“What was the name of your organization again, my dear?”
“The Central African Christian Movement. We bring the word of Christ to the heathens of the Dark Continent. Here’s a picture of our most recent converts.” Cissie leaned forward and displayed for the old woman a publicity photo of Professor Evans & His Pygmies.
“The white fellow is Reverend Hoskins. He’s had a tremendous success rate.”
Impressed, Mrs. Blair asked Cissie in. Her home was a quaint, charming cottage in the village of Stevenston, Hertfordshire, twenty miles from London. Constructed of native stone with a red tile roof, it was just the right retirement home for a vicar’s widow.
In the parlor, Mrs. Blair picked up a brass bell and shook it violently, screaming, “Mabel!” In strode a slatternly girl of about sixteen in an ill-fitting black-and-white maid’s uniform. “Mabel, bring us some tea and those blueberry scones.”
Without even a “yes, ma’am,” Mabel turned and stomped out of the room.
The women settled into armchairs across from each other.
The newspapers had written that seventy-eight-year-old Denys Blair, the former vicar at All Christ’s Church, was survived by a wife, Mary, and a daughter, Alma. Tracking down the widow, who was in her eighties and becoming disoriented, had been simple for Cissie.
“I’m just back from Africa,” Cissie said, “and my very first task is distributing gifts to our loyal supporters. When will Reverend Blair be returning?”
“I’m afraid Reverend Blair died more than five years ago.” Mary touched the corners of her eyes with her lace handkerchief. “In that horrible Britannia Theatre disaster. A balcony collapsed—it fell on top of him. Denys frequently took the train in to London to attend the variety theatre, although I never accompanied him. I found music halls to be vulgar,” the old woman sniffed.
“Oh, heavens,” gasped Cissie, gloved hand to mouth. “But if there’s one man who is in the kingdom of heaven, it must be Reverend Blair.”
“Well, I don’t know about that,” said Mrs. Blair. She looked rather uncomfortable now. “They do say God is merciful toward sinners—even the worst.”
“What a shame. I had a gift for him: a King James Bible, bound in Moroccan leather. Now it’s for you to treasure, as a memory of your late husband.” Cissie handed the Bible to the widow reverently, holding it in both palms, as if it were a gold plate.
Mabel stomped in with the tea and set it roughly on the table.
“That’s all,” snapped Mrs. Blair. But as she leaned forward to pour, a grimace came over her face. “Stupid girl. She forgot the scones. If you want something done right, you must do it yourself. Excuse me, Mrs. Ludgate.”
In her hostess’s absence, Cissie got up and walked about the parlor. The fireplace mantel held a charming collection of trinkets collected from holidays on the coast of England—a little windmill from Blackpool, a ceramic Japanese doll from Bournemouth. Mementos of the widow’s life with the vicar were scattered about too: his framed divinity degree from Oxford; an image of the church’s rededication, likely after some restoration project; and photos of the vicar sitting with the choir, the dates written in white ink at the top.
In each, a dozen boys surrounded Blair, then a tall, vigorous man with a flowing mane of hair. All the boys had carefully combed hair, wore choir robes, and stared vacantly into the camera. Their names were listed by row at the bottom of each photo.
As Cissie glanced over them, something caught her attention. In the 1872 photo, the boy at the end of the first row was labeled as Lionel Glenn. Her eye darted to his face: yes, a pretty blond boy with plump cheeks and a serious expression. Cissie put her eyes right up to the tiny image and stared. The Lionel Glenn she worked for was fat and bald, but the resemblance still shone through in certain features—those wide eyes, the nub of chin.
Something was beating urgently inside Cissie’s mind, but she couldn’t put her finger on it yet. She scrutinized the other boys’ faces more closely. All about the same age. The widow must have been giving Mabel hell indeed; Cissie darted to her purse, pulled out the list and a pencil, and scribbled the names of the other boys on the back of the paper. Just as she finished, Mrs. Blair returned, carrying a plate heaped with scones.
“There,” she said. “Now we can have a proper tea.”
As they ate and drank, Cissie tried to make conversation about the choir, but the widow only talked incessantly about the vicar’s matchbox-collecting hobby. When Cissie at last made to depart, Mrs. Blair insisted on contributing five pounds to her cause, which Cissie had no choice but to accept.
Outside, it was midafternoon, a cool fall day with plenty of light left. Cissie found her way to All Christ’s Church, which stood at the far end of the village. It was the usual medieval English parish church, with heavy stone walls and a steep slate roof. The light inside shone through stained-glass windows; the ceiling was a series of handsome oak hammer beam trusses.
As Cissie stood, taking in the feel of the space, a door opened behind the pulpit, and out came an elderly caretaker, stooped and mumbling. When he saw Cissie, he waved and, in a croaking voice, called, “Welcome.”
“Thank you, sir. What a beautiful church.”
“Yes, we’re quite proud of it. Originally from the 1300s; restored in 1881.”
“In fact, my uncle lived in Stevenston. He attended this very church.” Cissie spoke in her jolliest voice. “He heard I was coming through and asked me to look up some old mates of his. You know, for old time’s sake.”
“I’ve been round here all my seventy-five years.” The old man snorted proudly, as if he were boasting about his ability to recite every king and queen England had ever had. “I know everyone.”
“Thomas Swain, Nigel Blunt, Joseph Durham, Derrick Carr, Alexander…” Cissie began, reading off her list. But one of the names had caught the old man’s attention.
“Why, Derrick still lives on Standish Street, by the tobacconist’s!”
• • •
“Why the hell would I want to give money for a bunch of bloody darkies in Africa? I got me own problems. They can swing from tree to tree and eat coconuts for all I care,” Derrick Carr snarled. He was in his early fifties and as wide as he was tall.
It hadn’t been easy for Cissie to get inside his house; she’d practically had to shove her way past him at the door. Like most people, Carr hated door-to-door salespersons, especially do-gooders asking for religious donations.
“But we are striving to bring them to Christ,” she entreated, using her most innocent tone and opening her eyes wide.
“You’re wasting your bloody time—and mine, woman.”
“Mrs. Blair, the wife of the late vicar, said you might make a small contribution.”
This caught Carr’s attention. He didn’t speak but gave Cissie a withering look.
“She said you were in the choir when you were a lad.”
Carr walked right up to Cissie and put his face to hers. “That I was, and I’ll never forget it. I turned my back on God after that.” His voice rose; color flushed to his cheeks. He was getting angrier by the second. “The wife of that bloody bugger has some nerve sending you here. She knew full well what was going on, and still she chose to look the other way.”
“Bugger?” Cissie echoed. A religious zealot shouldn’t know the word—not like an experienced theatre woman.
“He never did me; guess I was lucky I wasn’t pretty enough. But he gave it up the bum plenty of times to them others in the choir. Especially Philip and Lionel, poor devils. Wouldn’t keep his hands off ’em. Every couple of years came a new set of boys. He was vicar here some thirty years, the filthy bugger. Do you know how many boys that added up to?” Carr was fully red in the face now.
Cissie knew she had to leave or be pitched out on her head in the street. Prudence reigned; she turned and fled.
“Man of God,” Carr shouted after her. “What a bloody pile of manure.”