The Blue Diamond--A Daughter of Sherlock Holmes Mystery by Leonard Goldberg

Author:Leonard Goldberg
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: St. Martin's Publishing Group

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

St. James’s Park

On our ride to St. James’s Park, we were forced to take a circuitous route, for a number of streets along our way were deemed impassable because of bomb craters and stacks of rubble. As we drove by one house in particular, it reminded us of the stark realities of war. The front of the dwelling had been blown away, exposing all of its rooms, one of which was a library, with all its furniture in disarray and most of its books on the floor, although a few remained on their shelves. An elderly couple was picking through the ruins, attempting to salvage what little they could. The man was stunned, the woman crying.

Throughout our entire journey, Joanna repeatedly glanced back over her shoulder to make certain we were not being followed. Only when she was satisfied we were not under surveillance did she instruct the driver to turn off onto the Mall, a processional road that linked Buckingham Palace to Trafalgar Square. We continued on until the taxi was ordered to stop at the entrance to St. James’s Park.

As we strolled through the tall, stately gates, I was once again impressed with the beauty of London’s oldest royal park. It consisted of fifty-seven well-manicured areas of expansive lawn and trees too numerous to count, all of which seemed to be centered around a large lake, with water so calm a ripple could not be seen. Over the magnificent lake was the iron-span Blue Bridge, which offered visitors a spectacular view of Buckingham Palace. In the distance we could see a man standing near the bridge feeding a gathering of swans who announced their presence with loud, hoarse trumpets. They, like the individual handing out food, ignored our approach.

Drawing closer, we could clearly make out the individual stationed beside the iron-span overpass. He was a tall, slender man, with aristocratic features and golden-gray locks that curled at his collar. His dark suit, with its chalk stripes, was perfectly fitted and expensively tailored.

“Suppose he chooses not to see us?” whispered my father.

“He will not be given that option,” Joanna whispered back.

My wife slowed the pace to steal a final glance at the lawn we had just traversed. “All seems clear.”

“But surely the assassin would not carry out his plan at noon in a royal park crowded with visitors,” my father noted.

“It is not the assassin I am concerned with at the moment, but those who may be watching Oliver Anders.”

“Pray tell why would he be under surveillance?”

“Because he is a rogue whose associates might not consider him to be trustworthy,” Joanna replied. “This is particularly so when there is a priceless Ming vase involved.”

We approached Oliver Anders, who continued to pay us no notice, nor did the feasting swans, with their long necks gracefully curved into S’s. As Margaret Howe had predicted, the flock of snowy white swans contained a few black ones as well.

“I require a moment of your time, Mr. Anders,” Joanna introduced.

Oliver Anders quickly turned to us, obviously caught off-balance.

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