The Deeds of the Disturber - Elizabeth Peters [16]
St James’s Square is not far from Pall Mall and the bustling traffic of Regent Street; but on that dismal spring afternoon it might have been a thousand miles from the city. Fog muffled the clatter of wheels and horse’s hooves and gave a ghostly air to the budding trees that surrounded the pool in the centre of the square.
Following the direction O’Connell had indicated, I turned into York Street and then into the first street opening off to the left. I hoped I was going the right way; I wished he had not been so cursedly vague and theatrical. His gesture of drinking left open the question of whether he referred to a restaurant, or a teashop, or a coffee stall; the only thing I could do was walk on until I found an establishment in which liquid refreshment was purveyed, or until I saw O’Connell himself.
Before long I found myself in a neighbourhood quite unlike the aristocratic purlieus of St James’s Square. It was respectable enough, I suppose, but the houses were cramped close together and the people hurrying by had a shabby, harried look. There were not many umbrellas in evidence; I held mine high, peering keenly from side to side in search of a familiar face and form.
It was not his face or form I made out first, but the flaming Titian locks not even a London pea-souper could mute. He stood peering out from the recessed doorway of an establishment bearing the extraordinary name of The Green Man; seeing me approach, he waved his cap and a broad smile spread across his freckled face.
I furled my umbrella and joined him in the shelter of the recess. Keeping a wary eye on the umbrella, he began, ‘Sure and you brighten the gloomy day, Mrs Emerson. Indeed and the Fountain of Youth must be in Egypt, for you gain in youth and beauty each time –’
I shook the umbrella at him. ‘Spare me the brogue and the empty compliments, Mr O’Connell. I am seriously annoyed with you.’
‘Empty, is it? Sure an’ I spoke from the deepest depths . . . Please, ma’am, won’t you open that infernal parasol and accompany me to a place where we can talk?’
‘This will do nicely,’ I said, indicating the door.
O’Connell’s eyes popped. ‘My dear Mrs Emerson, this is hardly –’
‘It is a public house, is it not? Very interesting. I have never patronized such an establishment. Emerson, though in general the most obliging of men, has always refused to visit one with me. Come, Mr O’Connell; I am exceedingly short of time and I have a great deal to say to you.’
‘Sure an’ I’ll wager that’s the truth,’ muttered O’Connell. With a shrug he followed me inside.
Our entrance caused something of a stir, though I cannot imagine why; I was certainly not the only woman present. In fact, there was a female behind the bar – a fleshy young person who would have been rather pretty if she had not painted her cheeks such a garish pink.
I led the way to a table, Mr O’Connell trailing after me, and summoned the barmaid with a flourish of my parasol. Poor thing, she seemed to be a trifle lacking. When I ordered a pot of tea, her jaw dropped and she stared blankly at me.
‘I’m afraid . . .’ O’Connell began.
‘Oh, I see. This is an establishment in which only alcoholic beverages are served? In that case, I will just have a whiskey and soda.’
O’Connell ordered, and I added in a kindly voice, ‘The table appears to be rather sticky, young woman. Please wipe it off.’ She continued to gape. Nudging her gently with my parasol I said, ‘Run along, run along. Time is of the essence.’
Mr O’Connell did not relax until I had stowed the parasol under my chair. Planting his elbows on the table, he leaned towards me.
‘You are late, Mrs E. Did you have trouble following my instructions?’
‘Not at all, though they certainly might have been more explicit.