D'Agosta looked at Pendergast. He, too, was watching Vilnius walk away. "Interesting," he murmured under his breath.

They drifted back into the crowd. De Vache had concluded his speech, and the noise level had risen once again. The harpischord had resumed but was now completely inaudible over the drinking, eating, and gossiping.

Suddenly, Pendergast took off at high speed, arrowing through the crowd. D'Agosta realized his aim was the director of the Met, stepping down from the stage.

De Vache paused at their approach. "Ah, Pendergast. Don't tell me you’re on the case "

Pendergast nodded.

The Frenchman pursed his lips. "Is this official? Or were you perhaps a friend of his?"

"Did Grove have any friends?"

De Vache chuckled. "True, very true. Friendship was a stranger to Jeremy, something he kept at arm's length. The last time I met him was-let me see-at a dinner party. I recall he asked the man across from him-a perfectly harmless old gentleman with dentures-to stop clacking his front incisors while he ate; that he was a man, not a rat. Someone later dripped sauce on his tie, and Jeremy inquired if perchance he was related to Jackson Pollock." Sir Gervase chuckled. "And that was just one dinner party. Can a man who routinely talks this way have friends?"

Sir Gervase was called away by a group of jewelry-laden matrons. He apologized to Pendergast, nodded at D'Agosta, then turned away. Pendergast's eyes went back to roaming the room, finally locking on a group of people near the harpsichord. "Voilà," he said. "The mother lode."

"Who?"

"Those three talking together. Along with Vilnius, whom you just met, they were the guests at Grove's last dinner party. And our reason for being here."

D'Agosta's eye landed first on an unexceptional-looking man in a gray suit. Beside him stood a wraithlike elderly woman, covered with powder and rouge, dressed to the nines, manicured, coiffed, and no doubt Botoxed in an ultimately failed attempt to look less than sixty. She wore a necklace of emeralds so big D'Agosta feared her scrawny shoulders would tire carrying their weight. But the standout among the group was the figure at her other elbow: an enormously fat man in a gorgeous, dove-gray suit, replete with silk waistcoat, white gloves, and gold chain.

"The woman," murmured Pendergast, "is Lady Milbanke, widow of the seventh Baron Milbanke. She is said to be a poisonous gossip, a drinker of absinthe, and an indefatigable séance organizer and raiser of the dead."

"She looks like she needs a little raising from the dead herself."

"Vincent, I have missed your trenchant sense of humor. The heavyset gentleman is undoubtedly Count Fosco. I have long heard of him, but this is the first time I've seen him."

"He must weigh three hundred pounds if he weighs an ounce."

"And yet observe how lightly he carries himself. And the tall gentleman in the gray suit is Jonathan Frederick, the art critic for Art & Antiques ."

D'Agosta nodded.

"Shall we venture into the lion's den?"

"You're the boss."

Immediately, Pendergast strode over, smoothly and shamelessly insinuated himself into the group, and, seizing Lady Milbanke's hand, raised it toward his lips.

The old woman blushed beneath her makeup. "Have we had the pleasure-?"

"No," said Pendergast. "More's the pity. My name is Pendergast."

"Pendergast. And who is your friend? A bodyguard?" This elicited a round of titters from the group.

Pendergast chuckled along with them. "In a manner of speaking."

"If he's moonlighting," the tall man named Frederick said, "he should do so out of uniform. This is, after all, a memorial service."

D'Agosta noted that Pendergast did not bother to correct the man about the moonlighting. Instead, he shook his head sadly, ignoring the comment. "Terribly sad about Grove, don't you think?"

Nods all around.

"I heard a rumor he gave a dinner party the night of his death."

There was a sudden silence.

"Well now, Mr. Pendergast," said Lady Milbanke. "What an extraordinary comment. You see, we were all at that dinner party."

"Indeed. They say the murderer might have been a guest at the party."

"How exciting!" cried Lady Milbanke. "It's just like an Agatha Christie novel. As a matter of fact, we each had our own motives to do away with Grove. At least, we used to." She exchanged brief glances with the others. "But then, we weren't the only ones. Isn't that so, Jason?" And, raising her voice, she beckoned a young man who was passing by, champagne flute in one hand. An orchid drooped from the buttonhole of his fawn jacket, and his hair was the color of marmalade.

The youth stopped, frowned. "What are you talking about?"

"This is Jason Prince." She laughed teasingly. "Jason, I was just telling Mr. Pendergast here how many people in this room had cause to murder Jeremy Grove. And you're known to be a jealous lad."

"She's full of crap, as usual," said Prince, his face flushing. Turning on his heels, he strode away.

Lady Milbanke issued another tinkle of laughter. "And Jonathan here had been skewered by Grove more than once in his time. Right, Jonathan?"

The gray-haired man smiled ironically. "I joined a rather large club."

"He called you the inflatable love doll of art critics, didn't he?"

The man didn't bat an eye. "Grove did have a turn of phrase. But I thought we agreed this was all behind us, Evelyn. That was more than five years ago."

"And then there's the count. A prime suspect. Look at him! Obviously a man of dark secrets. He's Italian, and you know them ."

The count smiled. "We Italians are devious creatures."

D'Agosta looked at the count with curiosity. He was struck by the man's eyes, which were a dark gray color, with the unique clearness of deep water. The man had long gray hair, swept back, and skin as pink as a baby's, despite his age, which had to approach sixty.

"And then there’s me ," Lady Milbanke continued. "You might think I had the best motive of all to murder him. We were once lovers.  Cherchez la dame. "

D'Agosta shuddered and wondered if such a thing was physically possible.

The critic, Frederick, seemed to be equally put off by this image, because he began backing off. "Excuse me, there's someone I need to speak with."

Lady Milbanke smiled. "About your new appointment, I suppose?"

"As a matter of fact, yes. Mr. Pendergast, a pleasure to have met you."

There was a brief pause in the conversation. D'Agosta found that the count's gray eyes had settled on Pendergast and that a small smile was playing about his lips. "Pray tell, Mr. Pendergast," said the count. "What is your official interest in this case?"

Pendergast didn't react. By way of response, he slipped a hand into his jacket and removed his wallet, opening it slowly and reverently, as if it was a case of jewels. The gold badge flashed in the lights of the great hall.

"Ecce signum!" the count cried delightedly.

The old lady took a step back. "You? Police?"

"Special Agent Pendergast, Federal Bureau of Investigation."

Lady Milbanke rounded on the count. "You knew and didn’t tell me? And here I've made all of us into suspects!" Her voice had lost its undertone of amusement.

The count smiled. "I knew the minute he approached that he was of the constabulary."