The South Lawn Plot (4 page)

N
ICK BAILEY WAS EARLY AT HIS DESK
, earlier than he could remember, earlier than anyone in the newsroom who noticed cared to remember.

Bailey was not known for precise time keeping. The news editors would have little bets as to whether or not he would show up in this fifteen-minute interval or the next. Nick Bailey didn't quite fit into the
Post's
ordered shift system. But he was a good reporter, good enough for his tardiness to be tolerated, more or less.

His presence at such an unusual hour naturally raised a few eyebrows. And Trevor Worth was the one colleague who moved rapidly beyond facial expression and asked questions.

Worth, after all, was Bailey's mate. Which is to say they shared cigarettes.

Worth opened his probe with a suggestion that Bailey must be hiding from either a woman demanding his body, or the landlord demanding the rent. Bailey countered with a few seconds of silence. His eyes leaned closer to his computer screen.

“Sod off, Trev,” he said, punching the keys harder still with his forefingers.

Worth tried another tack.

“Nice lead this morning Nick. Must have sold a bundle.”

This was true, Bailey thought. He had taken his usual underground train, though at the now record earlier hour. This presented an opportunity to check out his fellow tube riders.

A rough survey of their newspapers gave up a dominant combination of the
Sun's
royal rubbish, a
Mirror
lead on a drunken soccer star, and the
Post's
Deadfriars exclusive.

And it was indeed such a thing. Bailey scanned the few remaining broadsheet titles and noticed nothing that would take away from the fact that the
Post
, and more importantly he himself, had actually bagged a good one.

The text of the story ran on page five. Bailey's top was propped up by Henderson's background material on the Calvi affair.

There were, in addition, a couple of paragraphs at the bottom giving something of the history of Blackfriars Bridge.
Post
readers had been offered the intriguing fact that the bridge had been given a cameo mention by H.G. Wells in
The War of the Worlds
. This little gem was Percy's contribution. And given that he was the last reporter to handle the story there had been nothing to stop him from slipping in a byline for good measure.

And this he had done, the old codger.

“So why are you here now?” said Worth.

Bailey leaned back in his chair. He had slept little and was feeling the effect. Still, what the inspector had told him was more than enough for a follow up. Bailey had allowed his imagination to run a bit. He had started dreaming up all manner of conspiracies that would lead to a string of front-page exclusives. But Trevor Worth had shattered the moment.

“If I tell you I'll have to kill you,” said Bailey. “But if you get me a coffee, maybe I'll tell you and yet spare your miserable life.”

“On it. Crude or refined?”

Nobody in the newsroom had quite worked out the mystery of the office coffee. Either some small furry creature had upped and died in the coffee machine, or it was simply the London tap water, already consumed too many times over and recycled before it hit the bottom of a
Morning Post
coffee mug.

“Crude mate,” said Bailey. “Like one of your better jokes.”

Worth went off to carry out his mission. Bailey stared at his screen. Plaice had said that he would have a name on the dead priest for tomorrow's edition. But it would naturally go out to everyone else through normal channels.

The other death was still a mystery. And still his if he had read Plaice correctly. He wasn't all the way to linking the demise of one priest in London and another down in the sticks. There was a possible tie-in, but Plaice was a long way from being certain. He had suggested to Bailey that what information he had, and what he could add to it today, would be his to run with for a day or two.

There was nothing certain, nothing openly stated. But Plaice, and Bailey was certain of this, was clearly forming the idea in his mind that there was a connection between the two dead padres.

“Coffee's up.” Worth had returned with reinforcements. Deb Smith and Charlie Chilton grabbed chairs and crowded around.

“Nick pulling a late one and up with the lark. Have they tested you for banned substances?”

“Only the coffee, Charlie,” Bailey replied.

Deb Smith said nothing but stared at Bailey with a slightly amused look. Bailey was certain, or thought he was, that she fancied him. But he was off the ladies for the moment. That moment being all of two weeks since his last relationship floundered, rather publicly, in a Chinese restaurant.

“Look, everybody,” said Bailey, “I appreciate the congratulations and all that but really there's nothing much else to tell right now. The best part of the whole bloody story was the Calvi bit. Right now we've got some old monk who had a bad day, an even lousier night and somewhere along the line a severe lapse in faith. It might be a three par follow up tomorrow morning and nothing more than that, right?”

Nobody said a word. Charlie Chilton saw a light flashing on his phone and was fast out of his seat. Deb Smith folded her arms and kicked her feet out. Trevor Worth asked him for the zillionth time if he wanted sugar with his tar.

“Okay,” said Bailey. There might be a link to another death that just might be suspicious. Now that's all I know. Go do your work.”

Triumphant, Deb Smith got up and walked in what could only be described as a provocative fashion over to Charlie Chilton's desk.

Trevor Worth nodded, apparently satisfied. “I'll watch this space,” he said before heading back to his cubicle.

“This place is bloody unbelievable,” Bailey said loudly enough for more than his immediate inquisitors to hear.

He took a mouthful of the foul brew, grimaced and leaned closer to his screen. Henderson would be here in less than an hour. Plaice had better call soon with something, anything.

Tim Plaice was not thinking of calling anyone. He had been fussing around his office for much of the afternoon, moving his bits and pieces into new formations. He was more than a little tired. It had been a late night.

Plaice's quarters were small for an officer of his rank. His office was precisely half of what had once been a room twice the size. Budgetary requirements had precluded an extension to the station, so offices had been consolidated or partitioned. He had been promised a bigger space. The promise was now close to two years old.

Plaice had long since noticed that no matter how dire the financial realities for the Metropolitan Police, there seemed to be an endless supply of funds for sheetrock.

Plaice was not a particularly tidy man. Indeed some of his colleagues considered him sloppy. But today he had things in order. Or so he thought.

His office knickknacks were in rows, triangles and squares, military style. The wall to his right held various books and files. He had blown off clouds of dust and propped them up. The wall to his right was dominated by a notice board with more pins than notices on it, and the obligatory photograph of the queen. Beside this was a smaller portrait of Princess Diana. It was Tim Plaice's slightly defiant gesture. He had always fancied himself a bit of a rebel.

Right behind Plaice's desk was the single window. Straight ahead was the door, and standing in it was Detective Sergeant Samantha Walsh.

“Step in, Sam, take a seat,” said Plaice.

Walsh nodded and covered the couple of steps to one of the two chairs in front of Plaice's desk.

“Be with you in a moment,” said Plaice, pretending to scan a piece of paper.

He gave up the pretense and looked up at Walsh.

“You've read the file, and probably the paper. The priest, the dead priest,” he said.

“Oh yes, guv, both of them. It's an odd one for sure. Do we have anything nailed down?”

“Not really,” Plaice said. “But there's a whiff of something about it. I'm not quite sure, but I have a strong feeling there might be more.”

Walsh nodded.

“Sam,” said Plaice, “you've got a few days coming haven't you?”

Walsh shrugged, then nodded.

“You can say no, of course, but I'm going to ask you a favor.”

“Yes,” said Walsh.

“The other priest, the one who fell over the cliff in Cornwall a while back. I want to run that one over again, be sure that it was an accident.”

“You would like me to go down and sniff around,” said Walsh.

“Just for a couple of days. It's very nice down there. My parents took my sister and I there for holidays in the summer once or twice in that very area.”

Walsh smiled.

“Indeed, Plaice went on, “I remember the cliffs rather well. My father
was always warning me to stay away from the edge. And that was easy enough because the pathway was some yards from it.”

“Are you going where I think you're going with this?”

“Well, it's a funny thing,” said Plaice. “The cliffs where this priest took a tumble are dangerous enough, but you really have to go out of your way to put yourself in harm's way.”

“Perhaps he meant to die, took his own life,” said Walsh.

“Two suicides by priests in almost as many months? I just don't think so,” said Plaice.

“And yet the accident theory doesn't quite do it either,” he said.

“No, it doesn't, does it?”

“I'll get on it. I'll give you a call when I get down there. Should I contact the locals?”

“No, better not. Keep this very quiet. I don't want to be stirring anything up. Not now anyway.”

Samantha Walsh stood up. Plaice was about to compliment her on her perfume but thought better of it.

“I'll bring you back a stick of rock,” she said before turning for the door.

“Detective Sergeant,” said Plaice, with a tone of formality in his voice. “Be careful.”

“You have a feeling about this,” she said. “A real feeling. One of those.”

“Yes I do,” said Plaice. “And a stick of rock would be nice. Peppermint.”

Plaice had not called. Bailey was going to give him another ten minutes and then he himself would try to contact the head of the investigation into God only knew what. Bailey reckoned that by at least making the call he would cover himself should Henderson arrive at work ready to eat children, as he not infrequently did.

He glanced at the clock on the newsroom wall. Forget the ten minutes, he thought.

He picked up the phone and punched in the numbers. He put the phone down just as quickly as Henderson strode into the view.

Bailey couldn't believe his eyes. The man seemed to be singing to himself. And he definitely, yes, was smiling.

T
HE MAN WHO IN THREE DAYS
would seem a messiah to Richard Cole was coping with the very worldly problem of foul smelling Englishmen.

He was surrounded and hemmed in by his reeking countrymen. Their Englishness was in itself no bad thing, and he took some comfort in familiar accents and speech. But John Falsham was also being asphyxiated by their pungent homespun. It had rained as it often did this time of year, and the throng had been greatly doused.

Added to this cloying, wooly dampness was the yield of several hundred unwashed bodies, the tinge of fear that even the most boastful felt at an execution, and, most loathsome of all, that peculiar air given off by a mob lusting for the blood of the wretch soon to be put to death. The entire concoction was enough to fell a man.

Falsham, hemmed in on all sides, could do little but wrap his silken scarf around his face and hold fast in his imagination the memory of warm and scented winds from North Africa. He wished now, most fervently, to be back in Spain. But he had been summoned home to England and his native city of London. He had no power to refuse.

It was a very different land to the one he had bade farewell seven years earlier. There was a different ruler on the throne. And the great plot to unseat the present usurper had come and gone. Some of Falsham's friends had paid with their lives for the failure of Fawkes and the others. Though he did not know the man who was about to die on the raised scaffold rising one hundred souls to his front, Falsham was keenly aware that his mission could easily lead to the same grim end.

As he strove to ignore the rankness all about, Falsham turned his mind to what the old priest in Spain had once told him in reply to a question he had posed. At what precise point in passing from this life did the faithful man or woman see or perceive God?

In the moment before death, the priest had replied. Balanced on this
fulcrum between life and eternity, the good man, being in a state of God's sanctifying grace, would enjoy the supreme privilege of seeing God while yet in the physical world. If the man were to be a martyr, the sighting of God would last a longer while, though exactly how long the old priest could not state with any certainty.

Looking to the sky, now clear of the rain clouds, Falsham could see no God. But of course it was not he who was about the enter paradise. It was the priest.

He had become very quickly aware that the man about to die was in Holy Orders. It was the talk of the crowd that a papist, a heretic priest, had been caught by the watch, interrogated by the rightful authorities and found to be possessed of evil power not found in any truly Christian man. And now this priest was to meet his end in accordance with the just laws of the state, and the new church.

Falsham frowned as he considered the priest's fate, now just minutes hence. He shifted his stance and stood on his toes in an effort to better see the scaffold. He was a tall man, a head above all but a few in the crowd, head and shoulders above most. He could clearly see that those atop the scaffold charged with the coming work were making their final preparations. The crowd was so great now that it was difficult to imagine how anyone could actually approach the wooden structure.

Off to one side, meanwhile, a raised platform had been erected for those prepared to pay for a guaranteed view of the spectacle. Standing in the yard of St. Paul's cost nothing. But eight pennies for each pair of eyes were required for the platform that included chairs perched at a slightly higher level than the scaffold. Comfortable proximity to flowing blood, as ever, had its price.

Falsham eyed the seated crowd with disgust. A small gap opened in the throng, and he stepped into it. A man cut across his path, and he used his elbow to heave him aside. The man turned and was about to say something in anger. But the sight of the tall and broad-shouldered man with the Moorish looking face silenced his protest before it was given vent.

Falsham's left hand was clapped atop the grip of his sword, a formidable weapon made of superior Spanish steel. The man had also noticed the length of the weapon. There were two reasons, so, for his silence.

The chatter of the crowd was rising. A great clamor arose from somewhere to Falsham's rear. The prisoner was on his way. A crone suddenly stepped in front of Falsham, hand outstretched, her toothless mouth opening and closing.

No words were spoken. Falsham reached in his pocket for a coin. The old woman took it and without acknowledging the gift moved on through the crowd.

Falsham wondered for a moment if he had just seen God in the guise of this base creature. God did indeed appear to people, but not always in the manner or form expected.

A great cheer rose from the gathering, and his thoughts returned to the matter at hand. No, he thought, the crone had been just what she seemed. There would be no miracles here. Only murder.

Falsham now became aware of a man close by talking above all the rest. He was telling those around him that the priest about to be drawn and quartered had been overheard praying to the devil himself in his prison cell. He knew of this because his wife's brother was a jailer.

Falsham's eyes, brown, deep set and habitually narrowed after years in the sun, rested on the man. Those around the man were asking questions, demanding to know more about the papist's sacrilegious rites. Falsham thought of his blade cutting the fool's throat.

A shout went up but just as quickly subsided. The entire assembly seemed to push forward as one. There were more cries from one side of the scaffold. People on the raised benches stood up. Urgings, commands and curses were heard from the direction of the great church, demands for a way to be made clear. Someone was heard urging the priest to repent.

And then Falsham caught his first glimpse of the man who was to die. He was on his back, tied to a litter being pulled by a nervous horse.

Falsham raised his eyes to the sky again. White clouds moved quickly across the heavens from the west to the east. There was no heavenly host, just a pair of kites wheeling in circles, wings outstretched to catch the warm updraft, sensing in their nostrils the decay below.

Falsham inched through the crowd closer to the scaffold. He knew what the priest would say when asked if he wished to recant and beg forgiveness of the king. There was nothing to recant, and the priest would only ask forgiveness of God. That was if he managed any words at all. If torture had been applied in full measure, the man's mind might already be in another place.

The litter had reached the steps of the scaffold. Several men were attempting to hold the horse still. The prisoner was untied and pulled from the litter. Unable to stand, the blood having drained from his feet, he had to be pushed, prodded and partly hoisted up the steps.

Once atop he was left to stand for a moment. He did not fall and after a few seconds was able to walk the few paces to the shadow of his rope. It was a curious thing, thought Falsham, but he had seen this before. Once a condemned man had reached the final moments it was if he was given the absolute freedom of his confined realm. The scaffold was now a stage. It was as if the priest was an actor expected to play his part. And he did.

He turned and faced that part of the crowd to the immediate front of the scaffold. As best he could he straightened his back and began to speak. Several at the front of the assembly shouted for silence and a great shushing sound flowed across the yard. The priest, though weak, seemed to sense his moment and raised his voice. It was high pitched with an accent of the West Country.

The priest paused, and when certain of the crowd's attention, resumed his oration. Falsham could see no evidence of holy office in the priest's clothing. It was ragged and probably belonged to another prisoner now dead. The priest was speaking of the king. He had not, he said, ever conspired to bring harm to the king or any member of the royal household. He wished all in it long life and happiness, but, and here he raised his voice to a higher pitch, in the faith of the one, true, holy Catholic church.

A great hissing rose from the crowd. Falsham's eyes darted in a semi-circle behind him. He discerned a few who did not hiss or issue forth with curses, cries of papist and traitor, or calls for a slower, more painful death.

In all likelihood, the silent ones were recusants.

Falsham turned his eyes again to the scaffold. He admired the priest's courage. His defiance, however, would be rewarded by a longer turn on the rack, a more imprecise disemboweling.

Two priests of the new church who were standing directly behind the condemned man shook their heads in resignation. Some in the crowd were laughing now. Defiance from the prisoner had eased much of the tension. The condemned man would truly deserve all his pain. One of the new church clerics leaned over and spoke to the priest, but his words went seemingly unheard.

The priest raised his right arm. He motioned his hand in a sign of the cross over all, and then, turning, made the same sign to those on the scaffold with him. More cries of protest went up, but Falsham, his eyes darting one side to the other, noticed some in the seething mass momentarily bowing their heads.

Falsham fixed his eyes on the priest's frail form and consigned the man's all too obvious fear and agony to memory. He wondered if the man harbored doubts about God in his last seconds in a world that here and now, in this place, seemed so utterly godless.

No matter. He would not be a witness to any hanging, to any drawing of a man's body, to any butchery. Turning on his right boot's heel, Falsham pushed past the people now gaping open-mouthed as the priest's head was placed through the noose.

Falsham's hand reached inside his long coat to his doublet and into a pocket containing a few Spanish coins and a set of wooden praying beads. His finger and thumb ran rapidly over the beads and the gold chain connecting them. He prayed for the priest, even as he left him to his enemies.

“Rest with God,” he said.

Falsham uttered his prayer aloud but the triumphal roar of the crowd, its praise of violent death in the shadow of a saint's church, overwhelmed all individual sound.