The South Lawn Plot

by Ray O'Hanlon

  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.”

  14

  NICHOLAs JEROME BAILEY was in one key respect a fraud. He had encouraged an image of himself at the Post, one of a street wise Londoner with more than a tinge of cockney about his words, his attitude and the way he faced the world.

  Bailey's roots were in fact miles away from Bow Bells. He was the product of a distant Surrey suburb. It was a life he had tried to shed from the very first day his parents had allowed him to roam London's streets with a couple of school chums.

  In the years that followed, Bailey had been drawn into the city and its ways as if he had been a speck of stardust pulled by the gravity of a giant planet. He rarely left the metropolis now, even when assignments and junkets to exotic global destinations were dangled before his desk.

  His attachment to the city had been mostly accepted, though on one or two occasions there had been rows over his unwillingness to travel. A fistfight had erupted over an assignment in Brussels. There was more to it, of course. The news editor that had been on the receiving end of Bailey's right hook, if it could be called that, was known for his drinking binges. Henderson, the newsroom's most senior man, had restored a semblance of peace. Bailey avoided Brussels and the offers of overseas assignments had all but dried up.

  Henderson had come to rely on Bailey as a reporter who was always within reach. Even on his holidays, Bailey stayed within the confines of the city, often walking the dodgier streets in search of the unusual or the downright mad. More than once he had forsaken days off to cover for others. The union didn't like it and had warned Bailey of his overly generous behavior towards the company. Bailey had told his union head to go screw himself.

  It was night now and the next day's edition would be all but set. Bailey had managed to get through this day off without plunging down obscure alleyways in the East End, or drifting into the newsroom.

  The Blackfriars story had been a sensation, but it had since stalled a bit. There had been a couple of follow-ups, but Henderson had told Bailey to bide his time while he made some phone calls to his police pal.

  More would be coming presently, but Bailey was under instructions to take a little rest in the meantime. He had reluctantly agreed and only because he trusted Henderson's instincts. He figured, and his hunch would turn out to be correct, that Henderson was loading up on information before going for broke with a front-page story that would send the rival tabloid news editors into a furious tailspin.

  A real scoop, according to Henderson, was very different to an exclusive. It was a front-page lead story that all the other papers would have had to run on their covers if they had it. As he had said more than once, a true scoop was a very rare thing indeed.

  Bailey plunged his hand into the open tin and was disappointed to discover that he had eaten all his mixed nuts. It was the consequence of a day spent almost entirely in front of the television in his flat. And that day was fading fast. It was nine o'clock. The familiar musical introduction to the BBC news filled the room. A news junkie, Bailey warmed to the sound. He sat up and forgot about his nut crisis.

  The top story was the culmination of several days of reports that had even grabbed the imagination of the insular tabs. Tensions were rising in the Taiwan Strait as the United States signaled that its backing for Taiwan's independence bid might not be absolute.

  The news anchor, a woman with a South Asian face and untraceable BBC accent, spoke of mainland Chinese sea, land and air forces being mobilized as Beijing warned it would not stand idly by and see Taiwan fall prey to what it described as renegade forces.

  Mainland, Bailey thought. Why they didn't call them bloody commies anymore was a mystery. He leaned forward in his chair. It would be just his luck to have world war bloody three erupt just as he was about to break the Blackfriars affair wide open.

  “Bugger,” Bailey said staring at the news anchor, putting on her most concerned face for the camera.

  Bailey got up from his chair and walked into the tiny kitchen. The news from China, dramatic though it was, was of little immediate consequence. Besides, it seemed crazy beyond belief that war would actually happen. Bailey reached for the kettle.

  He liked his tea. It slaked his thirst better than coffee and seemed to temper the nicotine buzz that was now just about constant. Bailey fancied himself as something of a tea aficionado. And a cuppa was still an uncontested English thing in an increasingly jumbled up world.

  The world's best teas still came from places once colored red on the world map. Not Chinese red. So he had his packets and little replica tea chests stacked neatly on a cheap tin tray that displayed images of London: Buckingham Palace, Tower Bridge, the Houses of Parliament, Kensington Palace and his favorite, the Tower of London.

  He wondered if there were trays with just bridges on them. He would keep his eye out for one with Blackfriars and serve Henderson his coffee on
it.

  The neatness of Bailey's tea pile was the extent of his domesticity. His was a bachelor flat complete with standard furniture, television, stereo, a futon bed and a stack of murder mysteries on the floor of the small bedroom. What passed as art were a few prints brought in by former girlfriends. There was a lone reproduction impressionist and a mish mash of 70s rock and 80s club band posters. Bailey's pride and joy was a signed poster of David Bowie. People once told him that he looked a bit like the singer. But that was years and pounds ago.

  There were a couple of family photos on a bedside desk. These gave a clue to a childhood that was rather different from its adult outcome. The largest photo was of Bailey, his doting mother, stern faced father and an older brother who was a moderately successful barrister.

  Bailey's father had died before he had escaped grammar school. His mother had moved to a flat on the south coast overlooking the channel, but not, as some of the real estate brochures trumpeted, with a clear day view of the French coast. He visited his mum three or four times a year. She called him once a week, always on Sunday.

  The kettle whistled and Bailey went about his tea business. He warmed the small teapot, dropped in two and a bit teaspoons of tea leaves, twirled the liquid in the small pot and poured, tea first and then a little milk. He didn't fancy anything too strong. He tried to concentrate on the brew but his thoughts shot back and forth between Blackfriars Bridge and the Taiwan Strait. He was excited at the thought of what might happen next, both in the home story and in the Far East.

  War between the Chinese and the Taiwanese would be a real stretch. Then again, there had been off-the-wall wars in the not too distant past. The Falklands for one.

  Bailey took a sip of his tea and made his way back to the safety of his couch and television. It had taken all day, but he was finally at ease. He stared at the screen, the memory of his last visit to his mother barely intruding on his thoughts. She had made another pitch on behalf of marriage. He was not getting any younger, there were nice girls down at the bowling club; she could arrange a couple of introductions.

  This was normal fare for a visit to mum. But last time she had scored once or twice. He was, it had to be acknowledged, getting older, and he felt the burden of a decision, one way or another. It was lately pressing in more than usual. And it would be a decision. Simply falling in love was out of the question.

  His mind drifted through a sea of old girlfriends. The television was doing a follow-up special on the looming battle for Taiwan. That war might have been over when Bailey opened his eyes. For ten seconds or more he stared at the screen. It was late, very late. He knew because there was a thirties black and white gangster movie on. He had seen it before. Rico was getting his, but it was the thumping on the apartment door that brought Bailey to his senses. Christ, it must be two in the morning, he thought.

  Bailey's hand instinctively moved to his tea mug. It was cold. There was a clock in the kitchen, but it seemed of little importance when compared to the ruckus coming from the hallway.

  Bailey did not have a spy hole in his door, nor a chain that allowed a look out while the door was still secure. So he grabbed the first weapon within reach, the mug and its stewed contents.

  “Who is it?” he roared at the door. The response was muffled, but he recognized the voice.

  “Bloody hell,” said Bailey as he opened the door. Bailey stared beyond Henderson just as Henderson stared past Bailey. The hallway was otherwise empty. Its dim yellow light was relieved not by the ceiling, or walls, but by the Polish landlady's portrait of the Black Madonna on the wall across the hall from Bailey's door. It seemed to shimmer, all day and all night. There were no exterior windows. Having seen that Henderson was on his own, Bailey turned and stood facing into the room. Henderson was checking out the place.

  “There's nobody here, no women, nobody,” Bailey said. Henderson stopped in the center of the room.

  “Christ,” said Bailey, “You look like hell. What happened? Editor fire you or what?”

  “No such luck,” Henderson retorted. “Have you got your press card?”

  Bailey nodded in the affirmative. “It's in the drawer beside my bed.” His look asked the next question.

  “We're going out,” said Henderson.

  “Bit late for a drink,” Bailey replied, a half smile creeping across his face. “Then maybe not.”

  “You've a cell phone,” Henderson said, ignoring Bailey's attempt at humor.

  “Press card, phone, notebook, pencil and one of the old hats with a card saying press sticking out the side. What the hell is going on, somebody shoot the prime minister?”

  “Not quite,” said Henderson. The man's eyes were bulging, and he seemed to be staring straight through Bailey who was beginning to find the entire scene a bit unnerving. Henderson had never been to the flat, morning, noon or night. All of a sudden he had mounted a home invasion.

  “It's the cardinal,” Henderson said.

  “Who?”

  “The cardinal, the Catholic archbishop of Westminster.”

  Henderson allowed his words land for a moment. Bailey figured what was coming next.

  “How? He said.

  “I don't know,” said Henderson. “But I have a taxi downstairs. We're going to meet Plaice.”

  “At the station or Blackfriars?” said Bailey. He was awake now, the first trickle of a newsroom's very particular adrenaline beginning to take effect in his veins.

  “Downing Street,” said Henderson.

  “Then I had better grab a tie,” said Bailey.

  “Does the PM know we're on the way? Will he make us tea?” Bailey's cheek was wasted. Henderson was already out the door and heading for the stairs.

  Bailey sensed his world tilting away. A Chinese war was one thing. But somebody was murdering priests and princes of the Catholic Church in his own backyard. This was becoming more than just a story, more than even a bona fide Henderson scoop.

  15

  IT WAS CLOSE TO NOON.The sun had vanished behind clouds and there was the scent of impending rain in the air. A gathering breeze rustled the branches of the great chestnut tree, still a few days away from full leaf.

  Falsham was intent on what sounded like a cuckoo's call in the nearby wood and was about to relay his observation when Richard Cole let out a long sigh, one that made plain his ailments.

  “It might be spring, my friend,” said the older man to Falsham. “But this wretched body of mine is in full winter. And so it shall remain until the end.”

  “Oh, be still,” replied Falsham. “I shall hear nothing of death. There has been too much of it and it must take pause, if only for a short time.”

  Falsham turned his eyes again to the trees. He scanned their bases but detected no movement. The only sound was the parasitic bird and a lone blackbird. The two were engaged in an unintended duet that Falsham was about to remark upon when the man spoke again.

  “Take me to the chapel, John. There is little weight in my bones to discomfort you.”

  “Where is this chapel? I did not see one upon my arrival this morning.”

  “And that is good, my friend. A steeple tipped with the cross of Christ is not something to lord over the countryside in these times. No, this is a humble place of prayer. Better still, a hidden one. In your earlier ramblings you might have seem the worn path that leads into the copse to the side of the house. It is there.”

  Falsham awaited further instruction, but when no word was forthcoming he stepped towards the chair in which his friend was sitting, his upper body stooping towards the earth. Falsham pushed his sword scabbard backwards with a flick of his hand and, bending on one knee, slid his left arm under the man's near useless legs.

  The old man leaned with the chair and Falsham, with little effort, scooped him upwards and out of his seat. Cole's face betrayed his discomfort.

  “Thank you, John. Now if we could proceed to the chapel. It is time for my psalterium beatae virginis. You can join me if you wish. You will
need our holy mother on your side if you agree to undertake the task I am about to set out before you.”

  Falsham began to speak but was interrupted.

  “Ask no questions yet,” the old man said firmly. “What I must say I will say in God's presence. Now hurry. I feel rain on my face, and I have no wish to be wet besides all else that troubles me.”

  Slowly at first, but then with longer strides, Falsham covered the ground from the tree to the path. Skirting the old moat, he carried Cole to the trees that stood like sentinels on one side of the great house.

  “Keep on this path,” the old man said, breathing hard despite being carried.

  Before long the two reached a clearing.

  Falsham looked around. “I see nothing of this chapel,” he said.

  “My retreat, John. Perhaps I shall rest here for all eternity. I could imagine no better place. Cathedrals are too noisy, don't you think?”

  Falsham laughed. “Trees and a leafy floor into which you have placed your chancel and knave. There was a time when you were a man of grand style, Richard Cole. You have evidently trimmed more than that beard of yours. What little ambition you have. Why, I seem to recall we once planned a mighty monument to you in Seville, or was it Granada?”

  “Cadiz. And that was the wine, John.”

  Falsham scanned the open space which appeared to his eyes as bell-shaped. At the narrower end he saw a low cut table covered in a lace cloth. There was a book and other objects. Beside the table was a kneeling stool.

  “Your cathedral is a most sensible affair. It even affords a view of the heavens,” Falsham said.

  “All a wise precaution,” said the old man. “From time to time we have visits from the king's men, and they are alert for all trappings of popery.

  “I am impressed, as I am sure is the son of our heavenly father. He would feel quite at home here,” said Falsham.

  “Yes,” said Cole. “Now if you would be so kind, please carry me to my sanctuary.”

  The altar, with its lace triptych, was adorned with two candles already lit. They were protected from any wind by two hollowed pieces of wood that served as screens.