Moses Solomon led C.J. through the narrow streets of Whitechapel and Spitalfields, the old Jewish Quarter of London, amid the babel of several tongues being spoken at once, street musicians plying their trade on pipes and tambourines, the toll of churchbells, and the cries of vendors purveying hot and cold foodstuffs of all varieties. At a muddy intersection, a youth set off something like a bottle rocket, and as the flare shot into the darkening air of early evening, an assembled crowd cheered him on, begging him to ignite another.
Mr. Solomon halted in front of an unimposing façade tucked into a narrow lane. “This is Bevis Marks, where I take my leave,” the Jew said. He pointed toward the end of the lane. “That is St. Mary. Follow the street south to Leadenhall. As you walk toward St. Paul’s Cathedral, Leadenhall becomes Cornhill, which becomes Poultry—in Cheapside. From Poultry, a little street you’ll find if you turn north toward the old London Wall. This is Old Jewry. The address you want is there. And now, I bid you yom tov.”
As Solomon entered the synagogue, C.J., repeating the Samaritan’s directions in her head, hastened toward her destination.
Alas, although she walked as quickly as she could manage, she did not reach Old Jewry Street until dusk, and Mathias Dingle’s pawnshop was shut tight. Through the dusty leaded panes she could see an array of assorted bric-a-brac: seven- and nine-branch candelabras, musical instruments, gold pocket watches, porcelain snuffboxes, strands of pearls, and brooches encrusted with precious gems. Above her head hung the pawnbroker’s symbol, the pyramid configuration of three balls, and a painted sign reading DINGLE’S.
Frustrated and exhausted, and straining from too much exertion so soon after her accident, C.J. continued to walk toward St. Paul’s in the hope that she might find a place to rest. It seemed that the logical next step was to find someone who might have heard of her “father,” the Marquess of Manwaring. C.J. remembered that he lived in London but knew not his address or whether he was even in town. She stopped at the cathedral to sit for a while and to soak in the restful ambiance. After the clamor of Spitalfields, she craved a more meditative pace. Had she felt heartier, she might have climbed all the way up to the Whispering Gallery.
At least this time, C.J. had arrived with money in her purse. Close by, in Fleet Street, she sought a pub that seemed pleasant and safe enough. In an attempt to blend in, she ordered a drink. As C.J. nursed her glass of ale, praying that the few sips would produce no ill effect on her pregnancy, she scoured the room for faces she might find familiar, portraits from histories read in her other life now appearing in the flesh. Who were the yellow journalists of the day, she wondered, who noisily regaled each other with war stories in the crowded wooden booths?
“All alone tonight, miss?” the publican inquired.
To dispel any assumption that she was an unsavory trollop, C.J. replied, “I am looking for my father, the Marquess of Manwaring. I am told that he . . . frequents this establishment,” she lied. All C.J. knew of Albert Tobias’s habits was that he was a great habitué of taverns, so she hazarded a guess that this might be one of them.
“Not here, I’m afraid,” the barkeep said. “Not regularlike. But just down the road at the dram shop—” He scratched his head. “This here, The Broken Quill, this is for li-te-rary folks. But your da, he likes to raise a glass with the theatricals at The Blue Ball or over at the Nelly Gwyn.”
“Naw, ’e’s ’ome in Lincoln’s Inn Fields, nursing ’is gouty foot, ’e is.” A scrawny man at the far end of the bar piped up and joined the conversation.
“I have not been to London in so long,” C.J. said truthfully. “I wonder if you might direct me to him.”
“Go to it, Timothy! Used to carry hack chaises in his younger days,” the bartender told C.J. “Knows these streets like the back of his sorry hand.”
Eager to be of service, and after treating C.J. to her ale, her new drinking companion escorted her to the street, then pointed the way up Chancery Lane to the Stone Buildings. “You take care now, there’s a good lass,” the lonely tavern rat said, a bit sad to lose his new acquaintance so soon.
“MY DAUGHTER!” the marquess cried joyfully, enfolding C.J. in his arms, to the perplexion of his maidservant, Mimsy, who had never heard tell of such a person. Manwaring limped down a dimly lit corridor that opened onto a room of modest proportions. “Miss Welles, isn’t it?” he added, after the maid’s departure. “Such an extravagant surprise! What brings you to London? Wait—don’t tell me just yet—we must discuss it at great length over adequate refreshments. Might I interest you in a brandy?” he asked, pouring a healthy dose of the amber liquid into a crystal snifter. He rolled his hands around the bowl of the glass and handed it to his “daughter,” then refilled his own glass and motioned for C.J. to sit beside him.
She drew up the leather ottoman. “I received rather a curious note . . . Papa,” C.J. began. “It seemed
