“Lucky we are they’re all in one piece still,” George said, and Bert made himself busy with the glasses.
“Aye,” said Henry quietly, nodding his head as if in prayer. The war was still young.
I told them about Boston and entertained them with stories of all the murders I had solved. If I overstated my contribution, well, it was the Guinness talking. Sometime after dark they led me out to Piccadilly Circus, steered me down Piccadilly, and told me to walk straight until I came to Hyde Park.
“Big bloody green thing, in the daylight anyway, filled with potatoes, it is! Can’t miss it,” George said. “And good luck, lad.”
We all shook hands, and Henry slapped me on the back like an old pal. It was as if I was standing in for all of their kids, and the act of befriending me would spread out all over the world and bring acts of kindness to their children. I thought about Dad, and realized it was the kind of thing he’d do, too.
I walked until I came to Hyde Park Corner again. I thought about everything I had seen today and everything I had been taught all my life about the English. I knew two things for sure: first, that Ireland had to be free and united, and second, that Bert, George, and Henry and the woman on the stretcher with her hand raised in a V sign weren’t people I had an argument with.
I was pretty tired now, the flight, the long day, and the Guinness making the slight slope up Hyde Park feel steeper than it should have. I stuck my hands in my pockets and hunched forward, thinking of bed and sleep. The image that came to me was of my room at home and the bed I had slept in every night of my life, until this war came along. The bed I woke up in every Christmas morning, the “socks” Christmas, and the ones after that with toys, jewelry, and sweets for all.
One of those years, Dad converted a small room upstairs into his den. It had been full of boxes and junk, but one day he cleaned it out and the next day a leather sofa and chair showed up. Real leather, with brass nail heads showing. He got himself a used rolltop desk and announced it was a den. I had never heard of a den, except as caves for foxes in stories, and it sounded great to me. But it wasn’t for kids. His buddies would come over after work, or to drop off groceries or some special present. Uncle Dan too, and sometimes he’d bring his friends, who were nearly all IRA men. They carried guns, but they weren’t all cops. Not gangsters either, but something in between.
Dad carried the key to the room on his watch chain, and the key to his desk, too. No one was allowed in there, except Mom when she cleaned. It smelled of smoke, and she’d empty the ashtrays, open the window, and mop down the woodwork. She always did it after school, and I’d stand outside the door and look in, curious, wondering what the men did in there. I wanted my dad to pull out that key and unlock the door, put his hand on my shoulder, and invite me in. But he never did. Not even when I joined the force.
“Stay away from here,” he said. “And don’t bother the men.”
The men. I was standing there, in my new blue uniform, home from the first day on the job. Two of his pals were clumping up the stairs in their heavy cop shoes, the first guy a sergeant from the Back Bay station, carrying a gym bag.
“How’s the rookie doin’?” he said, to my father, not to me.
“Come on in, Basher. The rookie’s none of your concern now. Billy, begone with you.”
So what? Big deal. Who cares about a bunch of old guys drinking Jameson and smoking cigars anyway? But it was funny. Dad would spend hours with me at a crime scene, calling me down when I was off duty, to show me how he did things, how he looked for evidence, looked at how a body lay. He had worked Homicide for ten years and had one of the best solve rates in the city. He’d tell me anything about a case. But never in his den.
I realized I’d almost passed the Dorchester. Thinking about home, I almost forgot where I was. It was like I’d slipped back to Boston for a few minutes, and the sidewalk under my feet was leading from the station to my house. I was ready to fall asleep on my feet, and if I did, maybe I’d wake up and see my house, climb the steps, and turn the key in the lock on the front door, inhale the smells of supper, and walk up to my room, past the den and the muffled sounds of talk and harsh laughter.
I spent the next day reading about Norway, drinking coffee, and watching for Daphne to pass by my desk. I was better at the last two, but I did manage to absorb a few things. The Norwegians had gotten beaten pretty bad in 1940 when the Germans invaded. Even though the British, French, and Poles sent troops to help them, they’d all ended up with their tails between their legs. King Haakon escaped to England, where he set up a government in exile. The Norwegians had managed to pull a good one over on the Germans. Just as the Nazis were about to march into Oslo, the Norwegians made a little withdrawal from their treasury, about eight tons of gold. They took it by train, trucks, and even small boats along the coast, until they met up with British warships that carried the king and the gold to England. In the past two years they had used this money to build up an underground network of civilians back home. They called it the Underground Army, but it hadn’t done much yet. There was also the Norwegian Brigade here in England, made up of men who had escaped from Norway. They were about three thousand strong and growing, and they were itching to be the spearhead of an invasion to liberate their country. The Norwegians had their own commando units that worked with the British Special Operations Executive. Together with SOE units, they were conducting hit-and-run raids along the Norwegian coast, blowing up fisheries and fish-oil-processing plants. That sounded pointless until I read that fish oil was a key ingredient in making nitroglycerin. War certainly is educational.
I hadn’t gotten much farther when I saw Daphne approaching my desk. I sat up straight and tried to look important, so I could pretend to be too busy to speak to her for a minute. My plan fell apart when I saw that she was with another guy and seemed to be stealing sideways glances at him and whispering as they walked toward me. A quick look told me he was an unlikely guy for me to be jealous of, but that didn’t really matter at the moment. My heart was broken.
“Lieutenant Boyle,” Daphne said, as if she were introducing two generals, “this is Lieutenant Piotr Augustus Kazimierz. He will be going to Beardsley Hall with you and Major Harding.”
I didn’t know what a Beardsley Hall was, but I did know my dear Daphne was smiling warmly at this Peter whatever-his-name-was. He was a slight guy, a few inches shorter than me, with thick glasses and a faint smile on his face. His hair was sandy and his eyes a grey-blue. He wore a British uniform with “Poland” stitched on the upper sleeve. He was half the kid you wanted to beat up in school and half Leslie Howard. I could tell which half Daphne saw. But my mother had taught me my manners. I stood.
“Glad to meet you, Lieutenant…”
“Kazimierz. Call me Kaz if it’s easier. It is for most Americans.”
“OK, Kaz. I’m Billy. What’s Beardsley Hall?”
Daphne held up a hand. “Before you answer, Baron, Lieutenant Boyle has to sign something.” She fished through a file folder marked TOP SECRET.
“Baron? Like the Red Baron?”
Kaz looked embarrassed; his pale skin showed a red flush easily. I had almost said I didn’t know Polacks had barons, but was saved by Daphne.
“Piotr is a baron of the Augustus clan in Poland, not that I would expect you to know that,” Daphne said, as if I were the original colonial clod. “Now sign this.”