It was the summer of 1954 when the letter addressed to Harris arrived one morning along with my copy of National Geographic. It was not uncommon for him to receive a letter but I sensed by the manner in which he examined the envelope that this particular missive might be of unusual interest. I watched with amusement as he held it to his nose and inhaled deeply. He does peculiar things like that. He noticed my look and said, ‘One must always begin at the beginning.’ Fair enough I thought, where else would one begin?
‘It is imperative to always follow your instinct. Take this envelope, it has not come from a common batch picked up for a pittance at some corner shop but it has a style and colouring that is distinctive, which makes it interesting. There is a slight scent of perfume from it. Such an envelope, which someone else might rip apart to get at its contents, is worthy of respect. The woman who wrote this letter is educated has a certain social standing and uses Origan perfume, or maybe it is Enteric Confetti. At times it is difficult to determine the subtle difference between them.’
‘And can you?’ I asked in astonishment.
‘Over the years, I have made a study of perfumes. On winter nights, one must be doing things. I can now distinguish and name twenty-seven perfumes by their scent.’
I was impressed, but there was no way I was going to convey that sentiment.
‘Have you any command of the Irish language, Jonathan?’
I thought for a moment before decisively replying ‘No.’
‘The cancellation stamp mark looks like An Tulach. What does it mean?’
‘Maybe if you were to open the envelope you might find out.’ ‘Yes, that might be conclusive but I always like, before taking that ultimate step, to know the origin of the communication. Why would a woman be writing to me?’
He opened it, read it and, to my surprise, handed it to me.
‘Take a look at that, Jonathan. What do you make of it?’
I took the letter, held it to my nose, and inhaled deeply. ‘I do believe the lady was wearing a blue dress and a white hat when she wrote this.’ The look on his face made it worth it all; it always does.
‘Please, Jonathan, not today, there is serious business afoot. Another time and this inane frivolity of yours would be a welcome distraction.’
I looked at the brief letter and took my time reading the following:
Derryinver House
Derryinver
Co Galway
August 1954
Dear Mr Harris,
Your name is familiar to me and I wish to consult you on a pressing matter. I will be at home every afternoon this week, but Wednesday or Thursday would be more convenient. I hope, at this short notice, you can come.
Yours sincerely,
Hilda Jennings
‘Interesting,’ I muttered in a non-committal manner.
‘Business-like and direct, obviously a widow in distress,’ he replied.
‘Really?’
‘Yes.’
‘How do you know she is a widow?’
‘I know.’
‘Are you interested in calling on her?’
‘Yes, the letter implies a certain urgency. We have nothing on today so why don’t we go and meet her? The weather does not look promising and a drive in the countryside will be a distraction.’
‘She must not have a telephone or she would have included the number to enable us contact her,’ I replied, doing my own piece of deduction. I like to show off every now and then.
‘She has a telephone,’ he answered.
‘But why not state it in the letter? We could have contacted her by telephone and saved the necessity of a long journey.’
‘I considered that for a moment and then I understood.’
‘Understood what?’ I asked, surprised at his observation and that my deduction had been cast aside.
‘Let’s get on the road, Jonathan.’
I immediately went to the drawer beside my bed in my bedroom and took out the detailed map of County Galway. In the vast, unpopulated area that is Connemara there are so many little villages with haunting names that wandering forth without a map would be akin to eating soup with a fork. After much searching, I found the townland of Derryinver.