Bristol House (42 page)

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32

If Annie was right about the code of the
A
’s—and both Geoff and Rabbi Cohen thought she likely was—they knew a lot more than they had before, but not what it all meant.

“Weinraub’s agenda,” Geoff said. “We still don’t get that.”

Annie and Rabbi Cohen had to agree.

Dead end.

***

Had Geoff been given the mezuzah a week earlier, Annie would have gone to Jennifer Franklin and gotten proper archivist supplies. As things stood that was out of the question. Turned out a fancy stationer in Southampton Row had some handmade acid-free paper. It was pale lavender, satisfyingly thick but still flexible. “Since we’re so close to Bristol House,” Annie said after they left the shop, “let’s go up to the flat and get this done.”

Geoff was carrying the mezuzah and the deconstructed pieces of the Agnus Dei in a large brown envelope provided by Rabbi Cohen. He was holding it carefully in both hands, as if conscious of the extreme fragility of the contents. Once, when they were buying the paper, Annie had started to take it from him, then pulled back at the blast of warmth. She hadn’t said anything then; now, as she turned the key in the lock and held the street door open so he could go ahead of her into the lobby, she again put out her hand and felt the radiant heat emanating from the envelope. She pulled away. He seemed totally unaware of the phenomenon or her reaction to it. “Do you feel anything?” she asked.

“A lot of things,” he said. “I haven’t sorted them out yet.”

“I don’t mean that. Physically.” Nodding toward the envelope.

“No, of course not. It barely weighs anything. I— That’s not what you mean, is it?”

They were at the door of the flat by then. “Wait,” she said, maneuvering the double lock, then reaching automatically for the remote and switching on the radios. She had reduced the volume recently, but the drone of the BBC had become part of her world when she was in the flat and even now, when she was no longer afraid, she could not give it up.

They said no more until they were in the dining room and the newly bought paper and the envelope with the treasures lay side by side on the table. “Wait,” Annie said again.

“I am waiting. What’s happening?” Looking around as if he still hoped he would see whatever she saw. “Is he here?”

“No, it’s not that. When I put my hand anywhere near the Agnus Dei it feels warm. Hot even. But that doesn’t happen with you, does it?”

He shook his head. “Do you feel it only with the Agnus Dei, not the mezuzah?”

“I think so,” she confirmed. “At least that’s how it was before. But maybe whatever it is, it’s contagious.” She stretched her hand over the envelope to test the phenomenon. It was like an old-fashioned radiator—almost too hot to touch. Annie held her hand in place for a few seconds, then pressed her palm into Geoff’s.

“Jesus,” he said. “It’s like you’ve got a fever.” He spread his other hand, the one she hadn’t touched, over the envelope. “Nothing,” he said. “Let’s separate them. See if that has any effect.”

Moments later the mezuzah and the pieces of the Agnus Dei were spread on the table, a few inches apart. None of them produced any sensations in Geoff. The mezuzah induced no reaction in Annie, but she felt the heat as soon as she got near the tiny lump of wax or the red silk in which it had been contained.

“Any ideas?” Geoff asked.

“It’s much stronger here than at Rabbi Cohen’s. There was some vibrating there as well. The tweezers sort of buzzed in my hand. I wasn’t absolutely sure I wasn’t imagining all of it. That’s why I didn’t say anything. But now—there’s no doubt.”

Geoff thought for a moment. “Confirms what you said about the two lines coming together. The mezuzah Weinraub is after, and all the Bristol House carry-on . . . I’m the Silber descendant, but the ghost and his manifestations, that’s down to you.” Then, before she could contradict him, “I know I saw the bloody grocer and his bloody quail eggs, but I still don’t think that’s the same.”

She did not share her conviction that he’d been allowed that vision only because the Bristol House ghost needed him as an ally. “Let’s get this done,” she said instead.

The mezuzah was back in one piece, with a new
klaf
inserted by Rabbi Cohen, and still wrapped in the piece of faded blue velvet. Geoff deferred to her expertise and Annie carefully enclosed it in acid-free paper, then handed it to him. “This should probably go in your safe.”

“Yes,” he agreed. “What about the other bit?” nodding toward the Agnus Dei.

Annie put a single finger over the disk, then very carefully, actually touched it. “What’s really peculiar,” she said, “is that despite how much warmth I feel when I go near it, the wax is no softer. It hasn’t melted a bit.”

Geoff shrugged. “That’s no more peculiar than a great deal else that’s been happening.” Then, as if he’d been reading her mind, “I think that should stay here, Annie. I think it may have belonged to your Carthusian.”

“Yes,” she agreed, and after she’d folded the fragment of ancient red silk and the wax disk into the protective paper they carried it into the back bedroom—empty of any sign of the monk—and lay it on top of the small chest that stood beneath the window that looked toward the old charterhouse.

***

A day went by.

Rabbi Cohen made some discreet inquiries among rabbis he knew in New York, trying to pin down more details of Philip Weinraub’s practice of Judaism. So far he discovered nothing conclusive.

Maggie’s deteriorating condition was Geoff’s overwhelming concern.

Annie spent the best part of her time at Bristol House.

A couple of hours were occupied with Web surfing, looking for information on sacramentals in general and the Agnus Dei in particular. “Protects from all malign influences,” she read, “and from the perils of storm and pestilence as well as fire, flood, and sudden death.” Pretty potent stuff. She went into the back bedroom and stretched her hand over the package. The warmth was muted but definitely present. “Are you here?” she asked. “Was this yours?” There was no reply.

She spent more time in front of the mural and found a few more of the E.R. clues. They reinforced the graphic representation of the capital letters
A
. But as to why Weinraub might want the mezuzah—she wasn’t able to connect the dots.

She tried writing an article based on her findings concerning the Jew of Holborn. It never jelled. It seemed to her that the story of Maggie’s mezuzah did not count. It was the stuff of television drama, not academic journals. Besides, the mezuzah story, like the object itself, was Geoff’s, not hers. This was not the time to discuss what he wanted to do with it.

Sidney O’Toole’s final verdict—the one he’d pronounced last April, when she’d called him to say she’d taken up Philip Weinraub’s offer to go to London—played in her head.
Jesus fucking Christ, Annie my girl. What are you thinking?

For two days nothing changed. Eye of the storm, Annie figured. She didn’t say that to Geoff because of what waited for him when the winds began again to howl.

He seemed pretty calm and accepting of the facts, but he’d definitely dropped more weight. Late Wednesday afternoon Annie headed for a small specialty butcher in Theobald’s Road, hoping to find something that would induce Geoff to cook a meal he’d actually eat.

These days the entrance to the old tram line and Rabbi Cohen’s secret tunnels functioned as a pedestrian island in the middle of the extrawide crosswalk between the broad and busy streets. Annie started to cross when the light was flashing—and predictably got caught when it changed. She stepped onto the safety of the island, and as she always did since she’d heard the story, she looked into the tunnel.

Usually the only things to see were the old cobbled road, the cinder-block walls, and a collection of wind-blown rubbish. On this occasion, three men were emerging from the darkness and walking toward her.

Two wore business suits; the third was a workman with a large ring of keys. He swung one gate open, and the suits came to stand beside her, waiting like Annie for the light to change. When it did, they crossed the road in tandem. The workman stayed behind and relocked the gates.

One of the suits seemed to be brokering a deal. “Secure as the catacombs, you said. Hard to imagine anything that would come closer than this.”

“Difficult. You’re right there.” The second man spoke with an American accent. “It will depend on the price, of course. Though as I said, money isn’t my client’s first consideration.”

“I’m sure we can—”

Annie didn’t hear any more. They were outstriding her, for one thing, and for another she’d come to the butcher shop. She considered following the men, then decided it was absurd.

***

“Some U.S. something-or-other is making a move on the secret tunnels,” she said as soon as she let herself into 29 Orde Hall Street.

Geoff didn’t respond.

“I was going to the butcher’s on Theobald’s Road, and I— Geoff, what’s the matter?”

“I just got off the phone with the hospital. They’re moving Maggie to a hospice unit.”

End-of-life care. A clear statement that nothing more could or would be done.

He was sitting at his desk, and she went to him and put her hand on his shoulder. “They’ll make certain she’s comfortable. That’s a good thing.” It was all she could think of to say.

Geoff put his hand over hers. “Yes, I know they will, and it is. What have you got there?” He gestured to the package from the butcher.

“Steaks,” she said. “Two small but luscious-looking bits of filet mignon. I thought you might—” He did not look as if cooking a meal was high on his immediate priority list. “Will you trust me to cook them? I’m not in your league, but I can make a salad and broil a couple of steaks.”

“Fine,” he said. “But if they’re fillet steaks, you should panfry them in butter, not grill—broil—them. They said I’m permitted to visit anytime and stay as long as I like. I thought I’d go over now and see how she’s doing.”

“Good, but have something to eat first.” Annie headed toward the kitchen. “The American said—”

“What American?”

“The one who was negotiating to take over the tunnels. A broker type. He said his client was looking for a modern-day equivalent of the catacombs.”

Geoff shook his head. “Well, you’ve got a good few religious crazies in America. Oh, I nearly forgot—Rabbi Cohen called right after you left. Weinraub is a member of an Orthodox synagogue near his apartment on”—he glanced at a note on the desk—“West End Avenue. Where’s that?”

“Upper West Side. Very nice.”

“Thing is, according to Rabbi Cohen’s contact, Weinraub isn’t active in the congregation. Doesn’t show up even for the major holidays.”

“Makes more sense now than it would have before Strasbourg,” Annie said.

Geoff didn’t pursue the subject.

The steaks came out fine, but neither of them did justice to the meal. After they stopped pretending to eat, Annie cleared the table. “Leave the dishes,” Geoff said. “I’ll do them when I get back. Only fair, since you cooked.”

“Don’t be silly. Just go.” She started to say he should give Maggie her love, then realized how unlikely it was that his mother would be conscious.

Geoff got as far as the door, then turned back to her. “Will you wait for me?” he asked. “Maybe stay here tonight?”

“No place I’d rather be,” she said.

***

He came home soon after ten, and they went to bed, and Annie held him tight until finally he fell asleep. When she woke, it was barely dawn and she was alone. She got up and went to the top of the stairs. Geoff was at his desk, working at his computer. Annie went back to the bedroom and pulled on jeans and went down.

“Sorry,” he said. “Didn’t mean to wake you. I woke up to check my phone.” It was something he did many times each night. “Nothing from the hospital, but I couldn’t get back to sleep, so I came down here.”

“You didn’t wake me. I was slept out. Shall I make some coffee?”

“I’ll do it.” He got up.

Annie took his place at the desk and opened her own e-mail account. “Something from Timothy O’Hare, O.P.,” she said. “He’s the Dominican priest I’ve been waiting to hear from, the expert on schismatics and heretics. He’s back in London.”

“What does he say?”

She clicked through and opened the message. “He’d be happy to talk about the True Obedience of Avignon, and I should call him and make an appointment.”

“Good. Do it.” His words were punctuated with the sound of the coffee grinder and the hiss of the boiling kettle. A few minutes later the scent of brewing coffee drew her to the marble counter.

Geoff poured mugs of coffee for both of them, then left her to add her own milk and went back to the desk. He was, Annie thought, attached to his electronic gadgets as if by a bungee cord. He hit a couple of keys, then said, “Bloody hell. Looks like the technology stars are properly aligned. Here’s another interesting message. From Madame Defarge in Paris.”

“C’mon,” she urged, “what does she say?”

He leaned back. The Aeron, the only office chair sold by butt size, tilted to the perfect angle for his height and weight. “You’re not going to believe this.”

“Believe what? Tell me.”

“We were wrong about Étienne Renard. Just as we were about Weinraub. Renard’s not Jewish, either. He was a Carthusian monk at La Grande Chartreuse from 1923 to 1929. At which time he was dispensed from his vows and left the order. Defarge says the trail dies after that.”

“You’re right. I don’t believe it.”

“It’s true.
La
Defarge sent
le
proof.”

“Is there a description of Renard? Maybe he looked like you.”

“He didn’t.”

“How can you be sure?”

“There’s a picture. Come see.”

The image on his screen was a scanned illustration from
Le Journal Illustré d’Avignon, 30 Mars 1923.
Black and white and grainy, it showed Renard as a fair man, short and considerably overweight, with pudgy cheeks and a number of chins. He was wearing what looked like a homemade attempt at a toga. The caption was in French. Geoff translated. “It says Étienne Renard was Pontius Pilate in the Good Friday Passion Play of the League of Penance.”