The South Lawn Plot Read Online Free Page A

on me I'm afraid. I guess I'm a bit of a heathen.”
    Plaice seemed not to hear.
    â€œIt doesn't make much sense,” he said. “Priests don't commit suicide, or at least it's such a rare event as to be extraordinary. It was a mortal sin for Roman Catholics, you know, not anymore though. The church realizes now that someone who takes their own life really isn't capable of sinning. So this really doesn't add up at first glance.”
    â€œYou Catholic yourself, then?” said Bailey, sensing that he had Plaice going somewhere, though he could not quite figure out where.
    Plaice pulled himself back.
    â€œMy faith isn't the issue here,” he said. “His fate is what it's all about,” he added glancing at the ambulance which was now turning off the far end of the bridge, lights on, siren off.
    Bailey silently cursed. He wasn't going to get a look at the body now. It did not matter for the literal telling of the story so much as the sense of it that he would hold in his mind for a possible follow up; an interview with family members perhaps.
    â€œHow do you know Henderson?”
    Bailey felt the rapport with Plaice, if there had been any to begin with, slipping a bit. Henderson, for want of someone, or something, better, seemed to be the common ground between them, something to warm up the descending chill.
    Bailey knew from experience that the relationship between the police and the press was far from being a love affair. Each needed the other and would use the other to the utmost if the circumstances demanded. Other than that there was a wariness bordering on outright mistrust and occasional hostility.
    And then there was the matter of the type of paper and the type of copper. Some of the higher ranks were tabloid inclined, while others were serious broadsheet sorts. Plaice didn't seem to fit either category.
    â€œWe were in the army together,” Plaice said.
    â€œWell now, that's a surprise. Henderson never mentioned the fact that he served queen and country,” Bailey replied.
    He hoped that Plaice had failed to detect the now bubbling curiosity in his response. The fact that Henderson had once worn army uniform was genuine news. Bailey wondered if anyone else in the newsroom knew, because Henderson had never mentioned it. And for sure never came across as a military type. He didn't seem quite organized enough.
    â€œWhich regiment?” said Bailey. But before there was any reply, a detective who had been standing nearby suddenly sprang to life.
    â€œExcuse me a moment,” Plaice said. He turned and walked over to the subaltern. The two men huddled and spoke in low tones. Bailey tried to catch what they were saying but even the still, damp air failed to carry the substance or even sense of what the two men were talking about.
    Bailey looked both ways, up and down the river. Somewhere a clock chimed and, almost in unison, his stomach growled. He had not eaten for hours. He thought of smoking a cigarette, but thought better of it. Some people took offense. Lestrade here might be one of them.
    Plaice returned to where Bailey was contemplating his longed for curried chips.
    â€œWell, this is what we've got that we can give you,” he said.
    â€œWe can't release his name right away until we are sure all his family has been informed. But you know that. He's a priest all right, Roman Catholic. A member of a rather small and obscure order called the Order of Saint Anselm.”
    Bailey's eyes narrowed. “Never heard of them,” he said.
    â€œNeither have I,” Plaice replied. “I had someone back at the office look them up. They are an English order, founded in the early seventeenth century. A bit of a hard bunch, Jesuits with an extra edge, my man described them.But there's hardly any of them left, no more than a couple of dozen, maybe fewer than that.”
    â€œWhere do they hang out? Do they have a monastery or something like that?”
    Plaice folded his