no confidence about how I would fare in that reckoning, but I reasoned it might go better with me if I had at least saved some of what the gentiles had taken from the Holy City, and from me and my fellow Jews. That hope—divine forgiveness—is why I had the audacity to give no true treasure to Master Cromwell but only the occasional copy of one of the remarkable things I found. My forgeries were so cleverly crafted, he believed them to be genuine and kept me in place to continue to search on his behalf. I did not, however, fool myself about what would happen if he ever discovered the ruse, or for any reason became convinced he had no further need of me. In those days agony beyond description lurked always just over my shoulder.
•
8
It had clouded over in Coram’s Fields. Annie thought that’s what Geoff meant when he said, “Here comes trouble.”
“I brought an umbrella.” She reached for her tote bag.
“Not that. We’re nobbled.” He nodded toward a uniformed security guard approaching them with a look of purpose.
“I don’t understand,” Annie said.
“No adults,” Geoff explained, “are supposed to be in Coram’s Fields unless accompanied by a child.”
The guard was a few steps away. The boy with the white-blond hair, the one Geoff had originally kicked the soccer ball to, appeared at Geoff’s shoulder. “Can I play a bit longer, Dad?”
“Sure, as long as Mum here doesn’t mind.”
“Not a bit,” Annie said.
The guard hesitated, then turned away. Geoff and the boy slapped a high five. The boy left. “Better get away while we can,” Geoff said. “Who knows, they may bring back hanging.”
“And drawing and quartering.” Annie gathered up her things and they headed for the exit.
Geoff turned to wave at the kids playing soccer, but they’d gone back to their game and didn’t notice. He wrested her Davis School tote bag from her grip, then pretended to stumble under its weight. “What do you have in here besides an umbrella, bricks?”
“Sketchbooks,” Annie said, “and lots of maps. I was planning a stroll along the banks of the Fleet.”
About then the heavens opened. They dashed for the nearest pub, a rather dingy place on Lambs Conduit Street. “I expect this one dates from around merry old 1972,” Geoff said.
“Doesn’t matter as long as the roof doesn’t leak.”
Annie slid into a booth, and he went up to the bar and came back with a squat, fat bottle of Schweppes Bitter Lemon, a pint of ale, and a plate of anemic-looking crustless sandwiches. “They don’t do citron pressé. This is the best I could manage.” He handed over the soda and nodded toward his beer. “Okay?”
“Of course okay.” When she was drinking, one of her coping mechanisms was to tuck a few bills in various pockets. That way wherever she was when she sobered up, she’d maybe have enough cash to get somewhere else. The habit lingered. She found a ten-pound note in her jeans and offered it to him.
Geoff waved the money away and picked up one of the sandwiches. “Cheese and pickle. The only thing on offer. You do know the Fleet’s an underground sewage ditch these days, don’t you?”
“Yes, but it was a major waterway in 1535. That’s when the man I’m trying to trace, the one called the Jew of Holborn, lived here. I think he was a craftsman, perhaps a goldsmith who needed to plunge his finished pieces into water to cool them quickly. He’d probably live close to the riverbank, where he’d have access.”
“I take it he really was a Jew—it wasn’t only a nickname?”
“Apparently so,” Annie said. “Though it was illegal for Jews to be in England in the early fifteen hundreds.” She reached for a sandwich. It looked like supermarket cheddar smeared with dark brown relish, and the bread hadn’t been fresh for two days. She put it back and dug into the depths of her tote. “The Shalom people have collected a number of 1535 references to him.”
Geoff took the papers,
•
8
It had clouded over in Coram’s Fields. Annie thought that’s what Geoff meant when he said, “Here comes trouble.”
“I brought an umbrella.” She reached for her tote bag.
“Not that. We’re nobbled.” He nodded toward a uniformed security guard approaching them with a look of purpose.
“I don’t understand,” Annie said.
“No adults,” Geoff explained, “are supposed to be in Coram’s Fields unless accompanied by a child.”
The guard was a few steps away. The boy with the white-blond hair, the one Geoff had originally kicked the soccer ball to, appeared at Geoff’s shoulder. “Can I play a bit longer, Dad?”
“Sure, as long as Mum here doesn’t mind.”
“Not a bit,” Annie said.
The guard hesitated, then turned away. Geoff and the boy slapped a high five. The boy left. “Better get away while we can,” Geoff said. “Who knows, they may bring back hanging.”
“And drawing and quartering.” Annie gathered up her things and they headed for the exit.
Geoff turned to wave at the kids playing soccer, but they’d gone back to their game and didn’t notice. He wrested her Davis School tote bag from her grip, then pretended to stumble under its weight. “What do you have in here besides an umbrella, bricks?”
“Sketchbooks,” Annie said, “and lots of maps. I was planning a stroll along the banks of the Fleet.”
About then the heavens opened. They dashed for the nearest pub, a rather dingy place on Lambs Conduit Street. “I expect this one dates from around merry old 1972,” Geoff said.
“Doesn’t matter as long as the roof doesn’t leak.”
Annie slid into a booth, and he went up to the bar and came back with a squat, fat bottle of Schweppes Bitter Lemon, a pint of ale, and a plate of anemic-looking crustless sandwiches. “They don’t do citron pressé. This is the best I could manage.” He handed over the soda and nodded toward his beer. “Okay?”
“Of course okay.” When she was drinking, one of her coping mechanisms was to tuck a few bills in various pockets. That way wherever she was when she sobered up, she’d maybe have enough cash to get somewhere else. The habit lingered. She found a ten-pound note in her jeans and offered it to him.
Geoff waved the money away and picked up one of the sandwiches. “Cheese and pickle. The only thing on offer. You do know the Fleet’s an underground sewage ditch these days, don’t you?”
“Yes, but it was a major waterway in 1535. That’s when the man I’m trying to trace, the one called the Jew of Holborn, lived here. I think he was a craftsman, perhaps a goldsmith who needed to plunge his finished pieces into water to cool them quickly. He’d probably live close to the riverbank, where he’d have access.”
“I take it he really was a Jew—it wasn’t only a nickname?”
“Apparently so,” Annie said. “Though it was illegal for Jews to be in England in the early fifteen hundreds.” She reached for a sandwich. It looked like supermarket cheddar smeared with dark brown relish, and the bread hadn’t been fresh for two days. She put it back and dug into the depths of her tote. “The Shalom people have collected a number of 1535 references to him.”
Geoff took the papers,
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