Bristol House (43 page)

“Hence the toga,” Annie said.

“Hence. But apparently the league wasn’t penitential enough. According to Defarge, Renard hightailed it to La Grande Chartreuse a few weeks later.”

“Geoff, it can’t be a coincidence that the Bristol House mural was painted by an ex-Carthusian.”

“Doesn’t seem like it.”

***

St. Dominic’s Church was an imposing yellow-brick building in a nondescript section of North London called Haverstock Hill. “Come to the priory,” Father O’Hare had said. “It’s the wing to the left of the main entrance. There’s a sign.”

He opened the door himself, immediately offering his hand. “Tim O’Hare, and you must be Dr. Kendall.” He had white hair and a big, open Irish face with a ready smile, and he wore the white habit of his order. In keeping with the Dominican tradition, heavy wooden rosary beads swung from a black leather belt at his waist. “Any relation to John Kendall, the church historian?” he asked, adding that he hoped she hadn’t been inconvenienced by meeting him at the priory.

Annie said she was John Kendall’s daughter and that it was not in the least inconvenient to come to Father O’Hare’s priory. She was grateful he’d been able to see her so quickly.

“Not at all. I admit to being quite curious. The True Obedience of Avignon was a bizarre and persistent group of schismatics, but their heyday’s been over for some time. I was astounded to get an inquiry about them. We can talk in here,” he added, opening a door and waiting for Annie to precede him.

The room was small and comfortable. There were a couple of leather chairs on either side of a fireplace, a few tables, and many, many books. Father O’Hare motioned her to one of the chairs and took the other. A thick cardboard folder lay on the table beside him, and he picked it up and held it on his lap. “I’m afraid I haven’t got around to entering much of this into the computerized files. I’ve been concentrating on more modern sedevacantists. Since Vatican II, they’ve sprouted like mushrooms after rain.”

“And these days they all seem to have Web sites,” Annie said. “Which I suppose makes it easier.”

“Somewhat,” he agreed. “Moreover, modern schismatics are more likely to form independent religious communities, not burrow into an established order the way the True Obedience did with the Carthusians six or seven hundred years ago.”

“But the Carthusians still exist.”

“Indeed they do. In fact, they discovered the remnant of the True Obedience schismatics and expelled them in the twenties.”

“That,” Annie said quietly, not allowing the buzz in the back of her mind to surface just yet, “seems like an exceptionally long run.”

Father O’Hare agreed that it was. “But,” he pointed out, “it ended nearly a century ago. May I ask the nature of your research, Dr. Kendall?”

“At the moment I’m simply investigating, without being sure exactly what academic value all this may have. What I do know is that a man calling himself Stephen Fox painted an extraordinary mural in a flat I’m renting. I have reason to believe Fox was French, originally from Avignon, for a time a Carthusian at La Grande Chartreuse, and that his birth name was Étienne Renard.”

O’Hare looked surprised, then began paging through the papers in his folder, finally withdrawing one. He looked at it for a moment. “Yes, I thought I remembered that. Étienne Renard was expelled from the Carthusians in 1929 and officially defrocked soon after. He was a biblical scholar, fluent in Hebrew, apparently made a great study of kabbalah, and”—he looked up—“he was reputedly the last leader of the True Obedience of Avignon, the man they called the Speckled Egg.”

Hallelujah! She could not, however, stand up and dance a jig. “That’s particularly interesting, Father. May I ask you something else?”

“Certainly.”

“Do you know any reason Étienne Renard would have been interested in a particular mezuzah? One that was exceptionally old.”

The Dominican didn’t seem to find the question in the least unusual. “Of course. It’s a vital part of the True Obedience legend. There’s been a Jewish element in their story for centuries, though no one is quite sure why. And there’s a rumor that a mezuzah that’s supposed to have come from the Second Temple by way of the Knights Templar is somehow involved.”

***

She tried to get Geoff as soon as she left the priory. He didn’t pick up. So he was probably with Maggie. Annie left a brief message—no details, just that he should call her as soon as he could.

It was a beautiful day, sunny and warm, with just enough of a breeze to keep things comfortable. The Belsize Park tube stop was nearby, but she ignored it, choosing instead to walk, glad she’d worn comfortable flats, lengthening her stride and letting the movement—even though it wasn’t actually running—soothe her, help to organize her thoughts.

Seek here the Speckled Egg.

The ghost had written that on her mirror not because there was a quail’s egg in the flat. And not just to say she should be looking for the Speckled Egg who led the True Obedience in Tudor times. Her visiting Carthusian had been trying to tell her that the Stephen Fox who painted the mural in the early twentieth century was the Speckled Egg of his day. And probably that the mural held the key to the code of the
A
’s. Which, in fact, stood for
argent
in French and meant the Silber family had something that Weinraub wanted.

Why? Why was the Bristol House ghost so determined to get Annie Kendall to do what he wanted?

She was heading south toward Southampton Row, though even for her it was too far to walk. Now she looked up and saw she was on Primrose Hill Road, skirting the park. Maggie’s place was nearby. Empty now. She and Geoff had gone together to clean out the kitchen right after they got back from Strasbourg. They’d only thrown out things that would spoil, indulging themselves in the mutual fantasy that Maggie might come home from the hospital.

There was a café on the corner of Sharpleshall Street. Annie took a seat at a small sidewalk table and put her tote down beside her. A young woman in a waitress uniform appeared. Annie asked for
citron pressé,
not too sweet. She was prepared to settle for a Schweppes, but the girl took her order without comment and went inside. Annie reached for her sketchbook and a pencil.

She had not brought any of the important drawings to her meeting with Father O’Hare. This was a new sketchbook, pristine and smaller than she usually used. Her pencil moved rapidly on the page. She drew the door to the priory. Then the Dominican in his white robes with the swinging rosary beads. Next the little book-lined room where they had talked and he had provided the startling information that the True Obedience of Avignon had been active until the early part of the twentieth century.

Holy shit! As Geoff would say.

Her insight was so stunning, she’d have tried again to reach him, but she didn’t have to. Her cell rang just then, and it was Geoff returning her call. Annie blurted her revelations the moment she heard his voice. “There’s a special mezuzah tied to the True Obedience legend. And Étienne Renard was a kabbalah scholar and the last Speckled Egg. In fact, that’s why he was expelled from the Carthusians in 1929. So the True Obedience was around as late as that. The Dominican I talked to thinks they must have died out after that last Carthusian purge, but they didn’t, Geoff. I’m sure that’s the connection. That’s what the ghost has been trying to tell me. Weinraub is part of the True Obedience. In fact, he’s the current Speckled Egg. It explains everything. Do you see?”

“I’m not sure.”

His voice seemed flat and kind of overcontrolled. “Geoff, I’m sorry. I didn’t ask . . . Maggie?”

“No change,” he said. “But I’ve got some news as well. I just heard from my contact at the Connaught. Weinraub’s back in London.”

She sucked in a long breath. “That means he’s getting ready to do something.”

There was no reply.

“He is, Geoff. That’s what you said happened before. Once Weinraub left Strasbourg, Rabin was assassinated by someone who wanted to make sure the Israelis wouldn’t make peace with the Palestinians and possibly give up their claim to the Temple Mount.”

“That’s what I think, yes.”

“And there’s a good chance you’re right. Now he’s looking for the mezuzah because it’s part of the True Obedience legend, and he’s going to make a move.”

“On the Temple Mount?”

“Where else can it be? Geoff, it’s time. We’ve got to tell someone.”

33

Geoff’s hair was still damp from the shower. He was buttoning his shirt. Annie sat on the bed watching him get dressed. “You’re going to say it’s something you’ve been researching for some time, right?”

“Exactly.”

“Do you want these suspenders?” She held out the pair lying beside her.

“Braces,” Geoff said. “Yes, thank you.”

His appointment with the prime minister was at four-fifty.
Do please be punctual, Mr. Harris. The PM will be leaving for a reception at the Dutch embassy promptly at five.
Annie, they’d agreed, would be superfluous. Ten minutes was not enough time to explain about an obscure heresy active since at least the fifteenth century, much less the ghost in the back bedroom.

Geoff picked out a paisley tie in shades of rich royal purple. “What I’ll say is, it’s a story I’ve been researching for weeks, based on work I originally did in ’95.” His suit, navy with a faint pinstripe, was one she’d never seen before. It fit as if it had been made for him, which probably it had. “I’ll point out it’s pretty straightforward. We believe—”

“You believe,” she corrected.

“Right. I believe Philip Weinraub’s Shalom Foundation to be a front for a Christian fundamentalist group—possibly Catholic fundamentalists and possibly with a connection to the Carthusian order. I won’t give them any more than that.”

“Maybe not even that,” Annie said. “The Carthusians may be a bridge too far. It complicates the story.”

“Could be, but when I knew him, the PM could definitely walk and chew gum. So possibly I’ll say a group connected to the Carthusians, but definitely people with an interest in restoring the ancient Jewish Temple in Jerusalem.”

“And why would Christians care about the Jewish Temple?” They had been over this. Her question was a prompt.

“So the ancient biblical prophecies are fulfilled and Jesus can return. Which necessitates blowing up or otherwise getting rid of the Islamic holy sites on the Temple Mount. And I have reason to believe this group is getting ready to make their move.”

They’d agreed he wouldn’t say how he knew. He’d use the American defense of journalists’ right to protect their sources. It wouldn’t stand up in a British court, but Geoff figured it would do for his old friend the prime minister. At least temporarily. “You’re not going to mention Bletchley or the code, or even the mural?” she asked.

“All that,” he said, “is definitely too complicated for a ten-minute presentation. I just want to persuade him to contact the Israeli authorities. Put them on alert so that whatever Weinraub is planning can be stopped before it happens.” He gave the tie a final tug. “I haven’t worn clothes like this in months. It feels like putting on a straitjacket.”

“However it feels,” she said, “you look good enough to eat.”

“Later,” he said. “I’ll remind you.”

They both laughed.

Laughter, Annie realized, was the nicest kind of intimacy, and it only happened when you were sober. Then, because she couldn’t continue to avoid the subject: “Still no word from Clary?”

“None. I’ve been trying to reach him, but he’s not answering.”

“Geoff, I want him to come back to England. If we’re right about the timing, Clary’s nosing around now could be perceived as a threat. I’m worried.”

“So am I. A bit at least. But I keep reminding myself that compared with Port-au-Prince, Strasbourg is Disneyland. Clary can take care of himself.”

“That’s what you keep saying.”

“It’s what I believe.”

It was not quite two. “Are you going to the hospital first?” Annie asked.

“Yes. It makes me feel better, even when she doesn’t know I’m there.”

They were keeping Maggie heavily sedated all the time now. Which meant he’d had no opportunity to confess that he’d opened the mezuzah despite the prohibition, or to ask what she knew about what it contained. His guess was his mother would have nothing to offer. “If there was an explanation, Maggie would have told me when she gave it to me. She knew there weren’t going to be many more lucid conversations.” That’s what he’d said the night before, and he had not faltered over the words, but looking at him now, Annie realized that without the suspenders, the trousers of the custom-made suit wouldn’t stay up. Fortunately the jacket looked fine. She watched him load his gear—wallet, keys, business cards, iPhone—and add a pen to an inside pocket, then pat himself down in that way men did.

“What are you going to do with the rest of the day?” he asked.

It was nearly three weeks since she’d been to AA—too long. Part of her did not feel comfortable saying that to Geoff.
It’s drunks who get why AA works, Annie my girl. Civilians think it’s peculiar.
But Geoff Harris was not just another civilian, and letting him in was part of the easy intimacy that only thrived with sobriety. “I’ll probably go to an AA meeting,” she said.

He didn’t flinch. “Great. Don’t forget your mobile. I’ll call you when I leave Number Ten, but I expect I’ll go to see Maggie again afterward. That’s always presuming they haven’t called me to come earlier.”

***

“So you definitely think the prime minister took you seriously?” Annie asked.

They were at the pub in Cosmo Place. Neither of them was eating much, both just playing with their food. “Absolutely,” Geoff said. “Particularly once I said I’d come up empty after I tried to get Interpol to check out the deaths of two old but influential cardinals—both involving quail eggs—that I thought might involve Philip Weinraub. Which was why I didn’t want to go back to them with my suspicion that he was planning an imminent move on the Temple Mount. That’s the point where I was hustled into a two-hour meeting with blokes in dark glasses and trench coats.”