“I find railway travel induces insomnia,” said a monotone voice.
Jane turned to see Bergen Faust standing behind her, dressed in the same dark suit she’d seen him in at each of the tour group’s gatherings. His hands were behind his back, and he peered at her with unblinking eyes.
“Do you?” Jane said. “I’m sorry to hear it.”
“I never have been able to sleep in moving vehicles,” Bergen continued. “The motion interferes with the workings of the inner ear.”
“It sounds terrible,” said Jane. “Tell me, did you enjoy the tour this morning?”
“It was very educational,” Bergen replied. “I learned a great many things I had not known about the heraldic ornamentation of Georgian-period andirons.”
“That does sound … marvelous,” Jane said.
“It is a fascinating subject,” Bergen told her. “I understand you visited the Church of St. Apollonia.”
“Yes,” Jane answered, surprised that Bergen would pay her comings and goings any mind. “It’s really quite lovely, although I’m sure not as interesting as the andirons.”
“Few things are,” Bergen agreed. “I believe it’s your turn.”
“Excuse me?” said Jane.
“Your turn,” Bergen repeated, nodding slightly and looking past her.
Jane turned around to see that while they’d been talking the line had moved forward. The girl behind the counter smiled wanly. “What may I get for you?” she asked.
“A bottled water,” Jane said.
“Will that be all?” the girl asked.
“Yes,” said Jane, taking some money from the pocket of her pants.
She accepted the water from the girl, and when she’d received her change she turned to go. “Well, good night,” she said to Bergen.
“I’ll walk with you as far as your compartment,” Bergen said.
“Aren’t you going to get anything?” Jane asked, looking back at the bored girl behind the counter.
“No,” Bergen said. “Why?”
“I just thought …” She let the remainder of the thought die unspoken. “Never mind.”
There was no polite way to rid herself of Bergen. Now she could think of no plausible excuse for not returning to Walter. As if to emphasize the predicament, her stomach growled again. She and Bergen walked in silence until they reached the door to her room.
“Here I am,” Jane said.
Bergen tipped his head. “Until tomorrow,” he said, then continued on.
Jane opened the door and slipped inside. Walter was still on the lower bunk, reading a book. She handed him the bottle of water. “I understand you saw some exquisite andirons on your house tour this morning,” she said.
Walter took a sip of water. “Ran into Bergen, did you?”
Jane laughed. “Such an odd little man.”
“He reminds me a bit of Dwight Frye,” said Walter. “The actor who played Renfield in Dracula opposite Lugosi. I’ll never forget the scene in the asylum when he’s trying to eat a spider and the orderly takes it away from him.” He widened his eyes and held his hands up, fingers wiggling. “ ‘Flies! Flies! Who wants to eat flies? Not when I can get nice, fat spiders!’ ” He shuddered. “That completely creeped me out when I was a kid. The whole movie did. But of course once my mother told me I couldn’t see it, I had to.”
“Miriam forbade you to see Dracula?” Jane asked.
Walter nodded. “Not just Dracula,” he said. “Any vampire movie. She had a real thing about vampires. I don’t know why. I guess they freaked her out or something. I wonder if she’s still spooked by them.”
I think it’s the other way around, Jane thought.
“Anyway, that’s who Bergen reminds me of,” said Walter. “Renfield. Do you suppose he eats spiders?”
“No, but he ordered black pudding at supper, and that’s just as bad,” Jane said.
Her stomach clenched. I’d eat a spider right now if I had one, she thought grimly. She had to feed soon, but she’d run out of excuses for leaving the room. Besides, until the other passengers were asleep it would be difficult to find somewhere—and someone—suitable for her needs.
With much difficulty she climbed into the top bunk and tried to read. She’d brought with her for the trip a battered paperback copy of Mikhail Bulgakov’s The Master and Margarita. For years she had been trying to get through it, and had begun and abandoned it at least a dozen times. Each time she got a little further into the book than she had on the previous attempt, and now she was up to page 239. She was determined to finish it once and for all, even if it killed her.
She made a valiant effort but fell asleep after reading fewer than six pages. When she next woke up, the compartment was dark and Walter was snoring below her. A glance at the small travel clock Walter had set on the narrow shelf beside the beds read 1:37.
Jane got down from the bunk as quietly as she could, found her shoes, and slipped them on. She opened the compartment door and went out into the hallway.
The lights in the corridor had been dimmed for the night, but Jane had no trouble finding her way to the coach car. There the overhead lights had also been turned down, and the car was bathed in shadows. Here and there the glow of an e-book reader or the screen of a laptop cast light on the face of its user, but mostly the passengers slept as the train raced through the night.
Jane walked the length of the car, looking for a suitable candidate. With the majority of the people asleep, she allowed herself more time than she usually did when hunting to look at the possibilities. It felt a bit like perusing the produce section in search of the juiciest peach. This thought amused her, and she had to stifle a giggle. So inappropriate, she admonished herself.
Not seeing anything she liked, she walked into the next car. This one was less crowded, and there were far fewer lights on. In fact, there was only one, and it belonged to a girl who had fallen asleep while listening to her iPod. Encouraged, Jane went from seat to seat, examining the occupants.
She found him in the middle of the car. He was young—she guessed not yet twenty-five. On the seat beside him was a backpack, and open on his lap was a copy of the Lonely Planet guide to Ireland. He looked to be in good shape, and Jane guessed he wouldn’t miss the little bit of blood she was going to take from him.
She moved the backpack from the seat and placed it in the aisle. Then she took the seat beside the boy. Breathing deeply, she focused her mind so that in the event the boy woke up she would be prepared to glamor him. Then she leaned over as if she were asleep beside him, her face nuzzled in his neck.
His blood was delicious. This was not a thought she often had when feeding. It was an activity she loathed, and ordinarily she just wanted to get it over with. But the boy’s blood was undeniably pleasant, sweet and salty at the same time. Like taffy, Jane thought vaguely as she drank.
When she’d had enough, she retracted her fangs and sat up. Her headache had disappeared and her stomach was no longer aching. She sighed deeply and opened her eyes.
Suzu was standing in the aisle, not ten feet away, looking down at her. She was dressed in a black robe embroidered in cream with cranes, which caused her to look like a shadow dappled with moonlight. At first Jane, who couldn’t recall even having seen the woman since the opening night reception, thought she must be imagining it. But then Suzu blinked. Jane froze, her mind racing. How long had Suzu been there? How much had she seen? Was there blood on her face?
She thought quickly. How could she explain what she was doing there? Then, to make matters worse, the young man beside her stirred. He moaned and twisted his face toward her. Before she knew what she was doing, Jane kissed him passionately on the lips. The boy, slowly coming awake, kissed her back.
Jane pulled her mouth away and laughed lightly. “Oh, Esteban,” she said. “You’re so naughty.”
She pretended to see Suzu for the first time. Her hand flew to her mouth in feigned shock. “Suzu!” she said. “This … this … isn’t what it
looks like.”
Suzu looked at the boy, who was making kissing movements with his lips as he sought out Jane’s mouth. Jane fended him off, pushing against his chest with her hands.
“Esteban! You wicked thing!” she said.
Suzu tipped her head. “Good night, Mrs. Fletcher,” she said and walked past.
Suzu’s use of what would have been Jane’s married name had she and Walter actually completed the ceremony jarred her. It would have been bad enough had Suzu thought Jane was cheating on her fiancé; to be caught cheating on her husband was even worse.
“No,” she called after Suzu, trying to keep her voice low. “It’s not what you think.”
Suzu disappeared through the door into the next car, leaving Jane alone with the now half-awake boy. He was sitting up, mumbling and kissing the air. His eyes opened and, seeing Jane, he gave her a lopsided smile. “Who are you?” he asked. “And who’s Esteban?”
Jane focused her attention on him. “Go back to sleep,” she commanded. “And don’t remember any of this.”
The boy sank back against the window and began snoring. Jane got up, replaced the backpack on the seat beside him, and followed after Suzu. When she entered the next car, Suzu was nowhere to be seen. She’s certainly a speedy little thing, she thought, quickening her pace.
When she entered the sleeper car she saw a door to one of the compartments opening. Not knowing which room was Suzu’s, she waited to see if she would emerge. Instead, Chumsley exited. He turned around and spoke to someone inside the room.
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” he said angrily.
“Your warning is duly noted,” a man’s voice replied. There was an Irish lilt to it, and Jane immediately thought of Ryan McGuinness.
The door shut and Chumsley turned around. Seeing Jane, he gave a start. “Look at us both up at this ungodly hour,” he said.
“It is quite late,” said Jane.
After an awkward silence of a few seconds Chumsley said, “Well, good night then. See you in the morning.”
“Good night,” Jane said as Chumsley moved quickly past her. She watched him go to the other end of the sleeper and open a door there.
She’d forgotten all about Suzu. Now she found herself wondering what Chumsley had been doing in the compartment of his ex-wife’s lover. And what had Chumsley warned Ryan about?
Perhaps I’m not the only one with a secret, she thought.
Thursday: Ireland
FORTUNATELY FOR JANE, SHE WAS TOO BUSY RUBBING WALTER’S back and speaking to him in soothing tones to worry about what Suzu thought about their encounter the night before. Walter, for his part, was leaning over the railing on the upper deck of the Isle of Inishmore and heaving his breakfast into the choppy waters of St. George’s Channel.
The ferry was only forty-five minutes into its four-hour crossing between Pembroke, Wales, and Rosslare, Ireland. A strong winter storm was causing larger-than-usual waves, and despite the Inishmore’s impressive size the sea was moving her up and down like a toy boat.
Jane was doing her best to be nurturing, but the sound of Walter’s retching, not to mention the scent of vomit, made her feel a bit queasy herself. The scrambled eggs and rashers she’d consumed shortly before boarding were now protesting loudly. Matters were not helped by the fact that Walter was not alone among their party in his misery. Arranged along the rail at polite intervals, Genevieve, Orsino, Enid, and Sam were also delivering up to the gods of the sea offerings of barely digested breakfasts. The remaining guests were huddled in the downstairs lounge.
Brodie was one of the few unaffected by the rough crossing. Strolling along the deck, he sipped from a cup of coffee and whistled “Bollocky Bill the Sailor” in such a cheerful way that those he passed might have shoved him over the rail had they not been otherwise engaged. His gait remained leisurely and smooth, and whenever a swell sent the ferry lurching he corrected himself so that not a single drop of coffee escaped the cup.
“Fine weather we’re having,” he remarked to Jane. Looking down at Walter, whose head was between his arms as he waited for the next bout of nausea to hit, he said, “Don’t worry, mate. Once you’ve got it all out you’ll feel right as rain.”
“You’re handling it rather well,” said Jane as Walter made a choking sound.
“I come from pirate stock,” Brodie said. “Great-great-great-great-grandmother or some such was Auckland Annie. Might be missing a great in there somewhere,” he added, counting on the fingers of his left hand. “Any which way, she sailed with this captain and that captain, until one day the British captured the ship she was on and tossed her in the nick. That’s where she met Captain Brodie Banks. Handsome fellow. Went to the gallows not long after, but not before old Annie was in the pudding club. Couldn’t hang her in her condition, so they waited nine months until she popped out her little one, gave her a couple of minutes to name the boy, and then showed her the noose. That little boy was my great-great-great-grandfather Brodie Banks.”
Jane, fascinated by the story, forgot all about her own seasickness. “You made that up,” she said.
“God’s honest truth,” said Brodie. “There’s been a Brodie in the family ever since. Or an Olive if there’s no boy in a generation. My mother’s an Olive. That’s why I’m a Pittman and not a Banks.” He paused. “Pity, really. Banks is a much better pirate name.”
“Rawuuublahhh,” said Walter, bringing Jane’s attention back to the matter at hand.
“I see McGuinness has joined the party,” Brodie remarked.
Jane looked over to see Ryan running to the railing, where he positioned himself between Enid and Orsino. His red hair was a bright spot against the dirty gray sky as he leaned over and gagged.
“Serves the cheating bugger right,” said Brodie, chuckling. He looked at Jane. “Pity we can’t just give him a little help over the side the next time she rolls,” he said. “Let old St. George have him with his morning tea.”
Jane, only half listening to him, made a vague noise.
“I leave you to it, then,” said Brodie. “Think I’ll see if there’s any more grilled tomatoes to be had.”
Jane and Walter spent another forty-five minutes at the railing as one by one the other seasick guests departed. Finally Walter felt well enough to walk, and Jane led him through the door and into the warmth of the lounge. There they found Lucy, Ben, and Miriam (with Lilith on her lap). They all looked a bit green in the face, and when a particularly large swell lifted the prow of the ship a collective groan rolled across the room.
“Are we almost there?” Lucy asked.
“Another two and a half hours,” Ben informed her.
“I hate Ireland,” Lucy announced. “I hate Wales. And I really, truly hate St. George and his blasted channel.”
They settled into an uneasy silence as the ferry continued toward Ireland. Eventually the seas grew calmer, and although the sailing wasn’t precisely smooth, it was much better than it had been. When she felt fairly certain he could keep something in his stomach, Jane fetched Walter a ginger ale and some biscuits. He ate the biscuits slowly, taking tiny sips of ginger ale between bites, and when he was finished he looked a great deal more alive than he had all morning.
The skies cleared and the sun came out, and when the Isle of Inishmore finally docked at the port in Rosslare the party was in good spirits. Their luggage was loaded onto a waiting tour bus, and then they were on their way to their destination.
As the day’s site had been chosen by Enid, it was she who briefed them on it. She stood at the front of the bus, her sturdy legs planted firmly and a hand gripping the back of the seat on either side of the aisle. Her hair, thanks to the blustery weather at sea and the fact that she had yet to comb it back into submission, stuck out around her head.
“She looks like something out of Macbeth,” Jane murmured to Lucy.
“Although yesterday’s tour was perhaps mildly interesting to those of you who haven’t seen any of the thousands of home
s in Britain exactly like the vicarage at Cripple Minton,” Enid began, looking pointedly at Chumsley, who was painstakingly removing the cellophane from a butterscotch candy, “today you will see something utterly unique.”
Crinkle—crinkle-crinkle went the wrapper on the butterscotch.
“Swichninny Castle is a medieval castle,” said Enid. “In that respect it looks very much like most medieval castles.”
Chumsley popped the butterscotch into his mouth and bit down with a loud crunch. “Pardon,” he said loudly. “Didn’t mean to be rude.”
Enid narrowed her eyes. “What distinguishes Swichninny from other castles of its kind is its unusually fine barbican, complete with murder holes and arrow slits, as well as the tallest keep of any castle in Ireland.”
“How tall is it?” Chumsley asked, sucking loudly on the butterscotch.
She glared at him. “I don’t know precisely,” she said through clenched teeth.
“I’m only wondering,” said Chumsley, “because I’ve always been of the impression that at fifty-two meters the donjon of Château de Vincennes is the tallest keep.”
“I believe you are correct about the height of the donjon of Château de Vincennes,” Enid said. “However, as Château de Vincennes is in France, it can hardly have the tallest keep in all of Ireland.”
Chumsley crunched the butterscotch. “I beg your pardon,” he said. “I must have misunderstood you.”
“You usually do,” said Enid. “Now as I was saying …”
The rest of her speech was a blur to Jane: moat this and curtain wall that, machicolations and lower baileys and main baileys and hoardings and battered plinths, on and on and on until the words meant absolutely nothing. Jane was far more interested in the back of Suzu’s head. The woman was seated three rows ahead of Walter and Jane, next to Sam Wax. She and Jane had said nothing more than good morning to each other all day, and Jane was going mad wondering if she should attempt to discuss the matter with the woman. Of course there really was nothing to discuss, at least nothing that would in any way portray Jane as anything other than a wanton. She could hardly deny kissing the young man, as she had made such a show of it, and telling the truth was out of the question. She supposed she could claim to have been drunk (which was no better, really) or out of her mind on cold medication (she practiced sniffling, but knew it was hopeless). Ultimately, however, she had to accept that Suzu now had something on her—even if what she thought she knew was much less disturbing than the actual truth—and behave accordingly.