The South Lawn Plot Read Online Free PDF

mundane events in Washington. There were, as was to be expected, frequent references to his host's wife and daughter and several to his work at the embassy. The first secretary and political officer at the Irish Embassy was, by dint of his own words, clearly a little restless. Promotion to ambassadorial level, it seemed, had not quite come quickly enough.
    Pender opened the pages for the last couple of days. Manning referred to his presence in the house, but there was no indication as to how he felt about his English guest. No criticism, no praise, no pithy observation. Perhaps he expected his visitor to spy. There was, at various points in the diary, mention of a man named Michael who appeared to be linked to the cottage in some way. Pender had met no one else since his arrival. He rubbed his palm over his chin as his eyes fixed on the stranger's name. He needed a shave.
    Pender closed the diary and placed it back exactly as he had found it. He had noted that it had been placed with the text facing out from the desk, so upside down from his perspective. It might have been nothing, but he hademployed tricks himself from time to time when he wanted to be sure that eyes were not prying. One of them was to place an object at a particular angle, or in a specific position relative to others.
    He walked across the room to the wall that served as a picture gallery. Here there were several dozen framed photographs arranged in what appeared to be chronological order, oldest on the left and most recent on the right. This had been only one aspect of the overall order and neatness that Pender had observed seconds after his arrival in the cottage. But he also had the sense that it was someone else's order. Manning's late father.
    The oldest photographs were of Victorian ladies and gentlemen staring at the lens as if it were the barrel of a gun. There were several of soldiers dressed in British uniform, the bellhop variety. They were from the ranks though one appeared to have been a junior officer. Moving to the right, Pender crossed the threshold of the twentieth century.
    One of pictures was of a group posing with an early model automobile. And then there were more uniforms, a couple still British but several of stern young men in the dress of the Irish Republican Brotherhood.
    Before he was posted to Northern Ireland, a time when the place could dish up dramatic photos as if on a conveyor belt, Pender had taken a crash course in Irish history. It served him well now as he could distinguish between the IRB boys and a lone member of the Irish Citizen Army.
    The photos to the right of the soldiers were all of civilians, family groups and the occasional individual. There were three photos of a man in barrister garb. The father. Pender knew of him, or at least of him. Manning senior had been famous, or infamous, for his ability to get IRA men off the hook, even in the non-jury special court in Dublin. His death, fortunately for many of his likely future clients, had come after, and not before, the Provo ceasefire.
    Pender's version of a sixth sense told him that something had changed in the room. He turned and stiffened. A man was standing in the door, an old man. He was bareheaded and wore no coat. He looked at least eighty though he had a thick and wavy head of white hair.
    But it was the eyes that Pender was drawn to. They did not betray age. They were a grayish-blue and not in the least bit inquisitive.
    â€œYou must be Michael,” Pender said with a half smile. The old man said nothing. The nod was barely discernible. The old man was carrying a couple of plastic bags. He turned, and with surprisingly agile steps, went into theadjoining kitchen. Pender glanced at his watch. It was a few minutes shy of four thirty. The old man had apparently brought dinner and, from the banging of pots now coming from the kitchen, was also intending to cook it.
    â€œSplendid,” Pender said to himself. “A batman for the old legal