As it turned out, Dimity and I were both right. Willis, Sr., wasn’t happy about my plan to meet up with Julian in London, but he didn’t question my need to do so. He was so understanding, in fact, that I didn’t bridle at the one condition he placed upon my going.
“You will take the train to London,” he stated flatly. “My son would never forgive me if I allowed you to drive there.”
I knew that Julian would give me a lift home in Saint Christopher, so I hitched a ride to Oxford the next day with Derek Harris, who was headed there to consult on a construction project. He dropped me at the train station and I plunged into the fray.
With less than two shopping days left until Christmas, panic had set in. The train to London was packed, and Paddington Station was a frantic anthill of last-minute shoppers. I clutched Kit’s canvas carryall to me, kept a firm grip on my shoulder bag, and elbowed my way through the throng to the long line at the cab stand. Forty minutes later, I was on my way to Saint Joseph’s Church.
The driver, an East Indian, knew Saint Joseph’s well. “It’s round the corner from my sister’s flat,” he said. He eyed me in the rearview mirror, as if wondering why an American tourist would spend the day before Christmas Eve in the lower reaches of Stepney instead of Harrods’ hallowed halls. “You sure you want to go there?”
I told him that I was.
The journey seemed to take forever. The East End’s narrow lanes, choked with traffic at the best of times, had turned into a slowly shifting parking lot. People of every color and ethnicity crowded the sidewalks and spilled into the streets as we crawled past brightly lit shops whose signs were written in languages I couldn’t even identify, much less understand.
“Snow again tonight,” the driver told me, making conversation while we waited at a stoplight. “Never seen so much snow in all my days here. Makes me wish I could go home again.” He slouched resignedly and inched the cab forward as the light changed.
Eventually, we turned onto a dimly lit street lined with massive apartment buildings. I gazed up at a solitary window framed with blinking Christmas lights and ducked when a hail of snowballs battered the cab’s roof. The driver rolled his window down and bellowed at a pair of scruffy teenagers, who made predictable hand gestures and fled into the darkness between two buildings, laughing maniacally.
“This is no place for you, missus,” said the driver, closing his window.
“I’ll be fine once we get to Saint Joseph’s,” I told him. “I’m meeting with the vicar.”
“Ah, Father Raywood.” The driver nodded. “He’s a good man. Too good for this place. I keep telling my sister to leave, but does she listen? Not likely. Here you are, missus.”
And suddenly, there was Saint Joseph’s, a redbrick Victorian pile surrounded on three sides by ten-foot brick walls and well lit by security floodlights. The church was pug-ugly—blackened by soot and striped with garish bands of rough-cut stone, its stained glass done in unappealing hues of orange and blue—yet it somehow retained an air of dignity that the shoddy postwar buildings surrounding it would never achieve.
I paid the cabbie and walked quickly toward a side entrance, where two men loitered, smoking cigarettes and stamping their feet against the cold. They were dressed as Kit had been, in grubby greatcoats and frayed trousers, and when I asked where I might find Father Raywood, they replied in voices as gravelly as Rupert’s.
“Try the soup kitchen,” growled one, jutting his stubbly chin toward the door.
“Downstairs,” growled the other.
“Thanks,” I said, and hastened inside, bracing myself for another grim journey through damp and darkened corridors enlivened by scurrying roaches and the pitter-patter of tiny, clawed feet.
To my amazement—and vast relief—Saint Joseph’s was nothing like Saint Benedict’s. The square foyer, the wide staircase, and the tiled passage leading to the basement dining area were white-painted and brightly lit, and the air was filled with the aroma of roast turkey instead of the stink of boiled cabbage.
The dining room was equally well maintained, but here the walls were hung with paper chains, silver bells, and twinkling lights, and a gaily decorated artificial tree towered in the far corner. As I entered the dining room, a uniformed cleanup crew was at work, mopping up after what must have been the last meal of the day. And there, in the midst of the bustle, with a wet rag in his hand and the sleeves of his black turtleneck pushed up, was Julian.
“Lori?” He stood very still when he saw me, as if he thought he might be hallucinating. “What are you doing here?”
I hitched the canvas carryall higher on my shoulder and walked over to him. “I couldn’t stay away.”
His brow furrowed. “But what about—”
“Family traditions?” I said. “I’ll take care of them when I get home tonight.” I shrugged impatiently. “What about Phillip Raywood? Have you spoken with him?”
“Not yet. He’s reading evensong in the Lady Chapel.” Julian leaned closer, a delicious twinkle in his eyes. “He’s very High Church. I feel quite at home.”
“Well, I can’t stand around while everyone else is working.” I unbuttoned my coat. “Show me where to stash my stuff, then tell me what needs doing.”
A half hour later, Julian and I were alone in the kitchen, sipping well-earned cups of tea. The cleanup crew had gone, leaving the place spotless. Julian surveyed the stainless-steel countertops and the restaurant-quality appliances, sighing dismally.
“I have a confession to make,” he said. “I covet Father Raywood’s kitchen.”
“I forgive you, my son.” The kitchen’s well-oiled swing doors swung shut as a man breezed into the room, his hand extended. “Phillip Raywood,” he said, by way of introduction.
The introduction was unnecessary, because, unlike Julian, Phillip Raywood looked like a priest. He was tall, austere, and angular, with a naturally tonsured head and a pair of wire-rimmed glasses that seemed custom-made to go with his clerical collar and ankle-length cassock. He betrayed a hint of disappointment as he surveyed his Catholic counterpart’s more casual garb.
“I’m sorry to have kept you waiting,” he said, after Julian and I had introduced ourselves. “I was told that you have news of Christopher Smith. He’s well, I trust?”
“I’m afraid not,” said Julian. “In fact, he’s in hospital, seriously ill.”
“May God have mercy on him.” As he uttered the blessing, Father Raywood gazed around the kitchen, as though taking stock of the equipment. “My assistant, Father Danos, will be along shortly,” he said. “I would be grateful if you would wait until he—Ah, Andrew, there you are.”
A second Anglican priest had come into the kitchen. Andrew Danos was younger, shorter, and beefier than Phillip Raywood, but he, too, was dressed in exemplary High Church fashion. He shook hands with Julian and me, then pulled two chairs up to the table and poured tea for Father Raywood. There was no doubt about the pecking order at Saint Joseph’s.
“Normally, I would invite you to the vicarage,” said Father Raywood, as he took his seat, “but this is a far more suitable place in which to discuss Christopher Smith. If it weren’t for him, you see, Saint Joseph’s wouldn’t have such fine facilities.”
“He … installed them?” Julian ventured.
“Certainly not.” Father Raywood seemed to find the suggestion ridiculous. “He paid for them.”
Father Danos, as if sensing confusion in the air, spoke up. “Perhaps, Father, if we told our guests how we came to meet Mr. Smith …”
“Yes, very well, begin at the beginning.” Father Raywood sipped from his teacup, touched a cloth napkin to his lips, and began.
“Christopher Smith first came to Saint Joseph’s four years ago, in February. There was the promise of snow in the air that night, just as there is tonight. Do you remember, Andrew?”
“As if it were yesterday,” said Father Danos. “We were struggling to keep the soup kitchen open,” he explained. “We’re not a wealthy pa
rish, but the need for our services grows more desperate every year, particularly in the winter months.”
“Christopher Smith sat at a corner table at the far end of the dining room,” Father Raywood went on. “He ate nothing, simply watched the other men. He worried me, frankly. He seemed dazed and was clearly out of place.”
“What made him seem out of place?” I asked.
Father Raywood seemed puzzled by my question. “The men who patronize our soup kitchen do not, as a rule, patronize Savile Row.”
“He was well dressed?” I said, recalling Anne Somerville’s claim that Kit had been born to money.
“He was extremely well dressed,” Father Raywood confirmed, “and strikingly handsome. His hands were manicured, his hair freshly barbered—he was clearly a man of means.” A frown puckered his brow. “As I said, he worried me, so I sent Andrew over to have a word with him.”
“I asked if I could help him in any way,” said Father Danos, “and he looked up at me.” The young priest’s face grew troubled. “Such a look. As if he’d lost the one thing he loved most in the world. ‘No,’ he told me, ‘I don’t think you can help me. In any way.”’
“You remember his exact words?” said Julian.
“I’ll never forget them. His voice was … quite beautiful. And so very sad.” Father Danos stared briefly into the middle distance, then went on. “He began to leave, but turned back to ask if our church was dedicated to Saint Joseph of Cupertino. I told him no, that our Saint Joseph was the husband of the Holy Virgin. ‘So I got that wrong, too,’ he murmured, and left.”
Father Raywood eyed his assistant somberly. “Andrew was deeply disturbed by the encounter, and—”
“I felt I’d failed him,” Father Danos interrupted. “His eyes, his voice, his very posture were so full of despair that I went after him, to offer spiritual counseling. But all he would accept was a prayer book.” The young priest looked down at his untouched cup of tea. “I hope he found in it some form of consolation.”
“He must have,” said Father Raywood, “because six months later, a check arrived, signed by Christopher Smith. It was for an enormous sum. An enclosed note explained that it was meant as repayment for the prayer book, and requested that the balance be used to feed the needy.”
“I was stunned,” said Father Danos. “And Father Ray-wood wasn’t at all comfortable with the donation.”
The older priest sighed. “It seemed a madly extravagant gesture, and I could not forget how dazed Mr. Smith had seemed that night, when he’d spoken with Andrew. I feared that he might be … non compos mentis. If he was suffering from a mental disorder at the time he wrote the check, it would of course be impossible for us to accept his donation. We decided, therefore, to contact him.”
Father Danos reached into his cassock pocket and withdrew a small slip of white paper. “The bank upon which the check had been drawn directed us to Havorford House, in Belgravia, where Christopher Smith had been living with his married sister, Lady Felicity Havorford.” The younger priest’s eyes grew cold, as though the mere mention of the name had conjured unpleasant memories.
“When we visited Lady Havorford,” Father Raywood said, “she told us that her brother had left her home in March, shortly after his visit to Saint Joseph’s. She said that he was as sane as he’d ever been and that he could do what he liked with his inheritance.”
Father Danos’s lip curled slightly as he added, “She didn’t seem overly concerned by her brother’s disappearance.”
Father Raywood cleared his throat. “Lady Havorford’s answers were not entirely reassuring, but since the funds could not be returned to Mr. Smith directly, we decided to accede to his wishes.” He motioned toward the massive stove and the walk-in refrigeration unit. “Thousands would have gone hungry if not for Christopher Smith’s generous support of our project.”
Julian put his hand out for the slip of paper. “May I have Lady Havorford’s address? I’d like to inform her that her brother is in hospital.”
While Julian tucked the slip of paper into his wallet, I explained the circumstances under which I’d first met Christopher Smith. The two priests weren’t as mystified by Kit’s deterioration as I’d expected them to be.
“I sensed that his spirit had been grievously wounded,” said Father Danos. “The sort of blow from which one does not easily recover.”
“He may have felt that a vow of poverty would help him in some way,” Father Raywood commented. “He would not be the first man to seek solace in self-sacrifice.”
Julian glanced at his watch. “Nine o’clock,” he said. “Not too late to pay a call on Havorford House. I’m certain Lady Havorford will want to know about her brother’s condition as soon as possible.”
Father Danos began to speak, but Father Raywood cut him off.
“Please let us know when Mr. Smith is able to receive visitors,” he said, getting to his feet. “Andrew and I would like to be among the first to wish him well.”
Julian slipped into his black leather jacket while I put on my coat and gathered up my shoulder bag and Kit’s carryall. Before we left the kitchen, I showed the prayer book to Father Danos, who identified it as the one he’d given to Kit four years earlier. He seemed gratified to see that it had been so well used.
“Father Danos,” I said, as we crossed the dining room, “who is Saint Joseph of Cupertino?”
The young priest smiled. “I looked it up after Mr. Smith left. Saint Joseph of Cupertino is the patron saint of aviators. Rather ironic, when you come to think of it.”
“Why ironic?” I asked.
“Because Stepney was devastated by the Luftwaffe during the war,” he replied. “Saint Joseph’s is the only building in the immediate vicinity that survived the blitz. It would be ironic if the church were dedicated to the patron saint of those who nearly destroyed it, don’t you agree?”
I nodded absently, remembering Julian’s joke about the mad millionaire masquerading as a tramp at Saint Benedict’s. It no longer seemed quite so absurd. When Kit Smith had come to Saint Joseph’s, he’d been well groomed and well heeled. By the time he reached Saint Benedict’s, he’d suffered through four years of abject, self-inflicted poverty.
What had happened on that cold night in February? What had sent Kit to a soup kitchen in Stepney, in search of the patron saint of aviators? What had inspired him to give away his inheritance and trade a fashionable address in Belgravia for a life on the road? What had driven him to make the hard journey that had ended in my graveled drive?
“Ms. Shepherd?” said Father Danos. “Father Bright is waiting for you.”
“I’m coming,” I said, and followed him up the stairs. When we reached the foyer, I paused to thank the priests for their help, then joined Julian, who stood with his hand on the latch, ready to leave.
As he opened the door, a wind-driven spatter of sleet lashed my face and peppered the foyer’s clean floor. A heavy shroud of snow was falling from the black sky, dimming the security floodlights, turning the churchyard and the street beyond into a roiling whirlpool of menacing shadows. I gazed into the darkness, felt an icy finger of slush caress my throat, and froze in the doorway.
“I can’t,” I said, my heart pounding.
Julian cupped a hand to his ear. “Sorry,” he shouted. “Didn’t hear you. The wind.”
“I c-can’t go out there,” I faltered, and stepped back into the foyer. “Close the door, Julian. Don’t let it in.” I could hear my voice trip over into panic as I edged away from the howling wind.
Julian put his shoulder to the door and pushed it shut. “It’s pretty nasty out,” he said, wiping the sleet from his face. “I left Saint Christopher in Oxford, but we’ll be fine on the tube. The station’s—” He broke off suddenly and stepped toward me. “Lori, you’re trembling.”
“Why don’t we repair to the vicarage?” Father Ray-wood, too, was gazing worriedly at me. “It’s across the—”
“I can’t,” I cried, and fled blin
dly into the church.
“Lori?” Julian’s voice echoed in the incense-heavy air. “It’s just me. The others have gone.”
I made no reply, but stood, shivering, before the statue of the Virgin, striking match after match, trying feverishly to light a candle.
“Here, let me.” Julian loomed beside me, a moving shadow in the gloom, and I stumbled back, leaving the chained matchbox holder swinging like a pendulum from the wrought-iron candle rack.
A match flared, bright as a star. Julian lit one candle, then another.
“Light them all,” I said hoarsely.
“The offering,” he said, making a wry face. “I don’t think I have enough—”
“I do.” I tossed Kit’s carryall toward a pew, upended my shoulder bag onto the mosaic floor, and scrabbled for my wallet. “I have enough.” I emptied my wallet and began stuffing bills into the offerings box, forcing great wads of them through the narrow slot, gouging my palms and bruising my knuckles on the wrought iron until Julian seized my wrists and pulled me into his arms.
I stiffened, struggled frantically, then melted against him, pressing my face to his leather jacket, burrowing into him, trying to escape the howling inside my head. He hushed me with wordless murmurs and gently tightened his hold until the tension in my body eased and I leaned against him limply, soothed by the rhythmic rise and fall of his broad chest, by the scent of incense mingled with the fragrance of warm leather.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “You’ve been under so much pressure at home. I should never have asked you to come here tonight.”
I tilted my face back to look up at him. “I didn’t come because you asked me. I came because I had to.”
He gazed down at me, bewildered. “Why?”
“Because …” I leaned my forehead against him briefly, then stepped away from him to stare out over the empty pews. “Because Kit’s haunting me. I can’t get him out of my mind. When I close my eyes, it’s his face I see. When I dream, I dream of him.” I ran a hand distractedly through my disheveled curls. “I’ve never dreamt of Bill, but I dream of Kit every night.”
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