Through the small kitchen window, the one to the right of the cottage front door, that looks out towards the distant Twelve Pin Mountains and gives the view of lnishdawros, I observed with curiosity the well-dressed, middle-aged man struggle in his efforts to exit from the black car that had quietly pulled up outside. Eventually, he stood on the roadway and, with his left hand leaning for support against the roof of the car, he commenced brushing his jacket with the back of his other hand.
He looked towards the mountains and then turned and surveyed the cottage. It was not a searching examination, more an inquisitive one that suggested he might have been here before. I noticed the slight limp as he walked towards my Morris Minor and then, to my astonishment, he placed his hand on the bonnet and tapped it, like a father would a young son’s head in affection. That’s how it seemed to me on that morning in July. He nodded his head as though satisfied with everything, turned and walked to the front door. He noticed me at the window; I had been too slow to retreat. He gave a sheepish smile, realising he must have been observed from the moment he arrived and waved his hand in a friendly manner. I opened the door.
‘Good morning,’ he said in a refined,educated voice. ‘Sedgewick Harris?’
‘No. I’m Jonathan.’
‘Of course. My name is Walter Browne and I’m here, on the off chance that Sedgewick Harris might be in.’
He appeared to think I should recognise his name and he noticed the indecision as I frowned and hesitated.
‘I would not call unannounced if the matter to hand was not important.’
He looked anxiously at me. ‘I must speak to him. The Flyer has gone missing.’
I was shocked. ‘In that case you had better come in,’ I replied.
~
He followed me into the front room where Harris was slouched in his armchair, absorbed in his research in Encyclopedia Britannica on articles on the strengths and durability of adhesives and heavens knows what other substances. He looked quizzically at the stranger, not pleased at the interruption.
‘This is Walter Browne and he has come to consult you on a serious matter.’
‘Oh,’ he said, placing the heavy encyclopedia to one side, ‘and what is this serious matter?’
‘A mutual friend ‒ Major Jones ‒ advised me that you were the only person that could help me at this time.’
‘Ah, Major Jones, a splendid man,’ replied Harris. ‘Please sit down.’
Browne sat down and, tugging up his trousers at the knees, said, ‘He is a splendid person, a delightful fellow to converse with and excellent company.’
Harris reached for the pipe, lying in the ashtray on the table in front of him, and began the ritual I had come to know and enjoy so well. It was too early for him to light up but the process of cleaning and filling the pipe would pass away an hour or so, and I do believe it aided his concentration.
‘Delightful company, indeed, but why have you come to see me?’ he asked.
‘You have heard of the Ballymore Flyer?’ It is down to race in two days’ time.’
‘No, the name is not familiar to me. Is it a steam engine?’