Page 41 of The Unseen (Echoes from the Past #5)

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-speaking brothers 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 called Echoes 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 like Time 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 entirely bald, 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.

“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 or not, 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 have encountered 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?