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we’ve overlooked.”
    Travis chugged his beer. “We’ve been here a day and blown through the Tower, execution and gem central, made a hearty trek through the highlights of the British Museum, and ploughed through the Florence Nightingale display, where we saw hospital ward relics from the Crimean War.”
    I hated when he had a point. There wasn’t anything specific in any of the places we’d been that seemed relevant. No mention of a lost amethyst brooch heirloom or Florence joining a secret Turkish society that worshiped oyster shells. I pulled out the brochure and looked at them again.
     
    The Crimean War (1853-56) is mostly remembered for three things: the Charge of the Light Brigade, mismanagement in the British army and Florence Nightingale. The war was fought between Russia and the allied powers of Britain, France, and Turkey. It began because of British and French distrust of Russia's ambitions in the Balkans.
    The battle at Balaclava (which included the Charge of the Light Brigade) was one example of mismanagement and there was a public outcry over the conditions the soldiers faced in the military hospitals. The war was ended by the Treaty of Paris in 1856.
     
    When our lunch arrived, a glump of disappointment washed over Travis’s face. He stared at the Ploughman’s plate, which consisted of a sharp cheddar cheese block, bread roll, chutney, pickled onions, hard-boiled egg, and a glutinous slice of cold pork pie.
    “I’ll share my clanger.” The heaving portion of steaming potpie was too big for one person. The aroma was savory and sweet. Cutting it in half, I poked the inside with a fork.
    Travis leaned in to take a peak. Shredded meat was on one side and a red jam filled the other. “Nothing around here is what it seems.”
     
    NOTE TO SELF
    Pondering the Turkish Department of Antiquities, Ahmed, and Siberian amethysts, specifically the ones in my oyster brooch. Why did the Turk mention the Crimean War? Slip of the tongue, red herring, or missing puzzle piece?

 
     
     
CHAPTER 7
     
    T ourist T raps
     
     
    M uggy air coated a sheet of sticky on my forehead. It was ten degrees warmer inside Bury’s Place subway station than outside. Sliding my hand into my Jordache jean pocket, I retrieved a ponytail band and twisted my hair up off my neck. My clothes were wet, again, from a downpour that had pelted us with a vengeance on the short walk to the underground.
    Staring at a map of the London underground routes, Travis complained, “People are pouring in. I don’t know, Rach. This may take awhile. Maybe we should take a taxi instead.”
    I shook my head. “GG says London traffic is the worst. We probably can’t even flag a cab down. This’ll be quicker than a car.” My finger traced the plexiglass that covered the wall poster, and I summoned inner calm. “We’re here on the Central red line. We’ll take the train to Mile End, transfer to the district line at Bow Road, then a stop away, switch to the Docklands Light Railway—DLR. The third stop is Langdon Park.”
    “It may be quicker, but….is it safe?”
    “Of course.”
    He didn’t look convinced. “I didn’t memorize the hotel address, did you?”
    Descending into the subway, I trudged down the steps with a reluctant Travis in tow.
    His shoulders sank in defeat. “You don’t know the address either?”
    “We can ask directions to the Red Lion Pub at the last stop.”
    “What if there’s more than one Red Lion?”
    I tugged his arm toward the ticket booth. “What are the chances?”
    Waiting in a crowded tunnel where World War II Londoners hid from the German Luftwaffe’s nightly bombing blitzes, then squeezing into a tin can on rails with hoards of people is a big dose of human togetherness. After transferring twice, plus waiting time in between, I was done. My tank was drained to empty. Riding an escalator up a pitched incline to ground level, I admitted, “Today wasn’t exactly relaxing.”
    “Being a tourist is a