I was the first to get here, and I found the key in the door, and the door locked.”

“Who was the guard on duty there tonight?” asked Newton.

“I believe it was Thomas Grain, sir,” answered the keeper.

“Then we shall want to speak to him.”

“You will do nothing of the sort, sir,” said a loud and imperious voice. “Not without my permission.”

Lord Lucas, the Lieutenant of the Tower, had arrived, a most odious, haughty and quarrelsome fellow, whose jealousy of the Tower liberties made him a mighty unpopular man in the Mint and in the surrounding boroughs.

“As your Lordship pleases,” said Newton and bowed with mock courtesy, for he hated Lucas with as much venom as he hated all stupid people who got in his way—especially those that were supposed to be his betters—although I think his lordship was too crapulent with drink to have noticed Newton’s insolent manner.

“Egad, sir. What the devil do you think you’re doing, anyway? Any fool can see what happened here. A fellow don’t exactly need to be a member of the Royal Society to see that a man has been killed by a lion.” He looked at Sergeant Rohan. “Eh, Sergeant?”

“That’s correct, milord. Any man as has eyes in his head can see that, sir.”

“Accidents will happen when men and wild animals are in close proximity to one another.”

“I do not think it is an accident, Lord Lucas,” said Newton.

“A plague on you, Doctor Newton, if this isn’t any of your damned business.”

“The dead man is from the Mint, my lord,” said Newton. “Therefore I am obliged to make this my business.”

“The deuce you say. I don’t care if he’s the King of France. I’m the law in this Tower. You can do what you please in the Mint, sir. But you’re in my part of the Tower now. And I’ll grind this damned music box whatever way I like.”

Newton bowed again. “Come, Mister Ellis,” he said to me. “Let us leave his Lordship to probe this matter in his own fashion.”

We were making our way back to the door when Newton stopped and bent down to look at a black shape he noticed on the ground.

“What is it, Doctor?” I asked.

“The sad-presaging raven,” answered Newton, collecting a dead but still lustrously plumed black bird off the ground, “that tolls the sick man’s passport in her hollow beak.”

“Is that the Bible, sir?”