Nonetheless, I was well enough entertained by the sights he did point out. “ ’Ere’s Piccadilly Circus,” he said as we entered a large open area where several broad streets converged. He pointed to a large winged statue of an angel, rising above a public drinking fountain. “That statue’s made from haluminium—cost a bundle, it did. There was haluminium cups for drinkin’ when it was first put up, but they didn’t last long. I know a lad what clipped one, and ’e stayed drunk three days on what ’e ’ocked it for.”
Around the base of the fountain sat a number of garishly dressed women. “Those are the flower girls,” said Jimmy, without further explanation. From the look of them, I did not think they sold many flowers.
We continued southwest on Piccadilly Street, originally an ancient road leading west from the walled City of London. There were a good many grand homes, almost mansions, along the way. Those overlooking the Green Park to the south had a fine view of Buckingham Palace. Evidently this was one of the most elegant of addresses during the early years of this century. Jimmy pointed out one house that had been occupied by Lord Chancellor Eldon, who amused himself by counting long and short petticoats from his drawing-room window. “ ’E counted a lot more short than long,” said Jimmy, cackling merrily.
At the corner of Green Park, we passed the mansion of the Dukes of Wellington, and an equestrian statue of Wellington as the victor of Waterloo. “That’s the new statue,” said Jimmy. “The old one was so ugly that some claimed the Froggies ’ad it put up in revenge for losin’.” We all laughed heartily at this anecdote, and Jimmy turned around to grin at us as he guided his team—a nicely matched pair of grays—onto Knightsbridge Road. His previously sour countenance was much improved by the grin.
We followed Knightsbridge Road a short distance to Sloane Street, then turned south until we reached King’s Road. “In me grandsire’s time, nobody but the Royals could travel this way,” said Jimmy. “Heverybody else ’ad to show a copper token to ride ’ere. But now it’s free to all.” We followed the road west into the heart of Chelsea, where Mr. Clemens had taken apartments for his stay in the London area.
When the carriage pulled up in front of my destination, I was ready to leap out and send Mr. and Mrs. McPhee on their way, but before I could open my mouth to thank them, Slippery Ed stepped to the pavement and offered his wife his hand. “Come on down, Martha—I can’t just drive right by old Sam’s door without stopping in to say a word or two. Wouldn’t be the neighborly way to act.”
And so, with the two of them behind me, I walked up to the door, knocked, and waited. To my surprise, Mr. Clemens himself opened it. He was still wearing an overcoat, and had evidently just arrived home himself. He looked up at me and said, “Wentworth, why are you knocking? Why didn’t you just come on in?”
Then he saw who was standing behind me. “Jesus H. Christ!” he said. “I should have known better than to let you out on your own in a strange city, Cabot. Couldn’t you bring home an alligator or a skunk, or some other sort of pleasant companion, instead of Slippery Ed McPhee?”
At Mr. Clemens’s rude greeting, Slippery Ed McPhee’s jaw dropped, and he fell back a step. Then he let out a loud guffaw and said, “Sam! If I didn’t know what a joker you was, I’d think you didn’t want to see me and my missus! Why, you haven’t changed a bit since you and me was both pups on the river.”
My employer glared out the half-open door, blocking the entranceway. “Ed, I can’t say I expected to find you here,” he said. “What the hell are you doing in London? As if I couldn’t guess . . .”
“Well, I’ll bet you five bucks you can’t guess,” said McPhee, a sly grin on his face.
“He means to say he would bet you, except he’s given up gambling,” said Martha McPhee, who had stepped forward to take her husband’s arm. “What a pleasure to see you again, Mr. Clemens! We’re staying not far from here, so when I chanced to meet Mr. Cabot outside the museum, I thought the friendly thing to do was to offer him a ride home.”
“Given up gambling?” said Mr. Clemens. “I wouldn’t buy that yam if it was printed on the back of ten-dollar bills and stuck between Exodus and Leviticus. I’d sooner expect a fish to give up water, or . . .”
Martha put her hands on her hips. “Really, Mr. Clemens, I’m disappointed in you. I know as well as anyone that Edward has had his faults in the past. But it is hardly charitable to hold those old ways against him when he has made a genuine attempt to change his life.”
Mr. Clemens was about to say something in reply when a new voice came from behind him. “Who is there, Sam? Do we have company?” It was Mrs. Clemens, who stepped up and looked over his shoulder.
“It’s just Wentworth, and a couple of people who gave him a ride home,” said my employer, trying to maintain his position in the doorway. “I reckon they’ll be going now.” At this, I did my best to maneuver closer to the door so I could step inside quickly if Mr. Clemens decided to close it in McPhee’s face.
“Howdy, you must be Mrs. Clemens,” said McPhee, removing his hat and giving an exaggeratedly low bow. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance—I’ve known good old Sam since before the war, but this is the first chance I’ve had to meet his pretty little lady.”
“You flatter me,” said Mrs. Clemens, obviously amused at the compliment. She looked at her husband. “Perhaps you should introduce me to your friend?”
“Not quite a friend,” muttered Mr. Clemens, but he stepped to one side and said, “Mrs. Clemens, may I present Mr. and Mrs. McPhee—they were on that river cruise last summer. I think I told you about that trip, Livy?” He raised his eyebrows and gave his wife a very significant look.
Mrs. Clemens seemed puzzled for a brief moment; then she smiled. “Yes, you did,” she said, turning and nodding to the McPhees. “Good afternoon, Mr. and Mrs. McPhee. So—the notorious Slippery Ed has come to London! Are you two here to see the sights, or are you traveling on business?”
“A little of both,” said Martha, taking the conversational lead again. She stepped closer to Mrs. Clemens, putting herself between me and the door, as she continued. “We’re enjoying the sights, and I’m doing some library research. And we plan to go up to Scotland, to discover our families’ history—I’m a Patterson originally, and of course the McPhees were Scottish, too.”
“A Patterson?” Mrs. Clemens looked more closely at Martha McPhee’s face. “There were Pattersons living close to us in Elmira, New York, where I grew up. Do you have family there?”
“Not that I know of, Mrs. Clemens,” said Martha. “I grew up in Chicago, and my family came from Baltimore before then. But I suppose it’s possible they were related to the Pattersons you knew.”
“Perhaps you’ll learn that on your visit to Scotland,” said Mrs. Clemens. Then she looked at her husband. “But we shouldn’t keep you standing on the porch all this time. Why don’t you invite your friends inside, Sam?” By now, the sky was beginning to darken.
“Oh, we couldn’t intrude,” said Martha. “I know you must all be getting ready to sit down and eat, and we should be getting home to supper, ourselves.”
“Still, I insist you step inside at least long enough for a cup of tea, or a glass of lemonade,” said Mrs. Clemens, beckoning to them. “After all, we owe you that much just for giving poor Wentworth a ride home. I’m sure he’d be hopelessly lost if not for you.”
At that, Mr. Clemens found himself speechless—as did I. Hopelessly lost indeed! With a sigh, my employer admitted defeat. He stepped aside and waved us all through the door, although he sent a particularly evil glance in my direction as I passed him. I rolled my eyes and shrugged in response; I was as puzzled as he at Mrs.