The South Lawn Plot Read Free Page B

care a whit how he spoke in her presence. But lately he had to consider other matters, one of them being that she was carrying his child.
    â€œThy will be done,” he said. And he repeated the incantation until he heard the noise from the horse's hooves as it walked across the drawbridge.

3
    T HE TAXICAB MOVED EASILY through the mostly deserted streets that crisscrossed the expanse of London between the Morning Post building and Blackfriars Bridge.
    Bailey had kept his counsel for the first few minutes of the ride. He wanted to see if the cab driver was the chatty or silent type. He was the latter. He was also Sikh, young and, by dint of the few words he had uttered in response to Bailey's initial directions, more Putney than Punjab.
    At roughly half way in the journey, Bailey probed with a comment on the weather. The driver responded. By the time they were on the last stretch before Blackfriars, the two men were holding a sparse conversation on the thorny issue of relations between India and Pakistan, the problem of Kashmir and the desire, still kept alive by some Sikhs, for a homeland.
    Bailey's knowledge of India and Pakistan was accidental. It was a byproduct of his interest in cricket. Still, he gave the driver his silent grade. An A.
    â€œI work for the Morning Post ,” he said.
    â€œI know; that's where I picked you up,” the driver replied.
    â€œHere's my card,” said Bailey. “You're on the town and all over the town. Ever come across anything you think might be of interest do me a favor and give me a bell. There might be a few quid in it for you.”
    â€œNo need for money,” the driver replied. “If I come across anything of interest I'll call.”
    Misplaced bleeding pride, Bailey thought.
    The cab pulled up at the end of the bridge that reached the north bank of the Thames.
    â€œThis will do fine, said Bailey. I think I can just about see them. I can walk from here.”
    Bailey paid the driver and added a generous tip. He made a mental note to pad his expenses accordingly.
    â€œHave a good night, my friend,” he said as he stepped out of the taxi and on to the damp pavement.
    The driver nodded and drove off. Within a couple of seconds the cab's tail lights had been sucked in by the fog.
    Bailey pulled the collar of his inadequate coat up as high as it would go and began to walk across the bridge. Traffic, what there was of it, was moving both ways on the far side. The police had closed the southbound lanes.
    Several vehicles were lined up along the closed stretch, a couple of them with flashing emergency lights that sent darts of light into the fog, a pea- souper that seemed to be drawing endless replenishment from the waters of the river.
    Bailey reached into his coat pocket for his press pass. A young woman constable stood between him and the center of activity that, Bailey concluded, had passed its peak. An ambulance was pulling slowly away, presumably with the body.
    â€œEvening all,” said Bailey. It was a little joke, a line from a long ago police drama on the BBC. The young officer didn't seem to get it.
    â€œNick Bailey from the Morning Post . DS Plaice is expecting me,” he said.
    The constable looked doubtful. “Wait here,” she said. And by way of reinforcement, “Don't move.”
    She walked to the rear of the yellow tape crime scene line that was now holding back a crowd of precisely one. Bailey lifted his watch. He had enough time to get over his story. It had better be up to snuff, he thought.
    The constable was now talking to a tall man in a green raincoat with a rather incongruous looking baseball hat on his head. She turned and walked briskly back to the crime scene line.
    â€œGo ahead sir,” she said.
    Her formality was a good sign. He was being taken seriously.
    He stepped over the tape and walked purposely towards the small knot of officers huddled in what was an abutment that broke up the otherwise linear