The South Lawn Plot Read Online Free Page B

arms and looked at his shoes. “Essex,” he said. “Near Colchester, some big old Tudor pile. Seems they managed to hang on to the place when their brethren were being kicked out of everywhere else. Apparently they didn't let on what they were and managed to keep below the radar even during the Cromwell years. That's about it, really.”
    â€œWas this guy based in Essex?”
    â€œNo,” said Plaice quickly. “He was actually working at a parish just a few miles from here, south side of the river. Saint something or other.”
    Bailey raised his watch close to his eyes and hit the light button. His sight, he thought, must be fading because he was doing this more and more of late. Too much damn time in front of computers.
    â€œWell, that's not bad at all, Superintendent,” he said. “Henderson will be happy; mysterious order of near extinct priests and now one less of them. ‘Deadfriars’ might be the headline on this one. You wouldn't mind if I sit in one of your cars to send the story over my mobile? I'm freezing.”
    â€œNot at all, go ahead,” Plaice replied. “'Deadfriars.’ Not bad. And absolutely appropriate in the literal sense, too. It's a play on the bridge's name, I assume.”
    â€œBingo,” said Bailey.
    Plaice stared straight at Bailey in a way the reporter could not ignore.
    â€œWell, it's less a play and more the literal truth,” he said.
    â€œWhat do you mean?” Bailey said.
    â€œThis reverend, the one who did a Calvi tonight. I'm not saying he was murdered. We're still working on suicide.”
    Plaice paused.
    â€œYes?” Bailey said invitingly.
    â€œHe's not the only one.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œOur dead Padre is not the only member of his order to meet his maker recently. There was another one, a couple of months back. Looked like a suicide for sure but two priestly suicides in a short space of time, same order. You're the reporter, work on that one.”
    Plaice had a slight grin on his face now. He had the sense that if he asked Bailey to jump in the river for another installment the reporter might just make a move for the parapet.
    Bailey snatched the cigarettes from his pocket and pulled one from the pocket. “Smoke?” he said, offering one to the man who had just handed him a chance at the Henderson hall of fame.

4
    A LITTLE OVER FOUR HUNDRED MILES to the north west of Blackfriars Bridge, a man who knew a thing or two about big stories was savoring at close hand the power of the Atlantic Ocean.
    He had checked the light, estimated the wind speed and, as best he could, the time lapse before the next squall.
    The man decided that the light was his most immediate concern. It was changing so rapidly that taking the right shot would be mostly luck, regardless of the sophistication of the equipment he had balanced precariously on the stony shingle.
    It was, he decided, all rather exquisite. If only it wasn't so damn bone chilling.
    He pulled aside the waterproof cover and placed his right eye to the viewfinder. Through it he stared intently at the plumes of spray being blown off the tops of the waves. The rollers were six or seven feet at least, despite the sheltering headland at the northern end of the bay and the great mountain looming over its southern approaches.
    He closed his right hand into a little ball in an effort to restore some feeling to its extremities. He slowly wrapped his fingers around the trigger and squeezed his forefinger lightly against it.
    The Leicaflex whizzed and clicked.
    Steven Pender raised himself. He was in better physical shape than he had been in months, but his back protested. He looked to his left and right, taking in both ends of the deserted stone beach. Had he the advantage of a gull's eye view he would have seen a spit of land not unlike a cocked thumb. He was standing at the end of it, where the stones and shingle fell into the bay.
    Pender fired off the camera