'Are you certain of that?'
Yeah. I moved in here twenty-odd years ago. There weren't no son then and she never mentioned none. You sure you got the right person?'
Nigel looked at his feet. 'I think so. Anthony Chapman was born to Edith and Reginald Chapman of this address back in 1964.' From his pocket he produced a folded copy of the birth certificate. Both women leaned in to see, trailing with them a combination of perfume and smoke.
The resident of number 11 peered at it for several seconds, then looked at Nigel. 'Well, you learn something new every day, don't you? She never once mentioned a son.
We just thought they never had any kids. Medical reasons or something. And all that time she had a boy she never mentioned. Wonder what happened to him?'
'That's what I'd like to know,' Nigel replied. 'Is there anyone around here who might know? Another elderly resident who might have lived around here then -- or the people who now live at number 17, perhaps?'
'No, it's a bloke, out-of-towner. Not from round here.'
She thought for a few seconds. Pulled hard on her cigarette and thought some more. Nigel noticed for the first time that she was wearing a pair of carpet slippers on her feet. She pointed her finger at him and started nodding her head. You know where you could try? St Matthew's Church. It was her life, that place.'
The church was deserted. He idled away the afternoon until it came to life, as the early winter light closed in and the temperature, barely above freezing anyway, began to plummet. At least the rain had stopped. St Matthew's, despite having almost been flattened by the Luftwaffe, was the focal point of the local community, and shared its rich, villainous history. It was here that the funeral services of the Krays were held. In the gathering gloom, silhouetted against a clear dusk, the old church, still surrounded by the churchyard that afforded it a distance from the hurly-burly, seemed to loom in judgement over the area.
The vicar was inside, laying out hymn books. Nigel strode down the aisle and introduced himself.
You better be quick,' he said, eyes twinkling cheerily.
He was in his late sixties, Nigel guessed, florid face, rheumy eyes, exuding a gentle, avuncular warmth. Nigel could imagine parishioners queuing up to share their problems with him.
'It's about one of your former parishioners actually. An Edith Chapman?'
He looked up. 'Edith? Dear woman. What about her?'
'Well, I hope you'll excuse me prying like this, but I'm a genealogist.'
'Fascinating! I'm a bit of an amateur myself.'
Yes, Nigel thought, seems like everyone is these days.
'Really? Excellent. But going back to Mrs Chapman . . .'
'My mother's side is easy,' the vicar continued. 'I'm back to parish registers. But that was where I inherited the ecclesiastical calling from. So there's a record there. But my father's is a mystery beyond about 1878 or something.
Bizarre how the trail goes cold, isn't it? Perhaps I should employ you?'
'My rates are good,' Nigel said. 'Mrs Chapman . . .'
Yes, a dear old woman. A valuable member of the parish. What is it you want to know?'
'The records say she had a son.'
His face changed. The twinkle departed. 'Do they now,'
he said. He continued about his chore for a few seconds without speaking.
'Sorry, I don't meant to pry.'
'Just on whose behalf are you carrying out this research, Mr Barnes?'
Nigel weighed up his options. It was the question he feared. He knew he would not be able to lie to a man of the cloth, regardless of his atheism. It was not right.
'The police.'
The vicar's eyes narrowed, their friendliness all but vanished.
'And what would the police be doing seeking the son of a harmless old lady? She was never in trouble for one second of her life.'
'I know. We're trying to find her son. We think he may be in danger.'
'What sort of danger?'
"I do apologize, but I'm not at liberty to say.'
The vicar chewed the inside of his lip, sizing Nigel up.
He could feel his cheeks redden. He could hear voices behind him, the sound of footsteps on the stone floor.
'Tell me, Mr Barnes. Do you pray?'
Nigel was momentarily taken aback by the question, wondering if it was some sort of trick. 'No, not really,' he said eventually.
'Well, you will this evening.' He handed Nigel a prayer book. 'Evening service is about to start. Once that's completed and I've finished attending to the parishioners, we can have a chat and I'll see if I can help.'
Nigel waited. Once the service had finished and the congregation cleared the vicar invited him through to his office at the back of the church. He asked him to take a seat, offered a hot drink that Nigel refused, requesting just a glass of water.
He eased himself into a chair behind the wooden desk and sat back with a sigh. 'It's good to take the weight off after a long evening. Now, tell me, why do you want to find Mrs Chapman's son?'
'There's a chance his life could be in danger.'
The vicar nodded. The rosiness of his cheeks, a hooked nose and twinkling eyes gave him the look of a kindly Mr Punch. 'Well, if you're correct, then she was right all along,'
he replied.
ŚWho was? Mrs Chapman?'
Yes.' He took small sip of his coffee. 'Presumably as a genealogist you're fully aware of the Church's role in the community. With adoptions and suchlike?'
Nigel was. There were many agencies that had arranged adoptions in the past, the Church being the most prominent, mostly in transferring the unwanted offspring of the poor to the rich. Yes, I am.'
'Well, my predecessor, the Reverend Robert Daedulus, was particularly active in that regard.' He peered over his glasses at Nigel. 'And he was not a stickler for recordkeeping, if you get my drift.' The vicar took off his glasses and began to suck on one arm. 'Some years ago, when her husband died, I spent a fair amount of time helping Mrs Chapman deal with her loss. She told me my predecessor had arranged the adoption of her son in November 1964.
He was only two months old.'
The only reaction Nigel could think of was blasphemous, so he remained silent.
Was he troublesome? In some way damaged?'
'She was adamant that any problems with the boy were not behind her reasoning. Neither did she want any payment.
She said she simply wanted the boy to be safe. She told me that Reverend Daedulus had arranged a private adoption. She told me the son was a mistake. That she never planned to have children. Obviously, she did not believe in termination so she had the child, and nursed him through his first weeks. But all the time she wanted to get rid of him.'
'That sounds very cold.'
'Doesn't it just? I felt that myself. But another thing about my job is that you learn not to judge. I leave that to my boss.' He winked, took another sip of coffee before continuing.
"I think she must have sensed my own shock. She was not a drinking woman by any means, but she'd taken a few glasses that evening. She leaned over her kitchen table and fixed me with a beady stare.' The vicar did an approximation of her, leaning forward towards Nigel. 'She said, "If the boy had stayed with me, they would have got him.
Eventually. Just like they might get me. I couldn't take the risk of them coming and what they might do. So I did what any mother should do and made sure he was safe." I asked who "they" were. She wouldn't say. I also asked her why she and her husband didn't move, or change their name or emigrate even. She said it didn't matter.
'She told me her Aunt Margaret said that no matter what she did, they would find her one day. Her aunt kept screaming, "They will never relent. . . Protect yourself as if from the Devil himself." She told her to never, ever have children.
Her grandmother had told her all this on her deathbed.