Skylark Read Free Page A

and Ann chafed his hands. Eventually two uniformed men
brought a stretcher and lifted him to it. The waiting crowd, now swollen by two trainloads from
the opposite platform, and God knows how many from the Piccadilly Line below, milled about
and murmured. No one shouted or made a fuss. They stood clear of the doors, but they had the
same ghoulish curiosity in their eyes that crowds at a disaster showed at home. A group of
uniformed schoolchildren swirled around the edge of the crowd, voices piping, until a stern
woman rounded them up and removed them from the scene. They had probably been on a field
trip to the Natural History Museum. There was a dinosaur exhibit.
    The men bore Milos to the center of the platform, and the train we had ridden moved
out. Commuters eddied about us. Two trains succeeded each other on the eastbound track. At
last, the St. John Ambulance crew appeared and began to examine Milos in a thoroughly
efficient, professional way.
    I had been answering questions more or less at random. No, he was not my husband. I
didn't know his medical history. I told the London Transport officer what I knew about Milos,
which wasn't much. Ann spelled his last name, Vlaçek, and a different transport officer
took it down.
    Ann was very quiet, big-eyed, sad. She clutched her huge purse to her bosom and
mourned.
    I was sitting on a bench by the stationmaster's little booth by then, with Ann and the
Good Samaritan in tweeds sitting beside me. His name was Bert something, and he looked
worried. The kid in the blazer was a Mormon missionary. I was too caught up in the wonder of
that to register his name.
    For no reason at all, I started to think about Milos's umbrella. It must have fallen to the
floor of the carriage. And where was my purse? Small flurry of anxiety. Ah, still in my raincoat
pocket. Unlike Ann, who toted passport, traveler's checks, identification, and sundry household
supplies around with her, I wasn't carrying much of value. I stood up and brushed my coat
off--and found the bloodstain. I had opened my mouth to announce that interesting fact when one of
the St. John crew came over to the policeman who had materialized at some point in the
proceedings.
    "This man has been stabbed," the paramedic said with real distaste.
    All of a sudden, everyone was looking at me, Ann with her hand at her throat, as if she
might choke.
    "Well, I wondered," I muttered. "He bled on my coat."
    The bobby whipped out his notebook. "You're a foreigner, miss?"
    "American."
    All of them but Ann nodded, as if my nationality explained everything. With a last
accusatory glower, the paramedic strode back to his mates. Someone had wheeled in a gurney
from the direction of the station.
    The policeman gave us a comprehensive scowl. "Stay where you are." He went over to
confer with the ambulance crew, which was busy doing something to Milos's still form.
    "My bloody luck," Bert said. The kid in the blazer looked as if he was going to cry. Ann
did.
    I sat back down beside her and put my arm around her shoulders.
    "I just wanted to go to a play," she wailed. "It's not fair!"
    Poor Milos had just wanted to go to the play, too. I didn't say that. I was trying to sort
things out.
    It was all so puzzling. Where was the woman whose bag had been stolen? Had the thief
also stabbed Milos? Why stab Milos at all? Especially on a crowded Underground train during
the rush hour. It didn't make sense. Nothing made sense.
    I glanced around at the crowd, which was finally beginning to thin. Trains pulled in on
one side of the platform or the other every two or three minutes, blotting up more people than
they let off. Where was the lady whose trivet had been snatched?
    I patted Ann's shoulders and scanned the crowd. No sign of the woman. She had said her
bag had been stolen, not bags. Which one? She'd been carrying a large one from Peter Jones and
a smaller Harrods bag.
    Memory stirred. It was the Harrods bag. "Ann, do you still have that packet you