The South Lawn Plot (7 page)

M
ANNING TOOK A LAST LOOK
at the house through the rear view mirror.

His mother would voice no objection to his decision to sell the place, of that he was certain. The only problem was he was not entirely sure that his decision to sell would be final. He had doubts. He was reminded of them by the fact that he had not told Old Michael.

He had informed Pender that he probably would put the place on the market. But that was as much to keep the Englishman at bay. Pender had been curious about the property and its history, asking all sorts of questions.

In response to Manning's concession that a sale was probably on the cards, Pender had replied that after one or two more successful assignments, which Manning had taken to mean lots of photos of dead bodies, he might consider buying the place himself.

The Englishman seemed to be thinking in terms of retirement, a prospect still many years off for Manning, the pensioned but unsettled civil servant.

Manning had attempted to steer Pender away from thoughts of making a bid. Either the place would go very quickly, or not at all, he said.

All this had happened last night. Manning focused his eyes ahead, turned the key in the ignition and steered the car slowly down the hill. The Englishman had departed thirty minutes earlier saying something about Africa as he bade goodbye.

When he reached the paved road Manning hit the pedal and covered the few miles to the town without encountering a single vehicle. It was early in the morning, and the weather was deteriorating again. Manning reckoned the local farmers would be putting the spring's work off for another few days.

The town, by contrast, was showing signs of activity when Manning rolled into the main street. These days, people living in country towns were often commuters who worked in bigger country towns. The days of living above your own shop were fading fast.

Manning, like a commuter, kept driving. Michael had prepared a thermos
of coffee and wrapped some toast in aluminum foil. Manning had decided he would leave the house quickly, stop at some point along his initial route and have his breakfast before joining up with the main road to Dublin.

The landscape turned wilder about five miles beyond the town. The road took a more or less straight course through blanket bog. It was other-worldly, the only hint of human existence the stacks of soggy peat rising five or six feet off the ground at irregular intervals.

The sun was hidden by dark gray clouds. There appeared little prospect of it breaking through anytime soon. And soon might be days.

Manning's eyes darted right and left seeking out signs of life, any movement at all. A few unidentifiable birds in the distance were the only creatures moving. Manning reckoned there were fewer and fewer places in Ireland where a person could feel alone in the world. This prairie of peat was one of them.

He glanced at the car clock. It was a little after eight. The lights of an approaching truck came into view, moving fast. Manning slowed a little and pulled in tighter to the road's edge. The truck, which was laden with frozen food according to the lettering on its side, roared by without giving an inch, or a mile an hour.

Manning pulled into a wider stretch of what passed for the grass verge. He opened his flask of coffee and unwrapped his toast. He turned on the radio and picked up an FM station on which an announcer was talking excitedly about a conflict thousands of miles away. The Irish were infuriated by distant wars. The one on the island itself, even the relative peace that had followed, had long inspired mostly indifference.

Manning worked the radio dial until he found classical music. It was Beethoven's something or another. He closed his eyes, took a big gulp of coffee, replaced the cup and lid on his thermos, turned the steering wheel hard to the right, gunned the car and headed back the way he had just come. The toast could wait.

Manning studied the road carefully and was ready for the narrow turnoff he had passed roughly four miles back. There were no road signs. The single lane road, if it even amounted to that, ran in a northerly direction right through the bog. Manning turned, slowed a little, and proceeded into the brown expanse.

His new route had once been a literal bog road, built in famine times between somewhere and nowhere in order to justify the minimal feeding of the starving. Though it was so narrow that two cars could not meet without
one pulling off, the surface, as Manning quickly noted, was extraordinary. It was spanking new blacktop, courtesy of the European Union. Somewhere in Brussels, he thought, an official had ticked off this bog highway as a job completed, and completed well. It might see only a handful of cars in a given week, but its existence was enshrined in a computerized list along with the motorways, routes, and autobahns of the new Europe.

“For the love of God,” said Manning as the needle on his speedometer approached forty, a rare speed in these parts.

As the miles rolled by, the landscape changed. The bog receded and was replaced by small fields full of thistles and surrounded by stone walls, or ramparts of grass-covered dirt. Here and there small scraggly trees were bent sideways by the wind.

Soon, plantations of conifer trees began appearing and the land started to undulate. It would not be long now. Manning was going miles out of his way but Dublin could wait. He had to see the place. One more time and that would suffice. Perhaps. But just one more time. Then he could return to Washington with his mind set at relative ease.

As if to confirm the correctness of his new course, a burst of sunlight broke through the clouds. Its effect was instant and magical. But it made the clouds look even darker by contrast. It was as if nature itself was offering Eamonn Manning a choice.

Now he could see the bend in the road. He remembered it because of its multitude of direction signs. Most of them were for historic sites. One was for a long neglected holy well.

The lone sign relevant to the purposeful traveler announced the town three miles distant. Manning smiled. He remembered from before another sign, a mile closer to the town. It had listed the distance as four miles. Would it still be there, or had someone spotted the discrepancy?

As it turned out, all the signs had been changed. They now displayed mileage in kilometers, and the second sign accurately noted the distance reduction. The country was changing. Seemingly bigger in metric, it had also become more conscientious with regard to measuring itself.

Manning tried to remain easy in his mind as he knocked off the final couple of miles. His reason for taking the diversion from his planned trip back to Dublin was, he told himself, simple curiosity. Of course, it was, and of course, it wasn't.

The road became dead straight in the final few hundred yards before the first houses. Manning slowed the car until he matched the speed limit.

Would all eyes turn to him as he rolled into town, like some gunfighter riding into Dodge?

He knew his fear was baseless. Nobody would recognize him here because nobody knew him. Besides, he was a high-ranking government employee. As such, he possessed something close to a native version of the diplomatic immunity he enjoyed in the United States.

Manning entered the street leading to the center of the town. As he remembered it, three roads met in the middle of the place. At the end of this one, just at the point where the other two branched off, two banks sat on opposite sides. They were stolid pillars of society, guardians of the community's money. Targets.

There were more cars parked than on that day so many years ago. Other than that, the town appeared to be slumbering much the way it was the last time, that unusually hot summer's day when even the town dogs had given up their wanderings.

Manning barely glanced at the banks. He swung to the right and took the street leading northward and out of the town. A couple of minutes later and Manning was back in the countryside. He arrived at the fork in the road. To the left was the fast route to the next county and beyond it the border, while to the right there was the road that led into the wild heart of the adjoining county's hill country.

Manning turned the car into the right fork and pressed his foot gently on the accelerator. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. It had been a minimal exorcism, but it would do for now.

After a couple of miles the land began to rise. Cows gave way to sheep and the trees turned to the familiar shrunken and gnarled variety. Several things had become fixed in Manning's mind from that day. The ruined cottage by the roadside, the steep hill and the blind bend just before the large period house with the horse paddock. An Irish ranch.

Manning turned the car sharply onto an unpaved road just wide enough for one-way travel. After about a quarter of a mile he turned left into an abandoned farmyard. It looked even more desolate now. The front of the roofless house was almost covered in ivy. Manning stopped and without hesitation stepped out of the car.

He stood and carefully listened. There was nothing except a couple of singing birds and the wind, which, he reckoned, must blow around these parts 360 days out of 365.

In spite of the apparent solitude, Manning was not entirely sure if he was alone. He walked over to what had once been a shed for animals and peered inside. It reeked of dampness and decay. The yard was about twenty yards wide by thirty long. The farm, in its heyday, had been no larger than twenty acres. And that would have been big for the area.

The front door of the house had long rotted away. Manning stooped slightly as he walked into what had once been the combined parlor and kitchen. When they became accustomed to the limited light, his eyes rested on the weed-infested ground in front of the stone fireplace. He shuddered and fought a rising urge to look over his shoulder. A rustling noise from a corner of the room made Manning turn. Just a rat, he thought.

The house was as he had remembered it; a tomb for the memories of vanished generations. Manning turned and walked back out to the yard. The nearest inhabited home was at least three miles away. That was why this place had been chosen. It was off the beaten track as well as being plain beaten.

Manning closed his eyes. He saw nothing. There were no ghosts here. What fears he would have to face had nothing to do with the dead. They only involved the living.

“Rest in peace, you stupid bastard,” he said.

F
ALSHAM HAD STOPPED ON THE ROAD
.The house was quiet with no life or movement evident despite the growing daylight. The farm, he had been told in London, was behind the house so any early activity in that quarter would not be visible from here.

He looked at his boots. He had walked for several miles in order to rest the horse that had been given to him by one of Beacon's men. They looked like the shoes of a traveler, well worn and muddy.

Falsham had decided to proceed by night to avoid unwelcome attention, whether from those who enforced the king's law, or those who made a living by breaking it.

Even now, with the end of his journey in sight, Falsham was no less cautious. Eyes fixed on the house, he mounted the horse and steered the animal towards the gate and passage under a portion of the house that opened into the inner courtyard.

This place, he fervently hoped, was one where he could truly rest after his journey from Spain. London had been a furious succession of furtive gatherings and whispered talk. He had been surprised by the large number of men who seemed intent on carrying to the end what earlier plotters had so dramatically failed to accomplish. This had made him nervous. More heads were more mouths. Falsham preferred to work alone, or at most in groups no greater than three or four.

Several men, the same ideal three or four to his tired eye, fussed around Falsham's horse as he dismounted. As the animal was taken away to the stables, a young boy came running from a door at the far end of the courtyard.

“My lord, my master bids that you follow me to his chamber,” the boy stammered.

Falsham motioned to the boy who began walking quickly towards the door, despite an obvious limp. Saddle sore and stiff in the joints now that England's cloying dampness was making itself felt again, Falsham followed at his own pace.

The boy entered the house and turned to his left, Falsham following him at a slightly faster clip. The hall in which Falsham found himself moments later was spacious but dim. No sun had yet penetrated the windows, and all the night candles had been snuffed out.

The boy again motioned to Falsham to follow him down the hall where a wide staircase signaled access to the rooms on the upper floor. Falsham's sense of anticipation was heightened. He was nervous, fearful for his friend. The reports in London had not been good.

The boy was waiting at the top of the stairs. Falsham followed him down another hallway. He was keenly aware of the wooden floorboards creaking under his feet. Faces of former Ayvebury Hall inhabitants stared grimly at him from the wood-paneled walls. The boy had stopped at a door. It was slightly open, and he gave it a loud knock.

The door was opened fully by a young woman, wrapped in a blanket. She motioned to the boy who entered the room. The woman acknowledged Falsham with a slight nod of her head before walking past him and down the hall. She might have been a ghost. Falsham stood for a moment. The boy came out of the room with a piss pot.

“Sir, the master bids you enter,” he said.

Falsham nodded and took a long stride into the room, which, unlike the corridors of the house, was well lit by the morning sun. He saw the man but did not recognize him as his old friend. Where once there had been a formidable presence there was now a shrunken shadow. Falsham barely caught the cry surging upwards from deep in his throat.

“Richard,” was all he could say before embracing his companion. It seemed as if the other man might crumple to dust at the slightest touch.

“Sit down, sit down,” Falsham commanded as he ushered the man's bony frame back to the chair by the writing desk.

“As you wish, John,” the man said. He managed a smile, but the effort was evident.

Falsham was about to ask the obvious question, but the man motioned it away with a wave of his skeletal hand. Richard Cole was clearly facing his life's end.

Falsham managed to smile, but there was little joy in it.

“So, John, what is the news from Spain?”

“It can wait,” Falsham replied as his friend slumped in his writing chair.

“No it cannot,” the man retorted. There was a rasping sharpness to his voice.

“As you can see clearly, my friend, there is little time left for me. So what, for the love of our savior, is the news?”

Falsham turned his back, took a couple of steps, paused for a second and turned again to face his impatient interrogator.

“You will have heard that Phillip is anxious to make secure the peace with England.”

“Yes.”

“Our friends in the Spanish court seem to have little appetite for the plot. All they speak of is a desire for peace and trade. Damnable trade. I fear they have given up.”

“Not all.”

Falsham folded his arms and stared at his friend. The gesture invited further elaboration.

“There are others who have Phillip's attention and trust and they sing a different tune. One of them has been here, at Ayvebury. This emissary expressed a desire for our forbearance on the grounds that Spanish entreaties for peaceful coexistence with England are but a ploy, a foil. Spain simply needs time to replenish her strength. She will strike when the time is right, and when she does, England will be restored to the faith.”

“And who might this charmer be?” Falsham said.

“It is necessary,” came the reply, “to keep this person's identity secret. The more who know a name and a message, the greater the chance that it might slip by means of accident, design or torture. But you know that well. I trust you, of course, my friend, even more than I trust myself, but revealing this person's identity would pose a risk to our design, your life and what's left of mine.”

“If not who, then what is this emissary?”

“Just that, John. An emissary, a friend, a diplomat.”

Falsham almost spat. “A diplomat. I have met some. A treacherous lot.”

“Easy, John Falsham, you are tired and must rest and eat. We have much to do. Our treason, so alleged, will require patience this time. Patience, planning and, yes, even a little diplomacy.”

Falsham turned and walked over to the window where his host had first seen the morning. His eyes narrowed as they focused on a sparrowhawk weaving in pursuit of its prey.

Falsham could not make up his mind. Was he still the pursuer, or now the pursued?

The sparrowhawk struck a small bird a glancing blow from above, and it fell to earth.

“Death is so easy,” Falsham said, as much to himself as his friend, who had again turned to his writing.

“You know, and I know, John, that many men who would agree with such a sentiment, though from their graves. But if our venture is successful there will be little death and great reward for the living; that I can promise.

“The November plotters were brave, yes, but they were like the otter who closed his eyes before snapping at the trout only to open them again once in the fisherman's net into which the trout had unwittingly fled. Above all, we will have our wits as we go about our business. Do you not agree?”

Falsham found himself smiling, broadly this time.

“Always the man for words Richard. You would convince a saint that prayer was sin,” he said.

“Quite. But now, John, we must convince others that our sins are as prayers.”

Falsham was feeling hungry, and, as if in answer to his body's needs, the door opened to reveal several men carrying a small table, two chairs, bowls, jugs and platters of food.

“Excellent,” said Falsham. “You, my friend, understand the weary traveler's greatest needs.”

As he said this he suffered a pang, not of hunger but of guilt. Judging by his friend's appearance it was clear that it had been some time since he had enjoyed a hearty appetite and a satisfying repast.

The servants busied themselves setting up the furniture and fare in the center of the room.

“I would have us sit by the window, but I find that strong light is burdensome on my eyes, John.”

Of course,” said Falsham eagerly. “It is the company I keep and not where I keep it that is my greatest joy. It has been too long. We have much to discuss.”

The older man nodded and motioned towards the table laden with meats and fowls, venison, rabbit and gamecock. There was also a large load of bread, vessels for ale and a wooden bowl with a grim looking broth that Falsham took to be medicinal.

Falsham watched Cole as he walked to his chair. One of the servants pulled it back and helped his master sit.

“Take off your sword, John. You have no need of it here.”

Falsham looked at his sword, and it occurred to him that he had not unbuckled it since his arrival in England. He had slept with it. Even in the room with Beacon and the others he had kept it as close as it could possibly be.

“Of course,” he said as he loosened his belt and handed the weapon to one of the departing servants.

“Perhaps you might make its edges a little keener,” he said to the servant who bowed in response as he left the room.

Falsham took his seat. Cole motioned for him to eat, and he did with gusto. When he had finished he emitted a loud belch and leaned back in his chair.

“Who is the woman?”

Cole stared intently at Falsham.

“A divine gift, the vessel in which sails your deliverance, John,” he said.

Falsham said nothing in reply. He rubbed his bearded chin with his hand and awaited further explanation.

“As you are aware, John, my beloved Mary died some years ago. In the intervening time I occupied myself with my business ventures. As you are also aware, I have been more than successful. Indeed, they say I might be the richest man in England. Of course, they only mean money. My lack of an heir was a poverty I found too hard to bear.”

“Ah,” said Falsham.

“No. John, it's not how you think it is. The child is mine, yes. But the child will not be the one who holds all of this when I pass a few days hence. No, the person who will take charge of my fortune and estates is one who I trust with my very own life, and you would hardly count a child in that regard, would you?”

Falsham shrugged his shoulders.

“You don't seem to understand. The person who commands my fortune commands our enterprise for as long as it should take. And believe me, it could take some years, perhaps many years. This time we must be patient and only strike when we are assured of success, and assured again.”

“I agree,” said Falsham.”

“Then, John,” said Cole, “you will also agree that there is but one man in
all of England who can be trusted with my fortune, this, my lately acquired new and final home and, most importantly, my greatest desire for our mother church. And that man is you. John Falsham. You and you alone.”

Falsham felt as if the air had been sucked from his lungs. He reached for a drink and missed. A bowl of something fell to the floor with a clatter.

“Jesus,” he said.

“I'm afraid not, John. You will have to do,” said the old man, and, amused by his own wit, he succumbed to a fit of coughing.

After a few moments he had recovered sufficiently to speak. He stared intently at his friend.

“Richard Cole will soon pass from this life. And that will leave only John Falsham. In a way, God forgive me, you will be like our lord on earth with the heavenly host up there.”

The man motioned his eyes skywards.

“But remember John. There's no going into a tomb for you. You must stay alive at all costs if England is to be redeemed.”