Percy Crow

by Daniel Kemp

  The 'we and us,' in Sir David's concluding remark, implied the collective security services of this country, but I strongly doubted that MI6 would have lost any interest in a known Nazi spy who then found communism to hoist as his banner. The fact that it was from Brazil that Paulo had called Dietmar Kohl in Grönwohld, when I had broken their code, now took on a whole new meaning. That was where the connection between the two must have been made, but what was their relationship and for what purpose?

  We left Rosemary and David on the Tuesday morning with David promising to send a copy of the autopsy on those in the fire on to me, and Serena's new convert in fine fettle, sporting her new crimple hair colouring and matching fingernails. She now held a lifetime discounted membership to Zabreno, ordering a fortune's worth of clothing, as had several of her friends and family. Serena's weekend had brought dividend to her clothing empire, but at a cost.

  “Not only is Rose attending my fashion show in Milan but she's bringing scores of her friends with her, Harry. Can't just have you and George cheering me on. Crimple is going to be a sellout this coming autumn and Franco will buy a lavish spaceship flying us both to the moon and back. Don't look so glum, H. It's all down to company expenses, my company's expense not yours.”

  I smiled, but admit to having more of my attention on Fiona, who sat in front of me next to the bulk named Tanta, our designated driver. My mind was fixed on her shapely fingers massaging my own rather than Serena's new friend's. I stopped at the fingers. Prohibiting my mind to imagine more in case the self-flagellation I would be compelled to inflict would be more than the merest of admonishment. I hoped the smile of mine gave nothing away.

  * * *

  Reprimand was alive and well on arrival at Tattersalls bar, adjoining the members' enclosure at the racecourse. Now in the habit of carrying cash, I had donated one hundred pounds to Fiona and Tanta's pockets to wager as they wished at the meeting, waving goodbye to them in the packed car park. Serena added another one hundred, rebuking my economical distribution of money as she did.

  “You can be so mean sometimes, Harry P, as mean as the Rabbi in his praise of Jesus! One hundred measly pounds to such creative artists is much the same as bidding one hundred pounds for a Picasso at Sotheby's. Go buy yourself an ice cream and a reproduction print from WH Smith's.” As I did not admire Picasso highly, her simile flew over my head. I was about to order lunch for my chiding partner and myself, when I was greeted by Grace, the woman I had abandoned, almost a year to the day.

  We had not seen or contacted each other, since the day I left her, on news of her husband's pending arrival at their Mayfair home, driving to Bath, Somerset, for last year's grouse shoot on an old army friend of mine, Viscount James Bottomly's estate. That shoot ended in a tragic death under unwelcome circumstances. Whether that was the cause of my reticence in furthering our affair, or my muddled attitude towards women I cannot rightly say, but both of us got over it in the only possible way either of us could. We found other lovers. Grace Newton-John found hers before I did. She found me obviously easier to replace than I, her.

  As Grace touched my arm I caught sight of Anthony Bishop, Grace's replacement for me. He was at a table at the opposite end of the bar, in conversation with Serena who had both eyes riveted in my direction wearing a disapproval scowl on her face. It was his polo pony I rode at the match where I had bumped into Serena. Too short a time for absolute trust to have taken root. Gossip had not only reached Grace's husband's ears, but also been spoke about within Serena's hearing.

  Reginald Newton-John would never divorce his wife, as his financial welfare depended entirely upon her name and position in society. She, on the other hand, revelled in gossip, being cited as the seductress in more than one court proceeding. Without the whispers of 'affaire du coeur' surrounding her, life would be like champagne without the bubbles which were bursting from the glass she was now holding in her hand. Grace loved champagne as much as she loved being adored. Her learned ancestor might have changed his calculations regarding gravity if he had been aware of carbonation.

  “Harry, so divine to see you once more.” She leaned against me, pressing her ample bosom into my chest as she kissed me directly on the lips. Serena's scowl turned into a glare. Her pointed finger, and shake of the head, accompanied the mouthing of you had better not, to which I replied in kind. I won't, had not been missed by Grace.

  “You won't what. Harry? Mate with me here in the bar or would you rather have the smell of straw in your nostrils as you mount me?”

  “Tony would never lend me another pony either way, Grace. Now, take my hand and lead me gently to Anthony's feeding trough, before I slap your ample backside to get your heart pumping oxygen to those delicious legs of yours,” I replied.

  “Pumping, now there's something to drool reminiscently over, Lord 'heartless stuff 'em, and leave them' Harry Paterson. Your usage of words is overly stimulating,” her husky laugh echoed in far removed times.

  I turned the attention away from Grace quickly as I reached Serena, hoping that Tony would take Grace off my hands. Anthony Bishop was an international lawyer of widely regarded repute, he was also a depositor at Annie's. That's how I knew him.

  “Tony, what a pleasant surprise, had no idea you'd be here for The Yorkshire. Have runners, do we?” Serena seemed more at ease with me speaking to Grace's escort, who was now the focus of her full amorous attentiveness. It was in truth somewhat embarrassing, but I have never judged others on public appearances. I gently pulled the two of them apart, requesting a private moment of Tony's time. I had known from my first thoughts of attending this race meeting that he would be here, being optimistic in both what I needed from him, and in my handling of an ex-lover. However, her sexual epicurean excess had startled me, as much as it had startled Serena. Sensitively I kissed Serena's neck, a sensual spot on her sensuous body.

  “I won't be long, darling. Need Tony's expertise on something. Be two shakes of a bee's bum. No more, I promise.” I hated to think of what damage Serena would like to do to Grace, but if the look on her face was anything to go by, it would be considerable.

  “You wouldn't know anything about Panama City, Tony, would you? And to be more specific a certain Appendia Corporation in particular. Anything and everything would help.”

  I successfully persuaded Serena to dispense with the services of Fiona and Tanta for the night, which we spent locked together in room 306, at the Coworth Park Hotel near to the racecourse; undisturbed.

  Chapter Sixteen: In Search Of A Heart

  The following morning my hands had to contend with the knowledge that Fiona had successfully forgotten them, having an appointment in London that also required the creative juices of Tanta. “Oh dear, Serena, what shall we do without them?” I asked with the broadest of smiles on my face.

  Breakfast, and other gratifying things, seemed to take forever that morning before we could indulge ourselves elsewhere, in the final day's racing pleasures. We left Ascot around three pm, having successfully avoided any sightings of Grace or Tony. George had left a message about John Williams, the policeman, and was eager to see me to discuss it, but all Serena was interested in was my previous relationship with Grace and the delights of searching Portuguese delicatessens. Without warning she widened the subject to include Katherine.

  “Often, Harry, when I've seen you in such a pensive mood I've wondered about your faith in women. You have an expression on your face that reminds me of faces at a funeral; vacant and sad. I know that's a silly thing to say and perhaps I haven't expressed myself too well, but you look lost sometimes as though you're regretting losing someone. I would have thought that loss to be recent, otherwise a person such as yourself would be well over it by now. I can't see that Grace Newton hyphen thingy would be the type of woman to break your hard heart. I'm not doubting her attractiveness, sexually, but no, not a heartbreaker in the sense I mean. Now, that Katherine could be a different type, all told. I don't know her of course, but you say she was a l
ong time ago and of no consequence. If that's the truth, and I have no reason to disbelieve it, then there's one woman missing. An important one! The woman who took your heart, H, and won't give it back.”

  “You are a whimsical one, Serena. If you're after it, then when we get back to the estate, I'll take you riding through Foxglade Wood and see if we can rediscover where I left it hanging from a tree. Mind you, that was almost forty years ago. I'd fallen in love with a girl at Sunday school before she left me standing by an old elm tree. A lot of elms were taken out after being affected with disease a good few years back. We'll take provisions to find where it's hidden buried under their old roots, Seri.”

  “Where did Seri come from, Harry?” she asked, as she stroked the back of my neck. “You've never called me that in all the time I've known you,” attentively she added, as she gently kissed my cheek.

  “You'd be surprised what I call you in my dreams, Serena. All nice names, I should add.”

  “I like the name Seri, very much. It sounded so charming when you said it just now. And yes, I'll take you up on that ride, H. Daddy was right then when he said you had an interesting reputation with women, especially if you started your appreciation forty years back! The quest for such a comprehensive heart would be a worthy crusade indeed.” Was she playing or being serious, or was I with Judith all over again?

  I had one other call to make before we would arrive at The Hall, it was to one of my ex-commanding officers at Sandhurst, who, on leaving The Guards had moved to Special Branch, Scotland Yard where he became head of the unit which had investigated Percy's death. But first back to Eton Square and the bright lights of London. George's smile would have put the Christmas lights in York to shame. It was he who ushered us in.

  “Aaron Williams was the local bobby in Raglan, Monmouth, Harry, when Percy and Rachel were born. He moved to Southern Ireland when Percy was eight, enlisting in the constabulary. I thought that to be a little coincidental so I decided to carry on. The Somersets relocated to Ireland at the same time as Williams and they too settled in the South. I'm tracking Rachel as we speak. Not only have we Mrs Squires on our team but Sophie is helping me. She's my lovely friend from the library. Chelsea Library, in Flood Street.”

  Why he added the address I was never quite sure, but it did not divert my astonishment at our newly acquired researcher. Sophie was a woman of some distinction, who by her appearance was besotted with George and he appeared the same. Wedding bells began to ring in my head. I have always been an incurable romantic in all affairs other than my own. After the customary introductions George wanted to expand on his knowledge, but I wanted to know about Sophie first, and just as importantly so did Seri. Who could the two of us assemble as their 'guard of honour' on the wedding day, I mused. The similar romantic thoughts which were spreading through my mind were quickly dashed, as George quoted facts to me instead of feelings and excitement.

  “Sophie has worked at the library for thirty-something years. We met there about six years ago. Lives around the corner in Tite Street. She's a widow and we get on very well, Harry.” I thought that any minute he'd announce her shoe and hat size as there was no warmth in what he quoted. Sophie's gaze spoke of affection and spirit, not mirrored by George's mind-numbing rhetoric, but her stoicism was stronger than mine.

  “I once knew a lord. My late husband was an antique dealer and had one who visited his shop in the King's Road often. We had tea with him once at the Army and Navy. Not the store in Victoria Street, you understand. At the club in Pall Mall. It was very nice, the tea and cakes I mean, not the club. A bit drab and humdrum, that place.”

  Facts, I guessed, were the all-consuming daily diet of a Chelsea librarian and a millionaire bachelor well past marriageable age. Maybe I could hold off on the twenty-one-gun salute I was arranging in my mind and by the look on Serena's face, no Portuguese man-of-war under her father's flag, or the Santa Maria would be sailing up the Thames from Lisbon in the immediate future.

  “Sophie sings, Harry, as well as being a bit of an expert when it comes to tracing people. She has the whole chronological order of her family's genealogy mounted on a wall in her home, you know.” Perhaps marriage was still a possibility, if George was as intimate as the look on Sophie's rectangular cherub face indicated and his knowledge of her home could imply. I decided against choosing a venue and stayed safe rather than bold with my next question.

  “Serenade George from the bath, do you, Sophie?” Serena kicked my foot.

  “Oh no, nothing like that, Harry. I sing at St Luke's Church. I'm very proud to be the lead female chorister there. Every Sunday and Wednesday morning and night, that's where I'm found,” without showing any shyness in regards to my question she stated, which only added to the intrigue.

  “I think I should have my stylist create the hint of the orange I'm wearing today for your hair, Sophie. The right shading will just so complement that angelic skin colour you have.” Serena had added an angel to our congregation. Must find a vicar, I thought.

  “Yes, well, must get on. Doubt you two have all day to waste hearing about us.” This time it was George who was getting impatient.

  “I'm hazarding a guess here, but they are informed guesses, Harry. Both Percy and Rachel were taken from Wales by that PC Williams on the death of their parents. You found Percy's name at St Mary's Orphanage, so that's where Sophie began her search for Rachel. Already she's found her name as registered there, but nothing else on her as of now. Loads of documents are missing from what's available online. All the records would be kept in the diocese though, so it might mean a trip to the local church over there. Sophie and I are willing to go. There's a holiday schedule coming soon which Sophie can plug into.” Where did George find plug into from? “I'll pay of course, be a bit of holiday for me!”

  “Won't hear of it, George. Cost is down to me.” I thought about including Mrs Squires as a chaperone, but dismissed that quickly. She might be too shocked and in need of resuscitation.

  “Nice of you, Harry, thank you! Anyway I followed that hunch, finding a group of five passengers under the name of Williams booked on a ferry from Newport to Cork in November 1910. Newport was the nearest main harbour to Lady Lamb Farm, you know.”

  “I had no idea, George, but I do now, old man.” My offer had not met with the enthusiasm I'd expected.

  “He's not old, Harry. If he is then I'm ancient. I'm two years his elder.” Sophie not only wanted to give her secrets away, she also had decided that George's familiarity would suit her as well. Age and familiarity were the next subjects on the growing list of George's discoveries and I was discovering more females who disapproved of my humour.

  “Where was I? Ah, yes!” George's impatience did not extend to interruptions from Sophie. He bowed his head to her in deference before carrying on.

  “Williams signed on at the local constabulary headquarters and was fully enrolled as an Eire constable by 1911, Harry. He died of a heart attack eighteen years later at the age of forty-nine, but guess where, Harry?”

  “Grange Manor, George?”

  “No! I thought that's what you'd say. Said the same to Sophie, didn't I, dear?”

  Sophie smiled the smile that conveys acknowledgement of the truth along with endearment and affinity. They were one, the two of them, but my mind was not on weddings now. George had me firmly captivated by his story.

  “In one of the houses photographed by Maudlin. This one!” He placed it on the table. It was a far from modest affair, double-fronted, of three floors with what looked like a basement area. Grey-stoned with two Regency period marble pillars at the top of four flights of steps leading to a front entrance with a balcony above. A single-storeyed matching stone curvature, from both ends of the building, made the whole building resemble a bull's horn. All the windows were shuttered, giving the appearance of being vacant which was not reflected by the well maintained and manicured garden. The snapshot was taken in spring, fairly close up and on a bright sunlit day.

&nb
sp; “How do you know he died here, George?” It was Serena who asked.

  “Sophie found it! She really is a wonder. Researched the local rags around in those days and found it reported in the Evening Echo of April 1929.” He was abruptly interrupted.

  “Interesting newspaper, that, you know. It's really a local paper under a wider umbrella with firm and historical affiliations to Sinn Féin going back as far as Michael Collins in 1919. Originally it was sold by the homeless and destitute children of the City of Cork, as its founder was indeed homeless himself once. Anyway the photo with the report was there; I merely found it.”

  If that was a simple thing to do I wondered what she would call difficult. It did not take long to find out.

  “Whose house was it, Sophie?” lamely I asked.

  George regained the reins. “Owned by Oliver Somerset, Esq. Late of Raglan Castle, in the county of Monmouthshire, Wales, so it said in the obituary column, Harry. We have a completed circle.”

  “Yes, we do, George, but that doesn't solve our inquiry into the murder of a John Williams at Newry police station twenty-three years later.”

  “You're forgetting age, Harry. The Williams party that left Newport in 1910 numbered five. Percy aged eight and Rachel Crow aged seven, Imelda Williams aged twenty-six, Aaron Williams, her husband then thirty; and their only child, John Williams aged five. There you have him, Harry. The five-year-old who followed his father into the police, only with him he travelled north to join.”

  “Indeed we do, George. Leaving a tangled web that needs delicately unravelling. Anything in that report about Imelda, George?”