She swept past Tess in what might have been a grand manner if she hadn’t tripped on one of her own drapes before slamming the door behind her.
Darn, darn, darn. Just what she needed. Not that anyone remembered a maid, but Tess doubted either guests or staff were meant to be up here. And if Margery Schuyler chose to complain . . .
Fear made some people clumsy. For Tess, it was the opposite. The world slowed, everything deliberate, precise, colors clearer, edges sharper. The dressing table bristled with crystal bottles with jeweled stoppers, garish and new, the only discordant object a well-worn silver brush set adorned with an entwined C and T.
She won’t keep it in the safe, Ginny had said. There’s a drawer in the dressing table, a secret drawer. Press the right spot and it will spring open.
Tess’s sister had made no secret of her contempt for people who held their valuables so lightly. Why, they were practically begging to have them stolen. We’re doing them a favor, that’s what her father would have said. Her father, who had a remarkable talent for remaking the world to his own imaginings.
He’d been an honest crook in his way.
But what did that make her? And Ginny? Tess had been feeling uneasy about Ginny recently, uneasy about all of it.
A slight pressure and the drawer popped open, just as Ginny had promised. Absurdly easy. Too easy. The drawer was crammed with velvet boxes emblazoned with jewelers’ insignia from New York, Boston, Philadelphia, Charleston, London, Paris. The wealth of nations bundled into a drawer, emeralds jumbled with sapphires, rubies sneering at garnets. Tess’s artist’s eye lingered longingly on a pair of earrings made to resemble butterflies, the iridescent wings a miracle of the jeweler’s art, tiny chips of gems blending together into a harmonious whole. Ginny would have noted the wealth of the stones, but Tess felt drunk on the craftsmanship of it, the care taken in putting the pieces together.
Reluctantly, she set aside a diamond pavé cat, arching its back, its ruby tongue caught between tiny fangs. It wasn’t the jewels she was after, not this time.
“Nothing too difficult,” Ginny had said, with an arch of her brow. “Sheet music. It’s not even that old. You could copy it in your sleep.”
“How long is it?” Tess had asked with trepidation.
“Just a few pages, that’s all.”
“Wouldn’t it be in the music room?”
“Not this. She’ll keep it close. It’s the only copy. An unfinished waltz by Strauss.” Ginny’s voice had turned wheedling. “You don’t even have to make the swap. Just transcribe it exactly. My client is willing to take the copy—so long as it’s a perfect copy. It’s the music and the composer’s notes he wants. He doesn’t need the page the great man touched. Although it might earn us a premium.”
Tess scrabbled though the jewel boxes, looking for the music. It would be in a flat, leather portfolio, that’s what Ginny had said. Behind her, the clock on the mantel ticked, every sound a warning. Another minute lost. Another. Margery Schuyler was downstairs by now, might be complaining to her hosts about the insolent maid who had rousted her from her rest. Tess dug beneath the diamond tiara, the parure of emeralds. She checked every box, felt every lining.
Nothing.
Torn between anger and fear, Tess rocked back on her heels, setting the boxes back in their places with trembling hands, each one just so.
The manuscript wasn’t there.
She would have to find it on the ship. The Lusitania.
Chapter 4
Sarah
London
May 2013
One thing I knew about John Langford: he was a man of habit. Each morning at half past seven, he emerged from his flat on Westbourne Grove, set his teeth curtly against the photographers waiting outside, and darted down the sidewalk (the “pavement,” as they called it here) to the Tube station.
On Monday it was the Circle line from Notting Hill Gate; on Tuesday he joined the Hammersmith and City line at Ladbroke Grove. Today he cruised back over to Notting Hill Gate, but rather than turning for the Circle and District lines, he plunged right down the steep escalators to the Central line, cruising nimbly past the queue of standers on the right while the photographers piled up at the top, vying for precedence. Luckily, I wasn’t encumbered by either professional competition or camera equipment. I darted down the empty stairs that ran between the escalators, checking my phone like I was any old City worker late for her job on the trading desk, and stepped onto the eastbound train at the instant the doors slid shut. Kept my eyes fixed studiously on the easyJet advertisements at the top while the train lurched forward and rattled down the tracks, slammed to a stop at each station, lurched forward again, repeat. Just as the other passengers began to stir, recognizing at last the man who actually stood in their midst, sliding hands into pockets for iPhone cameras and fifteen glorious minutes of social media fame, John stepped off the train. Today, it was the Oxford Circus station, and I lost him on the escalators.
But not to worry. Like I said, John was a man of habit, and when I emerged into the drizzly, commercial bustle of Oxford Street, I knew I had only to look around for the nearest Costa Coffee shop. There it was, just a few steps away down Argyll Street.
Another thing about John Langford: for all his pedigree, he was a man of the people.
He was also tall, significantly tall, almost six and a half feet, which made him easy to spot inside the warm, java-scented air. He wore an American-style baseball cap awkwardly over his dark blond hair, but you couldn’t mistake him. Long and lean; sharp, large nose; naked chin floating above the bearded hipsters. His scarred brown Barbour coat and green Wellington boots made you imagine he was just grabbing a coffee before he zoomed off in a Range Rover to stalk deer in Scotland or somewhere. He waited patiently in line, keeping his head bowed in fascination at the glass display case crowded with the pastries, and his collar up around his clenched jaw.
For the past three mornings, I’d followed John Langford on a Costa Coffee tour of London. A different branch each day, but the same routine. As soon as the paparazzi tracked him down, he stood up politely and left, heading back home, or else to the British Museum or the National Portrait Gallery: some sacred, patriotic place where photographers couldn’t follow. Usually he had time to finish his coffee before they found him. Actually, I had to admire him for going out at all. In his place, I would’ve stayed home in my flat, ordering curry takeouts and avoiding windows until the whole sordid affair blew over. But not John. He refused to be caged. He stalked outside defiantly. He made the photographers hustle for their shots.
I wanted to ask him why. I wanted to sit down and pepper him with questions, to find out what had really happened with his wife and the Russian oligarch, to discover what fascinating quality of British bloody-mindedness drove him to strike out every morning at half past seven for a very public latte somewhere in the capital. But I hadn’t yet dared to approach him. Just ordered my own coffee and sat down along the bar, while John quietly read the newspaper—yes, an actual print newspaper, two of them, the Daily Telegraph followed by the Guardian, getting both sides of the story—and kept his head down until somebody inevitably pulled out an iPhone and tipped off the paps, and he moved on to seek refuge in a cultural institution. Monday passed, Tuesday, and still I held back. I was sizing him up, I told myself. Figuring out the best angle of attack. John Langford was a disgraced politician in the middle of the year’s biggest, juiciest scandal; I couldn’t just walk up to him and introduce myself while he stared ruminatively at the Holbein portrait of Henry VIII. He was vulnerable. He was defensive. This was going to require care, tact, diligence. All the investigative skill I possessed.
On the other hand. Today was Wednesday, and I’d already squandered four whole days of the two weeks I’d allotted myself to write this book proposal before I headed back to New York. Not just because I couldn’t be away from my mother any longer, but because my groaning Mastercard could only just stretch to afford my shoddy hotel in Shepherd
’s Bush.
The milk steamer started up with a wet, violent noise. Behind me, the door opened. Now or never. Make your move, Sarah. He’s the last customer in line for exactly three more seconds.
I drew in a thick, sweet breath and stepped forward, just ahead of the new arrival, to slip in line behind Langford.
Up close, he was bigger than I thought. His height made him seem narrower than he really was; when you stood next to him, you realized his shoulders and back were actually broad enough to hide behind, like huddling in the shelter of a Stonehenge monolith. I was five foot seven, and I couldn’t see the top of his shoulder. I told myself this was a good thing. I wanted to remain inconspicuous, right? Didn’t want him to notice me hovering there at his elbow, following his gaze along the rows of giant muffins and croissants as the line inched forward. The sounds went on around us, the chatter and laughter, the calling of orders, the frothing of milk and the high-pitched whir of grinding beans. My heart beat hard; the cold, light sensation of adrenaline moved through my veins. The last customer moved away, and John stepped in front of the register.
“Large americano, please. Extra hot.”
I hadn’t actually heard his voice before, except on YouTube clips. He was more resonant in real life, more baritone, which made sense given the size of his chest. And he drank americano. That was interesting. Was he lactose intolerant or did he simply prefer his coffee black? He never added milk afterward, just a brief shake of sugar. (Real sugar, not artificial sweetener.) I watched his hands as he counted out pound coins from his pocket—real money, not plastic—and said something to the counter attendant that I couldn’t quite hear. Then he stepped away to join the pickup queue, and I moved into place.
“I’ll have a large americano, please. Um, extra hot.”
The attendant lifted her eyebrows and scribbled on the cup, while I dug into my wallet for my Mastercard. “That’s all right,” she said. “Chap ahead of you already paid.”
My hand froze on the leather. “What did you say?”
She nodded to the pickup counter. “Chap ahead of you. Picked up your bill, right?”
“Are you kidding me?”
The attendant was young, with pale skin and crimson streaks in her dark hair. She leaned forward over the register and said, woman to woman, “I reckon you’re well in there, miss.”
* * *
I considered walking right out, do not pass Go, do not collect your coffee and look John Langford in the eye. Then I reminded myself I had a job to do. The stakes were high. That pound and a half saved on coffee? Actually meant something.
I moved to the pickup queue, remaining a careful few feet away from John’s sturdy shoulder. He didn’t seem to notice me. Maybe he did this kind of thing all the time, maybe these little acts of random generosity were all part of his routine, not some menacing attempt to rattle the woman who was trailing him. Noblesse oblige and all that. Somebody ahead of us picked up a flat white. Another received a caramel macchiato. Just the two of us left now, pretending not to notice each other. My face was hot, and not because of the heat rising from the espresso machine.
The barista set a cup on the counter. “Large americano, extra hot,” he called out.
Here we go.
I reached forward and snatched the cup.
“I beg your pardon,” said John Langford, “I believe that’s mine.”
“Pretty sure it’s mine. Large americano, extra hot?”
“I see. What a coincidence. That’s precisely what I ordered.”
“Oh, gosh. Is it? So sorry. Here you go. I’ll just wait for the next one.”
“No, please. Take it.”
“No, really.” I pushed the drink toward his waxed-leather chest.
“Look,” he said, in a hushed voice, holding his arms rigid at his sides, “I don’t know what kind of game you’re playing, but I’m not talking to any journalists at the moment, so you’re wasting your time.”
I opened my mouth to say that I didn’t know what he was talking about, but as I did so, I looked into his face for the first time. The true first time: not the images I’d Googled on my laptop, not the YouTube clips, not the sidelong glances at his turned-away features. Eye to eye, nose to nose. Well, nose to sternum, to be precise. But you know what I mean. Like the rest of him, his face was lean and bony, in square proportions, too grim and too spare for beauty. His hazel eyes were narrowed and cold, and I couldn’t look away from them.
“It’s not what you think,” I said lamely.
The next customer joined us. “Large americano, extra hot,” said the barista, setting another cup on the counter. John reached out his long arm and took the coffee. “Have a good morning,” he said, turning away, and I grabbed his elbow in desperation.
Langford jerked back in shock, like I’d punched him in the nose.
“I’m sorry.” I dropped my hand. “It’s not about the—the thing you’re going through. The scandal. It’s something else.”
“The hell it is. Would you mind leaving me alone to nurse my coffee and my dignity, or is that too much to ask?”
“Please. Just five minutes.”
“I’m afraid not.”
The customers in line were starting to shoot curious glances our way. I maneuvered myself between them and Langford, as if my five and a half feet could somehow shield his six and a half feet from view. He scowled at me and put his hand on his baseball cap, the way you do when you want to run your fingers through your hair, but forgot you’re wearing a hat. Thwarted, the hand went to the brim instead, and pulled it lower on his forehead.
“Look,” I said. “It’s not about your wife. It’s about your great-grandfather. It’s about Lusitania.”
Langford made a startled movement, spilling his extra-hot coffee through the mouth hole onto his hand. He swore and sucked the drops away. “What did you say?”
“RMS Lusitania. My great-grandfather was on that ship the day it sank, and so was yours. Robert Langford. The spy novelist?”
“I know who my great-grandfather was!” he snapped. He lifted his other wrist and checked his watch. Who wore a watch anymore, in the age of smartphones? John Langford did. Stainless steel and chunky. The kind that was probably waterproof to fifty meters.
I leaned forward. “Listen to me. I have some information I think you might find—”
“Five minutes,” he said. “And you do all the talking.”
* * *
We sat in the corner nearest the door, looking out over the tiny, pedestrianized corridor of Argyll Street toward Bond Street, where the whizzing motorbikes, the black taxis, the small white delivery vans, all maneuvered around each other in a delicate, noisy ballet. I sipped my coffee and choked. “If I get up for milk and sugar, does that count against my five minutes?” I asked.
“Yes.”
I scuttled to the counter and splashed in milk, tossed in sugar, grabbed a stirring stick. When I returned, Langford regarded me with an expression that plainly disapproved of my decadence.
“Four minutes and forty-five seconds,” he said. “Go.”
“All right.” I set down the coffee and reached inside my tote bag. “Here.”
“What’s this?”
“It’s a watch, obviously. My great-grandfather’s watch. His name was Patrick Houlihan. He was a steward in the first-class section; he’d worked aboard Lusitania almost from her launching. The Cunard company sent this back to my great-grandmother after they found his body, along with his uniform and everything he had on him at the time of the sinking. See how it stopped at two thirty-six? That’s when he hit the water. I don’t think he could swim.”
Langford set down the watch in the middle of the table. The silver flashed back a bit of light from the bright lamps overhead. “I’m sorry for your loss,” he said blandly. “But I don’t see what this has to do with my great-grandfather, other than the fact that they were both on the ship, among thousands.”
“So turn it over.”
“I don�
��t have time for games, Miss—?”
“Sarah. Sarah Blake.”
“Miss Blake.” He checked his own watch. “And neither do you, it seems.”
“All right, all right.” I picked up the silver pocket watch and turned it over. “Look, on the back. It’s inscribed. To Patrick, a small token of my grateful esteem, R.H.L.”
Langford squinted at the lettering, which I held up helpfully before his eyes. He wasn’t inclined to touch the watch itself. Kept his right hand firmly around his coffee cup, and his left hand atop his leg. “I’m sorry. I don’t see what you’re getting at.”
“Those are your great-grandfather’s initials! Robert Horatio Langford.”
“Or anyone else with those initials. It’s a coincidence, nothing more.”
“Coincidence? It’s a pretty big coincidence, wouldn’t you say? Especially when taken together with these.” I reached back into my tote bag and drew out the oilskin pouch and the luncheon menu. “Also found on Patrick’s body, which means he had them in the pockets of his uniform when the torpedo struck at ten minutes past two o’clock on the afternoon of May seventh. Just look what’s in this pouch. This waterproof pouch, I might add, which means someone wanted to make sure it survived the sinking.”
“It’s an envelope,” Langford said, a little distastefully.
“Specifically, it’s an envelope from the Marconi radio room, addressed to one Robert Langford, Stateroom B-38. Pretty sure that’s not a coincidence, right? And somebody’s written a message on the other side, a message that doesn’t make any sense unless, say, you’re writing in some kind of cipher.”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake! You bloody Americans and your conspiracies. What exactly are you trying to imply, Miss Blake? That my great-grandfather was some kind of secret agent? Maybe had something to do with the sinking of the ship?”
“Now that’s interesting. What makes you say that?”
He held up a finger. “Don’t even think about it.”
The Glass Ocean Page 5
