Jane Fairfax 3 - Jane Vows Vengeance Page 5

  There was a pause before both Jane and Lucy burst out laughing. “Don’t worry,” Jane said. “I can hardly blame you. The woman is a terror. And I suspect she will stay close to me and Walter, if only to ensure we don’t run off without her. But I’m still not telling you where the wedding is going to be.”

  “Come on!” Lucy pleaded.

  Ben shook his head. “Listen to you two,” he said. “I bet Miriam isn’t nearly as bad as you make her out to be.”

  Lucy and Jane looked at him. “Have you met her?” Lucy asked.

  “I know she can be … bristly,” said Ben. “But I bet underneath it all she’s just lonely. Most unpleasant people usually are.”

  “Or perhaps her heart is made of pitch,” Jane suggested.

  Lucy chuckled. “Tell you what,” she said to Ben. “You can spend some time with Miriam. I’m sure she’d love that, what with you being a rabbi and all. Then we’ll see what you think.”

  Before Ben could answer, the cab pulled up to the front of the Savoy hotel. They got out and began the elaborate ritual of handing the bags over to the bellman, who had appeared as if out of nowhere with a cart. The cab containing the rest of their party pulled up shortly thereafter, adding to the confusion as Miriam began directing the transfer of the luggage.

  Jane escaped both Miriam and the cold March air by entering the hotel lobby through one of the revolving doors. She could still hear Miriam’s voice as she crossed the black and white checkerboard tiled floor to the front desk.

  “This place is gorgeous,” Lucy said, looking around at the grand lobby with its soaring ceiling, polished wood paneling, and Art Deco chandeliers.

  “You should have seen it when it opened,” Jane told her. “It was 1889. No one had ever seen anything like it. Electricity in all the rooms, hot and cold running water—it was a miracle of the age.”

  “Did you stay here?” asked Lucy.

  “Of course,” Jane replied. “Richard Mansfield brought me here for dinner. He was playing Richard III at the time. You know they suspected him of being Jack the Ripper.”

  “Was he?” Lucy asked.

  “I certainly hope so,” said Jane as they reached the desk. “How many women can say they dined with the Ripper and lived to tell about it?”

  “Welcome to the Savoy,” said a pleasant voice.

  Jane turned to find a handsome young man looking at her from behind the check-in counter. “Yes,” she said. “I believe we have a reservation under Fletcher.”

  “Jane?” the man said. “Jane Aus …” He left the word unfinished. “I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s just that you remind me of someone I used to know.”

  Jane stared at the man’s face. The wavy blond hair. The aquiline nose. The clear blue eyes. They all seemed very familiar. Then she noticed the thin scar running from the corner of the man’s mouth to his chin.

  “Gosebourne?” she whispered. “Is it really you?”

  The young man beamed. “It is you,” he said happily. “I knew it the instant I saw your face.”

  Jane looked at Lucy. “Gosebourne has worked at the Savoy since …” She looked at Gosebourne. “Well, since it opened.”

  “Indeed I have,” Gosebourne said, nodding at Lucy. “I dare say I’ve moved up a bit in rank during that time, but yes, I hold the distinction of being the hotel’s longest-serving employee.”

  Before Jane could ask Gosebourne any of the dozen questions that were buzzing around in her head, Walter and Ben arrived with the bellman and the luggage in tow. Miriam, like some kind of insane border collie, brought up the rear, barking orders at everyone in sight.

  “All checked in?” Walter asked.

  Jane nodded. “We were just getting to that,” she said.

  Gosebourne, now all business, typed furiously on his computer’s keyboard. “Here we are,” he said. “I have you staying for two nights.” He looked at Jane. “Is that all?” he said sadly.

  “I’m afraid so,” Jane answered.

  “We’re here with the International Association of Historic preservationists,” Walter explained.

  “Ah, yes,” said Gosebourne. “Many of your party have already checked in. I believe you’ll be meeting later this evening in the American Bar for cocktails. Nine o’clock, if I’m not mistaken. There will be more information in your room.”

  He handed Walter a small envelope containing their passkeys, then repeated the process for Ben and Lucy. Before Miriam could step forward to take her turn, Jane leaned over the counter and whispered to Gosebourne, “Put her next to an elevator.”

  Once all the rooms were assigned, it was off to the elevators and up to their rooms. Gosebourne, Jane was pleased to see, had indeed placed Miriam in a room right next to the elevator bank. Miriam frowned as she opened her door, and Jane continued down the corridor to her own room with a feeling of satisfaction.

  Jane and Walter’s room was on one side of the hallway, and Lucy and Ben’s was on the other. It was only when Jane was in the room that something occurred to her.

  “Did you book a room with one bed or two for Ben and Lucy?” she asked Walter.

  “One,” Walter said as he went to the window and pulled back the drapes, revealing a spectacular view of the River Thames. “Why?”

  “Well, with him being a rabbi, I’m not sure that they’re … you know.”

  “Sleeping together?” said Walter.

  Jane nodded. “I know that sounds old-fashioned of me,” she said.

  Walter laughed. “It does,” he said. “But don’t worry. I’m sure if it’s not okay they’ll say something.” He came over and put his arms around Jane, pulling her close. “Don’t you girls talk about these things?”

  Jane kissed him. “Of course not. We only talk about raising babies and how to cook for our menfolk.”

  “And we men only talk about hunting and making fire,” Walter said.

  Jane laughed. “Speaking of talking, I understand you told Ben where we’re getting married.”

  “I suppose I did,” said Walter. “Is that all right?”

  “It’s fine,” Jane told him. “But Lucy is furious because I won’t tell her.” She hesitated before asking, “Did you tell your mother?”

  “I was going to,” Walter said. “But then she started complaining about the airline and the snow and all the English accents and I decided not to. Let her be surprised.”

  “Oh, she’ll be surprised all right,” said Jane. “I can’t wait to see the look on her face.”

  Walter picked up a folder that was sitting on the room’s desk. “This is the packet from the IAHP,” he said. He sat down on the bed and opened it while Jane commenced unpacking.

  “Here’s the welcome letter, itinerary, handy hints for avoiding pickpockets … Ah, here we are. The guest list.” His eyes scanned the page. “Interesting,” he remarked.

  “What is?” asked Jane as she hung one of Walter’s shirts in the closet.

  “Well, I’ve heard of some of these people,” Walter answered. “But I’ve only met one of them.” He looked at the clock on the nightstand. “We’re about to, though,” he said. “It’s almost nine now.”

  “I’d forgotten about the time difference,” said Jane. “What time is it back home?”

  Walter glanced at his watch. “A quarter to four,” he told her.

  “Your mother will be clamoring for dinner,” Jane said.

  “Maybe she can go with Lucy and Ben and get something,” said Walter. “Do you want to go with them? I’m probably going to be tied up with these people for a while.”

  “I’ll come,” said Jane. “I want to see the motley crew we’ll be sharing the road with for the next two weeks.”

  “You mean you’d rather do anything else than have dinner with my mother,” Walter said, grinning.

  “And there’s that,” said Jane. “Now come on. We don’t want to be late for our first get-together.”

  They knocked on Ben and Lucy’s door. When Ben answered, Jane peeked around h
im to see what the bed situation was. As Walter had told her, there was only one. Lucy was stretched out on it, looking at a guidebook. I’ll have to have a chat with her later, Jane thought.

  “Jane and I have to go to this cocktail hour,” Walter explained. “I’m wondering if you would mind taking my mother with you to—”

  “I don’t need a babysitter, Walter.”

  Jane jumped at the unexpected sound of Miriam’s voice. When she turned she saw Walter’s mother approaching, Lilith in her arms. They were wearing matching red sweaters. Lilith, to her credit, did not look particularly pleased.

  “Oh, hi, Mom,” Walter said. “Nobody said you needed a babysitter. I just thought you would be more comfortable going to dinner with Lucy and Ben than you would be hanging around with Jane and me and a bunch of people into old houses.”

  “Well, you’re right about that,” said Miriam. She smiled at Ben. “I’m sure the rabbi will be excellent company.”

  Ben glanced at Lilith. “I don’t know if they allow dogs in restaurants here,” he said.

  “Nonsense,” Miriam replied. “They adore dogs here. You can take them anywhere.”

  “You’re thinking of Paris,” Jane remarked before she could think to stop herself.

  Miriam pointedly ignored her. “Anyway, I’ll just tell them she’s a helping dog. She senses when I’m about to have a seizure.”

  “But you don’t have seizures,” Walter objected.

  Miriam’s face suddenly twisted in a rictus of pain. She began to shake, and her tongue protruded from her mouth as a series of groans poured forth.

  “Mother!” Walter cried.

  Miriam’s facial expression returned to normal. “See?” she said. “Seizures.”

  “Good God, Mother,” Walter said. “Don’t go doing that in a restaurant, or anywhere for that matter.”

  “If my seizure dog is with me, I won’t,” Miriam said. She took Ben’s arm. “Now, shall we go find something to eat? I’m famished.”

  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.