The two men stared at each other, the tension visible to a woman hurrying by along the pavement with a bakery bag and an averted glance, trying to mind her own business. Each man was tight-coiled, focused on what should follow; until Calvin finally offered his unexpected guest some “meager hospitality. My rooms are rather small. But you’d better come inside.” He released his grip on Simon’s arm, unlocked the door, and the latter pushed his way in rather forcefully behind.

No experience of student digs bore any comparison in Simon’s mind with Calvin’s space. Looking around the living and study area, he carefully noted the exaggerated degree of cleanliness, the neat row of a small number of books, the immaculately placed shoes, the coat in a dry cleaner’s dust cover. Everything was expensive, though it was sparsely furnished. Alex was organized and orderly; but his cousin seemed to border on obsessive-compulsive behavior. A stranger successor to Will in Siân’s life, Simon thought to himself, couldn’t be imagined.

Calvin folded himself up primly on a sofa, his body language tautly controlled. He took a moment before inviting Simon into an Art Deco–style chair, brightly upholstered, directly opposite him; but his visitor preferred to remain standing.

“Straight answer, Calvin: because you’re unfortunately involved with people I care deeply about.” Simon’s voice was full of thinly disguised emotion, and he was cross with himself for that. “I want to know about the key, the Dee papers, and the people you’re in bed with. I’m disinclined to believe anything I’ve heard from you until now, so cut the crap and tell me the truth. You might gag Alex, who always wants to believe the best in anyone, but I’m not so forgiving, and my two best contacts at Scotland Yard would love a good tip-off.”

Calvin took his time replying. Eventually he confronted Simon in a flat, quiet voice. “Things have…spiraled. What they want is not what I want.” He stood, crossed the small space to open a desk drawer, and withdrew a pair of well-thumbed paperbacks, which he handed over to his visitor. He sat again, determined to master his own time and environment. “The people I study with believe what’s in the Bible—and have distorted it just sufficiently to write that literature. You can laugh at them, Simon”—he reacted to the other man’s wry humor and dismissive incredulity—“but please don’t underestimate them. They are sure that Christ is coming, and they’re convinced that day is very near for them. Dee’s ideas are of interest to them. Those books are part of a series, and their author is one of the most successful in American history. Their theology is not my theology. Their politics are not my politics.”