Page 25 of The Not So Perfect Duke

She stood before St. Nicholas Church in Chiswick. Chiswick was a bustling town outside the west of London in the county of Middlesex, with a thriving shipbuilding industry and fast becoming a desirable district. The church property obviously had a long and varied past. Ancient gravestones, leaning every which way, surrounded the light gray stone church. Centuries-old gnarled trees encircled the property, giving it a decided gothic look.

“May I assist you, miss?”

Althea started and turned to face the person who spoke. A pleasant-looking young man, perhaps in his middle thirties, gave her a polite smile. He wore a black cassock.

“I was admiring the church and the grounds,” Althea responded.

“A church has stood on this land since 1181, and the current church was rebuilt, with construction concluding in ’84. If you look toward the west tower,” Mr. Willis pointed, “It was built in the 15th century. Inside are architectural features from the same era, like the parapets.”

“How fascinating.”

“I am the curate here. Mr. Willis.”

Althea smiled. “Good day. I am Althea Galway of the Galway Investigative Agency. I’m exploring the name of an orphanage for a client. St. Nicholas Orphanage. Have you ever heard of it, Mr. Willis?”

“No. Not ever. There are a few orphanages in the immediate area, but none with that name.”

Althea sighed. “I have turned up nothing. I believe my client was given a fictitious name after all.”

“It would be a good name to choose for an orphanage,” Mr. Willis mused. “St. Nicholas is the patron saint of sailors, merchants, thieves, and prostitutes. But he is also such to children. Father Christmas has St. Nicholas in its origins. Children used to be left small gifts on St. Nicholas feast day in centuries pasts. But you did not come for a tour or a history lesson.”

“No. But I found the information interesting, nonetheless,” Althea smiled.

Mr. Willis chuckled softly in response. “I know this is not something a curate should know, but a parishioner mentioned a brothel in the East End unofficially known as St. Nicholas’s or Nicky’s.”

Althea hurriedly retrieved her notebook and pencil. “Do you know where it is located, Mr. Willis?”

“Why, yes. Wellclose Square in Whitechapel. Mind you, this was more than a few years past; I am not sure if the establishment is still in operation. I do know that it is a poverty-stricken area, Miss Galway, so I would say caution is in order.”

She extended her hand, and the curate shook it. “Thank you, Mr. Willis. You have been most helpful. And informative.”

“If you have time, I can give you a tour of the interior. We have many unique memorials and statues within.”

“How kind. But I must dash. The investigation awaits.”

After hailing a hansom cab, she was taken to Whitechapel. As Mr. Willis had stated, grinding poverty was evident everywhere. Prostitutes were plying their wares on the street corners not far from The Mahogany Bar Mission. What a strange name for a mission. Perhaps someone at the mission could assist.

She stepped inside the building and encountered a long queue of people. The sign on the wall said, “East End Mission of the Methodist Church.” This was a soup line, and judging by the ragged clothes on the men, women, and children, this could very well be their only hot meal. It angered Althea to see that in a prosperous city such as London, so many went without. So, so many.

A rather stern older woman stepped forward. “Back of the line, please, unless you are here for another reason.”

Althea offered her card. “I would like to speak to someone with historical knowledge of this street and the nearby buildings.”

The woman took the card and studied it. “Investigative agency? Well, that would be me. I’ve been here since the mission opened thirteen years ago.” She turned toward a man standing nearby. “Mr. Clapham? Could you please see to the door while I speak with this young lady?”

“Miss Althea Galway, I co-own the agency,” Althea interjected.

The woman glared at Althea over the top of her spectacles. “Do you, indeed? Well, I am Miss Malvina Purcell. Come this way. Hurry along now. I’ve not all day to dawdle.”

Althea had to pick up the pace to keep up with the formidable Miss Purcell. She headed to the rear of the building. “Then I will get straight to the point. I’m investigating the name of an orphanage my client was given, and it has brought me here to Wellclose Square.”

The office was so tiny that there was hardly room for a desk and two chairs. Miss Purcell motioned toward the chair in front of the desk and closed the door.

“There has never been an orphanage here. In fact, this very spot used to be Wilton’s Music Hall until it burned down in ’77. A rebuild of the surviving structure started, but they ran out of money eight years later. The church bought it as there is a crushing need in this area. Before it was Wilton’s, it was known as The Mahogany Bar. We use the name for this mission seeing that alcohol was and is the main cause for the East End’s social ills.”

Well, that answered her question as to the name.

“We are actively involved in improving the lives of those in the area,” Miss Purcell continued. “During the ’89 London dock strike, we provided a thousand meals daily to starving workers and their families. But you have not come here for a litany of our good works.”