Bristol House (18 page)

Precisely an hour, and it was over.

Maybe the universe figured she deserved a reward. Annie followed the meeting with a run. Then—after she’d showered and changed, while she was walking to the museum—she finally nailed down the elusive something that had been bothering her about the drawings of the houses. The Tudor script in the pseudo-Latin inscriptions was written in a hand she had seen before. She was pretty sure she knew where.

***

Jennifer said she’d had a lovely time; they’d had wonderful weather, and the place they’d stayed had remarkable views. “Lanzarote is entirely black, covered in volcanic ash. Quite extraordinary really. And all the Spanish wines are a third the price they are here.” The food, she said, had just been so-so.

She must have eaten a lot of it nonetheless. She looked as if she’d gained weight while she was away. Great tan, though. She looked sensational. “Jennifer, could I see the Scranton map again?”

“Yes, certainly.” The archivist pawed through the keys on a crowded ring. “May I ask why?”

“I want to see the inscription. I think the handwriting’s the same as on some other documents I’ve found.”

“In this collection?” Jennifer sounded annoyed as well as astonished. “What have I missed?”

“Nothing. There are a couple of drawings in the Bastianich Archive . . . I’m not sure. It’s just a hunch.”

Jennifer took Richard Scranton’s map of death out of the cupboard. “The Bastianich in Clapham? Lombardy architecture?”

“That’s the one.”

“I don’t think there’s any record of Scranton ever being in Italy. Of course, that doesn’t mean he never was, only—”

“The sketches show two houses,” Annie said, “both here in London. Made with pen and ink, unsigned, but dated 1530.” She reached into her tote and pulled out the pictures of the drawings. She did not include the one that magnified the stippling and gave the game away.

Jennifer meanwhile had set out the velvet cushion and a couple pairs of white cotton gloves. She left the archivist gear on the table and moved over to study Annie’s pictures. Her finger hovered over the inscription on the second drawing, “
Domus Judaeorum,
” and moved to the air above the first, “
Domus contineo acqua Fleet
.” “Shocking Latin,” she said.

“Yes, I know. Can we . . .” Annie nodded toward Scranton’s map of death, still rolled up in its cardboard tube.

Minutes later they were comparing not just the inscriptions—Richard Scranton’s signature on the old map, and the Latin notations on the drawings—but something more, a feel for the drawing style. “It’s the same,” Jennifer said. “We’d need a lot of tests to prove it, which neither the Bastianich Archive nor my directors at the museum are likely to sanction for documents this old. But even without them, I’d bet anything the same person drew the Scranton map and your Lombard houses.”

“Richard Scranton,” Annie said. “It has to be him, doesn’t it?”

“Hard to imagine it would be anyone else, since he signed the map flat out. Which raises the question, why the atrocious Latin in the Bastianich drawings? Why didn’t he just write in English? And since he signed the map, which in its way was much more damning, why not the drawings?”

Annie nodded. “I’ve been thinking about that. In 1530, when Scranton, presuming it was he, drew the houses, ordinary Londoners were still hostile to the idea of Henry divorcing Catherine of Aragon so he could marry Anne Boleyn.”

“God yes,” Jennifer agreed. “Catherine was enormously popular.”

“And Anne,” Annie said, “was ‘the King’s Whore.’ Plus, in 1530 it was still all about getting the pope to annul Henry’s marriage. No one was talking about Henry naming himself head of the Church in England.”

“Agreed, but so what?” Jennifer started to roll up the map. “According to the inscription, the artist thought the people who lived in the houses were secret Jews. What did that have to do with whether or not Henry could get an annulment? And do you know what evidence the artist had for his claim?”

Annie reached for her tote. Her hand paused at the picture that exposed the encoded stippling. She passed it by and pulled out her camera. Even if Weinraub sent her home, if she got nothing more from this whole project, she still would have a terrific article in the graphic code. A prestigious journal would be interested, as long as she honored the first and greatest principle of academic scholarship: publish first.

Jennifer ignored the camera in Annie’s hand. “Furthermore,” she said, “what difference did it make to what, as you say, was the burning issue of the day? How did the presence of Jews in London affect the argument about Henry’s divorce?”

“Here’s my theory,” Annie said. “I think Scranton was Cromwell’s lackey, probably for years. We know Cromwell was up to his eyeballs in intrigue. Isn’t it likely he’d see proof of Jews living in London as useful knowledge?”

Jennifer nodded. “Probably. The way to thrive in Henry’s court was to accumulate bits of information you could barter later for more bits of information. Thomas Cromwell was an expert at that game.”

“Exactly. But in 1530, when the pictures of the houses were drawn, Cromwell had only just been appointed a king’s councillor. He had nothing like the power he’d accumulate five years later in 1535, which is when Scranton drew your map and signed it.” Annie still had her camera in hand, and Jennifer was still ignoring it. Time to be direct. “Would you consider allowing me to photograph the Scranton map? Only for my records, as part of the case for the presence of Jews in London.”

“I think you may be right,” Jennifer said, “about why the drawings weren’t signed, but the map was. It’s clever, and it makes sense. Though as I’m sure you know, in terms of publication, the theory would be seen purely as speculation.” She inserted the map into the cardboard tube with, Annie thought, a hint of impatience. “You really need to come up with more if you’re going to get any serious academic attention. As for photos, I daren’t. It’s against museum policy. I can submit a formal request, if you like.”

“Please do,” Annie said. The camera disappeared back into her tote. Actually, she wasn’t that unhappy about being refused. It had been in her mind to feed Weinraub both sets of photographs. First she’d show him the house sketches, without pointing out the code in the stippling and counting on him not to spot it for himself. Later—in a few days, a week, depending on how long she could spin it out—she’d produce the pictures of the Scranton map, with an explanation of what the two things had in common.

The point was to buy a little time. She’d had no word yet from the congregations in Offenburg and Metz. She had, of course, to face the fact that her letters might be ignored, tossed aside by someone who didn’t speak English. In which case she would have to determine whether to confront Weinraub with the statements of the old woman in Breisach. Annie was not at all sure how she was going to come down on that, and not yet having pictures of the Scranton map was a convenient excuse to postpone the decision.

***

Annie went back to Bristol House and spent a couple of hours sitting at her laptop and writing up her theories about the draftsman who she thought created both the Scranton map and the Bastianich drawings. Then she checked on the arrival schedules of flights from Damascus. Syrian Airways had one that got in at 5:00. Qatar Airways involved a change of flight at Doha and arrived at Heathrow at 5:55. There was every reason to think Geoff would take the direct flight. So allowing time for passport control and customs . . . she should hear from him around six.

At 4:30 she decided to go to Chloe’s, the candy-box pastry shop on nearby Sicilian Avenue. She’d get something delicious to have later. Maybe she and Geoff would meet somewhere for dinner—then she could suggest he come back to Bristol House for coffee. So she could show him the code in the drawings and Frau Wolfe’s letter.

She was leaving the shop with a maroon and gold box of thumbnail-size chocolate truffles when her cell vibrated. Geoff had sent her a text. His flight had made an emergency landing in Madrid—trouble with the cabin pressure. The delay would be at least four hours, and he’d be in touch again when they got to Heathrow.

Three hours later she’d had no further communication. And according to the arrival information for both Syrian and Qatar airways, each of the flights she’d identified as likely had landed without incident and without substantial delay.

***

Two kisses, she told herself, do not a romance make. Only they were such great kisses. And he’d said he would miss her, and he’d e-mailed three times, then sent the text.

Which told maybe not the exact, unvarnished truth.

But why?

Because a week away from her had given him the opportunity to consider more carefully the wisdom of becoming romantically entangled with a drunk.

She’d put clean sheets on the bed that afternoon and laid out white satin pajamas. Not much point now. Annie went to bed a little after ten, wearing the old gray T-shirt she usually slept in. The fresh sheets were no aid to falling asleep. The last time she remembered glancing at the luminous readout of the bedside clock, it said 12:07:47 a.m. When she saw it next, it said 3:59:59 a.m. And she realized she’d heard footsteps.

Very soft and slow and deliberate, and right outside her open bedroom door.

14

Annie strained every sense to probe the shadowy dark. She never closed the curtains—there was an office building across the road, and no one was there after business hours, so she felt no need for privacy. The reflection of ground-level neon and streetlights faded to a pale grayness by the time it reached her third-story window, but it was enough to show her an empty room. The monk had not come to sit beside her bed.

Because, something screamed in her head, it was not the monk. The Carthusian meant her no harm. She was convinced of that. This . . . whatever . . . was a malevolent something.

The footsteps receded, presumably heading toward the back bedroom.

She consciously made herself move first one leg, then the other. She sat up. The jeans and sweatshirt she’d been wearing earlier were on a nearby chair. Annie pulled both on over the gray T-shirt. Her running shoes, all her shoes, were in the armoire across the room, but a pair of flip-flops did duty as slippers, and they were beside the bed. She started to put them on, then thought better of it and shoved them into the front pocket of the sweatshirt. Finally she stood up and grabbed her cell phone from the night table.

She could hear her own breathing. Whatever was out there would—

The footsteps were coming back.

Annie pressed herself against the wall beside the door.

The footsteps paused.

She held her breath and put her hand over her heart as if that would somehow stop its frantic beating. She could feel the key to Geoff’s house digging into the skin between her breasts.

A few more footsteps. Silence. Then a few more. Not coming toward her anymore. Whatever the creature was, she-he-it had gone into the dining room.

This was the only chance she was likely to have. She had to take it.

She glided a few steps out of the bedroom and into the hall. The front door was double-bolted. How silently could she unfasten it, particularly when her hands were trembling? The flat had another door out, in the office beyond the drawing room. If she could get to it, any noise she made fumbling with the lock was less likely to be overheard.

You are insane, Annie. How can you know what whatever it is in the flat hears or doesn’t hear, or sees or doesn’t see?

I don’t know. I don’t know!

Shouting it the second time, but only in her mind.

I only know I have to get out of here.

She moved down the hall, her bare feet making no sound on the Oriental runner. Then just as she reached the door to the drawing room, she felt whatever it was looking at her. She spun around.

The intruder was standing in the door to the dining room, watching her.

She screamed. He disappeared. Annie ran into the drawing room, slammed the door, and ran to the office and its door to the outside corridor. She got the chain off quickly, but her hands were slick with sweat, and the bolt wouldn’t turn. She kept trying. A few seconds later she threw open the door, dashed past the ancient elevator, and started down the stairs.

In the lobby she paused long enough to put on the flip-flops, then ran into the street.

It was the dead of night, and almost no one was around; if anyone paid her any mind, Annie didn’t notice.

She had no idea how long it took her to run to Geoff’s house. Minutes, no more. When she got there, every window was dark. Maybe he’d gone to sleep. Maybe he wasn’t alone.

I don’t care!

Another scream, heard only in her mind.

Annie dragged the key from around her neck, started to put it in the lock, and then remembered about the alarm. The pad was on her left. She squeezed her eyes shut and concentrated as hard as she could.
Zero-seven-two.
She punched in the numbers.
Then wait five seconds. Then key in seven-six-seven-eight. Now you have twenty seconds to unlock the door.
She was in.

Annie slammed and locked the door behind her.

It was over. She was safe. Her body knew it before her mind did. Her legs turned to rubber. She slid down the wall and sat on the floor, knees drawn up to a chest that was rising and falling at frantic speed. Never mind that she ran longer distances four or five times a week. The terror-induced adrenaline faded, but she was overcome by the sensation that she would never get enough oxygen, would never breathe normally again.

She heard noises outside. Geoff’s voice. “Thanks, mate. Keep the change.” A taxi—no mistaking the sound of a London black cab—revved up and pulled away.

A few seconds passed. A key turned in the lock. “What the hell? Why isn’t the alarm—”

“Geoff”—a loud whisper, all she could manage—“it’s me.”

She heard the flat-hand slap against a switch beside the front door, and every first-floor light blazed on. The sound system as well. “
In the morning I sleep alone, sweep the streets I used to roam . . .
” The dark had been her friend; the sudden illumination increased her panic. Annie hunched over and covered her face with her still-trembling hands.