Prichard drew a breath. It was a moment before he spoke.
— Mr. Campbell, I must advise you not to discuss this matter with your family until you’ve closely examined your feelings. I do not encourage deception, but if you are party to any portion of this estate, it is through your mother’s family, and as such would be yours undivided. Neither your father nor your stepmother nor stepsiblings have any possible claim. Thus I advise the utmost discretion.
— I understand.
— I’ll put Geoffrey on now. I shall be forward enough to hope that the next time we speak it shall be in London.
That call was four days ago. They had been long days and it felt good to finally get on the plane this morning. I’ve never flown business class before. All through the flight the stewardesses offer me food and champagne and coffee, until the cabin lights are switched off and everyone pulls back their seat. For an hour I lie wide awake under a blanket. Then I turn on my reading lamp and take out my notebook.
Aug 15
BA Flight SF — London
Barely slept last night. But I still can’t sleep on the plane. After all those plans, always waiting for the right moment — suddenly something happens and I’m on a plane to London. Because I didn’t have a choice, I just had to go or stay. That’s a good lesson.
Tomorrow I meet the lawyers. I couldn’t find anything worth showing them, but they wanted me to come anyway. Why?
It doesn’t matter. In four hours I’ll be in London. That’s all I know and that’s plenty.
I shut the notebook and lean my head against the cold windowpane.
I wake to a pink sunset streaming through the double glass. Crystals of ice gather on the rim of the outer windowpane, drops of dew carried from California and frozen hard in the thin air. In a break between the cumulus clouds below, a jagged black coastline appears, then terrain of the deepest green. A vast blue-white glacier drops to the sea. Iceland. I’m at the gates of Europe.
Before I left I asked Geoffrey Khan one question.
— Why would anyone leave money to someone who’d never bother to collect it?
Khan sighed. — Even if I knew the answer, I couldn’t tell you. Information about our client can be given only at the trustee’s discretion. You can ask James when you arrive, but I can’t guarantee he’ll be able to say.
— I understand.
— However. If I may say something so obvious as not to be a breach of confidentiality—
— Please.
— This was 1924. And these were not people like you and me.
BOOK ONE. ALBION
Son of the goddess, let us follow wherever the fates draw us or draw us back. Whatever may be, every fortune must be mastered through endurance.
THE SOLICITORS
Gentle rain falls from a colorless London sky. I thread my way through the sidewalk crowds on High Holborn, checking the street signs against the map in my hand. Kingsway. Procter Street. Rainwater gathers in dark puddles, reflecting the white delivery vans, the jet-black cabs and candy-red buses.
I turn left and follow Sandland Street to Bedford Row, a line of four-story terraced Georgian houses with brick facades. Beside the entrance to number 11 there is a brass plaque: TWYNING & HOOPER, SOLICITORS. I push a button on the intercom, feeling dazed and shaky. At breakfast I had two cups of coffee, but they didn’t help much. I look up at the security camera. The white columns of the doorway have Ionic capitals.
— Good morning. How can I help you?
— I’m Tristan Campbell. I have an appointment with James Prichard—
The receptionist buzzes me in. She takes my jacket and leads me into a waiting room with a tufted leather couch.
— I’ll get Geoffrey right away.
A few minutes later she comes back carrying a tray with a porcelain tea service. The tea scalds my tongue, so I stir in more milk. I look up and see the receptionist watching me from behind her desk. Our eyes meet and she smiles. Absently I page through a copy of the Financial Times from the coffee table. I finish the tea and flip over the cup. SPODE COPELAND’S CHINA ENGLAND.
— Mr. Campbell. A pleasure to meet you at last.
Khan approaches with a quick stride and shakes my hand. He wears a slim-fitting suit of dark navy. His brogues are buffed to an impressive shine.
— Shall we go and meet James?
Khan leads me up a tall wooden staircase. Above us are vast murals on the walls and ceiling: a king on horseback heralded by angels; young Britannia with her shield and trident, receiving the tributes of the world.
Two young men in neckties come down the stairs, maroon folders tucked beneath their arms. They nod solemnly as we pass. I look down at my thrift-store clothes, a wrinkled dress shirt and a pair of old slacks.
— I feel underdressed.
Khan smiles. — Not at all. You’re the client. We’re the solicitors.
We walk down a corridor to a pair of French doors. Khan pauses here, lowering his voice.
— A word before we go in. Naturally you can address him as James, he doesn’t stand on formality. But I might suggest you answer any questions—
Khan hesitates.
— As directly as you can. I can say from personal experience that vagueness goes nowhere with James. He sees right through it. Be as blunt as you can with him and he’ll be honest with you in turn. How does that strike you?
— Great.
Khan smiles warmly. He knocks on the door and ushers me in. The office is large but spartan. A table with carved lion’s feet, its surface covered with paper stacked in neat piles. A leather couch and club chairs. An immense Persian rug. Prichard stands behind the table, a sheet of paper lifted intently before his face. He is silver-haired and wears a tie and waistcoat over a French-cuffed shirt. He raises a hand to us, then paces between the window and the fireplace, his eyes fixed on the page. Prichard signs the sheet over his desk and calls in a secretary to collect it. He turns, beaming.
— If you can fill the unforgiving minute, Prichard quotes, with sixty seconds’ worth of distance run—
He extends his hand. — James Prichard. Sorry to have kept you waiting. I suppose London weather is living up to your expectations?
Prichard gestures to one of the chairs; he and Khan sit on the couch opposite. They cross their legs in the same direction. Framed photographs hang on the wall behind them. Above Khan’s shoulder there is a black-and-white picture of a group of men in three-piece suits gathered stiffly around a bald man with a white mustache. The bald man’s head is tilted slightly to the camera and he holds a pipe in his hand.
— Is that Clement Attlee?
Prichard looks at me.
— That’s right. He was a client of ours.
I point at a tall, fair-haired young man in the photograph.
— And that’s you?
Prichard nods, but he doesn’t turn toward the picture.
— I did very little work on Mr. Attlee’s estate. It was handled by the most senior solicitors, but they let me sit in on a few meetings for posterity’s sake.
Prichard pauses. — At any rate, how was your journey? Don’t be put off London on account of Heathrow. Or British Airways, for that matter. Our charms are elsewhere. What hotel have they put you in?
— Brown’s.
— Splendid. Seen much of London yet?
— I got here last night.
— Well, have a look around before you go. The Tower. Regent’s Park. The British Museum.