“Who is that?” Stevie asked.
“That,” he said as they approached her, “is Izzy. She’s one of my tutorial partners. And Iz, this is everyone.”
“You’re Stevie,” she said. “And . . . Janelle? And Vi. And Nate. Did I get it right?”
She had, in fact, identified them all correctly.
“David talks about you all the time,” she said. “Constantly. I’ve been so excited to meet you.”
Normally, if someone said this to Stevie, she would have thought they were being sarcastic, or at least overdoing things a bit. Izzy seemed to mean it. She had a bright, enthusiastic fizz about her, along with a vague air of apology. She was one of those people who, like Janelle, knew how to accessorize. She wore multiple stacked rings on her fingers—at least six—earrings that looked like little baskets of flowers, a purple-and-yellow silk scarf knotted around her neck. Janelle was clocking all of this with an approving look.
“We’re all set,” she said to David. “We’ve got the last one.”
She turned to the group and indicated they should step toward the boarding platform.
“A friend of the family works for the company that runs this,” Izzy explained. “The one perk I have is that I can get rides on the Eye for free whenever I want. I’ve even been on some rides after it’s closed for the day if they have a special occasion or are running maintenance. It’s great when there are people in town. It’s my party trick.”
If you watch enough British mystery shows—and Stevie had—London will seem familiar, even to those who have never been near it in person. She had seen the London Eye in this way many times, spinning in the background of Sherlock. She understood it was a massive Ferris wheel, illuminated in violet, right on the water’s edge. She let herself forget that she was not a fan of Ferris wheels, right up until the time that they were ushered quickly down a platform and into a pod that never stopped moving. Before she knew it, the compartment was sealed and Stevie and her friends were gliding up, up, up, the Thames chugging below them, the Houses of Parliament and London in general shrinking below them.
It was too dark to see details; night brought out the contours, the lines made by artificial light. You could see the circulatory system of London—the roads, the bridges, the moving cars—everything pulsing with energy. The smaller buildings became a dark mass of shadow, and the larger ones presented their outlines. This was a city of jagged spires, ancient towers, and modern glass skyscrapers that jutted into the distant skyline like knives. One was literally called the Shard.
The rain started falling in earnest, striking the pod, misting the glass, turning the view into streaks of light. As they rose, Izzy peppered them with questions about their trip. Had the flight been all right? How did they like their rooms? Were they tired? Were they having a good time—oh, of course they had just gotten here, they wouldn’t know if they were having a good time yet. She had long arms and graceful hands, which she swung about in wide, expressive gestures. She insisted on helping them take pictures—group shots, David and Stevie, at least a dozen of Vi and Janelle making out against the London Skyline. （“You may not be able to see the view much but the two of you look adorable.”） She seemed to have a deep desire to be around the group, to help them in any way, which was weird. There was nothing off about the way Izzy and David chatted—it was all casual, references to school and the student house. But Stevie couldn’t help but feel uneasy around this pleasant-smelling （she was wearing some kind of perfume that she identified as Jo Malone Orange Blossom when Janelle asked）， friendly, accommodating stranger.
“Who the hell is she?” Nate asked Stevie quietly. “Why does she like us?”
Stevie shrugged. “We’re likable?”
“Not really,” he said. “We’re okay at best. Are all English people this friendly?”
“I don’t know,” Stevie said as Izzy encouraged Vi and Janelle into one more set of pictures.
The wheel was dipping them back toward the water of the Thames and the ride was coming to an end, when Izzy came up alongside Stevie privately.
“I’m so pleased you’re here,” she said. “I’ve wanted to tell someone about this for so long, but I had no one to tell, then David told me all about you, and I knew I had to tell you when you got here. I thought I’d wait until the ride was over. You see . . .”
She gripped the rail that ran along the inside of the pod. “。 . . I have to tell you about a murder.”
“There it is,” Nate said, mostly under his breath.
7
BACK ON THE GROUND, THE RAIN DROVE THEM TO SEEK SHELTER IN the nearby South Bank complex—a gargantuan bunker of smooth gray concrete that Janelle assured them was in the brutalist style. Signage directed them to what seemed like dozens of spaces: theaters, conference rooms, exhibitions, cafés. They took up residence at a table in one of the latter and huddled over some cups of tea and the last muffins of the day.
“I know people must tell you that all the time, that they know about a murder. But it’s true. My aunt saw a murder. She was there. It was her friends who were killed. . . .”
Izzy was talking fast, the words spilling from her mouth.
“When my aunt, Angela, was at Cambridge, she was in a theater group. This was a very close group. They all lived together in student housing. After exams their final year, they went off for a week’s celebration. One of them—his name is Sebastian, he’s lovely—his family owns a massive house in the country called Merryweather. They all went out there for a long party. On the first night, they were playing a game of hide-and-seek on the grounds. It started to rain, so they all came inside, except for two of them. A few of the group went looking for them the next morning. They found them in the woodshed. Dead, I mean. With an axe. They had disturbed some burglars during the night. That’s what I always heard about it, but . . .”
Izzy almost knocked over the remnants of her cup of tea as she leaned into the table.
“Growing up, I heard the story. Never in depth. Just that Angela had been at a house party where some burglars came in during the night and killed two of her friends. She’s very sensitive about it, obviously. I know there are places she avoids because of it. She prefers to be in the city. The countryside makes her quite nervous. I never thought any more of it until earlier this year—over the summer, I was staying with Angela after she had an operation on her knee. She tore something at the gym and had to have it fixed and she was immobilized for a week or two. She needed someone with her because she was taking painkillers and she couldn’t get up for a few days, so I was there to make tea and bring her soup and things like that. . . .”
An adorable flap of the hand, indicating the many invalid-friendly foodstuffs Izzy had brought to her aunt’s bedside.
“She had the telly on, and there was a show on about a murder, and out of nowhere she said, ‘I think one of my friends murdered someone. I was there.’ So I said to her, ‘What do you mean?’ And she said, ‘My friends. The ones who were killed. The lock was off the door. I saw the lock off the door.’ Then she kept saying something about things being planted. I could tell she wasn’t hallucinating. She was saying something she really believed but wouldn’t have said out loud unless she was off her tits on pain medication.”