A first it is an overlapping front tooth belonging to Albert Spencer that catches Pickering's eye: the tooth is in the mouth of a Pakistani man who lurches forward and says "Oh, I'm awfully sorry" to Pickering as the London Underground moves away from Tottenham Court Road Station. Pickering instantly likes what he sees—already two weeks in London and his transatlantic trip continues to pay dividends. And now there—right over there— is a nose, thin and nicely upturned, that once belonged to Emily Fanshawe. Why, he wonders, is the nose on the face of a stranger, a fifty-ish woman in a loose-fitting tweed coat? When the train pauses at Oxford Circus and new passengers board, Pickering is surprised by the crinkled eyes and thin mustache of a storekeeper, another relative, who had supplied Aunt Margaret with licorice strings more than 70 years ago. Pickering has forgotten his name...something with a tree in it. Beech? Oakwood? Pinehurst? Linden? Pickering is no gawk, but he finds it difficult not to look again. While he does, the face turns away.

Pickering sees nothing else he recognizes among the new passengers. Darkness sweeps along the train windows; the steady sound of travel nearly lulls him to sleep. Then a slight swerve opens his eyes seconds later, and he is looking at the ears of Alfred Langdon jutting from beneath the stiff bowler of a London businessman. The man is standing in the aisle. Like the others, Langdon has been dead for years, but Pickering is delighted they haven't disappeared completely. Now he cannot resist those ears: he rises from the seat and touches them lightly. The businessman twitches his head, ignoring the touch. But when Pickering tries one more time