The South Lawn Plot

by Ray O'Hanlon

  “The stable boy,” said Cole in answer to his friend before he could ask the question.

  “Can he be trusted?” said Falsham.

  “Can anyone?” Falsham shrugged and turned his attention to the table.

  A small wooden carving of the virgin occupied a corner. There was also a jug of water, two small goblets and an apothecary pot.

  “A simple holy place, John,” said Cole.

  Slowly, Falsham eased the old man into a kneeling position. With great effort Cole straightened his back and placed his gnarled and broken hands together in supplication.

  “Is there a priest hereabouts?” Falsham looked around the clearing as if he might encounter a robed monk saying daily office in a shadowed corner.

  “Yes, indeed, there is. He is in the house. But you'll not find him. He has a hidden room and there he will remain for a few days yet. We are soon to have visitors other than our Spanish friend. They will not be of the sort that takes kindly to a servant of Rome.”

  “Visitors? You are well informed,” said Falsham.

  Cole did not reply. Instead he appeared to enter a trance, one that lasted for several minutes as he gazed at the flickering candles. He broke his silence with a long sigh.

  “Do you remember that time, John, when we met in the mountains north of Madrid? I was returning to England, you were just stepping a first foot in King Phillip's sunny garden.”

  “Yes, I well recall it. We discussed vigorously the heavens and the order of the spheres. You worked hard to convince me of the truth of what that Pole, his name I forget…”

  Copernicus.

  “Yes, precisely. Copernicus. You agreed with his view that our world went around the sun. I challenged this though you must understand that I merely did so for sport. I believe I did agree with the concept. I recall suggesting that it was we who did the moving by virtue of God being wise enough not to throw fire all about the sky lest it fall from its heavenly path and set the world aflame.”

  “A most sagacious assumption; or perhaps blasphemy. Perhaps you should be an astronomer. You could dance around all the mathematics such men employ and merely order out the universe by means of a little faith and sense.”

  “I believe mathematics to be sensible,” replied Falsham.

  Cole smiled and returned to his silence.

  Falsham, not so patient the second time, interrupted. “How is that you own this house? I was unaware of such wealth and substance in your family. You did not display the like of it in Spain.”

  “Why display wealth? It merely turns minds the wrong way. This is my family seat. The woman with whom I now share a bed is my wife, and, by some miracle, she carries our child. It will be born about two months hence.”

  “Ah.” It was now Falsham who chose silence, if only for a few moments.

  “But,” he said.

  Cole waved his hand. “Yes, John, I can sense your thoughts. Soon, she will be a widow with child. But ease yourself. I have been preparing busily for the day, the end. In order to keep it out of the king's reach I have sent much of my money to trusted friends in Antwerp, Amsterdam and Delft, where I procured this apothecary pot. The Dutch are a pragmatic people. They care little who they do business with, so long as it profits them.

  “So now I have just this one substantial property left on English ground, at least that part of it that is Essex. Should the enemies of our mother church come for me they will find little to take. I do own a house in London and for a time it allowed me to be to be close to the finest learned men of the healing arts. But that is no longer important.

  “My wife is a wonderful woman and has cared for me well. We were married in secret so she is not known publicly as the wife of Richard Cole. And that, of course, will mean that when I am gone she can just as easily be another man's wife.”

  Falsham stared at his friend, a thought forming in his mind, a question on his lips.

  Cole, however, had turned his face away. Words tumbled forth from his mouth.

  “Pater noster, qui es in caelis, sanctificetur nomen tuum.”

  Falsham was staring at a rabbit that had emerged from the undergrowth into the clearing just a few feet away. The animal seemed unconcerned with the two men.

  “Adveniat regnum tuum. Fiat voluntas tua, sicut in caelo et in terra.”

  Falsham looked to the sky. The sun was breaking through the clouds. A dart of light made him blink. The rabbit, he knew, did not have the means to shut out what he did not want to see.

  “Panem nostrum quotidianum da nobis hodie, et dimitte nobis debita nostra sicut et nos dimittimus debitoribus nostris.”

  Falsham rose to his feet and walked toward the tiny animal. He wanted to give comfort, but the rabbit turned and fled back into the cover of the trees.

  “Et ne nos inducas in tentationem, sed libera nos a malo.”

  For the first time since he had set foot back in England, Falsham recognized the nagging thought that had been kept at bay only by constant, secretive travel. It was not quite fear, but rather an overwhelming sense of not knowing while at the same time suspecting.

  Others had plans that would involve his active participation. He was just beginning to understand what they would entail. He shook his head, bowed his head and put his hands over his eyes.

  “Amen,” he said in response to his companion's beseeching.

  16

  THE TAXI HAD BEEN RATTLING its way across London for twenty minutes before Henderson said a word.

  “Needs new shocks.”

  The reference to the vehicle's sorry state was not directed at Bailey. Henderson was merely thinking aloud. He continued to look out the window. Occasionally, he would name a street. At one intersection he relayed a grim history. Just down the lane to the right was the scene of a stabbing murder. He mentioned a name. It didn't ring a bell with Bailey. Probably years ago, he thought. But Henderson sure knew his London.

  The city had fallen into a fallow period between the time that night revelers finally headed home and the first business of the new day started up. It was a diminishing span, but London was not quite yet Bangkok.

  The relative calm allowed the taxi to cover the distance from Bailey's flat to Downing Street in short order, despite its condition. The driver said nothing. He too sensed that the heavy-set man who occasionally talked to himself wasn't up for chit-chat.

  The driver had reggae music playing at low volume on his radio and from time to time he barked something to his dispatcher. Each man was working his own patch. Bailey knew what his was, and what the driver's was. Henderson right now was a complete mystery.

  “We're nearly there,” Henderson said, this time clearly directing his words at Bailey.

  “Yeah, things have been getting familiar the last mile,” Bailey replied.

  He wanted to go on, ask Henderson what the hell they were doing out in the wee hours. But he opted for a less direct approach.

  “I take it the paper was gone by the time you got the news.”

  Henderson said nothing for a moment. “No, it wasn't,” he replied.

  Bailey, who had been slouched in his seat, pulled himself up. He waited.

  “I got the call, but the deal was I couldn't run with the story. Nobody else will have it in this morning's editions. Television and radio will get it later and so will the Evening Standard.”

  “But we'll get something extra,” Bailey said.

  “We'll see in just a few moments, won't we?” said Henderson. “Just in here, pull in behind that parked car across the street if you can.”

  The driver appeared to jump slightly in his seat. He pulled his cab across the opposite lane which was free of traffic, and in behind a dark colored car. The Downing Street security gate was visible just a few yards farther on.

  Henderson paid the driver and by the reaction from the man Bailey reckoned that a generous tip had been proffered.

  Bailey moved to get out of the cab but a strong hand grabbed him by the arm.

  “Wait a
minute,” Henderson said. He pulled a cell phone from his pocket and began hitting numbers. Somebody answered, and Henderson began to speak. After identifying himself he said “yes,” “okay” and “yeah” for about thirty seconds before turning off his phone.

  “Sit tight for another minute,” he said.

  The driver said nothing, evidently happy to absorb the extent of Henderson's largesse.

  Henderson said nothing, and Bailey tried to restrain himself. His self-discipline didn't last.

  “Eh, I don't suppose there's any place around here where a working man can get curried chips?”

  Henderson was silent.

  The driver wasn't. “Maybe we can order some by phone and charge it to the prime minister,” he said.

  “Now, there's an idea. A kind of tax rebate,” Bailey said.

  Henderson turned his eyes towards Bailey and glared. “Put a sock in it. I'm working on something.”

  Bailey shrugged, and the driver shifted again in his seat. The tip was beginning to wear off. Before it finally expired, Henderson opened the door and stepped onto the pavement. Bailey didn't need an order, or an invitation. With a quick good night to the driver he was standing on the street.

  Henderson was already half way to the parked car. Bailey set out in his wake. He had figured out that the occupants of the car were coppers. It was Henderson's exact role in whatever all this was about that he couldn't put a precise finger on.

  Bailey shivered. He remembered some line about the coldest hour being just before the dawn. It clearly also applied to the second, third or whatever it was.

  He hesitated for a moment, not quite certain what to do. Henderson had slipped into the parked car. The taxi pulled past him and headed down past the Downing Street entrance and into the night. There was only one place to go. Bailey covered the last few steps to the car and opened the rear passenger door.

  He caught the whiff of perfume as he sat inside.

  Henderson, his head leaning back on the seat, had his eyes closed. He appeared to be sleeping, though Bailey knew that to be impossible. Henderson, so far as he could tell, didn't need sleep like other mortals and probably managed with less than the reputed three hours, give or take, that sufficed for Margaret Thatcher and Winston Churchill.

  Bailey recognized Plaice at once even though the detective superintendent was only showing the back of his head. The car's driver was the source of the perfume, but he could only make out the back of a head adorned with short hair that appeared fair, though not blonde. The car was turned off, and there was not even a glow from the dashboard.

  “Good morning, Mr. Bailey,” said Plaice. “Sorry to have you up and out at such an ungodly hour, but you can thank Bob for that.

  Henderson did not respond.

  “No bother at all,” said Bailey. “In my next life I'm going to be a night watchman. Nice and peaceful job.”

  “Well,” said Plaice, “you could be a policeman. That's how we started out you know, being the night watch.”

  Henderson stirred and coughed. “Nick isn't interested in history, just the next story,” he said.

  It was actually an attempt at humor, but it missed the mark.

  “Then we should move on,” said Plaice sternly. “Oh, excuse me, Mr. Bailey, this is Detective Sergeant Samantha Walsh.”

  “Top of the mornin',” said Bailey in a bad imitation of an Irish accent.

  “Nice to meet you, Mr. Bailey,” said Walsh in an accent that was as London as his own. She half turned, and Bailey could make out the face of a woman of about thirty, attractive though no bombshell, with a strong chin and slightly coquettish, perked up nose.

  Not bad for the plod, Bailey thought.

  Henderson shattered the moment.

  “We definitely have something. But just what is it?”

  He was throwing the question out generally. Bailey shrugged, Walsh looked at her superior.

  “What we have,” Plaice said slowly and deliberately, “is a series of unusual deaths with a common, though as yet unpublicized thread that is seemingly linking them together.”

  Plaice paused for a moment. He was, Bailey thought, assembling a jumble of half-baked theories and ideas into a sequence, of sorts at any rate.

  “First of all we have a priest dangling from Blackfriars in an apparent suicide. No matter what the truth of the matter, that will likely be the view of the coroner's hearing. Second, we have another priest from the same obscure order who apparently tumbled over a cliff to his untimely demise. That will likely result in an official verdict of accidental death.”

  “We have two deaths. The first seems highly suspicious for the simple reason that instances of clergy killing themselves are extremely rare. The second, well, I'll allow DS Walsh to throw in her sixpence worth on that one.”

  Walsh turned around almost completely, and Bailey could make just about out her full face by the glow of a nearby streetlight. She was better looking full frontal, Bailey thought. He smiled, but it was a wasted effort. Walsh was working.

  “The spot where the priest went over the cliff is only yards from another part of the cliff walk where anyone intent on suicide would more likely choose. It's a sheer drop from there almost a hundred feet to a cluster of jagged rocks.”

  “But of course the local police are not thinking in terms of suicide. They have been working on the basis of an accident given that there were no signs of foul play, the priest had no known enemies, had lived in the area for several years without incident, and appeared completely happy in his life and work. In addition, there hasn't been a murder in the area since the 1950s. The local constabulary has only had to deal with accidents so far as anyone can remember.”

  Walsh paused, allowing the three men to absorb to ponder the conclusions of their faraway colleagues. She didn't buy them, and she was certain that she would not be alone long in the view that the locals had got it all wrong.

  “By the way,” she said, this time directly to Bailey, “I'm talking about a place in Cornwall called Little Polden. The dead priest's name was Father Jeffrey Dean.”

  Bailey had a vague recollection, a couple of paragraphs in one of the other papers.

  “Sure, okay,” he said.

  “Well,” Walsh continued, “Father Dean knew the area well. He would have known the ideal lover's leap, and he would have known the place where he fell over the edge was not particularly dangerous.”

  “But he fell over anyway,” said Bailey.

  “Had he just stumbled over while standing or walking by, he would not have come to any harm,” said Walsh.

  “The rocks below the cliff at that point are even more deadly looking than the lover's leap ones, but there's a grassy ledge just out of sight of the cliff's edge.”

  “Ah,” said Bailey.

  “Father Dean, being familiar with the area, would have known about it. Of course, if he was intent on killing himself he could simply have stepped onto the ledge and then off it. The end result would have been the same as at lover's leap.”

  “But you don't buy two priestly suicides,” said Bailey. He was conscious of Henderson's eyes boring into him.

  “We're not convinced there was even one,” said Plaice, “but please continue, Sam.”

  Sam, Bailey thought; very cute.

  “What I, we, believe might have happened is that Father Dean was not alone. That he might have been helped on his way, but by someone who might not have been so familiar with the locality. To fall over where Father Dean went over, you would have to jump twice. Or be pushed very strongly once.”

  “That's okay as a theory goes, but that's all it is. The best you can expect with that is an open verdict.”

  Walsh looked at Plaice. Bailey noticed the nod from the detective superintendent.

  “There was someone in the area about a week before the, well, incident, who visited Father Dean at his rectory. Dean was attached to a small parish about two miles outside Little Polden and used to ride a bike to church services.”
>
  “He was a fit enough man then,” said Bailey.

  “Yes,” he was, quite the fitness fanatic in fact,” Walsh replied.

  “We went through all his stuff, his books, family knick knacks and his wardrobe.”

  “As you would do,” said Bailey.

  “Funny thing was, he had no coats with any buttons in them. In addition to his working outfits he had lots of wooly sweaters, a couple of windbreakers and tracksuits. He did not have any coats with buttons, not even a long black one, the kind that priests use.”

  “Hardly reason for excommunicating the man,” said Bailey.

  He was conscious all of a sudden that he and Walsh were dealing back and forth between themselves. Their superiors were just listening, letting the two of them work through the muddle of supposition and conjecture to some, as yet undisclosed, final conclusion.

  “No,” said Walsh. “But when I looked around the spot where he went over the edge I found this.”

  Walsh had reached into her pocket and had pulled out a plastic baggie.

  Bailey couldn't quite make out the small object inside.

  “What is it?”

  “It's a button,” she said. “A button with a piece of thread still attached and also a tiny swatch of material. It was well down in a tussock of grass on the ledge, very easy to miss.”

  “Unless you were down on your hands and knees feeling every inch of the ledge,” said Bailey.

  “Precisely,” Walsh replied with some emphasis.

  “Somebody, or more than one other body, helped our poor priest over the edge,” said Bailey. “The good father, fit as he was, put up a bit of a fight and managed to get his hand around a button and rip it off the killer's coat.”

  “That is exactly what I think happened, Mr. Bailey,” said Walsh. “But as you know, it's a long way from thinking something to proving it.”

  “Not if you write for a tabloid, Detective Sergeant,” Bailey replied.

  He wondered if she had noticed his wink.

  But she had turned around and had started the car.

  “Which one of you gentlemen lives closest? Number Ten is booked for the night so it will have to be home sweet home.”