Monday: London

THE MAN SITTING AT THE PIANO WAS PLAYING “A FOGGY DAY” AS Jane and Walter entered the American Bar. The air was filled with the sound of laughter and murmured conversations and ice tinkling in highballs. The light was flattering and the atmosphere was gay. It was impossible not to feel glamorous in such surroundings.

Which of course meant that Jane did not. For one thing, her shoes pinched. They were new, purchased just days earlier in a frenzy of last-minute shopping. Seeing them on display in the store, Jane had imagined herself wearing them while sharing scintillating conversation with her fellow travelers. This thrilling possibility had blinded her to the reality of the shoes, which was that the heels were entirely too high. They caused her to tip forward, much like the famed Pisa tower, as a result of which she felt as if she were always just about to topple over. But they looked wonderful, and so she’d insisted on wearing them, even though it meant she had to keep a firm hold on Walter’s arm or risk a fall.

She was hoping that perhaps she and Walter could take up a position somewhere central, so that the others could circle them like bees around a flower. And so it was with great relief that she soon found herself seated at one of the tables scattered throughout the room, waiting as Walter ordered a gin and tonic for her and a Manhattan for himself. She used the time to look about her and try to put faces to some of the names Walter had rattled off when reading her the roster of participants.

“Have you identified any of them yet?” Walter asked, handing Jane her drink and taking a seat.

“I think so,” said Jane. “That one over there. I think she must be Genevieve Prideaux.”

She indicated a tall, thin woman of about thirty-five. Her hair was pulled into a tidy knot at the back of her head, and she was wearing a chic dark suit with a pale green silk blouse. Jane noted with some jealousy that Genevieve’s heels were higher than her own and that the woman had no trouble whatsoever walking in them.

“I think you’re right,” Walter agreed. “I remember seeing her picture in one of the trade magazines.”

“I’m not surprised you’d remember that one,” said Jane. “She’s stunning.”

She waited for Walter to contradict her, and was oddly pleased when he didn’t. She liked that he didn’t try to deny the beauty of other women simply out of a sense of duty. Then again, she thought, he could have denied it a little.

“Ah,” said Walter. “I know that fellow. It’s Brodie Pittman.”

He pointed to a handsome man leaning against one of the bars. He was very large and very loud, gesturing with a cigar as he argued some point with his companion, a much smaller and far less handsome fellow. Brodie Pittman was wearing khaki pants, a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up past the elbow and the neck open, and braces that attached to the pants not with horrid metal clips but with proper buttons. His hair, which was thick and fell rakishly over one eye, was of a sandy blond color, and he had a mustache. He was perhaps forty-five, and Jane liked him immediately.

The smaller man had little to recommend him. Dressed fussily in an ill-fitting gray wool suit complete with waistcoat and a dreary, firmly knotted tie that appeared to be strangling him, he had pale skin, fine brown hair that was plastered down with copious amounts of grease, and tiny, sinister eyes that made Jane think he was someone who spent the majority of his time lurking about and the rest of his time plotting and scheming.

Walter waved to Brodie, who bellowed hello and came charging toward them. Regrettably, the other man followed.

“Walter!” Brodie said. “Good to see you again, mate.”

Walter shook Brodie’s hand. “Brodie, I’d like you to meet my fiancée, Jane Fairfax. Jane, Brodie Pittman.”

“How do you do?” said Brodie, engulfing Jane’s tiny hand in his enormous paw.

Jane winced instinctively, expecting to feel her hand crushed, and was surprised when Brodie’s grip was firm but gentle. “Very well, thank you,” she said, not a little relieved. “It’s lovely to meet you.”

“You say that now,” Brodie said, winking at her. “You might change your mind once you’ve known me a day or two.”

“Brodie is an architect,” Walter told Jane. “He designed Wexley House.”

“Oh,” Jane said, having no idea what Wexley House was. “How exciting.”

“Not at all,” sad Brodie. “It’s a monstrosity. But the rich old fool who hired me to design it paid me enough to kill off any sense of guilt I might have felt for my role in bringing it to life.” He laughed loudly and drained his drink.

“I think we owe it to the world to give birth only to buildings that speak with strong, clear voices,” said the little man standing beside Brodie, his voice as thin and unctuous as his hair. Jane had almost forgotten about him, but now she turned her attention to him. He looked back without blinking.

“Walter, Jane, let me introduce you to Bergen Frost.”

“Faust,” the little man said. “Bergen Faust.”

“Bergen is German,” Brodie said, as if that explained everything.

“I have a blog,” Bergen added.

Jane looked at Walter, who looked at Brodie.

“Apparently it’s read by a bloody lot of people,” Brodie said. He cleared his throat. “Shall we order more drinks?”

“None for me,” Bergen said. “I’m going to retire now. I want to be rested for the morning.”

“What’s happening in the morning?” Walter asked, sounding slightly concerned. “I thought tomorrow was a free day.”

“Yes,” said Bergen.

When no further explanation came, Walter said, “All right, then. Good night.”

“Good night,” Bergen said. He nodded at Jane before turning and walking away, quickly slipping into the surrounding crowd.

“Rum little fellow, isn’t he?” Brodie said as he took a seat. “I have no idea why he’s here. Probably a friend of Enid’s.”

“Enid?” Jane asked.

“Enid Woode,” said Walter. “One of the two organizers of this adventure.”

“Who’s the other?” asked Jane.

“Chumsley Faber-Titting,” Brodie said. “Enid’s ex-husband.”

“How interesting,” Jane said. “Well, they must get on well enough to be able to work together.”

Brodie guffawed. “Can’t stand the sight of each other,” he said.

“Then why would they do this?” asked Jane.

“Because they’re only good as a pair,” said Brodie. “They used to be the most successful design team in the UK. Married right out of school and started their careers together. After they divorced neither of them could design a thing that wasn’t crap. They had to get back together, at least as architects. Their offices are in buildings on opposite sides of London. They communicate only through e-mail, and when they’re in the same room each pretends the other doesn’t exist. Their work is extraordinary.”

Jane, intrigued, looked around the bar. “Are they here?” she asked.

“Oh, they’re somewhere about,” Brodie said. “Neither wants to be the first to arrive, so they’re probably both peering around corners waiting for the other one to show up.”

“I can’t wait to meet them,” said Jane. Suddenly the upcoming trip seemed not nearly as dull as it had earlier in the evening.

Brodie pointed his cigar at Walter. “I’m guessing you’re on Chumsley’s team,” he said.

“Team?” Walter said. “What do you mean?”

“Everything Chumsley and Enid do is a competition,” Brodie explained. “As I understand it, they’ve each chosen half the guests for this little expedition of ours. Who invited you?”

“Chumsley,” Walter said.

“There you are then,” said Brodie. “He invited me as well. Genevieve Prideaux was invited by Enid. Told me so earlier. And as I said, I’m guessing that Bergen fellow is one of hers as well. I was going to ask him, but he started talking about how Cold War Soviet architecture doesn’t get the respect it deserves, and then all I wanted to do was kill myself.”

“All that concrete and grimness,” Jane said, shuddering, and Brodie raised his glass to her.

“Who else is on our … team?” asked Walter.

“Orsino Castano,” Olivier said.

“I don’t think I know him,” said Walter.

“Nice fellow,” Brodie said. “There he is over there.” He indicated a man of average height and slightly more than average weight. His black hair and beard framed a pleasant face, and when he saw Brodie waving at him he smiled warmly and waved back, then returned to the conversation he was having with a woman wearing what looked disconcertingly like a kimono.

“Oh yes,” Walter said. “I recognize him now. He won the Krassberg Prize last year.” To Jane he added, “For excellence in restoration of historic properties.”

“Maybe you’ll win that one day,” Jane said.

Walter laughed. “I restore houses,” he said. “Orsino restores castles.”

“What’s a castle?” Brodie said. “Just a big house made out of rocks.”

“Who’s the woman Orsino is talking to?” Jane asked Brodie. “She’s very unusual-looking.”

“No idea,” said Brodie. “But I’m sure we’ll find out soon enough. I do know she’s one of Enid’s, though.”

“How do you know?” asked Walter.

“Because there’s four to a side, so to speak,” Brodie explained. “If I’m right, Enid’s got Genevieve, Bergen, that one, and Ryan McGuinness.”

“McGuinness?” Walter said, lifting an eyebrow. “That’s interesting.”

“Why?” asked Jane, sensing a story.

“McGuinness is the reason Chumsley and Enid divorced,” said Brodie.

“How scandalous,” Jane said, taking a sip of her gin and tonic. She looked at Walter. “How come you never told me your field was so exciting?”

“It never occurred to me,” Walter said. “Who’s our fourth?” he asked Brodie.

“Old friend of yours,” Brodie said. “And another Yank. Sam Wax.”

“Sam?” said Walter.

“Do you know him?” Jane asked, detecting something in Walter’s voice suggesting familiarity.

“Her,” Walter answered. “Sam’s a woman. We worked together on a couple of projects when we were both starting out, but I haven’t seen her in, oh, fifteen years or so.” He looked around, and Jane, to her surprise, felt a pang of jealousy. “I didn’t see her name on the list.”

“She was a last-minute addition,” Brodie told Walter. “But she isn’t here yet. Comes in tomorrow.”

“Sam Wax,” Walter said. “Wow. It will be nice to see her again.”

“Too bad we’re getting married tomorrow,” Jane said, rattling the ice in her now empty glass.

“What?” said Walter, looking up. “Oh. Yes. We are.”

“Married?” Brodie said.

“Yes,” said Walter. “I’ve arranged for us to be married in the chapel in—”

“Walter Fletcher?” said a woman’s voice.

The woman who had been talking with Orsino Castano now stood beside the table. As Jane had thought, she was wearing a kimono. It was made of red silk and embroidered with dragons done in white and yellow thread. The woman’s jet-black hair was pulled back into a thick ponytail secured with a circle of leather pierced by a single ivory pin. The delicate bones of her face were covered by flawless skin, and for a moment Jane thought she might be wearing white powder.

“That would be me,” Walter said.

“I’m very pleased to meet you,” the woman said. “I am Suzu.”

“Suzu,” Walter repeated. “What a lovely name.”

“Thank you,” said Suzu. “I just wanted to tell you how much I enjoy your work. I saw the article about you in Spaces last year and thought what you did with that house was wonderful.”

“I didn’t know anybody actually read that magazine,” Walter joked.

“I do,” Suzu said, her tone so soft that she might have been apologizing.

“If you don’t mind my asking, how did you get mixed up with us lot?” asked Brodie. “Pardon me for saying so, but you don’t seem like an architect.”

“You mean you’ve never heard of me,” Suzu said, smiling lightly.

“That’s precisely what I mean,” Brodie admitted. “So who are you?”

“I teach aesthetics at Kumamoto University,” said Suzu.

“Ah,” Brodie said. “A professor.”

“Yes,” Suzu said. “Well, good night. I’m sure we’ll be seeing more of each other in the days to come.”

They said their good nights and watched as Suzu left the bar. When she was out of earshot Brodie looked at Walter and Jane. “I still have no idea why she’s here.”

“Is it so odd that a professor would be invited?” asked Jane.

“Not if she was a professor of something useful,” said Brodie.

“Aesthetics is useful,” Walter countered, although he sounded less than convinced himself.

Brodie shot him a look. “Like I said, must be a friend of Enid’s.”

“Well, she seems sweet enough,” said Walter.

“Careful,” said Brodie. “She’s the enemy.”

“Enemy?” Walter said. “Oh, you mean the whole Chumsley-versus-Enid thing.” He laughed. “I’ll be careful not to share any state secrets with her, then.”

More drinks were produced, and Jane listened as Brodie and Walter exchanged stories about people she didn’t know doing things she cared little about. Still, she was having a good time. Chumsley and Enid had, she thought, assembled quite an interesting cast of characters. With a bit of luck they would provide entertaining company for the next two weeks.

Suddenly a hush fell over the room. The piano player, who was halfway through “Happiness Is a Thing Called Joe,” hit a wrong note and stopped. Even the ice ceased its tinkling. Jane looked around to see what was happening and saw the guests looking in opposite directions—half toward the front of the bar and half toward the back.

At the front stood a short, stout woman, her graying hair cut in an unflattering shag. She wore a plaid skirt that did little to flatter her figure, a bulky sweater of green wool that was equally unhelpful, and heavy black shoes that could only be described as sensible. That must be Enid, Jane thought.

Enid—along with half of the guests—was staring at a man who Jane assumed to be Chumsley. He was all that his name implied. As short and stout as his ex-wife, he too had gray hair, although less of it. Curiously, he was dressed in what appeared to be some kind of riding outfit, including brown twill breeches tucked into leather boots, a yellow high-collared shirt beneath a red vest, and a herringbone ivy cap.

“Is he carrying a crop?” Jane whispered to Walter.

“And here we go,” Brodie said as Enid and Chumsley advanced on each other. They stopped when they were about a yard apart and as if by some unspoken cue turned so that they were back to back.

“Welcome, friends,” they said in unison. Oddly, it was impossible to tell their voices apart.

“We have a terrific trip planned,” Chumsley continued.

“We’ve each selected our favorite homes to show you,” said Enid.

“Some of which are more exciting than others,” Chumsley added.

“Indeed,” said Enid icily.

“Our tour will begin on Wednesday, when I take you to one of the finest homes in all of England,” Chumsley announced. “It’s one that is seldom visited, as the owner is a reluctant host. But as it happens, he is a good friend of mine and has graciously allowed us a visit. We’ll journey by railway to the village of Cripple Minton in Warwickshire and spend the day touring the house. That evening, following a delightful dinner, we’ll board another train, which will take us through the night to arrive the next morning in Pembroke, Wales, where we’ll catch a ferry to Rosslare, Ireland.”

He said Ireland as if he were naming a particularly vile type of pudding, and Jane caught his eyes cutting to a lanky, red-haired man leaning against the wall behind Enid. That must be Ryan McGuinness, she thought. Oh, this will be fun.

“And that is where the tour will truly begin,” Enid said loudly. “But enough of what’s to come. Let us enjoy the rest of the evening together.”

She and Chumsley exchanged curt nods and walked to separate parts of the room. Chumsley, seeing Walter and Brodie, came over to their table.

“Gentlemen,” he said expansively. “So good to see you.”

“And you, Chumsley,” said Walter, shaking the man’s hand.

“Chumsley,” said Brodie, “you appear to have lost your horse.”

Chumsley tapped him on the shoulder with his crop. “Enough out of you, you cheeky bastard,” he said. “You know I wear this only to annoy Enid.” He looked at Walter and Jane. “My ex-wife is deeply afraid of horses,” he explained. “As a child she was nipped quite badly by an Icelandic fjord pony, and ever since has harbored a fear that she might be eaten by one. If you want to give her a good fright, sneak up behind her and give a little whinny. She’ll likely soil her knickers.”

Jane laughed despite herself, earning a smile from Chumsley. “A lady with a wicked sense of humor,” he said. “I like you already.”

“That fine young lady is soon to be Walter’s wife,” Brodie informed him. “Tomorrow, to be exact.”

“A lucky man he is, then,” said Chumsley. “I’ll drink your health as soon as I can find someone to give me a whiskey. Will you all join me?”

Walter glanced at his watch. “I’m afraid we should be getting to bed,” he said. “We have a big day tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow night, then,” said Chumsley. “Once you’re properly married. We’ll have dinner at the Lord and Lamb.”

“I look forward to it,” said Walter.

“As do I,” Jane said.

“And I,” said Brodie.

Chumsley looked at him. “Who said you were invited?”

“I suppose I could always go with Enid’s group,” said Brodie. “They seem like a jolly bunch.”

“Like hell you will,” said Chumsley. “Now you two lovebirds run along. This degenerate and I have some drinking to do.”

Walter stood, as did Jane, and they exchanged good nights all around. Jane, now even less stable on her feet thanks to the gin and tonics, took Walter’s arm. “Should we say hello to Enid?” she asked, glancing toward the back of the bar.

“Best not to start a civil war on our first night,” said Walter. “There will be plenty of time for that.”

As they waited for the elevator to arrive Jane happened to glance toward the reception desk and saw that Gosebourne was standing behind it. Seeing her, he looked around and then waved her over.

“I’ll be right up,” Jane told Walter. “You go on ahead.”

“Are you sure?” asked Walter. “I can wait.”

“It’s fine,” said Jane. “I’m just going to get some … mints. At the gift shop.”

Walter gave her a peculiar look. “Mints?”

Jane nodded. “I have gin breath,” she said.

The elevator came and Walter stepped inside. Jane began walking toward Gosebourne when suddenly Miriam came walking briskly past her.

“Hold the doors!” Miriam yelled, ignoring Jane.

Jane turned and watched as Miriam entered the elevator.

“Mother,” she heard Walter say, “I thought you were with Ben and Lucy.”

“I was,” Miriam snapped. “But I wanted to talk to you. I can’t believe you want to have your wedding at—”

The elevator doors shut, cutting off the end of her remark.

“Bloody old vampire hunter,” Jane muttered as she went to see what Gosebourne wanted. When she reached him he seemed slightly agitated. “Is something wrong?” Jane asked.

“No,” Gosebourne said. “Not wrong. In fact, it might be something very good. I wanted to mention it earlier, but thought it best to wait until we could speak privately.”

“Something good?” said Jane. She leaned in and whispered. “Is it something about our kind?”

Gosebourne nodded. “I think it may be of particular interest to you,” he said. “Given your … situation.”

“Which situation might that be?” Jane asked. “There are several.”

“The man you’re marrying, he’s mortal?” asked Gosebourne.

Jane nodded.

“And you don’t wish to turn him?” Gosebourne continued.

“I’d prefer not to,” said Jane.

Gosebourne licked his lips. “Then I might know of a way,” he said.

“A way to what?” Jane asked. “I don’t understand.”

“A way to turn you back,” said Gosebourne.