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I don’t see how I can help you.”
    “Probably you can’t. Still . . . will you tell me what kind of research you’re involved in?”
    Annie shrugged. “Ancient Judaica. Someone called the Jew of Holborn. All to do with the sixteenth century, so it can’t have much bearing on your story.”
    She knew she sounded defensive. She also knew why. She had tied herself and her future so thoroughly to Shalom’s goals that anything that threatened Weinraub threatened her.
    Suddenly, without warning, a breeze came up. Annie had on jeans and a T-shirt. She shivered. Geoff untied the sweater from his shoulders and put it over hers. It was camel-colored, so soft it had to be cashmere. “You need to be a Londoner,” he said, “to know never to trust hot and sunny. Even in May.”
    “I’ll bear it in mind,” Annie said.
    “Look, I don’t think you—” He was interrupted by a sudden burst of music. James Brown’s “Soul Power,” Annie thought, but she didn’t hear enough to be sure. Geoff whisked an iPhone out of his pocket and glanced at it. “Sorry, I’ve got to take this.” He got up, took a few steps away from the bench, spoke softly for a moment or two, then returned. “Sorry,” he said again. “I have to run. I’ve been trying to get this interview for a month. People aren’t as anxious to talk to you if they’re not going to be on the telly as a result. Bloody Blair will only see me if I can be there in twenty minutes. I’ve got your number.” Waving the phone, he backed away. “I’ll call you.”

5
    On Monday, four days after her meeting with Geoff Harris, following an early-morning run through cold and rainy gloom, Annie felt the need for coffee before she showered. She went into the kitchen and made a cup, then carried it into the dining room she’d turned into an office. Without actually sitting down at the laptop, she idly clicked the list of ritual implements onto the screen, looking yet again for a pattern that might shed some light on—
    “ Ut inimicos sanctae Ecclesiae humiliare digneris . . . ”
    A single male voice was petitioning heaven. It betrayed the slight tremulousness of old age, but still it filled the apartment, echoed down the hall, and bounced off the dining room walls.
    Annie stood frozen, the mug of coffee still in her hand.
    “ Te rogamus, audi nos. ”
    The monk had brought reinforcements. The response— Te rogamus, audi nos , “We beg Thee to hear us”—came from a chorus of male voices, vigorous and young.
    “ Ut cuncto populo Christiano, pacem et unitatem largiri digneris. ”
    “ Te rogamus, audi nos. ”
    The ebb and flow, call-and-answer, was strong, insistent. She almost felt compelled to join in the responses.
    She put down her mug and went into the hall. The chant surrounded her, seeming to come from everywhere. Not so. She knew its source. She walked toward the back bedroom.
    “ Ut fructus terrae dare . . . ”
    “ Te rogamus, audi nos. ”
    Annie flung open the door.
    The chant ended abruptly.
    The room was empty of ghosts, whether one or many.
    Everything was exactly as it had been, and the things she had put on the desk were where she’d left them. She heard nothing. Not an echo of the litany, not the traffic of busy Southampton Row, not a few notes of birdsong. Number eight Bristol House was deathly quiet.
    She wondered if opening and closing the door was some sort of switch. She stood just inside the door and pulled it shut behind her, then opened it again. The chant did not resume.
    Annie approached the desk. Her hands were shaking, but she managed to strike a match and light the candle. She picked up the brass bell with her left hand and rang it—tentatively at first, then with more vigor—and put her right hand on the Bible. She only had to bend her head to be able to see the words she’d copied out of The Roman Ritual. It occurred to her that she should have translated the excommunication into Latin. Too late now. “‘I separate