In Dunn's cunning 16th Daisy Dalrymple mystery (after 2007's Gunpowder Plot), the charming Daisy stumbles over the corpse of the Chief Yeoman Warder at the Tower of London. Daisy and her husband, Scotland Yard's DCI Alec Fletcher, team up to unmask the killer. Daisy does all the really clever sleuthing, but she kindly allows her hubby to think he's putting things together himself. Things get tricky when one of the chief suspects, who may also be a blackmailer, disappears. And then there's the curious matter of the manner of death: the autopsy concludes that the Yeoman Warder died of a broken neck, so why was there also a partizan, or Yeoman Warder's halberd, sticking out of his back? Appropriate historical detail and witty dialogue are the finishing touches on this engaging 1920s period piece. (Sept.)Copyright 2007 Reed Business Information
The Bloody Tower: A Daisy Dalrymple Mysteryby Carola Dunn
In early 1925, the Honourable Daisy Dalrymple Fletcher, recent mother of twins, resumes her journalistic career by agreeing to write a piece about the Tower of London - the Bloody Tower - for an American magazine. Invited to observe the centuries old ritual Ceremony of the Keys, she's spending the night (her first time away from her babies) since the complex is
In early 1925, the Honourable Daisy Dalrymple Fletcher, recent mother of twins, resumes her journalistic career by agreeing to write a piece about the Tower of London - the Bloody Tower - for an American magazine. Invited to observe the centuries old ritual Ceremony of the Keys, she's spending the night (her first time away from her babies) since the complex is locked and guarded, and the high walls are surrounded by a disused moat. Having been given a tour of the Crown Jewels, interviewed and observed the Yeoman Warders, and met the Ravenmaster, Daisy has more than enough material for her article and decides to leave as early as possible the next morning to return to her family. But when walking down the stairs, she almost trips over the dead body of one of the Yeoman Warders. That there's something seriously amiss cannot be denied, due to the pike sticking out of his back. With her husband, Scotland Yard DCI Alec Fletcher assigned to resolve the case, Daisy once again finds herself in the middle of a case of murder most foul.
Read an Excerpt
The Bloody Tower
A Daisy Dalrymple Mystery
By Carola Dunn
St. Martin's PressCopyright © 2007 Carola Dunn
All rights reserved.
The Tower of London?" Alec, spreading marmalade on his toast, spoke with a sort of deliberate casualness. "That's rather a macabre subject to write about."
"One needn't go into the gruesome details," Daisy pointed out. "More coffee? The Americans will love it. Just think, 1070 A.D. to 1925, eight and a half centuries of history! They can't match that even if they go back to Christopher Columbus."
"Mr. Thorwald says he's willing to buy a series of three or four articles about the Tower for Abroad magazine."
"You've already written to him?"
"His answer just arrived." Daisy waved the telegram form from the top of the pile of letters by her plate. "See how keen he is? He telegraphed rather than waiting for a letter to reach me. I got the idea when we took Belinda to see The Yeomen of the Guard at Christmas."
After a moment's silence while he swallowed a bite, Alec voiced the question Daisy was expecting.
"What about the twins?"
She had her response ready. "I'll only be gone for a few hours at a time, as I shan't have to go out of town. That's why it's ideal. Honestly, darling, Nanny's perfectly competent. In fact, she's growing downright dictatorial. Since Mother went home to the Dower House —"
"And my mother retreated back to Bournemouth, thank heaven!"
"Exactly. Nanny no longer has their conflicting commands ringing in her ears. Isn't it odd how both of them insisted that no one on their side of the family ever had twins? As though there were something disgraceful about it," Daisy said indignantly.
"Yes, I never thought to hear Lady Dalrymple and my mother agree on anything except that we shouldn't have married each other. But don't try to change the subject, Daisy."
"Try! I thought I succeeded nicely."
"Only briefly. Quite apart from leaving the babies with Nanny — and I expect you're right about that — are you sure you're recovered enough from the birth to go exploring the Tower? As I recall, it's nothing but stairs, stairs, and more stairs, most of them steep and narrow."
"It's nearly the end of April already! They'll be two months old in a couple of days. I'm perfectly all right, just going quietly mad stuck here in the house with nothing to do but give Oliver or Miranda a bottle now and then, when Nanny deigns to permit. It was fun when Belinda was at home. She so enjoyed helping with them during the Easter hols. But now she's gone back to school ..." Daisy sighed. "I'm glad she's enjoying boarding school, but I do miss her."
"So do I. Well, love, I'm not about to come the heavy-handed Victorian paterfamilias —"
"You'd better not try!"
Alec grinned. "No, that's exactly my feeling. But please don't traipse off if I have to go out of town, and make sure Nanny knows how to telephone me at the Yard."
"She can always ring up and ask for me at the Tower."
"I hardly think the Yeoman Warders will be willing to search that warren for —"
"Oh, but that's the best thing. That is, not the best but what, added to G & S, confirmed that I'm positively meant to write about the Tower. Mrs. Tebbit and her daughter are living there now, in the King's House, and they've invited me to lunch."
"Your mother's friend. At least, one of your mother's fellow bridge players. The divinely outspoken old lady."
"With the rather limp daughter? Living in the Tower? Not, I take it, imprisoned for high treason?"
"Darling, as though your mother would be acquainted with anyone who might be suspected of high treason!" Daisy considered. "Mrs. Tebbit might commit lèse-majesté, perhaps, but one can't be arrested for that nowadays, can one? Anyway, it seems the Resident Governor, Major General Carradine, is some sort of cousin, and —"
"Tell me later, Daisy. I must be off." Alec gulped down the last drops of coffee, folded the News Chronicle and stuck it under his arm, and came around the table for a good-bye kiss. "Things are slow at present, so I'm hoping to clear up some arrears of paperwork before the Super has me arrested for dereliction of duty."
Daisy returned his kiss with verve before saying hopefully, "Does that mean you'll be home early enough to take me out for some driving practice? With what Mr. Thorwald is going to pay me, I'll be able to buy a secondhand car!"
Alec groaned. "I'll do my best. If you must have a car, it'll be just as well if you learn how to drive it without running over too many bobbies on point duty. We can't spare the men."
"Beast!" said Daisy, and pursed her lips for another kiss.
Daisy went up to the nursery. It had been Mrs. Fletcher's room while she lived with them, and Belinda had moved in when her grandmother moved to Bournemouth. Poor Bel had had to return to her tiny bedroom when the twins were born.
Not that the nursery was exactly large. In fact, it was definitely crowded with Nanny's bed and two cribs. A wardrobe, half occupied with shelves, stood against one wall. There was an armchair on one side of the fireplace and an elderly ottoman on the other, full of clean nappies. Its padded top was useful for changing wet and dirty ones. Later it could metamorphose into a toy chest. In the window was a small table with two rush-bottom chairs.
Remembering her own childhood, Daisy guessed that the rush seats wouldn't last long once the babies were up and about. Pulling bits out of them was irresistible.
Remembering her own childhood — The trouble was that she couldn't help comparing this nursery with the spacious day-nursery, night-nursery, and schoolroom at Fairacres.
She had chosen to marry a middle-class policeman, chosen a life in a semi-detached house in the suburbs. She was content with her choice, but she had to admit to herself that she had never for a moment considered how it would affect her children.
Knocking softly on the door — after all the nursery was also Nanny's bedroom — Daisy thought ruefully that she had made her bed and the twins were going to have to lie in it.
Ah well, they didn't know anything different.
Nanny Gilpin opened the door with a finger to her lips. Her face was pink beneath iron-grey hair sternly pulled back under a starched cap. Her plum-coloured dress, mid-calf in length, had starched white collar and cuffs, and over it she wore a spotless starched white apron. In spite of all the starch, she was a kindly woman.
So, at least, said Daisy's friend Melanie Germond, who had recommended Mrs. Gilpin. Furthermore, her daughter, Bel's school-friend Lizzie, was still fond of her old nurse.
But Nanny Gilpin was undeniably old-fashioned. She expected absolute rule over the nursery, with parents admitted by appointment only. As she was, to all appearances, very good with the babies, Daisy was afraid of losing her and so catered to her whims, however reluctantly.
She had told Nanny she was going out to lunch and wanted to see the twins before she left.
"You may come in, Mummy," Nanny whispered, "but I just put them down for a nap, so not a sound, if you please."
Daisy tiptoed over to Oliver's crib. He lay on his back, eyes closed, arms spread wide, hands relaxed. The soft down on his head had a distinct gingerish tone. He might end up a redhead, like his elder sister, but Nanny said it would probably change as he grew older.
He looked so tiny, so delicate. The doctor said twins were always smaller than the average baby, which made sense. Otherwise, how enormous she'd have been! They were both perfectly healthy though, thank heaven, and would catch up in height and weight in due course.
Oliver had kicked off his coverlet. Daisy leant forward to straighten it — then pulled back at a warning cough from Mrs. Gilpin.
"Now, Mummy, we don't want to wake him, do we?"
Daisy swallowed a sigh. Of course Nanny knew best how to take care of babies, didn't she?
The baby's lips pursed in a sucking motion. One hand rose to insert a thumb in his mouth. It didn't mean he was hungry, she assured herself, as she had been assured.
Nanny moved forward in a purposeful way. Daisy hastily turned to Miranda's crib.
Miranda lay there quietly, good as gold, but her blue eyes were wide open. Catching sight of Daisy, she smiled. Daisy cast a quick glance behind her. Nanny was occupied with tucking in Oliver. Quick as a wink, Daisy scooped up her daughter in her arms for a quick kiss and cuddle before she was caught.
Miranda chuckled. Enchanted, Daisy kissed the top of her head, revelling in the softness of her dark fluff and sweet, milky smell.
"Now, Mummy —"
"She was awake, Nanny. I didn't wake her, truly."
"And how is she ever going to fall asleep if you pick her up?"
This was unanswerable. With an audible sigh, Daisy laid Miranda back in the crib, where she set up an earsplitting screech.
"You see?" asked Nanny accusingly.
Defeated, Daisy retreated.
Melanie Germond had also been invited to lunch with the Tebbits. She called for Daisy and they walked together through an April shower to the tube station.
"It's so brave of you to carry a red umbrella," said Melanie with a touch of envy.
"Brave?" Daisy queried, surprised. After her craven surrender to Mrs. Gilpin, she felt anything but brave.
"When practically everyone else's are black. People look at you."
"Why shouldn't they? Anyway, they're only looking at the umbrella, really, not at me."
"I suppose it's your upbringing." Melanie sighed. "We always had it drummed into us that one should never draw attention to oneself."
After living for a year and a half in St. John's Wood, Daisy was still discovering new facets of the difference between the middle classes and her own aristocratic background. She pondered. "I don't think we were ever taught anything so specific, certainly not that drawing attention to oneself is a virtue. I suppose it was sort of taken for granted that people would look at us, just because my father was Viscount Dalrymple. Unless we were among other people of the same sort, of course. Oh dear, that does make me sound stuck-up!"
"Daisy, that's not what I meant! No one could be less stuck-up than you."
"Well, I hope not. My brother had the umbrella made for me just before he went to France, to cheer me up. I think of it as a sort of outsize, year-round Armistice poppy."
"Oh, Daisy, I am sorry!" Mel said miserably. "I don't seem to be able to help putting my foot in it today."
"Bosh! I didn't have to tell you that." She grinned. "I could have just let you go on thinking me stuck-up."
"I don't. I never did. Do stop teasing, or I'll arrive with my face as red as your umbrella and everyone will stare at me."
Daisy gave her friend's face an envious glance. Mel had a perfect English rose complexion. Unlike Daisy, she had no need of powder to hide unwanted freckles. With just a touch of lip colour, and her unbobbed hair done up in a French pleat, she looked every inch the respectable bank manager's wife she was. Daisy was glad Alec had not followed his father into the banking profession. She could never have lived up to the requisite staidness. For one thing, a policeman's wife didn't have to entertain her husband's clients.
She suppressed a giggle. Alec's "clients" were crooks — but Mel wouldn't understand her amusement. "Not you, darling, you never blush, you lucky thing," she said, and folded her umbrella as they entered the shelter of the station.
"If you were stuck-up," said Mel, "you'd travel by taxi, not by the Underground."
"The tube is quicker than buses, and I'm a working woman, remember. In fact, this is a working occasion for me. I'm hoping to persuade the Resident Governor to give me special access for research. It would make for much more interesting articles than just parroting the guidebooks. Have you the right change for the ticket machine?"
At Baker Street, they switched to the Inner Circle line, and a few rattling, swaying minutes later, they emerged from the Mark Lane station at the top of Tower Hill.
The shower had passed over. The sun shone in a sky decorated with little puffs of white lamb's wool. Daisy and Melanie paused to look down towards the river, where the ancient palace-fortress spread up the hill towards them, a breeze gently waving the Union Jack atop the White Tower.
"It looks innocent as a picture postcard," Daisy remarked with a shudder.
"What do you mean?"
"Did you ever come here as a child? You're a Londoner; you must have."
"Yes, I suppose most London children come, but I don't remember much about it."
"We were brought once as a treat. Gervaise loved it, of course, all the arms and armour and bloodshed. You know what ghouls little boys are. Violet saw it as romantic, besides being fascinated by the Crown Jewels. But I had nightmares for weeks afterwards. All that chopping off of heads: I got it mixed up in my mind with Alice in Wonderland. In my dreams, I confused the Red Queen with Bloody Mary, and Alice with Lady Jane Grey."
"I even dreamt of ravens growing as tall as flamingos and turning into croquet hoops."
That made Mel laugh. "I do remember being afraid of the ravens," she acknowledged.
"I've been reading up on the history," said Daisy as they waited for the traffic policeman to let them cross to the gardens in the middle of Trinity Square. "Gower's The Tower of London, to prepare for the articles. I must admit I hoped it would dispel my early impressions of the place, but it simply put the endless executions in context."
"I don't know how Miss Tebbit can bear to live there."
"I doubt she has much imagination. And Mrs. Tebbit is capable of facing down any number of headless ghosts. Though I must say, it doesn't look at all sinister today."
Today, the picturesque scene ahead was more evocative of colourful processions of kings and queens on their way to Westminster Abbey to be crowned, escorted by throngs of nobles on brightly caparisoned horses. The blare of motor horns and glint of sunlight on polished brass headlamps conjured up trumpet fanfares and cheering crowds. Absorbed by the view, Daisy didn't notice the constable on point duty waving them across the street.
"Come on." Melanie tugged her arm. "Do you know him?" she asked as Daisy waved to the policeman.
"Who? Oh, the bobby? No, but learning to drive has given me a new appreciation for their intrepidity. Imagine standing there with all the taxis and 'buses and lorries and cars swirling about you, with nothing to protect you but long white gauntlets."
"Much worse than mere headless ghosts," Mel said with a smile.
They reached the gardens safely. The path led them to a reminder of the Tower's grim history, a fenced-off square commemorating the scaffold where public executions used to take place. Here, Daisy thought, the crowds would have jeered, not cheered, enjoying with equal glee a royal procession or a grisly death. Dutifully, she made a note of the inscription. Alec was right: The Tower was a morbid subject to write about. But it was too late now to change her mind.
They walked down Tower Hill, the pavement separated from the dry, grassy moat by an iron railing and trees. Beyond the moat rose the outer walls. With their massive towers, arrow slits and crenellations, they had a stern, forbidding look, but daffodils danced under the greening trees.
At the bottom, they stopped outside the ticket office and refreshment room, an inappropriate-looking wooden building.
"This was the site of the Lion Tower," said Daisy. "They kept the Royal Menagerie here for hundreds of years."
"Please, no history lessons," Melanie begged. "Do we need tickets?"
"Surely not. We're invited guests. No, look, the notice says you need them only for the White Tower, the Bloody Tower, and the Crown Jewels."
The walk swung left under a rounded Norman arch adorned with the royal lion and unicorn carved in stone, between two round towers. A stout Yeoman Warder stood there, a picturesque figure in his dark blue Tudor-style tunic and bonnet, lavishly adorned with red braid; on his chest was a crown, with G V R beneath. His eight-foot tasselled halberd was also Tudor and picturesque, though no doubt as lethal at close quarters as any modern automatic.
Excerpted from The Bloody Tower by Carola Dunn. Copyright © 2007 Carola Dunn. Excerpted by permission of St. Martin's Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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Meet the Author
CAROLA DUNN is the author of a number of mysteries featuring Daisy Dalrymple. Born and raised in England, she lives in Eugene, Oregon.
CAROLA DUNN is the author of many mysteries featuring Daisy Dalrymple, including Sheer Folly, Gone West and Heirs to the Body, as well as numerous historical novels. Born and raised in England, she lives in Eugene, Oregon.
Most Helpful Customer Reviews
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I was excited to read this 'mystery' about the Tower of London, since I love British history, especially that of the country's capital city. Unfortunately, the book doesn't spend much time on the history but instead introduces too many characters who are at best irrelevant to the story. I arrived at the end of this book not happy to find out the details to the mystery, but happy to not have to read anymore of this story. I don't recommend spending too much time with this book.
I quite enjoyed this latest "Daisy" book. The site of the goings-on this time is the famous Tower of London. We get to learn quite a bit about the Tower - and it's so nice to know that the Tower is still going strong in present day as it would have been in the setting of the 1920s Daisy books. I found this story quite up to par with the rest of the Daisy books, and I am quite looking forward to moving right on to the next book in the series. These books are sweet and entertaining and easy reading.
I personally think that it was ok but the writer could have done better.
The Honorable Daisy Dalrymple Fletcher has been asked to do a series of articles about the Tower of London for an American magazine. It will be the first time she returns to work since the twins were born four months ago. People take a natural likening to Daisy and she gets a personalized tour of the Crown Jewels, interviews the people in power in the tower, learns about the feuds between the Yeomen Warders and the Hotspot officers, and is told the stories of the ghosts who haunt the lacee. When she gets ready to leave, she comes across the murdered body of the chief Yeomen Warder with a partisan (pike) in his back and his neck broken. She gets someone to call the superintendent who calls her husband DCI Alex Fletcher, who is resigned to the fact that Daisy will once again be in the middle of a homicide investigation but this time she walks away and is dragged back by the entreaties of two teens she befriended. She contributes to the investigation and hopefully with what she learns it will lead to the killer. --- The latest Daisy Dalrymple mystery is as refreshing and entertaining as are the rest of the books in this delightful historical amateur sleuth police procedural combination. Points of views keep changing between the spouses who learn much of the same information from different sources in different manners. This is a perplexing case because everybody liked the victim and it is only when knowledge of the victim comes to light the Fletchers begin to even come to solving the case. --- Harriet Klausner