Page 78 of The Unseen
“I feel a bit queasy, to be honest.”
Rhys did look pale, now that she studied him more closely, and there were dark smudges beneath his eyes, as if he hadn’t slept. “Should you be having espresso? It might make you feel worse.”
Rhys took a sip of his espresso and sighed. “I’m desperate for caffeine.”
“Is everything all right?”
“Haley and I had an argument last night,” Rhys confessed. “She’s obsessed with staying in shape and not gaining any more weight. She’s not eating enough, and her exercise routine is too strenuous for a woman in her second trimester. She gets angry anytime I say anything and refuses to discuss my concerns, but I’m worried.”
“What does her doctor say?”
“He’s concerned by her lack of weight gain. She’s only gained four pounds, and she’s more than twenty weeks along.”
“I see. Are you two speaking?”
“Not as of this morning. I tried talking to her before I left for work, but she ignored me and rushed off to a Pilates class. Without having any breakfast,” Rhys added. “Anyway, enough about my problems. Update me on your progress with this case.” His expression underwent a remarkable change, from naked vulnerability to stoic professionalism. “Have you been able to discover anything we can verify?”
“I think I have. Valentina killed Dmitri Ostrov in May of 1919. She mixed laudanum into his cognac and then drowned him in the tub. Now that I have a date and the name of the victim, I can begin to search for information in earnest.”
“She clearly got away with it,” Rhys replied as he reached for a biscotto and took a bite. “In 1919, the penalty for murder was death by hanging, so it stands to reason that either Valentina was never arrested on suspicion of murder or wasn’t convicted duringher trial. See if you can find any evidence relating to the crime. Otherwise, we might have to rethink the entire storyline. We can’t very well accuse a woman of murder, especially while she has living descendants who might sue us for slander.”
“Give me a few days.”
“You are scheduled to interview Natalia Swift on Thursday. Push her as hard as you need to. We must have something concrete to go on.”
“Yes, boss,” Quinn replied, smiling at him. Rhys might be tired and upset, but his instincts were as sharp as ever. He’d tell this story his way, seamlessly blending romance, drama, and suspense. Knowing Rhys, he’d also make sure to dot all the i’s and cross all the t’s, making sure the story was told in a way that left no grounds for legal action from Valentina Swift’s descendants.
“Any news on the other situation?” Rhys asked.
“You mean Quentin?” Quinn shook her head. “Nothing yet. I’m very frustrated with the lack of progress. Gabe tells me to be patient, but that’s easier said than done. I really thought Drew Camden would have something for us by now.”
“Quinn, this is real life, not an hour-long segment about searching for long-lost relations, where the happy reunion is shown within the final five minutes of the program and everyone wipes away tears of joy as they reflect on the miracle of modern-day technology that made it all possible. These things take time. Gabe is right—be patient.” Rhys tossed some money on the table and pushed to his feet. “I have to get back to the office. I have a meeting in a half hour. Keep me updated.”
“I will,” Quinn replied.
She buttoned her coat, grabbed her bag, and followed Rhys out into the street. Despite the sunshine, the day was windy and cold and she wished she’d worn a warmer jumper. Rhys gave her a peck on the cheek and rushed off, leaving her alone on the pavement. Quinn considered going to the library to troll throughnewspaper articles from May of 1919 on microfiche but changed her mind. She needed to know what had happened before she began searching for hard evidence. Jill had offered to take Alex for a few hours so Quinn could immerse herself in Valentina’s life without constant interruptions. She huddled deeper into her coat and began to walk in the direction of the nearest tube station, eager to get home.
FORTY-FIVE
MAY 1919
London, England
On the day of the funeral, Valentina came down early. She planned to leave the house before her mother and Tanya woke, so as to avoid any awkward questions. Elena had no plans to attend the funeral, which suited Valentina just fine. She put on the navy dress she’d brought from Russia. It was the most somber garment she owned, since there hadn’t been time to order mourning clothes after her father and Alexei died, and she paired it with a navy hat she wore during the winter months. She stared at her pale reflection in the mirror. The dress brought back poignant memories of a time when the men she loved had still been very much alive and talk of escape from her homeland had been nothing more than a wild idea, never meant to become reality. She’d been so young then, and so naïve. How quickly life could change.
Normally, Dmitri drove them to church, but this morning Valentina had to take an omnibus and make two changes before she finally arrived at her destination. The service was about to begin, so she stood off to the side, not wishing to intrude on the family. There were about two dozen people in total, all dressed in black, heads bowed. The open casket stood at the center. Agraphena Petrovna lay inside, her hands folded over her chest, a gold cross carefully inserted between her stiff fingers. Her folded shroud lay on her stomach, to be used after the service when Father Mikhail would cover the corpse, and a white paper headband had been placed on her forehead. It readHoly God, Holy Mighty, Holy Immortal, have mercy on us.
Father Mikhail began to sing and Valentina bowed her head in respect, but her eyes strayed to the church register, displayed on a small table beneath the high window just to Valentina’s right. The ledger was open to the current page, the last entry a bit darkerthan the rest, since the ink was still drying. The priest must have recorded the death just before taking his place next to the coffin, ready to begin the service.
After the prayers were finally over, family members and close friends came up to the coffin to prostrate themselves. They kissed the cross and the headband, then crossed themselves before finally stepping aside to allow Father Mikhail to cover the deceased with the shroud and sprinkle some holy oil into the coffin before closing the lid in preparation for burial.
Four pallbearers lifted the coffin and followed Father Mikhail out the door, chanting “Holy God” as they went. The rest of the mourners followed. They would make their way to the cemetery and meet at the graveside for the burial, then go to Agraphena Petrovna’s house for a final vodka-soaked sendoff. Valentina wouldn’t go to the cemetery, nor would she go to the house for thepominki.
She hung back, letting the mourners file out the door. A few moments later, the church was blessedly empty and strangely silent after all the singing and weeping. She waited until she heard the sound of engines being started, then inched toward the register. For convenience, a pen and a closed bottle of ink were stored inside the small drawer beneath the register, and Valentina took them out and unscrewed the cap on the ink. She stared down at the register. She thought she’d have to go back several pages, but the previous page went all the way to the start of 1919. In such a small congregation, months went by without any births, deaths, or weddings. There were only five entries since the start of the year, and only because one couple had married on January 1, 1919, and another had welcomed twins at the beginning of February, accounting for three of the entries. The other two entries were the death of Father Khariton on March 2 and the death of Agraphena Petrovna on May 11.
Valentina flipped back one more page and scanned the contents. There was only one obvious place. An empty line had been left at the bottom of the previous page since two events were recorded for the same family on the same date. She supposedFather Khariton had wished to keep the events grouped together for consistency. A death and a birth were listed on December 17, 1918. Anastasia Andreeva had been born, and her mother, Yulia Andreeva, had died bringing her into the world. These were the last entries made by Father Khariton before his death.
Valentina said a quick prayer for the old priest before carefully adding a line at the bottom of the page, recording the date of her fictitious marriage to Dmitri as December 21. She remembered the day well. Dmitri had asked her to help him pick out a present for Elena’s birthday, which was on December 27. They’d spent several hours shopping in Oxford Street. Once the news of the marriage came out, her mother and Tanya would both recall that Valentina and Dmitri had been conspicuously absent from the house that day, and realize that they’d snuck out to get married.
