The South Lawn Plot

by Ray O'Hanlon

  Bailey stared at Walsh's illuminated frame. He didn't want the moment to end too soon.

  “He does,” he said pointing at Henderson, who, by his silence, allowed his subordinate's little lie to pass.

  17

  DOES THE PRIEST SAY HIS MASS HERE?”

  “No, it is not safe to do so. It is offered in the house. Perhaps you would like to attend during your stay.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “I detect a little uncertainty, John. Are you unsure of our faith, our principles and our designs?”

  “No,” Falsham replied with emphasis. “But I am unsure of priests. They are hunted and though some might possess a strength that is divine, I find most of them all too human and inclined to babbling beyond what is their preserve.”

  “Let me tell you of a priest, John. He was once inclined to great conversation, and his faith was matched only by his wit in all manner of things. He was also given to being outspoken, and some would say to a fault; but he was fearless in defense of our faith, and similarly erudite in condemning the heresy that is a sad fact of our modern times.”

  Cole, as if in sympathy with his subject, let out a long, rasping cough.

  “As you know, our plot to see off this king and his fellow usurpers at Westminster was thwarted. I had this friend who was taken to the tower for what, happily, was just a brief interlude. In time, it became known to me that he would face what the king apparently believed to be the gentler tortures. He was ready to make his peace with God and, pray heaven, be borne to him on the wings of whatever angel might still be watching over him.”

  Cole seemed to smile and for a moment is seemed to Falsham that his friend was in ascendance over his body's pain.

  “Well, there my friend sat in his cold dungeon awaiting his fate. But God's hand was at work beyond his door. One of the jailers, a large fellow with few teeth, seemed to take pity on him.

  “And it was more than that. It was the case that his wife was of our faith and about to deliver another in a long line of very hungry children. This jailer, though by no means entirely supportive of our cause, had spoken to someone else about my friend's situation, at the urging of his good woman. In turn, he began to speak to my friend of a man who desired to see his plight reduced. He merely hinted at first; or tried to. He was rather a simple soul, and clearly not given to great deceit.

  “The jailed man, my friend, had suffered through some of those preliminary gentler tortures, which, John, I can assure you were anything but gentle. At this time, and it was timely for sure, mere speech from the jailer began to take the form of action.

  “The jailer told my friend of a man who had come to him, a man of some wealth, it seemed. This mysterious person had offered a mad, yet compelling proposal. For a sum of money, one apparently large enough to feed all the jailer's children until they were as fat and grown as he, the man would take my friend's place in the tower and submit himself to the fate that had been so cruelly prescribed for him.”

  Falsham's brows were furrowed and he began to kick the ground with the toe of a boot. Cole sensed that Falsham was both impatient and having difficulty in believing his story.

  “Before I go any further, John, look at me. I am here, not in another place of God's choosing, and there is a reason for this.” Cole waited a few moments until he was sure he not only had Falsham's full attention, but that his friend appreciated the importance of his account.

  “The money, or part of it,” said Cole, “was quickly handed over. My friend's as yet unknown benefactor was quick enough in the head to draw the jailer into his little plot before he could take flight from it. Once money had been exchanged he was like a fish in this mysterious stranger's net.

  “The jailer came to my friend late one night and explained how it would all transpire. Unluckily for my friend, the jailer also explained, he would have to suffer the evils of the rack and other instruments up to the eve of his anticipated execution. This was unavoidable and necessary and indeed he did suffer these things, and the evidence will be with him until the end of his days.

  “The night before the man was to be roped, drawn and quartered, the jailer came to his cell. It was late. He told the man that he was going to beat him about the face to the point where he would be all bloodied and bruised.

  “He would explain later to the warden of the tower that the man had attempted to attack him and had denounced his majesty with such low words that he could not hold back. What the man was unaware of was that his benefactor had already suffered at the hands of this seemingly brutish jailer, though as part of the plan.”

  “So what happened next?” said Falsham.

  Cole took a breath, one as deep as his body would allow.

  “The jailer carried my friend to another, empty cell where his benefactor was waiting in an equally sorry state. They exchanged no words, John. My friend could barely move his lips anyway, but he later told me that he would never forget the look in the other man's eyes. It was not love, John. It was something far beyond that, something he had never seen before except in his imaginings of our savior Jesus. The man had the look of Jesus in his eyes, John; this I swear to you on what remains of my life.” Cole took another breath.

  “What happened next?” said Falsham once more. He was leaning closer to his friend, not wanting to miss a single detail.

  “As it was told to me the mysterious man was put in my friend's clothes and moved to his cell.”

  “Did he resemble your friend in any physical way?”

  “After that ham-fist of a jailer had done his worst John, neither man resembled any person. Only the benefactor's eyes seemed to have survived the beating, and even then my friend could see they were swollen. His beard was identical to my friend's, and his hair of similar hue.

  “In total length and circumference both men were the same, and I suppose in similar clothes they could have passed for each other, unless a careful study was made.”

  “And it was he who was executed the following day?” said Falsham

  “Yes. The jailer took my friend through the more foul and stench-ridden passages in the tower and to a door leading into a street. His wife was waiting. My friend was told to behave as if he had too much ale, as if he had spent the night in some Southwark brothel. He managed with little effort because he was drunk with pain. The woman was almost as strong as her husband, but she had a virtuous voice. She prayed quietly as they made their way to a safe house, not hers and her husband's as it turned out, but of an accomplice to the man now spending his last night alive in my friend's cell.”

  “He was not recognized the following morning?”

  “He was not. The jailer made sure he was assigned to lead the escort party. My friend's original inquisitors were not present as much of the torture had been carried out at night, and this was now dawn. They were in their beds, warm and undisturbed by thoughts of execution. Their damnable work was done.

  “I have no doubt that some eyes closely regarded the man being taken to his death, but to those eyes there was nothing strange in the sight of a broken and mutilated body, especially when that of a condemned man.”

  “And this savior. His identity?”

  “My friend, now blessedly free, had been instructed not to ask too many questions. But, and as you might now suspect, he was a brave and holy man. He was smitten with the deepest consumption and an even deeper rooted desire to be a martyr for God, our blessed mother and our church.”

  “He died on the scaffold? By rope or by the axe?”

  “I do not know for sure. But he did not take his own life. Others did. He is in heaven, John, where soon, I hope, I will get to know him better. He might well be a saint by now. I shall look out for his halo.”

  Falsham smiled. Humor yet lived in his friend though his better humors had deserted him.

  “An extraordinary tale,” he said. And if I'm not mistaken the friend who was freed in such unlikely circumstances is not too far distant. He is that priest perhaps, the one so out
spoken and the one now hidden in a cavity in your house?”

  “It is an extraordinary tale, one of such luck,” replied Cole. “If it had been me in that dungeon, I am certain I would have died without a saint so much as sparing me a pater noster.

  “But you are correct in your assumption. My friend is close, and, indeed, he is that priest. But the point of my story was not so much to inspire as to impress that, if we are to carry out our task, we will be required to display a selfless devotion to match both this priest and the man who martyred himself for him. Any life can be forfeit, and my life will soon end, and possibly even before God intends. But there can be a purpose in death than can change the course of events. It was so with my friend the priest and his God-sent benefactor, and it will be so with me, and you, my God-sent benefactor.

  “We struck at the king, John, and we failed. I have considered the reasons for that failure very closely and know now how me must, and will, succeed in our next attempt.”

  “And who exactly are we?” replied Falsham.

  “Fewer in number than before, but we will match numbers with cunning,” said Cole.

  “What is fewer?”

  “Fewer, for the present, John, is but two. You and me.”

  “But what of our friends in London?” Falsham said, the tone of his voice rising.

  “Perhaps they explained to you, John, that they have a plan to kidnap the king and replace him on the throne with some relative. It is a foolish and capricious scheme, one I believe is doomed before it unfolds. Our friends mean well, but they will miss their mark. Besides, London is awash with spies. I would be surprised if even now they are not compromised. I assume that they merely know you as John?”

  Falsham, nodding, said nothing.

  Cole was staring intently at him. Falsham closed his eyes and drew in the sweet smell of the forest and the new growth of spring. Somewhere, from the direction of the great house, a jackdaw cackled.

  The rain, which had been light, was steadier now and Falsham stretched his right hand with open palm to catch drops. After a minute he drew his hand back and rubbed the rainwater into his eyes. He had forgotten how restorative English rain could be.

  “How do we kill a king?”

  Cole did not immediately reply, not until Falsham noticed a faint smile taking hold of his friend's otherwise pained countenance.

  “To kill a king, we must first save him,” he said.

  18

  BAILEY SILENTLY SWORE.

  He had only closed his eyes for a moment but he had fallen asleep in the back seat of the car. His first thought was simple. If he had snored it would be all over before it started. He didn't move for several minutes and made rustling noises as if he was turning in his sleep, and not snoring.

  Henderson and Plaice had gone. He remembered Plaice talking about checking something out at the yard. It was just a few minutes’ drive from his office, and he had another car available nearby. Henderson had evidently departed with his pal. And now there was just Bailey and Samantha Walsh.

  Bailey stole a glance. Walsh was sitting upright and was clearly awake. There was more light in the sky and less sporadic traffic. The new London day was starting.

  Bailey wanted to say something but kept his peace for a few more moments. Whatever his first words of the new day he wanted them to sound good, appropriate, smart, witty. He managed to choke back a “top-of-the-morning” and settled for “hi.” Walsh, however, was ahead of his game.

  “Good morning, Mr. Bailey. Sleep all right?”

  There was no point in pretending.

  “Yeah,” he said, “always loved kipping in cars. Must be something to do with always being ready to roll. Looks like London's getting up. How long have the big boys been gone then?”

  “Oh, a little over an hour. They went to New Scotland Yard,” Walsh replied. She was so precise, Bailey thought. New Scotland bloody Yard.

  He rubbed his eyes and promised himself an early night. But thirst and hunger would have to be dealt with first. Walsh seemed to read his mind.

  “Cup of tea,” she said and without waiting for an answer reached into a cloth bag jammed between the two front seats of the car. She pulled out a flask and unscrewed the top. Reaching into the bag again she pulled out a gray mug with the letters NYPD on it.

  “Were you in New York?” Bailey asked.

  “Yes, last year, an exchange with the New York Police Department. We were comparing notes on how to deal with terrorist threats.”

  “No doubt,” said Bailey.

  He was sitting up straight now, and his back hurt. Walsh poured some of the milky brew and offered the mug. Bailey reached for it with both hands, grateful for a little warmth. The air outside was chilly as was the inside of the car. Walsh had not switched on the engine.

  Walsh poured some tea into the flask's plastic cup and took a sip. Bailey eyed her through a faint wisp of steam. She wasn't bad at all, he thought. And there was something else though he couldn't quite put a word on it. Not sexy. Confident maybe. Came with the warrant card and the job. She was nobody's fool.

  “So the boys went for a big breakfast in the Yard canteen,” Bailey ventured.

  “I couldn't say,” said Walsh. “But they did say they wouldn't be back.”

  “I don't remember that,” said Bailey.

  “DS Plaice called me. You were asleep,” said Walsh, laying clear emphasis on the final word.

  “Did he, now? Those two have me wondering. Thick as thieves, the pair of them,” Bailey said, ignoring the jibe.

  Walsh did not reply. An early bus rumbled by and somewhere a siren announced a fast moving ambulance. Somebody was having a lousy start to the new day, Bailey thought.

  “What time is it, anyway? Must be time for breakfast,” he said.

  Bailey was hungry. He was also desperate for a cigarette. But hunger, he had concluded, was the more socially acceptable craving. Before he could check his watch Walsh had informed him that it was just after six.

  “Don't worry about breakfast,” she said. “I'm supposed to stay here with you, but I called a mate a while back, while you were asleep, and he's going to drop by with something. Should be here anytime.”

  Bailey warmed to the prospect. Breakfast with Samantha, he thought. Not too shabby. But who was she? No ring and probably close to thirty, a lesbian maybe. No, not that. More of a career copper, pushing hard to make higher rank by the big three-o. A few boyfriends, but no all out heart throb. Bailey decided to fish.

  “Your boyfriend mind you working all these nights?”

  “I rather like working nights. Feels like the time for real police work,” Walsh replied. She was not taking the bait.

  “But you do get a couple off each week,” said Bailey. He was pushing it but something, he felt, was spurring him on, though exactly what he could not fathom this side of a brew stronger than Walsh's tea.

  Walsh was paying no attention. She was looking in the rear view mirror. She turned her body fully around to look past Bailey and out the back window.

  “Breakfast's up,” she said smiling. It was the smile that did it. Bailey knew he would have to ask her out. Police and press liaison duty had its limits.

  Breakfast was delivered courtesy of a detective constable who looked like he had wandered out of the English rugby team's scrum.

  “Morning Leo,” Walsh said with more enthusiasm than even the arrival of what turned out to be hot croissants and coffee deserved.

  “King of beasts, indeed,” said Bailey, only half under his breath. Walsh heard him and gave him a reproachful look. Bailey's wit evidently did not reach beyond the car's interior, because Leo simply gave the back seat passenger a cheery nod.

  “Fresh out of the oven. London's best of French. Do you ever sleep?”

  Leo's concern for his superior carried a familiar tone, and Bailey was worried for a moment. Then he noticed the knuckle-duster wedding ring. Leo had his lioness all right, but Samantha Walsh wasn't in the pride.

  �
��I have the weekend off, so I'll catch up then,” Walsh said.

  “Righty-ho,” said Leo before turning back to his car. Righty-ho, Bailey thought. Christ.

  “Here,” said Walsh, offering Bailey the bag and a tall paper cup that promised wakefulness.

  Bailey took the offering slowly, didn't want to appear greedy. He removed one croissant and returned the bag.

  “The policeman's lot is not a happy one. But with Leo around I'm sure it can be tolerable enough,” Bailey ventured.

  “Leo's a good sort,” said Walsh. “Gentle as a lamb. Doesn't have to be anything else. Most of the yobos take one look at him and throw their hands up in the air.”

  “I'll bet,” said Bailey chewing his croissant. He took a mouthful of coffee. It was hot, black and very strong. Perfect.

  “I do have a little container of milk if you'd like some,” said Walsh.

  “No thanks,” said Bailey. “This is how I like it.”

  We're getting all domestic, he thought.

  “In case you were wondering,” said Walsh, “my job is to keep you off the streets until a little before eight. The Prime Minister will be speaking to the press from the doorstep of Number Ten about nine.

  “I know you have a press card, but the officers at the security gate tend to look for parliamentary identification on top of the regular card. And no matter how many cards you have they will only let in fixed camera position people at that hour. The rest of the press will be cleared in at about a quarter to nine.”

  “But I'll be ahead of the posse,” said Bailey.

  “Precisely,” Walsh replied. “My job is to get you in early so that you can get a front row spot behind the crash barrier in the middle of the street, just opposite the point where the PM will stand.”

  “I'll be in pole position,” said Bailey.

  “That would be correct, Mr. Bailey. At about seven thirty, Mr. Henderson is going to call you on my personal mobile. It's a restricted number. I believe he will then tell you what he wants you to ask the PM.”