Once a Crooked Man (10 page)

Opposite was an ornate and somewhat worn Victorian archway that framed the entrance to a narrow cobbled street. Carriage houses lined both sides. Most of these had been converted into upscale dwellings. A few were used as garages. Lush green ivy grew everywhere. On many of the windowsills were boxes of geraniums. Harry had grown geraniums on his sill in New York but they were deformed dwarfs by comparison to these strong and healthy creatures.

As Harry passed under the archway a FedEx van swung past him into the Mews and drew up at the second doorway on his left. Someone somewhere was practicing a Bach fugue on a piano. In a second-floor window two Siamese cats watched a flock of pigeons as they squabbled over a scrap of bread in the gutter. Midway down the block an elderly gentlemen in tweed trousers, a loose sweater and Wellington boots was washing a blue Bentley with a garden hose.

As Harry walked by, the man looked up from his chores. “Lovely morning!”

Harry smiled in reply.

Two steps later he saw a polished brass plate that read Colonel C. J. Villiers. As he stared at it, a distant church bell struck the hour.

He moved closer to the windows. The interior was obscured by net curtains. Not wishing to draw attention to himself he sauntered past.

At the end of the Mews, a yellow British Telecom panel truck was parked close to the wall. A ladder led from the truck to a roof. At the top of it, a worker in overalls was tinkering with a TV aerial. Inside the cab, a girl with closely cropped black hair sat reading a newspaper. Cigarette smoke drifted from the window. Both glanced at Harry as he passed.

The Mews turned out to be a dead end, so Harry turned back. But for the truck, the street was now empty. The car washer had turned off the faucet and gone indoors and the FedEx van had driven away.

Harry hurried over to the window and peered through the gap at the edge of the curtain but all he could see was the top of a piano covered in photographs in silver frames. As he held up his hand to shield the light, the same upper-crust voice from the phone conversation surprised him with “May I help you?”

Harry looked around but couldn't see anyone. Then a short woman with spectacles and clutching a rolled newspaper straightened up right beside him. “You are?” she inquired with raised eyebrows.

Harry didn't know what to say. Parental indoctrination took over. “Harry Murphy,” he said politely.

“Ah yes,” she said. “And you have come to—?”

“From New York,” he said quickly, deflecting the question.

“Ah yes,” she said with a knowing nod. “We've been expecting you.”

Harry was totally lost.

“Enzo called Charles. Said we should be getting a visitor from New York. Come in and have a cup of tea.” She gave him a smile. “Or no doubt you would prefer coffee?”

“No, tea would be fine,” he said with a silly laugh. “Thank you.”

She handed him the paper, reached into the depths of her purse, took out a key and opened the front door. A silk scarf tied under her chin covered most of her head. Here and there, wisps of gray hair stuck out. She wore a light green Mackintosh and sensible brown walking shoes.

Harry wanted to ask questions but being totally ignorant of who he was meant to be and what he was supposed to be doing, he didn't dare risk saying the wrong thing.

Carefully wiping his shoes on the doormat, he followed her inside. The entrance hall was tiny. A narrow carpeted stairway led to the upper floors. Holding out a hand for the paper she waved him towards a doorway to his left.

“Go into the drawing-room and make yourself at home,” she said. “I'll be with you in a jiffy. You can put your coat anywhere. We're really quite informal here.”

The bright and cheerful room ran the full depth of the building. A marble mantel dominated the far wall with wicker baskets on either side, one for logs, another smaller one for kindling. A chintz sofa faced the fireplace, flanked by two matching armchairs. French doors led out to a lawn that was surrounded by well-tended flower beds.

Harry took off his coat and laid it on a chair by the piano. Maybe he could get a clue from the photographs. He bent over to get a better look.

His hostess called out from the kitchen. “Have you had lunch, Mr. Murphy? Can I fix you a plate?”

“I haven't really settled down from the journey yet,” he replied. “A cup of tea would be fine.”

There were two principal themes on the piano: the army and equestrian sports. A photo of the Prince of Wales amidst a smiling group of riders in polo gear. A faded photograph of a bridal couple on church steps, the groom in dress uniform and the bride in a white lacy gown. A group of men in battledress linked arm in arm with a tall, handsome man in the middle. No doubt the Colonel. Across the bottom of the frame was engraved
Falkland Islands 1986.
There were no pictures of kids.

The kettle in the kitchen whistled and was turned off. The water was poured into the teapot and the top replaced with a clink.

Harry picked up the bridal couple to take a closer look. When he heard footsteps crossing the hall he put it down.

The little woman sailed into the room like the
QE2
entering harbor. She carried an enormous oaken tray laden with Spode Butterfly Garden china, linen napkins, a plate of cookies, a sponge cake, a milk jug, a sugar bowl with tongs, a tea strainer and a floral cozy covering the teapot.

She nodded her head for him to move the magazines off the sofa table. He gathered them up, put them on the piano and took another quick look at the wedding picture. Her height gave her away.
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and bride were one and the same.

Mrs. Villiers perched herself in the center of the sofa. “It's Charles's own mixture. Typhoo and Earl Grey,” she said with pride.

Harry said, “Fantastic!” and sank into one of the deep armchairs.

“From when his dear father was stationed in India. So long ago now.” She sighed and poured a little milk into the cups, followed by the dark brown tea through the strainer. “Charles told me he was expecting you on Thursday.”

Harry thought this an appropriate cue for him to explain his reasons for coming to London. “No doubt you're wondering why I'm here,” he said, and leaned forward.

“Oh no. Enzo explained it all,” she replied pleasantly.

Harry paused. Enzo? Who did she think he was? Could it be a mistake to tell her his true identity? Why he was there? Perhaps a more cautious approach was called for. He settled back in the cushions and asked nonchalantly, “How is Charles?”

“Doing wonderfully well, thank you,” she replied. “How many sugars?”

“Three please.”

“A sweet tooth! Then you simply must try one of these. Our neighbor Mrs. Perkins makes them. She's Irish too.” She handed him his tea and held out the cookies. “Take two. They're really only a mouthful.”

They looked very much more than a mouthful to Harry. “Do I sound so Irish to you?” he asked.

“No, of course you don't,” she replied. “But no one from America ever sounds the way they should, do they? Incidentally, why did you come here today and not tomorrow?”

“I was checking where you lived,” he lied. “This is my first time here. I wanted to be sure I knew where to come. I make it a habit to be prepared.”

“When is your birthday?” she inquired.

“September 20,” he answered.

“Ah, you see!” she said. “You're a Virgo. I thought as much. Always so careful and organized with everything in its place.”

Harry sipped his tea and ate his cookies. The curtain was up and the show was going great. As the conversation proceeded it became clear that the engaging Mrs. Villiers was not a main character, only a supporting player. Clearly he would accomplish nothing by revealing his mission to her.

For another half hour he stayed and chatted about the deplorable parenting skills of the royal family, the vicissitudes of the British weather and the finer points of astrology.

He followed the cookies with two slices of sponge cake.

 

21

Back at the hotel, a large pile of towels had been placed on Harry's bed with a note:
Hope these are what you wanting.
He moved them into a corner, lay down and switched on the television. The BBC was showing a replay of a cricket match. Five minutes of Middlesex versus Glamorgan and Harry was dead to the world.

Raucous laughter awakened him. Above him, a fat comedian dressed as an aging nun leered at him from the screen. Harry didn't find this style of British humor at all amusing. As if to prove him wrong, the studio audience screamed with merriment. He pressed the mute button. The ensuing silence was total.

Lying there, he wondered whether he should just pick up the phone, call Mrs. Villiers, tell the nice lady all he knew and take the first plane to Copenhagen. But if something really bad happened to the Colonel, the call could be traced back to Harry's hotel. Possibly to this room. Fear of consequence called for a little patience. And a degree of caution. He would go back to the Mews as planned in the morning and find a spot where he could watch without being seen. As soon as he saw the Colonel coming back he would intercept him and tell him what he had heard. Then he would beat a hasty retreat.

Water was running somewhere in the depths of the building. Far up in the sky, a jet made the approach to Heathrow. Harry stared at the odd patterns on the wallpaper, his conscious mind slowly drifting into the unconscious. When he awoke with a violent start he had no idea where he was.

The tiny room was lit by flickering blue light from the television. Then everything came back in a flash. He glanced at his watch. Time for dinner.

A stroll along Oxford Street took him to Regent Street, where he spent a leisurely time looking in the windows, marveling at the prices. In the alleys of Soho he was sad to find that the lively old red-light district was now somber and dark.

A little Italian bistro seemed adequate, so he went in and ordered a bottle of red wine and a Milanese with a side order of spaghetti. After some inedible spumoni he drank an espresso. At the tables around him, several couples happily shared their evening, making him feel conspicuous in his solitude. It would be wonderful, he thought, to have someone with him.

The nearest Harry had come to tying the proverbial knot was with Colleen O'Herlihy. Colleen and Harry had grown up together in adjoining houses in South Brooklyn after their grandfathers had traveled over from Ireland on the same boat. The O'Herlihys sprang from Cork. The Murphy family tree had its roots in the town of Blackwater in the County of Wexford.

The Murphy transplant to America had nothing to do with potatoes or poverty, or even political unrest. For many years, the eldest Murphy, one Sean Patrick, had insisted that his wife make his tea using Holy Water from the natural spring at the entrance to the church. Not only did it make an excellent brew, but, as the old man pointed out to everyone who shared his pot, God exulted in making such a practical contribution to human comfort. God also decided one rainy night to cause the church horse to stumble and fall on top of the unfortunate elderly parish priest and squeeze the breath out of him. His pale replacement was a zealous youth, fresh from the seminary.

Invited to tea, the young man almost asphyxiated when he was told the source of the water in the pot. A passionate discussion followed in the confines of the Murphy parlor with both men quoting liberally from the scriptures to support their arguments about the use of Holy Water. Three days later the irate priest took the dispute public and denounced the terrible desecration from the pulpit. It was, he thundered, an unforgivable heresy. The eighty-four-year-old Murphy rose from his pew and led his considerable family down the central aisle. Five days later he took them aboard a boat to Boston. From there they traveled by coach to the city of New York where the male offspring joined the police force. The eldest was killed during Prohibition and another died of a mysterious illness on a trip to California. Harry's grandfather managed to survive both violence and disease.

Harry remembered vividly the day Colleen was born. For a fifth birthday treat he'd been promised a trip to see the precinct house where his father worked. The outing was called off at the last minute when Colleen came into the world a month early. From that day on, Harry harbored a deep-rooted resentment towards the little brat next door and over the years they were never really friends, only neighbors separated by a garden fence.

That all changed when Harry came back from college at the end of his junior year. The premature little O'Herlihy girl had blossomed into a stunning beauty. That same night, he invited her to go with him to the movies.

What Harry didn't know was that Colleen had set her sights on him the first day she had gazed up into his big brown eyes from the safety of her baby carriage. Now she was a ripe and dedicated virgin who was genetically skilled in the art of enticement. Each time they went out on a date she drew him closer and closer. With a knowing smile she would allow him tantalizing glimpses of her pretty white lacy panties. At the same time she made it abundantly clear that the only way he could enjoy what lay beyond was with a proposal of marriage. In no time at all she had him climbing the walls. The poor lad's sexual strings were stretched far beyond the limits of safety. All four parents prayed regularly to God and asked Him to encourage the union. It came as no surprise when Harry posed the question, a date was set for the wedding and the banns were posted. Harry returned to college a happy man.

Throughout his senior year at Albany State he tried to study for a degree in business, but it became increasingly clear to him that the world of finance had no appeal. At graduation, Harry told his father he wanted to look around before settling on a career. Both parents told him he was making a big mistake. Harry was adamant. He wanted to see the world.

The world turned out to be a fifth-floor walkup in Greenwich Village that he shared with two friends from college seeking work as actors. One month later, Harry announced to his family that he too was going to try the theater. Colleen's father heard the news and withdrew his consent to their marriage. Somewhat to Harry's surprise, the love of his life sided with her father and handed him back the engagement ring. When pressed for a reason, she took refuge in the excuse that she was not the kind of girl to defy her father. Harry understood. He too was the offspring of an Irish immigrant.