Skylark Read Free Page B

were
carrying for Milos?"
    "Y-yes. I'll have to return it to him." She sobbed harder. "I don't even know where he
lives."
    "Let me see it."
    "What?"
    I took the handbag and pulled the plastic sack out. It contained papers, all right--a rather
messy typescript of fifty or sixty pages in a cardboard folder, the kind with fabric ties. The
manuscript looked like a single document but I couldn't tell because it was in Czech.
    At least I assumed the language was Czech--I would have recognized German, French,
or Italian, and Russian uses a different alphabet. Parts of it looked like a play, with names in
boldface on the left margin. Maybe it was Milos's translation of Macbeth . At that
thought, I teared up, blinked hard, and stuffed the bag back in Ann's purse.
    The policeman returned. He was wearing one of those tall black hats and looked to be
about my age, which was thirty-three.
    He came right to me. "They'll transport him to St. Botolph's."
    "How is he?"
    "Breathing with difficulty, madam. Pulse slow and erratic."
    "But he's still alive?" I let out a long breath. I hadn't been sure. "Where's St.
Botolph's?"
    "Near the Fulham Road." He told me the cross street. "You say you don't know the man
well." He sounded skeptical. "Whom should we notify?" He had a characterless accent--not BBC
and not cockney--and he persisted in addressing me rather than Ann. We had both explained that
Milos was Ann's friend and that I barely knew him.
    The medics were wheeling Milos's gurney toward an elevator in the terminal building.
Ann was still crying, though not as hard as she had been. I said, "I don't know who Milos's next
of kin would be. You should call the Hanover. He works there and they probably have
records."
    "Oh. Right." The constable made a squiggle in his notebook.
    "Here, mate, can I leave now?" Bert interjected. "My old lady's waiting for me at the
pub. I don't know nothing, and I didn't see nothing till the bloke hit the floor."
    "You can't leave, Mr. Hoskins. Not until the detectives come. Nor you, Mr. Whipple."
That to the wretched missionary who was probably composing a letter to Salt Lake City
explaining why he had been wandering around London without his partner--Mormon
missionaries are supposed to go in pairs. And how he had got himself embroiled in an assault
case.
    Or would it be classified as attempted murder? I knew English law and American law
were similar but there would be some differences. According to my husband, who was a cop for
twelve years, American criminal law differs from one state to the next. Even the terminology of
British law was bound to be different from the California Penal Code.
    I thought about Jay, not for the first time, with a surge of longing that almost brought me
to tears again. He would straighten everything out when he got to London, but he wasn't coming
for another week. I fumbled in my pocket for a tissue and blew my nose. The bobby was taking
the missionary through the blameless account of what he had seen--nothing--and scribbling in
the notebook. Far off the characteristic yip , yip , yip of a British
ambulance siren faded on the air and a District line train pulled in on our side, bound for Ealing
Broadway.
    A good fifteen minutes later two plainclothes detectives showed up. Ann had regained
her composure, the missionary had lost his, and Bert Hoskins was fit to be tied. I began to feel
sorry for Constable Ryan.
    I was sorry for myself. The Circle and District Line platform of the South Kensington
Tube station lies above ground in semi-daylight, not underground. Rain sheeted down on the
gleaming tracks. I was cold, my elbow ached, and I was beginning to tremble.
    Ryan introduced us to Detective Inspector Cyril Thorne and Detective Sergeant Richard
Wilberforce and gave a summary of the incident couched in what sounded like official police
jargon. They seemed to be able to follow him.
    Thorne was a nondescript man, fortyish--about Ann's age--with what I thought was a
faint North Country