Chapter 24
STONE WOKE THE FOLLOWING MORNING with a hangover, the result, he was sure, of the great quantity of port that he and Hedger had shared at the Garrick Club. They had dined in the club’s main dining room, a long, tall hall with acres of walls filled with fine portraits, the room’s red paint browned by decades of tobacco smoke. Stone had spotted a former American secretary of state and half a dozen well-known actors, and Hedger had pointed out government officials, barristers, and journalists among the crowd. Stone had been impressed.
Now he was depressed. He made a constant effort not to overindulge; he had failed, and the result was worse than jet lag. The phone rang—more loudly than usual, he thought. “Hello?”
“Good morning, it’s Sarah,” she said brightly. It was the first time they had spoken since the funeral.
“Good morning,” Stone struggled to say.
“You sound hungover.”
“It’s jet lag.”
“No, you’re hungover, I can tell. You always sounded this way when you were hungover.” She had him at the disadvantage of knowing him well.
“All right, I’m hungover.”
“And how did this happen?”
“How do you think it happened? The usual way.”
“And in whose company?”
“A business associate’s—not a woman—and at the Garrick Club. And don’t start coming over all jealous.”
“I am jealous, but the Garrick is my favorite London men’s club, so I’ll forgive you.”
Stone, in his condition, couldn’t make any sense of that. “Thank you.”
“Now, you and Erica and Lance are coming down to the country for a few days. I have a meeting with Julian Wainwright this morning, then I’ll pick you up at the Connaught. Please be standing out front with a bag in your hand at twelve o’clock sharp.”
Stone struggled to think. He needed an opportunity to get closer to Lance, and here it was. “Are the tabloids still following you?”
“They vanished immediately after the wake at Lance’s house.”
“Do I need a dinner jacket?”
“Always a good idea at an English country house.”
“All right, I’ll be ready at twelve.”
“Of course you will.” She hung up.
Stone took some aspirin, had breakfast, and soaked in a hot tub for half an hour. Feeling more human, he read the papers, then the phone rang again. “Hello?”
“Mr. Barrington?” A female voice.
“Yes.”
“It’s Audie, at Doug Hayward’s. Your jackets are ready for a fitting; when would you like to come in?”
Stone glanced at his watch. “Ten minutes?”
“Perfect; see you then.”
Stone threw some things in a bag, told the concierge to cancel his flight to New York, left his bag with the doorman, and walked up the block to Hayward’s shop. The tailor got him into a collection of loosely stitched pieces of cloth that only slightly resembled a jacket, made some marks, then ripped out the sleeves and made some more marks—twice, once for each jacket.
“Good,” Hayward said. “How long are you staying in London?”
“I’m not sure.”
“I can probably have these ready for your last fitting in a week, if you’re still around.”
“I suppose I will be. Doug, do you know a man named Lance Cabot?”
“I’ve made a lot of clothes for him.”
“Know much about him?”
“He pays my bills; that’s about it.”
“Oh.”
“You hungover this morning?” Hayward asked.
Stone nodded.
“Have a pint of bitter at lunch; that’ll set you right.”
Stone nodded again. He left the shop and walked back to the Connaught. Sarah was sitting out front in what appeared to be a toy car. It was little more than a bright orange box, with a tiny wheel at each corner. She stuck her head out the window.
“You’re late, and your bag’s in the boot.”
“What boot?” Stone asked, walking around the car.
“Get in!”
The doorman held the door open for him.
“Now I know how the clowns at the circus feel,” he said, folding his body and getting awkwardly into the vehicle. Surprisingly, he fit and was not uncomfortable.
Sarah threw the car into gear, revved the engine, and drove away up
Stone looked out the window and saw the pavement rushing past, and it seemed closer than he had ever been to it. He had the feeling that, if they hit a bump, he would scrape his ass on the tarmac.
“Ever been in one of these?” Sarah asked.
“A Mini? I’ve seen them around London.”
“A Mini Cooper,” she said. “Very special, from the sixties. I had this one restored, and it’s
Stone winced. Why was it his lot in this country to ride with women who drove as if they had just stolen the car? “Try not to kill me,” he said.
“Frankly, you look as though death would come as a relief,” she replied. “What were you drinking?”
“Port.”
“Ahhhhh. Goes down easily, doesn’t it?”
“All too easily.”
“And who was your host?”
“A man named . . . Bartholomew.” He still didn’t feel comfortable calling him Hedger.
“English or American?”
“American, but an anglophile.”
“Thus, the port.”
“Yes.”
“How did you like the Garrick?”
“It’s beautiful.”
“They’re just about the last of the old London clubs that still bar women from membership,” she said. “I rather admire them for it; I think I enjoy going there more because it has an entirely male membership.”
“Hmmpf,” Stone said. He was drifting off.
He came to in a hurry a few minutes later, as he was thrown hard against his seat belt. He
