Page 62 of The Unseen
“But the wardrobe had been moved to block the door, so she wouldn’t have.”
“And you think she wouldn’t question the reason the bathroom had been suddenly blocked off?”
“She might have questioned it, but if she valued her job, she would accept whatever explanation she was given and get on with it.”
“Yes, I suppose that’s possible. I think I need to find an object that belonged to Dmitri. It’s his memories that are the key to this puzzle.”
“Was there anything at the house?” Gabe asked as he carefully took the sleeping baby and went to lay him in his cot.
“The room had been stripped bare, as had the bathroom. Perhaps there’s something of Dmitri’s in storage, or in the attic.”
Gabe came back to bed and lay down on his side, propping his head on his hand so he could look down at Quinn. “I still think Valentina had to have known something. Melissa Glover said that Valentina lived in that house until her death, so she must have inherited it from Dmitri. It’s hard to imagine that in all those yearsshe never discovered the hidden bathroom. People move furniture all the time. She knew,” Gabe reiterated.
“Perhaps.”
“You said Dmitri was very protective and solicitous of Elena and they’d shared a close relationship when they were children. They were of approximately the same age, were they not?”
“Yes. They were both in their late thirties at the time they were reunited.”
“Could it be possible that the reason Valentina got the house was because Dmitri married Elena?”
Quinn mulled this over. Dmitri did seem to fawn over Elena and was determined to help her overcome her grief and find some happiness in her new life. They were second cousins, but it wasn’t unheard of for cousins to marry, especially if procreation wasn’t the goal. At her age, Elena would have been considered well past childbearing age, so Dmitri and Elena’s familial relationship wouldn’t matter much if it evolved into something more. Perhaps it was time to start searching for some facts now that she knew the names of the key players. She might find something to help her fill in the glaring blanks omitted Valentina’s memories.
“I need to find records, but where do I start?” Quinn asked.
“I would start with the Russian Orthodox Church here in London. The church they went to might no longer exist, but the parish register, if there was one, would not have been destroyed. It would have been passed on to the diocese, if that’s the right term. Also, the local registry office might be able to help.”
“They don’t keep records that far back.”
“No, but they might tell you where the records have been archived.”
“I’ll start making enquiries tomorrow,” Quinn said. The Orthodox Church celebrated Christmas on January 7, so the end of December wouldn’t be their busiest time. Hopefully, whoever she spoke to would be willing to help. “I’ll go check on Emma and help her get ready for bed,” Quinn said as she made to rise
“I’ll do it. You look like you’re very comfortable exactly where you are,” Gabe replied and kissed her lightly. “Good night, love.”
“Good night,” Quinn replied, grateful to have an early night.
THIRTY-THREE
Quinn took advantage of the next day being Saturday to leave Alex with Gabe and go off on her own. It was a filthy day, with cold rain coming down in sheets and clouds so thick as to seem impenetrable. She didn’t mind a bit of rain, but the pervading gloom soured her mood. Visions of sandy beaches and azure waves danced in her mind. It’d been a long time since she’d had a holiday. Perhaps they could make plans to visit her parents in Marbella over Easter break. Alex was too young to enjoy the beach, but Emma would have a ball. Her idea of going to the beach consisted of skipping around on a rocky shore in her wellies beneath a leaden sky and scooping up buckets of icy water from the North Sea to build a sand castle. Splashing around in warm water and lying on soft white sand would be an eye-opener for her.
Getting off at Gunnersbury tube station, Quinn hurried toward the Cathedral of the Dormition on Harvard Road. The white building, adorned with an onion-shaped cupola in cerulean blue and decorated with gold stars, looked incongruous against the angry-looking clouds that virtually swallowed the Orthodox cross displayed at the top. The building itself wasn’t very impressive from the outside, but the colorful frescos and magnificent icons that covered every surface took Quinn’s breath away when she stepped inside. She stood still for a moment, taking in the splendid images. The light reflecting off the gold leaf background of the icons cast a golden glow, giving the impression of sunshine streaming through the windows. There were no pews, just an open space at the center where the worshippers gathered for services.
“Dobro pozhalovat,” a young priest greeted Quinn. He appeared to be in his late twenties and wore a long black cassock and rubber-soled shoes that made no sound on the tiled floor. The somber black of the priest’s attire was relieved only by a large gold cross that came down nearly to his waist. “Welcome,” he amended when Quinn didn’t immediately respond to the greeting. “I’m Father Grigori. Have you come to worship with us? We have a simultaneous translation of the service for our English-speakingbrothers and sisters. It’s tomorrow at ten, and you’re most welcome.”
“Thank you. Actually, I was hoping to ask you a few questions. My name is Dr. Quinn Allenby. I host an archeological program calledEchoes from the Past, and I’m currently researching a case that involves a Russian family that lived in London approximately one hundred years ago.”
“Ooh, how fascinating. Is it something likeTime Team? I love that program,” the priest said, his eyes sparkling with enthusiasm.
“Yes, it’s similar, but each episode focuses on a particular person or family rather than an archeological site. I’m interested in any existing information, such as births, deaths, and marriages. The family I’m investigating worshipped at the Church of St. Sophia in Welbeck Street. I was wondering if there was any way to take a look at the parish registers from that period. Would you know where they might be kept?”
Father Grigori shook his head. “Sorry. Wish I could help, but I haven’t a clue. Perhaps Father Evgeni might know.” The young priest extracted an iPhone from the pocket of his cassock and made a call. “Evgeni, would you mind coming out here for a moment? There’s a lady here who’s after some genealogical information. She’s something of a celebrity,” he confided to the person on the other end and winked at Quinn. “He’ll be right out. He is making tea. Would you care for a cup? I bet you’ve never had tea from a samovar. We keep a small one in the sacristy.”
“No, I haven’t, and yes, I’d love some.”
Father Grigori fired off a text, stowed away his mobile, then clasped his hands behind his back. “I’d invite you to sit down, but here we worship standing up. Keeps people awake during the service,” he quipped, smiling.
A few minutes later, an elderly priest emerged from the back. He had a long gray beard, thick bushy eyebrows, and blue eyes that glowed with warmth. His egg-shaped head was entirelybald, the scalp as pink as that of a newborn baby. He smiled warmly as he carefully handed Quinn a mug of steaming tea. She was pleased to see a thin slice of lemon floating at the top. Getting to try Russian-style tea was a bonus.
