The second bomb again just missed the Tower, this time to the eastward. Most unfortunately, however, it hit the Royal mint, which stands just across the road. This bomb did the mint, as such, no harm worth mentioning, nothing to interfere with work being carried on as usual, but it so happened that it fell close to where a goodly number of workmen, not actually working at the moment, were assembled, and caused forty-four casualties. One small boy looking upwards was heard to say, “Why, it looks like a bird,” and the next second he was himself up and out in the blue of heaven.
The third bomb hit the railings to the north of the Tower, and whilst doing no harm whatever to it caused some damage outside. A couple of horses drawing a van were killed, and many windows in Postern Row were broken. The effect was very much that of a shrapnel shell bursting, indeed there probably was a shrapnel fixed at the head of the bomb, as in the case of the first bomb mentioned. The bullets from this shrapnel shell had sufficient force to make clean round holes through stout iron railings, whilst naturally they went through windows and doors as through paper. Against the flimsiest walls they were of no avail, leaving only pit marks and knocking off plaster.
The fourth bomb I chanced to see myself. I was sitting at my writing-desk, which is near one of the south windows of St. Thomas’ Tower, and to be quite exact was writing a note to a lady thanking her for a book she had kindly sent me. There being a good deal of din in the skies, though little enough to one who was just back from the War, I happened to glance out on the river. At that exact moment, only a few yards away, something from the skies fell splosh into the river, and a column of water some six or seven feet high demonstrated the fact. That was the closest shot which the Germans made at the Crown Jewels of England. The total casualties to the credit of this attack on the Tower were one pigeon, which probably had a weak heart and died of shell-shock, and one pane of window broken in the Jewel House.
After these narrow escapes it was decided that it would be wiser not to chance further risks, and to place the Regalia in a less exposed place than the Tower of London. Consequently the Jewel House was closed for repairs, so to speak, and the Crown Jewels were removed elsewhere. The wonderful stories evolved by the more emotional persons over this ordinary precaution were not without interest. One inspired person mentioned, that from certain information he had received a castle in Cornwall had been secretly acquired and that the Jewels had been taken there by special train at dead of night. He added that in front of the Jewel train, and behind it, were two other trains full of troops, police, detectives, machine-guns, and what not.
Another very astute gentleman had secured the exclusive information, which he imparted with a knowing smile as between two conspirators, that for the past eight months a deep and secret vault lined throughout with concrete had been excavated at Bath, and that the Jewels were now safely deposited there. The sole ground for this rumour rested on the undoubted fact that eight months before the Keeper of the Jewel House had been at Bath, and there, by way of camouflage doubtless had undergone a course of the waters. Another equally knowing individual, a son of Israel, said that he knew for certain that the Jewels were in Cumberland, the slender thread on which this rumour hung being due to the fact that the late Keeper of the Jewel House, Sir Arthur Wynne, had now settled in Cumberland. When these stories were told it was incumbent to smile in rather an embarrassed manner, as one found out in doing a fatuous thing, and the informants generally departed feeling like an embodiment of Fouché and Sherlock Holmes. It was only necessary to add, “Please do not mention your suspicions to anyone, it might get into the papers,” to ensure that it got anyway as far as the Censor.
But these rumours as to where the Jewels were, and how they got there, were nothing to the brilliant stories of their return, which an unfettered, an uncensored press could now make public. One of the more emotional ran: “At dead of night two officers of the Grenadier Guards dressed in frock coats and with silk hats, and each carrying an automatic pistol, drove up to the secret hiding-place in a closed motor-car. With them were two detectives also in civilian clothes but with bowler hats; they too were armed with automatic pistols. Beside the military chauffeur, dressed in khaki sat another soldier with his loaded rifle at the ‘present.’ In a few seconds the Crown Jewels were transferred from the secret strong-room to the car by the two officers, whilst the detectives stood tensely at the alert, their pistols cocked. In a few minutes all was ready, and the car sharply wheeling on the gravel drive sped at the rate of forty miles an hour to the Tower of London.”
Which is all very nice and lurid, but as a matter of fact the whole process of taking the Jewels away and returning them to the Tower was much more simply accomplished and was not nearly so dramatic. It is now no longer a secret that a royal car drove into the Tower of London and up to the Jewel House. Into it the more important and valuable portions of the Regalia, already packed in their own cases, were handed. It was all a matter of a few minutes, and then the car drove away to Windsor Castle, and there deposited the Jewels in a secure place. The return journey at the end of the War was equally simply and effectively accomplished. Nor was there probably any officer of the Grenadier Guards, with or without a silk hat, nearer than the far dim horizon of Flanders. Naturally, however, the Crown Jewels do not travel without very careful precautions, and these, those who trembled for them may be assured, were fully taken.
During their absence from the Tower some of the cases had somehow got rather damp and mildewy, the sight of which caused the Court Jewellers more than a little anguish. This dampness probably accounts for another brave story, to the effect that the Crown Jewels had been sunk in the river opposite the Tower, and had in this moist retreat been kept for many months.
It is remarkable how wonderfully indiscreet some ambitious news collectors may become. Information regarding the location or movement of jewels of priceless value may be confided to all and sundry of the honest folks in these realms, but newspapers are bought not only by honest persons, and it is of considerable interest to a professional burglar or jewel thief to be informed exactly how and when he can best make a bid for so great a prize.
Thus we see that throughout the centuries the Jewels have in turn been safeguarded first in Westminster Abbey, then in the White Tower, next in an annexe to the White Tower, after this in the Martin Tower, and then in a special building close to the Martin Tower. Finally, but for a brief sojourn at Windsor Castle during the Great War, in the Wakefield Tower.