Bristol House (34 page)

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26

After their meal at Lemonia, Annie insisted on going back to Bristol House for the night and staying there alone. “I think the ghost wants to talk to me, but he’s not as likely to come if you’re there.”

They were in the back of a cab. Geoff looked at her for a long few seconds. Annie saw the play of light from the street passing over his face in a dappled exchange of brightness and shadow. “Okay,” he said finally. “I have to admit, I think you’re right.”

And that, she realized, was the point of the apparition—she knew no other word for it—of the old-fashioned provisioner on St. John’s Lane. The ghost had neutralized his only real opponent. Originally Geoff had tried to get her to leave Bristol House and avoid the phenomena that took place there. Now he’d been co-opted. He’d become the ghost’s ally.

He came up to the flat with her, stayed only long enough to look around, then kissed her softly and left.

Annie walked around for a while, waiting. Nothing happened. Eventually she went to bed. The Carthusian did not appear. It was very late when she fell asleep and she woke to bright sunlight and her cell phone ringing on the table beside the bed. She fumbled for it and caught the call just before it disappeared to voice mail. “It’s Jennifer. Sorry to call so early, but I’ve got something I think you should see. Can you come to the museum?”

Annie said she’d be there within the hour.

***

The British summer had made a tardy but welcome appearance. It was a gorgeous day, warm and sunny, and tourist hordes from every corner of the world had sprung up like multicolored flowers and taken over the museum. Annie made her way through the throng to a security checkpoint and flashed the orange-bordered pass that identified her as an independent researcher. The guard nodded in the direction of the staff-only elevators, one of which descended to Jennifer Franklin’s temporary quarters in the subbasement.

The room was always chilly, a function of the climate control that protected the treasures. Today, by contrast, it felt positively cold. Jennifer wore a heavy dark green cardigan that Annie had seen a number of times. The archivist had pushed the sleeves up and left the front unbuttoned. Underneath she had on a spaghetti-strap gray knit top over wide-legged black linen pants. The knit top was stretched over a decided bump.

“Wow! Congratulations. When’s the big day?”

“Not until November.” Jennifer caressed her rounded belly with one well-manicured hand.

“Well, I must say it becomes you. You look wonderful. Is your husband excited? Rob, isn’t it?” And do you know he has a sideline in breaking and entering? she wanted to say. Then she remembered that according to Clary Colbert, Jennifer’s husband was also banging some Egyptian woman with great boobs and felt terrible.

Jennifer apparently picked up no negative vibrations. “Yes, Rob’s over the moon. We’ve been trying for a while. I can’t believe you two haven’t met. We must go out together sometime.”

“We definitely must,” Annie said. That was one of the things she’d planned to get done today—maneuver a meeting with Rob Franklin. He was a player in her very private drama; she wanted to get a look at him. “Better be soon,” she said. “I’ve only a little over a month left in London.”

Jennifer did not react with a specific offer. “Definitely soon,” she said. She nodded toward the far end of the table. “I’ve pulled something for you. I think it may be useful.”

Annie sat down in front of a paper portfolio tied with the ubiquitous cotton ribbon beloved of archivists. “You know,” she said while she slipped on white gloves, “I’m prepared to nominate you the source of all wisdom in the matter of Tudor London. I hope you’re not planning to stop work after the baby comes.”

“Probably not an option. We can’t afford it. Being a television producer sounds glamorous, but the big money is reserved for the on-air stars. Geoffrey Harris, for instance.” Jennifer paused. “The grapevine has you two an item. True or just a rumor?”

It had to happen. Geoff was far too well-known for it to be otherwise. “I’ve seen him a few times. Does that make us an item?”

“Absolutely. Not to mention the envy of every unmarried female in London. Don’t blush—you must know that’s the case.”

“The blushes go with being a redhead. I can’t control them.” How many times in her life had she said that? “And Geoff’s great. We’re having fun together. Thanks for introducing us.”

Jennifer shrugged. “As I recall, it was entirely accidental.”

That was true, but it did not alleviate Annie’s sense of . . . what? What exactly had she meant when she told Geoff she wanted a vacation from Jennifer? Despite the fact that it was the Shalom Foundation that recommended the archivist, Annie had been clinging to the notion that maybe Jennifer didn’t know her husband had broken into Annie’s apartment at the behest of Philip Weinraub. After all neither Geoff nor Clary had said anything about the possibility Rob’s wife was involved. On the other hand—Annie had no time to pursue the thought.

“Take a look.” Jennifer had pulled the special gray cushion into position. Annie reached for the portfolio and untied the ribbon. Inside was a sheet of parchment covered with nonacid tissue paper, which Jennifer whisked away. Annie slipped her hands beneath the document and very gently transferred it to the cushion. She was looking at a landscape of sorts, done in browns and greens with touches of pink and red, and splashes of blue meant to convey the sky. One corner was badly torn, and all the edges were frayed.

“It’s one of the earliest English watercolors in existence,” Jennifer said.

The technique—suspending colored pigment in water—had been around since cave painting, but as a medium for art, it hadn’t been widely used in the West until the early 1600s. Before that the great masters employed watercolor only for what were called cartoons, preliminary sketches of a planned work in oils. This painting was not a cartoon. There was no understanding of perspective for one thing, and the draftsmanship was poor. Nonetheless, the painter took some pride in the work. It was signed in the lower left with the initials “C.J.” and dated “Ann. Dom. 1534.”

“It’s believed to be the work of Mistress Clare Juryman,” Jennifer said. “She was the wife of a prominent London silk merchant and an enthusiastic amateur painter. Three of her sketches survive. This one happens to be a scene of exactly the area you’re interested in.” She pointed to the torn corner where the title of the scene had once been written. What remained were the letters l-e-t and, below them, b-o-r-n; both were rendered in a wavy attempt at what would be, even for Tudor times, elaborate script.

“Hamlet of Holborn,” Annie said. “At least that’s my guess.” And how come you waited until now to show me this?

“Has to have been Hamlet of Holborn,” Jennifer agreed. “See, here’s the Charterhouse. And over here the monastery of the Knights of St. John.”

The artist’s lack of skill meant that both establishments were flat and two-dimensional, but the unique sprawl of the Charterhouse—the rows of small houses for hermit monks built around a number of open courtyards—was recognizable, as was the round dome of the church of the Knights Hospitaller of St. John. Next to the dome were the letters p-r-e-c-e-p. “Preceptory?” Annie asked.

“I would think so. It wasn’t one by then, of course. In 1534 it belonged to the Knights of St. John, not the Templars, but there’s evidence the locals went on using the old name.” Jennifer pointed to the sketch. “And everyone knew the round church was modeled on the Church of the Holy Sepulcher in Jerusalem. Which, of course, was linked to the Knights Templar.”

“I thought the Templars were linked to the ancient Jewish Temple.” Annie made sure to keep her tone neutral. “Didn’t they build their first monastery on the Temple Mount?”

“They did,” Jennifer agreed. “Over the ruins of the Second Temple, according to legend.”

Annie looked up. Jennifer was looking at her. Annie no longer required a mental dog whistle—she was certain. She was being prodded, manipulated, and indeed robbed. And not just by Philip Weinraub but—no doubt at his behest—by both Rob Franklin and his wife. A few seconds passed. Neither woman blinked. Finally Annie looked away and traced a line in the airspace above the parchment. “These circles aren’t labeled, but they seem to follow the course of the river.”

“They’re wells,” Jennifer said, “dug near the banks. One theory says that’s why the Fleet silted up so quickly each time it was dredged. There are nine wells shown in that relatively small space. That implies the existence of many others, and all of them were, in effect, siphoning off river water and impacting the Fleet’s flow.”

Annie picked up a magnifying glass and bent forward over the painting. “Doesn’t seem to be any mention of the Jew of Holborn, does there?”

“Not a whisper,” Jennifer said. “I thought of that too. Went looking for it a week or so ago. I’d have called you if I’d spotted anything.”

No, you would not. You have been following a careful script all along. First the Scranton map, then the Juryman watercolor. Keep Annie intrigued. Make sure she continues to look for . . . what? A mezuzah. In the Bristol House mural. Maybe. But what did Mr. and Mrs. Robert Franklin stand to gain from that?

Annie kept her head down, still poring over the old and crude attempt at landscape art. “Thanks for showing it to me now,” she said evenly.

“I knew you’d be interested.” Jennifer carefully replaced the protective tissue over the watercolor. “Would you mind putting this back in its portfolio? I need to run to the loo. I’m peeing every half hour these days. I suppose you remember that.”

27

Annie hurried up Great Russell Street toward Bristol House with her cell phone pressed against her ear.

Geoff answered on the first ring. “I was just thinking about you.”

“Listen,” she said with no preamble, “it’s not just Rob Franklin. Jennifer’s part of it.”

“Part of what? Working for Weinraub?”

“Yes.”

“How do you know?”

“She produced something incredible today. She should have shown it to me the first day. It’s absolutely relevant. Oh, and she’s pregnant.”

“Good for her. Is that relevant as well?”

“Probably not.” Except she knows I once was as well. Annie couldn’t say that to Geoff. Or, to put it more accurately, she didn’t want to.

Not far away a crowd of mostly gray-haired women in saris descended from a tour bus and headed for the British Museum. Annie stepped out of their path and leaned against the wrought iron fence that skirted Bloomsbury Square. “I mentioned the Temple Mount, and she didn’t react, but I know she was thinking things.”

“How did the Temple Mount get into the conversation?”

“We were talking about the Templars.”

“Curiouser and curiouser. Happens I’m at Middle Temple. Part of the old Templar monastery.”

“Why?”

“Because these days it’s where we lock up our lawyers. I’ve been talking to a barrister who’s an expert on the Palestinian issue. For the book.”

“Geoff, about Jennifer, I think she’s been manipulating me all along. She—”

A chubby little woman in a bright green sari shot with gold ran past Annie, knocking the phone out of her hand. Annie caught it in midair. The woman turned back and offered a
namaskar
in apology. Annie smiled and produced a half wave as a sign of forgiveness, then pressed the phone back to her ear.

Geoff was still on the line: “—lunch,” he was saying.

“What? I lost you.”

“I said I’ll take you to lunch and we can talk about it. Meet me at the Temple in half an hour.”

“Where the lawyers are?”

“No, the Templar church. It’s right across the road, and it’s open.”

“Okay. What’s the tube stop?”

“Temple, but don’t do that. It’s at least three changes from where you are. You can get a bus, I think the one sixty-nine or the fifty-eight, but you have to walk over to Theobald’s Road and—forget it. Take a taxi. I’ll see you there in about thirty minutes.”

The traffic was ghastly. It took Annie the better part of twenty minutes to get to the corner of Fleet Street and Inner Temple Lane. “Near as I can get you, love,” the cabbie said when he pulled over. “The Temple’s just across the pavement and through that arch. About thirty yards.”

She paid the driver and passed beneath the archway and along a brick path toward a church that, according to the small pamphlet she picked up outside the door, had been consecrated to the Blessed Virgin Mary in 1185. His Majesty Henry II, first of the Plantagenets, had been in attendance. He bestowed that mark of high favor, Annie knew, because in the sixty-seven years between the creation of the Knights Templar and the building of this church, the Templars had become Europe’s bankers. The order had grown incredibly wealthy by making themselves the custodians of the fortunes of noblemen marching off to the Crusades.

Staggering amounts of money made for immense power, and medieval monarchs suffered no rivals. By the early 1300s, the Knights Templar had been disgraced, their leaders burned at the stake, and the rest disbanded; but 1185, when they built this church and the adjacent monastery—now the Inns of Court where, as Geoff said, London locked up its lawyers—was the moment of the ancient order’s greatest splendor.

A small entry had been cut into the huge double doors. Annie walked through it into the eight-hundred-year-old round church. The knights at once surrounded her.

In the Templars’ world, being buried beneath the dome of one of their preceptories was equivalent to achieving the cherished goal of resting forever in the holy city of Jerusalem. The knights buried eight hundred years earlier in this corner of London had been granted this great honor, and to this day the prone effigies above each grave indicated the role of each within the order. Some lay still and stiff; they had been administrators of the Templar fortune. Others, the fearsome warrior monks, were depicted in the act of drawing their swords.

Originally the effigies, like the church’s stone walls and the grotesque heads that topped its huge marble pillars, had been painted in bright reds and yellows and oranges. Over the centuries the paint had flaked away, leaving a symphony of stone clothed in a numinous paleness that seemed to reflect all the light coming through the tall arched windows and channel it through the opening to a rectangular nave. Pews ran along both walls, not one behind the other, as in an ordinary church, but facing each other in monastic fashion. Everything, the dead knights as well as the play of light and shadow, led the eye to the altar at the far end.