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Authors: Sheila Simonson

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BOOK: Skylark
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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 accent, though I could not have said how far north. Not Scotland.
Wilberforce was a young black man, well-tailored in a conservative way, and crisply London in
his speech. Both men wore damp raincoats and Wilberforce carried an umbrella. Was Milos's
umbrella circling London on the floor of the carriage? I wondered if Circle Line trains ever
changed directions. The case of the revolutionary umbrella, I thought, on the edge of
hysteria.

Thorne took the two men briskly through their stories, had Sgt. Wilberforce repeat their
addresses, and dismissed them. The missionary fled down the Piccadilly Line escalator. I stood
up and shook hands with Bert Hoskins. When I tried to thank him for helping he looked
embarrassed but gratified. Ann shook his hand, too, and launched into southern graciousness. A
westbound train pulled in and Bert boarded it with red ears. He was a nice man. I hoped his wife
was not the worse for waiting in the pub.

"Now, Mrs. Dodge," Thorne began.

I interrupted. "Inspector, our flat is only a few blocks away. I'm feeling shaky, and I
need a cup of coffee." I eyed him. "And a visit to the loo. Can't we go to the flat? I know you still
have questions for us."

"It's irregular..."

"If you cart us off to Scotland Yard, it will take forever. Traffic is bound to be heavy this
time of day, and I really don't feel up to par."

Thorne sighed. "Very well, but we were just going to take you to the Chelsea station, not
the Yard. We'll drive you to your flat."

I thought of mentioning the parking situation in our neighborhood. Of course they could
park an official car anywhere. "I want to walk."

Beside me, Ann squeaked.

I ignored her. "I need fresh air." I gave him the address. "It's the basement flat. Blue
door at the bottom of the stairwell. We'll meet you there in half an hour with hot coffee."

The two men exchanged glances. "If you're ill, Mrs. Dodge, happen we should drive you
to hospital." That was Thorne. Wilberforce watched me without expression.

"I just need aspirin. In fact I'll pop into the chemist's on the Old Brompton Road and buy
a bottle on the way home. Come on, Ann."

Ann started to protest, took a look at my face, and shouldered her wretched bag. Thorne
and Wilberforce escorted us past the ticket booth, which was fortunate because Ann couldn't find
her pass.

The arcade that forms the main entry to the station is a wide covered walkway, open at
both ends and crammed with vendors of flowers and newspapers. A young violinist from the
Royal Conservatory of Music poised by a florist's stand playing something baroque. Coins
littered her open instrument case. We parted from the two detectives there--they said they had
parked their car in the Exhibition Road by the French consulate. I led Ann across the wonky
traffic island to the south side of the Old Brompton Road.

"Whatever were you thinking of, Lark? It's raining pitchforks and hammer handles."
Ann was getting her second wind, and indignation sharpened her soft Georgia drawl.

I trotted past the chemist's and into the stationer's next door, pulling her inside with me.
The small shop stayed open until seven for the convenience of the thousands of tourists in the
area. There were no other customers by then, and the shopkeeper was closing up.

"Give me Milos's papers," I hissed.

"What?" She fumbled her purse open.

"Yes, madam?" The proprietor was a Pakistani man, middle aged and dapper.

"Will you please photocopy this document?" I removed the papers from the folder and
thrust them at him.

"It will take much paper."

"Fine. Do it. Fast, please. We're in a hurry." To my surprise, because London retailers
seem bent on thwarting customers whenever possible, the man didn't argue with me. Of course I
had been rolling around on the floor of a subway carriage, and my tan raincoat was smeared with
blood. I must have looked like a madwoman.

The man was back with the stack of papers within ten minutes, and he only charged me
six pounds ten. Ann and I made it to our flat, used the loo in sequence, and heated up the kettle
with five minutes to spare.

I hid the extra copy of Milos's papers in my suitcase and put the originals in the hall
closet, dashed into the bathroom, and scrubbed my face free of grime. I was running a comb
through my hair when the doorbell rang. Though I hadn't had time to change clothes, the raincoat
had absorbed the worst of the damage. There was a run in my pantyhose, but my wool suit
looked presentable.

I met Ann in the hallway. The whites of her eyes showed. The kettle was shrieking.

"I'll make the coffee," I said, "if you'll let them in. Cheer up. We're going to be open as
day, except about the photocopies."

"I'll follow your lead, Lark, but you're crazier than a coot."

I patted her arm. "Don't I know it."

Chapter 3.

I set out a tray with four cups and the
cafetière
, ignoring an ancient
percolator that had come with the furnishings. The coffee itself was the standard grind
Americans buy in cans, a short step up from the beastly powdered instant the English use. If the
water was very hot, the pressée pot made passable coffee. The percolator did not.

I could hear Ann being hospitable in the foyer. I set the cream pitcher and a bowl of
demerara sugar beside the pot and added a stack of paper napkins. Ann's voice grew louder. I
carried the tray three steps into the "parlour"--it was also Ann's bedroom--and stopped dead as
she entered, with Miss Beale trailing her and directing a vague smile my way.

The police were practically on the doorstep and here was the landlady, a woman of
exquisite, even oppressive, gentility, from whom we were renting the flat by the week. Lord love
a duck.

"Mrs. Dodge," she murmured when I had greeted her. I had asked her to call me Lark
several times, to no avail. Apparently the rulebook in her head forbade such an intimacy between
renter and rentee. What her rulebook had to say about cops in the living room I didn't dare
think.

Miss Beale--no Ms. about her--went on murmuring. She was a tall, indefinite woman
with vague gray eyes and a taste for misty tweeds. She had brought me the iron I asked for when
I discovered my linen suit had creased itself into permanent wrinkles in my suitcase. She hoped
it would be satisfactory and would we take a glass of sherry with her that evening? Nineish? Her
niece and nephew would like to meet the Americans.

I abhor sherry. I thanked her for the invitation.

Ann's eyebrows were signaling Distress. She was tired. She was sad. She wanted to go
to bed with a hot water bottle. Tough.

Without saying anything so grossly direct, Miss Beale had intimated that we were in her
house on sufferance. Ordinarily she did not let the flat to foreigners. I suspected we were paying
twice what she would have charged two Englishwomen. Even that outrageous sum was less than
the tariff at hotels with a minimal degree of comfort, however.

"Would you like a cup of coffee?" I couldn't very well avoid offering. The aroma
permeated the room.

She eyed the French device, which I had bought at Marks and Spencer, as if it were an
artifact from outer space. "Oh, dear, no. I must take Rollo walkies." Rollo was her miniature
poodle. She had lately had Rollo wormed, but her account of his sufferings was blessedly brief.
Five minutes later the coffee was brewed and the landlady gone. Ann and I looked at each
other.

"I beg your pardon," I said. "It was high-handed of me to accept the invitation, but with
Jay coming I do not want to offend Miss Beale."

Ann sighed and took the iron into the kitchen. "Do you think we should tell her about
Milos?"

"When we have to. If we pay next week's rent tonight, she'll be less apt to kick us out
when she hears of Milos's, uh, accident."

Ann's eyes narrowed, and she nodded. "
Two
weeks' rent if we can con her into
taking it."

The bell rang again. Ann made for the door, and I pressed the plunger on the coffee
pot.

There was a damp flurry as the detectives shed their rain gear in the hallway. Ann took
their coats.

Inspector Thorne entered, rubbing his hands. "Cold. You did say coffee?"

I indicated the sofa, alias Ann's bed. "I can brew a pot of tea, if you prefer."

Thorne said coffee was just the ticket, and both men sat on the sofa. Properly speaking,
it was a loveseat. A full-width Hide-A-Bed would not have fit in the niche it occupied. I let Ann
take the scaled-down armchair and pulled a straight chair from the table, only one leaf of which
we extended. Using both leaves would have shoved the table into the arm chair. It was a small
flat.

I poured coffee and creamed and sugared according to instructions. Ann took hers
black.

Inspector Thorne sipped and made an appreciative noise. Wilberforce looked less
enthusiastic. Perhaps he preferred tea.

"Now, ladies, I must take you through your statements again. This is a bad
business."

"Have you heard anything further about Milos's condition?" Ann set her cup on the wide
arm of the chair. I hoped she wouldn't knock it off.

"His heart stopped in the ambulance..." Ann gave a gasp."...but they were able to start it
again. He's alive, madam, in a critical state."

We were all silent for a moment, sipping our coffee.

Finally, Thorne took a decisive swallow and set his cup on the low coffee table. He
turned to Ann. "I don't understand your association with Mr. Vlaçek, Mrs. Veryan. Will
you explain?"

Ann bristled. "I went to a play with him in Lark's company. I don't see what's so
mysterious about that. We saw
Macbeth
at the Barbican. A matinee. We had a bite to eat
at the cafeteria there. Then we got on the subway, I mean the Underground, and rode home.
That's all there is to the relationship. I like Milos. He's a nice man. But I don't know much about
him."

"I see. How did you meet him?"

Sgt. Wilberforce had drawn out his notebook and was taking shorthand. I wondered why
he didn't just use a tape recorder.

Ann sat very straight, hands clasped in her lap. "Lark and I attended the booksellers'
convention at the Hanover Hotel last week. Milos waited on our table one night. We were having
dinner with half a dozen other booksellers. He was a good waiter--animated, bantering with us,
not all stiff like the other waiters. They never said anything but 'Yes, moddom.' I thought Milos
was witty."

Thorne kept his face blank and his eyes on Ann. No doubt he was wondering why
anyone would want an animated waiter.

Ann looked at her hands. "Yesterday evening, I ate supper at the Green Lion in Bredon
Street. I was alone because Lark was dining with a friend of her mother's. I saw Milos, who was
also eating alone, and I spoke to him. He joined me. We had a nice conversation, mostly about
the theater. He knows a lot about London theater. He hadn't seen this
Macbeth
, though,
so I asked him if he wanted to meet us at the Barbican today."

BOOK: Skylark
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ads

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