That Silent Night Read Online Free PDF Page B

although I could not precisely date the image, I suspected it had been taken approximately ten years ago. The older girl had to be Mrs. Leighton—her face had changed very little as she aged—and I took the younger to be her sister. The resemblance between them was uncanny, the smaller girl almost a copy of the taller one.
    A sudden chill passed through me. This must have been taken around the time of their mother’s death, for Mrs. Leighton could not now be much older than twenty. She had told me she was ten when her mother died, and the figure I had seen outside my window wore a dress in a style a decade old. I felt more certain than ever I had witnessed the ghostly apparition of Penelope’s mother, and that this same vision was the catalyst that sent the young bride’s nerves spiraling.
    I returned the photograph to its place on the table, rang for the butler, and asked him to summon a carriage. Although in general I objected to being driven a distance that I could easily walk, in this case, I could not spare the additional time, particularly as I felt not entirely confident in my choice of destination. If my suspicions proved incorrect, I would need to return to Park Lane in haste, lest I miss Mrs. Leighton’s return.
    The carriage’s wheels crunched over the snow and ice as it passed Wellington Arch, continuing on through Green Park and in front of Buckingham Palace until we turned into Birdcage Walk and followed the edge of St. James’s Park to Storey’s Gate. Once we had reached the Royal Aquarium and Winter Garden, I wrapped my scarf more tightly around my neck and buried my hands more deeply into my muff. The carriage slowed to a stop, and I descended from it near the great doors of Westminster Abbey which, fortunately, were still open, as I had hoped would be the case, knowing there to be an evening prayer service on Wednesdays.
    The service had already concluded, and no one remained in the abbey save a priest who appeared to be lecturing two boy choristers. From the expression on his face, I could surmise he had found them guilty of some misdemeanor, but he turned from them when he heard my heels click against the stone floor at the front of the nave.
    â€œGood evening, madam,” he said. “I am afraid we are close to locking up. Our last service is—“
    â€œI have not come for that,” I said.
    â€œYes, quite, well, hours for visiting the abbey, which, as I am sure you are aware is full of a multitude of objects fascinating to anyone with even a passing interest in the history of our great nation—“
    â€œIt is full of marvels,” I said, “but today I have come in search of a young lady who may have fled here in search of consolation.” I gave him a brief description of Mrs. Leighton, but he did not recall seeing anyone who met it. He did, however, give me permission to search the premises, offering any assistance I might need. I thanked him and asked if I might take the choristers with me.
    â€œThey are currently in disgrace, madam,” he said. “Fidgeting during my sermon.”
    â€œThey sound like just the sort of boys who might know every good hiding place in the abbey,” I said. Displeasure was writ on his face, but he agreed and introduced them to me before telling them to do whatever I asked. We set off in different directions. He insisted on going to the southern side of the building, I suspect because he was not entirely convinced as to my purpose and did not want to make it easy for me to get into Poet’s Corner if I were actually here under false pretenses. The boys and I went through the choir, whose stalls and pews had been rebuilt fifty-odd years earlier, past the thirteenth-century tomb of the Earl of Lancaster. I could not resist a quick glance at the spectacular medieval pavement near the high altar before we exited the choir and turned toward the northern ambulatory, where I stopped the