Terror in the Tower

By Paul Ferrante

T.J. Jackson and his friends have become international TV personalities for their ghost hunting exploits. But when they are summoned to Buckingham Palace to undertake a Royal investigation in the infamous Tower of London, the stakes are raised and the pressure is on. Who exactly is haunting the Bloody Tower? The suspects are many, and it’s up to the Junior Gonzo Ghost Chasers to sort things out and solve the mystery. But how can three teenage Yanks from the States put a stop to centuries of murder and mayhem in the world’s most famous castle? They are about to find out that Olde England wasn’t so merry!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Melange Books, LLC
• Release date: Sep 21, 2021
• ISBN: 9781953735973

Paul Ferrante

Paul Ferrante is originally from the Bronx and grew up in the town of Pelham, NY. He received his undergraduate and Masters degrees in English from Iona College, where he was also a halfback on the Gaels' undefeated 1977 football team. Paul has been an award-winning secondary school English teacher and coach for over 30 years, as well as a columnist for Sports Collector's Digest since 1993 on the subject of baseball ballpark history. Many of his works can be found in the archives of the National Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown, NY. His writings have led to numerous radio and television appearances related to baseball history. Paul lives in Connecticut with his wife Maria and daughter Caroline, a film screenwriter/director. Last Ghost at Gettysburg: a T.J. Jackson Mystery is his first novel.

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Prologue

Edward V, Prince of Wales, pulled the coarse woolen blanket up to his chin to ward off the dank chill of the nearly barren room. Despite it being summer, the inner sanctums of the Tower of London were extremely uncomfortable, without any of the amenities a person of his stature merited. He wondered if his younger brother, who slept curled up next to him on the lumpy straw mattress, felt the same depth of despair as the one that enveloped him now, and he tried to understand how it had all come to this.

The thirteen-year-old boy had known nothing but a life of privilege since his birth in Westminster Abbey in November of 1470. His mother, Elizabeth Woodville, had sought sanctuary there from those who had deposed his father, King Edward IV, during the War of the Roses, which pitted their Yorkist family against the Lancastrians. When his father had been restored to the throne in 1471, Edward, the newly named Prince of Wales, was declared next in line for the throne, and his destiny seemed set as the successor.

As a young lad Prince Edward had been placed under the supervision of his mother’s brother, Anthony Earl Rivers, a noted scholar. It was Rivers who was more or less entrusted with the raising of the boy. His was a fortunate yet structured daily existence, beginning with morning religious observances, followed by breakfast and educational tutoring. After being served dinner at 10 a.m., he would be treated to what Rivers called noble stories… of virtue, honor, cunning, wisdom, and deeds of worship. The afternoon would bring participation in sporting activities, including horseback riding, swordplay, and archery. Supper would be served at 4 p.m., with his bedtime at 8 p.m. At all times the prince was watched over by attendants who were at his beck and call.

As he left childhood and began his teen years, Edward showed a great aptitude for learning, whether it be in understanding literature, the elements of proper discourse, or prowess in the martial arts. Those around him considered the boy a thoughtful, inquisitive, opinionated adolescent who projected well as the future ruler of England. He was thus made a Knight of the Order of the Garter, henceforth wearing beneath his left knee a ceremonial band comprised of a buckled velvet strap, a symbol of his status as the future king.

Edward IV had great plans for his son and imagined a prestigious European marriage for him that would cement an English alliance with the Duke of Brittany, Francis II. To that end, in 1480, when the boy had turned ten, he was betrothed to Duke Francis’s four-year-old heir, Anne, a girl he had never seen. Young Edward maturely recognized this arrangement as part of his royal responsibility and logical progression to the throne.

However, Edward IV’s carefully laid plans were to be dashed with his sudden death in early April of 1483.

Edward V was at Ludlow Castle in Shropshire, the traditional residence of the Prince of Wales, when he was informed of his father’s untimely passing. And though the boy was indeed first in the line of succession, he was deemed not yet old enough to assume the duties of battlefield leadership that a King of England required. Edward was to find out that his father, always looking ahead, had declared that his trusted brother Richard, Duke of Gloucester, would become the official protector of the boy until he came of age to assume the throne. This was acceptable to the prince because on the surface it seemed a prudent decision. Edward was confident that his uncle, who understood the workings of the monarchy with all its political machinations, courtly loyalties, and opportunistic betrayals, could guide him through a reasonably smooth ascension when the time came.

Both sad over his father’s death and excited for his future, Edward and his protective entourage, led by Earl Rivers, set out from Ludlow in the 150-plus mile journey to London for his eventual coronation. However, the party was intercepted in Stony Stratford, Buckinghamshire on the twenty-ninth of April by his uncle Richard and his men. To the boy’s astonishment, Earl Rivers was quickly arrested and relieved of duty as Edward’s mentor. The young king-to-be was both furious and confused, but he was assured by his uncle—whose own men now escorted him the rest of the way to London—that these measures were being taken purely for his own protection. On the nineteenth of May, the future monarch took up residence in the royal quarters of the Tower of London where, in June, he was joined by his nine-year-old brother Richard, Duke of York. Edward was happy to have his younger sibling with him for company but wondered why the coronation was being postponed. His uncle was evasive when questioned, assuring the boy that he only had Edward’s best interests in mind.

The brothers spent their first days playing within the confines of the Tower, sometimes dueling with wooden swords or practicing at archery, always under the supervision of Richard’s men. But then they were inexplicably transferred from the comfortable trappings of the royal apartments to the bleak, cell-like room they now occupied, and their mobility was severely curtailed. When Edward protested, his words fell upon deaf ears. He began to suffer from chills and other physical maladies and secretly wondered if he was slowly being poisoned. But he kept these fears from his younger brother so as not to frighten the boy. Nonetheless, Edward sank into a deep depression and began to fear the worst.

Thus, when the iron latch was lifted on the door this July night, the future King of England was filled with a sense of foreboding. Fighting to keep from crying out, he sensed the presence of two men creeping stealthily into the pitch-black cell. His brother next to him began to stir, and Edward was reaching out to calm him when the intruders suddenly fell upon them. For a second Edward could smell the reek of garlic emanating from the assailant who forcefully yanked the crude pillow from beneath his head and clamped it down on his mouth and nose. The prince thrashed, but the powerful man then sat on his legs, pinning him to the bed; the pressure on his face intensified and he began to blackout. The last thing his brain would register in this world was the tolling of the midnight bell in the Tower of London.

Chapter One

T his would have been a good deal easier in the daytime, said Sean McCormick as he finished setting up the electric lights at the bottom of the staircase in the White Tower.

Aye, agreed his fellow stonemason Sean Nolin, but it’s tourist season, boyo, and I understand they have to wait until the crowds file out.

The problem is, we’ve got a good area to address here, and the pointing has to set up by tomorrow. That’s cutting it close.

Ah, yer worryin’ again. No job’s too big for the two Seans.

McCormick laughed. Since the men—who had come over from Ireland seeking employment as masons some fifteen years previously—had had the good fortune to be hired on to the vast maintenance staff at the Tower of London. Their expertise in working with the ancient stone walls, staircases, and floors of London’s most famous building had led them to become the top-rated artisans in their area of specialty. The White Tower, which was founded in 1066 as part of the Norman Conquest of England by William the Conqueror, had been employed for many centuries in a variety of ways: as a military installation, royal palace, strong room for the Crown Jewels, prison, place of execution, and tourist attraction. The original White Tower, or castle keep, in which McCormick and Nolin were currently at work, had expanded into the current structure that covered eighteen acres and featured additional walls, towers, and a now-drained moat. Hard by the River Thames, it entertained nearly three million visitors per year, which was why the two Seans now toiled at the base of the somewhat clammy staircase upon which tourists would ascend to the upper floors.

It took a veritable army of painters, carpenters, roofers, and masons like McCormick and Nolin to keep the ancient structure in fine trim for the various foreign dignitaries, members of England’s Royal Family, and regular folks who would pass through its halls and courtyards nearly every day of the year.

The two Seans had been called in this night to address a nagging problem that had affected the masonry in the lower staircase. Chunks of mortar had been falling out of the wall and onto the stairs recently, and the wide bricks needed repointing. There was also an issue with the riser of the bottom stair, which seemed to be crumbling at its base. Since the entire White Tower had been built upon marshland, this had always been a problem. Even so, the two Seans were at a loss to explain the rapid deterioration of this specific area, which they had attended to less than a year before.

Got the mortar mixed, Mac? asked Nolin, who gently chipped away at the damaged section of wall.

Just about, boyo, he replied, stirring the concrete in a small metal basin. He gave the lowest stair riser a nudge with his work boot and watched it disintegrate. Oh, great, he groused. We’re gonna have to replace most of the step. Look at this here, Nolie. He gave the masonry another kick; this time a wedge the size of a cricket ball flew away. We’re gonna be here a while, we are. He paused and straightened up. You say something, Nolie?

Not me, replied his buddy. Why? You heard something?

McCormick’s eyes slitted, and he held out his hand to his friend as a sign to be quiet. Listen, he whispered.

Nolin stood perfectly still and cocked his head. "What are you hearin’, Mac?"

Sounds like kind of a moan to me.

Could be the wind blowin’ through the vaults.

Nah, it was dead calm outside when we came in tonight. Unless it’s kicked up the past few minutes.

The two looked at each other and shrugged. Nolin said, Ah, well, let’s get back to—

And there it was again. Louder. Up the staircase from them, and not too far.

Hello? called McCormick. Who’s there?

They listened. Nothing. Then suddenly, there came the sound of footsteps running up the stairs.

Let’s go! said Nolin, bolting towards the sound, with McCormick right behind him. Up and up they went, past the second level and towards the third. Whoever it was, was just out of their sight due to the construction of the stairs. They were almost to the third level when Nolin’s work boot caught the tip of a riser and he sprawled forward, McCormick smashing into him from behind. As the two Seans lay on the stairs, panting heavily, boyish laughter cascaded down the stairs and echoed throughout the White Tower.

The next morning found the workmen in the office of the venerable head of maintenance, Jim Harding, a crusty, no-nonsense man, who was most certainly not pleased to hear the eerie report of his workers, and that their job had not been completed. Laughter, you say? he asked, firing up his signature briar pipe.

Like a child’s, it was, said Nolin.

And you heard it too, Mac?

Aye, Mr. Harding. It kind of bounced off the walls.

Hmmm, said the man, rolling the head of his extinguished wooden match between his callused fingertips. You know, of course, the significance of the staircase where you were working, then?

Mac and Nolin looked at each other, then shrugged.

Well, then, let me enlighten you fine gentlemen. Way back in the sixteen hundreds workmen much like yourselves uncovered a chest when they were shoring up the base of that same staircase. Upon opening it they found the bones of two skeletons, apparently young boys. This find matched the profile of two lads that had gone missing a couple of centuries before—Edward, the Prince of Wales and his younger brother Richard, the Duke of York. It was believed they’d been murdered in the Tower and their bodies buried. Later on, the skeletons were interred at Westminster Abbey as royalty, which pretty much closed the case, as far as I’m concerned. But there have been reports over the years of strange noises and such in the White Tower and elsewhere that are attributed to the boys.

So, you’re saying that’s what we heard? Bollocks, scoffed McCormick.

All right then, countered Harding, "so what’s your explanation?"

I don’t know, he replied.

That’s right, you don’t. Any loose children in the Tower would’ve been found by the staff this morning, and there’s been no word of anything like that.

So, what happens next? asked Nolin.

We just go about our day like nothing occurred, said Harding coolly. But I will report this to the proper higher-ups. I just hope you two sods didn’t shoot off your mouths about this. As Shakespeare would say, it’s much ado about nothing. Now go find something to do.

Harding waited until the men had left and then dialed a number from his office phone.

Yes? said the person who picked up.

I’m afraid it’s happened again, he said.

Chapter Two

S o, it’s Yale, huh? said T.J. Jackson as he gazed into the sparkling blue eyes of his adopted cousin LouAnne, the love of his life, while they gently rocked to the tune of Thinking Out Loud at the Gettysburg High School senior prom, held at the Wyndham at Gateway in Gettysburg, PA.

Looks like it, she replied, her high heels bringing her exactly to his eye level. Are you happy about it?

Of course I am, said the boy. I mean, you had a lot of schools to choose from. How’d you settle on Yale, of all places? They seemed to come out of nowhere.

"Well, the bigger schools like Tulane and Boston College didn’t offer me much in the way of scholarships, and the Division II and III schools either didn’t have the physical therapy major I want or seemed like just an extension of high school, as far as campus atmosphere and that stuff. For a while, I was really confused.

I had heard from Yale during my junior year, before the troubles I had over the winter, which I don’t have to remind you of. She was referring to the assault by the star quarterback of the Gettysburg High football team that had sent her into a deep depression that only T.J., during their spring break case in Cooperstown, NY, could bring her out of. "Anyway, they’d noticed my performance at a county-wide fall track meet at Penn, where they were actually looking at another girl from a nearby school, and inquired about my grades to my coach, Mr. Morgan, who also sent along all my stats and really talked me up to them.

"So, going into that winter, Yale was actually a real possibility. But then, after the attack, I didn’t really get back to normal till late in the spring season, where I won a few meets in the sixteen hundred meters and made All-County again, but just barely.

The Yale women’s cross-country coach contacted me last summer when I’d just gotten home from our Fairfield investigation and kind of laid it out for me. As an Ivy League school, Yale doesn’t offer athletic scholarships, no matter how good you are, so that was a major problem.

But if they don’t give scholarships, how will your family be able to afford this? asked T.J. You yourself have said that your dad’s park ranger salary isn’t huge.

You’re right. But Yale does offer financial aid based on need. You just have to qualify academically and, in my case, make the team as well. So, yeah, all together, the cost of one year is like sixty-five grand, but the coach had told me that if I had a strong senior cross-country season in the fall, and followed it up with a similar spring season, she’d consider the extenuating circumstances of what I had to overcome last year and more or less save me a spot on the roster.

So, there was a lot of pressure on you last fall.

"No duh. Both athletically and academically. But I posted great times and bumped my GPA to a solid A, which put me in the mix. And while it’s true I hadn’t made any kind of decision—which is why Dad and I visited Tulane during our spring break case— Yale was always on my mind.

It all came down to the spring, and with only a couple meets left, including the States, I’m in a good position. So yesterday I called the coach, who’s been keeping tabs on me, and she seemed genuinely happy with my choice. So, I guess I’m gonna be an Eli, the Yale mascot.

What about the TV stuff? If I remember correctly, the Tulane people thought it would be a distraction, no matter what you tried to tell them.

"That’s the difference, Cuz. This woman actually believed me when I