The Zeppelin landed without incident in a field outside London. It was rather late in the day, and I was fortunate enough to be able to hail a cab to take us to Bertie’s townhouse.
Johnson, his butler, opened the door to us, smiling and taking our overcoats and hats.
My brother was pacing the hallway, dressed in evening clothes. “How bloody long does it take to find a pair of bloody gloves?” he was growling. He glanced up impatiently, and then his face lit up.
“Thomas! Good God, you’re home. Did I know you’d be coming for a visit? Never mind. How splendid to see you.” Sir Henry Bertram Fortescue-Smythe, known to all and sundry as Bertie, swept me into a rib-cracking embrace. “And you, too, Roddy,” he smiled over my shoulder. “When did you get back to England?”
“We’ve just now landed.”
