Michael Ford: Jane Vows Vengeance

“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.”