Page 63 of The Unseen
“I added sugar. I hope you don’t mind. It’s too bitter without it,” the old man explained. “I’m Father Evgeni. I’m an archpriest here. How can I help?”
Quinn repeated her request, then took a sip of the sweet, tangy tea. It tasted like an entirely different beverage, which probably took some getting used to, but she’d persevere. She took another sip and waited for Father Evgeni to reply.
“The Church of St. Sophia was destroyed during the Blitz. Took a direct hit. I believe it’s an office building now. As a matter of fact, my parents were one of the last couples to be married at the old church.” Father Evgeni shook his head sadly. “All the records were lost in the blaze.”
“Were there no duplicate registers?” Quinn asked, deeply disappointed. Normally, churches kept a second set of registers that were stored at a separate location, usually the offices of the diocese.
“I’m afraid not. At that time, there were few Russian immigrants in London. Too few to warrant having a local bishop. The two functioning churches were under the jurisdiction of the patriarchy in Moscow, but I can’t imagine they sent copies of their registers to Moscow for safekeeping. The Orthodox Church was on the verge of extinction after the Russian Revolution, so outpost churches, like the ones here in London, weren’t actively monitored.”
“Do you think a couple who was married in the church would also marry at a registry office?” Quinn asked.
Father Evgeni shook his head. “I wouldn’t think so. My parents didn’t. Getting married in church was legal and binding. What’s the name of the family you’re trying to trace? Believe it ornot, everyone knows everyone in the Russian community, so I might be able to provide you with some unofficial information.”
“Kalinina and Ostrov.”
Father Evgeni stared into space for a moment as he tried to place the name. “Yes, the names are familiar, but I’m afraid I don’t recall anything specific. I can tell you with certainty that there are no living descendants currently worshiping with us, which is not to say that there aren’t any. Many scions of the old families married British citizens and left the Church, finding it easier to settle in their new lives as followers of the Church of England.”
“Valentina Kalinina became Tina Swift after her marriage,” Quinn supplied.
“That certainly isn’t a Russian name. She must have married outside the community and left the Church. I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more help, Dr. Allenby.”
“You’ve been very helpful, Father. Thank you. And thank you for the tea.”
“You didn’t like it,” Father Evgeni observed, an amused smile tugging at his lips. “You prefer your tea with milk.”
“Perhaps it would have tasted better with a pryanik,” Quinn replied, making the old priest laugh.
“I wish I had some to offer you. They’re a particular weakness of mine. I still remember the pryaniki my grandmother used to make. Delicious. A taste of childhood.” Father Evgeni sighed dramatically as he accepted Quinn’s cup. “I wish you luck in your search, Dr. Allenby. Perhaps you’ll stumble across some unexpected source of information.”
“Perhaps I will.”
Quinn thanked Fathers Evgeni and Grigori, said her goodbyes, and took her leave. She hadn’t had high hopes when she set out that morning, but was still disappointed to haveencountered another dead end. The rain had let up somewhat, but it was still dreary and cold, so she hurried toward the tube station, eager to get home.
How did you get into that tub?Quinn mentally asked the skeleton as she stared at the dark tunnel outside the train car.And what had you done to anger someone enough to erase your identity and deny you a proper burial?
THIRTY-FOUR
OCTOBER 1918
London, England
A golden September gave way to a cool, rainy October. The house was quiet and melancholy. Elena saw no reason to get up early, Tanya liked spending her mornings with Mrs. Stern, learning how to cook, and Valentina usually curled up in a wing chair by the hearth with a book. Kolya had gone off to school at the end of August, a day that was exciting for him and emotional for the rest of them. Kolya was well and having a good time, if his letters were to be believed, but their family had grown smaller once again and it was unsettling to find themselves so reduced.
The only thing that brought Valentina any sort of personal satisfaction was writing the articles for the paper. It was still nothing more than a leaflet, but over the past few weeks, Stanislav had reported several repeat customers. They claimed to be interested in theLady’s Paper, as it came to be called, because they were in need of household help or a new tutor for their children, but Valentina heard two women whispering behind her in church, discussing one of the articles she’d written and complimenting the writer on her insight. She wanted nothing more than to write about current issues, but Stanislav had been shrewd in warning her to take things slow. Valentina’s first column was about loss, and given that everyone in that church had lost someone either to the war or the Revolution, the article had been well received. The following week she wrote about the bewilderment of having to start over in a new country, especially with school-aged children who, like Kolya, had to adjust quicker than the rest of the family if they were to keep up with their studies. Written from a female perspective, the article spoke to many women in the congregation, and by the following week, sales had increased almost twofold. It would be some time beforeValentina received any compensation for her efforts, but she suddenly had a voice, and that was compensation enough.
At the end of October, the Kalinins marked the one-year anniversary of Ivan’s and Alexei’s deaths with a small supper and hours spent reminiscing about the men they’d loved. It was just the three of them, since Cousin Dmitri had gone up north for a few days and returned grumpy and sick on the first of November. He sneezed incessantly and took to his bed for two days. On the third day, when Valentina brought him a cup of tea, he dabbed at his nose and gave her a watery smile. “Valya, I wonder if I might impose on you to do me a favor. An associate of mine, a Mr. Timothy Mayhew, will be in London today. I promised I’d spend an evening with him, but I’m really not fit for company. Would you mind terribly joining him for an evening at the theater? He’ll take you out to supper afterward. He’s a charming man.”
Valentina inwardly cringed. She had no desire to spend an evening with a total stranger, and without a chaperone. She also worried about her English. It was good enough to communicate, but to carry on a conversation all evening was a daunting prospect. But Cousin Dmitri looked so forlorn, she could hardly refuse. “Of course. I’d be happy to.”
“Oh, thank you. You’re a lifesaver. Make sure to wear something pretty,” he added as he slid back down onto the pillows. “And ask Mrs. Stern to make some chicken soup. With dumplings.”
“I will. Feel better.”
Mr. Mayhew proved to be a charming companion. He was in his late thirties, or possibly even forty, with wavy dark hair and light blue eyes that glowed with good humor. He wore a neatly trimmed moustache and a short beard that was oddly becoming. After a few uncomfortable minutes, Valentina forgot all about her accent and began to enjoy herself. First, they saw a performance in Covent Garden, and then Mr. Mayhew took her to an out-of-the-way little restaurant that was both intimate and charming. He told her about his life in Yorkshire and regaled her with amusing anecdotes about Dmitri.
“How did you two meet?” Valentina asked.
“Through a mutual friend, who is sadly no longer with us.”
