For Saul, bathing was a sacred ritual, almost a ceremony of spiritual and mental purification. On Sundays, he liked to sink slowly into his Victorian bathtub filled with aromatic salts, chosen with near-religious precision—lavender, bergamot, and a hint of cedar—which perfumed the air and dissolved the tensions accumulated throughout the week. It was his private temple, where the noises of the world fell silent and his thoughts reorganized themselves.
On other days, a hot, strong shower was enough to relax his muscles, revive his senses, and clear his exhausted mind. He saw water as a perfect metaphor for life: mental dirt flowing down the drain while thought emerged light, clean, and sharp. He needed that, especially after the meeting with the priest—his words still echoed like unresolved riddles, but there was no time for contemplation.
He dried himself quickly and jotted down hurried notes of important excerpts from the conversation at Temple Church, scribbling symbols and loose phrases that only he would understand later. He promised himself that, after dinner, he would dive into those notes as one deciphers an ancient code.
The five-minute bath invigorated him, and while the water still ran down his hair, he thought about the ideal outfit—something that wouldn't clash with Meggie's relaxed style but would still maintain his natural elegance. He chose a casual combination: a light blazer, a white linen shirt, and dark jeans.
In the closet mirror, he examined the final result, adjusting the collar with almost military precision. He finished with a touch of his favorite fragrance, Knize Ten, whose leather and tobacco notes reminded him of the days when he believed in the power of words to change the world.
Before leaving, he fastened around his wrist the Patek Philippe 1949 inherited from his paternal grandfather—a Swiss rarity, the same man who had left him the Dunhill pipe, another symbol of a lineage that cultivated rituals and traditions as if they were family secrets. He programmed his car's iPod to play a refined selection of blues and jazz—Miles Davis, Coltrane, Chet Baker—and, with the engine purring softly, picked up the paper on which Meggie had written her address.
"I forgot to mention that, besides 'disposable literature,' I also really like Mary Ann Evans.
I am in the house where she died.
Since you are a man of letters, you should know where that is.
I'll be waiting for you here at the agreed time. I know the English are famous for their punctuality.
Don't disappoint me.
Kisses, Meggie."
Saul read the note aloud and shook his head, both amused and intrigued.
— Just what I needed! — he murmured. — It's not only the devil who likes to make riddles... but this one isn't difficult. Mary Ann Evans, pseudonym of George Eliot, of course. She lived on Cheyne Walk, in Chelsea—the same address as Garvin, T. S. Eliot, and Ian Fleming, the creator of James Bond.
The fake 007... he thought, recalling his conversation with the priest, and started the car.
The engine responded with a deep growl.
— She likes to provoke me... — he said, smiling to himself, as one who accepts a challenge.
Saul felt butterflies in his stomach, and they fluttered like they had on his first date with Justine, years earlier, when he still believed that love was immune to tragedy. He hadn't felt that in a long time—a slight chill down his spine mixed with the sweet anticipation of uncertainty. To try to control his anxiety, he forced his mind to focus on something else: the meeting with Raphaniè just a few hours earlier.
Is he all right? he wondered silently, recalling the mysterious man he had seen sitting a few rows behind him in the church.
The bad feeling always manifested in the same way: an insistent tingling in his right temple. It had happened a few hours before the accident with Justine. And also on the day his career had been destroyed by a scandal he had never been able to erase. That sign never failed. It was his sixth sense, the omen the universe sent him before catastrophes. Still, he took a deep breath and chose to cling to the butterflies—they were a better omen.
On speakerphone, he dialed his new partner's number. The phone rang four times before going to voicemail.
He must have left his phone in the room... Saul thought, or perhaps he's having dinner with the other priests...
Even so, something inside him remained uneasy—a shadow hovering over his mind, like a bird of prey about to dive on its target.
"The human tongue..." he murmured, recalling Raphaniè's words—and it wasn't hard to imagine who was behind it...
There was a sect in London that carried out murders with ritualistic precision and demonic cruelty. Saul had seen firsthand the results of their actions: the women's bodies, the expressions frozen in horror, the symbols carved into flesh like messages for the living. The mere thought made him shudder.
Father Raphaniè Marin had been essential in unraveling the crimes, even if the official version was a convenient lie. He represented a real threat to the interests of the monsters hiding behind appearances. And most worrying of all: he was not a public figure in England. He could be eliminated silently, in his room at Temple Church, without anyone associating his death with a conspiracy.
Saul knew why they hadn't killed him yet—he himself was the reason. He was a known face—the combative journalist, the reporter who had exposed political and financial scandals. If Saul's body were found floating in the Thames or dumped in some Whitechapel alley, public opinion would explode. His death would arouse curiosity, and investigations would inevitably lead to powerful names in the aristocracy and the Church.
And more: he knew his father, Sir Jonathan Bishop, would never let the case go cold.
He tried calling again—nothing, not even a signal.
For a moment, he considered canceling dinner and trying to contact the priest directly, but Meggie's image came to mind—her intelligent gaze, her provocative smile, the enigmatic note.
If he had her number, he would cancel...
But he didn't, so he sighed, turning right onto Finborough Road, the soft sound of Chet Baker's saxophone filling the car.
There were fifteen minutes left until eight o'clock—and, like any good Londoner, he would never be late.