Catholics: It was an odd but no doubt exhilarating moment to be one of these in England.

Of course, to some degree it guaranteed that you would be loathed—such was the tradition of the country. It had been Catholics who plotted to kill Queen Elizabeth, and before that Catholics who had so brutally slaughtered the brave Protestants who died while Elizabeth’s sister, Queen Mary, Bloody Mary, had reigned. (Nearly three centuries after it was written, Foxe’s gruesome Book of Martyrs, which depicted those deaths in horrible, explicit detail, was still one of the bookshops’ five bestsellers year after year.) The bias against them had long been unswerving, though recently it had softened somewhat. Since 1829 they had at least been permitted to vote and own land.

More than that, in the last twenty years things had begun to change in ways that were, depending upon one’s perspective, either exciting or alarming. First, in the 1830s and 1840s, a great number of Protestants of the “high church” variety—that is, those who didn’t mind a little bit of incense in their services, or insist upon plain vestments for their priest—had suddenly darted in a mass to the Catholic Church, led by the great controversial Tractarians of Oxford University, Newman and Pusey. Reviled in London and beloved in Rome, these intellectuals had stubbornly insisted upon their decisions, even as their conversion cut them off from the society of scholars and aristocrats to which they had once belonged.

Slowly others had followed them, one by one, forsaking society, fortune, and often even family to do so. The great poet Gerard Manley Hopkins had converted; Irishmen in search of work emigrated in more and more significant numbers to England, bringing their religion; in 1850, the pope, Pius IX, had finally reintroduced into the country proper dioceses and parishes, where there had been only uncertain and makeshift churches before. There were men in Parliament who believed the toleration of all this would lead to England’s ruin. It was a badly kept secret that Queen Victoria herself was panicked about the invasion.

At the center of this web of Catholic life in England sat Father Dixon Hepworth.

Of course, London had its own holy overseer—the Archbishop of Westminster—but it was Hepworth, not the archbishop, who mattered. The reason was a very British one, class. Hepworth came from an old and noble Suffolk family, and when he had converted at Oxford he hadn’t lost their love, which meant that, unlike most Catholics, he still had a place in society, even if some of the more religious houses of London stopped sending their invitations to him.

On top of that he had charm, wit, and wealth—and despite being ordained, he knew better than to push his religion forward in the wrong situation. He was a philosophical fellow, a bit beyond fifty, bald and rather athletic, with the practical face of a man of business. He was extremely devoted to his collection of art and artifacts, but there seemed to be nothing especially artistic about him in person. He had a mistress of long standing named Eleanor Hallinan; she was a dancer in the West End, very beautiful, with no more of an eye toward Christ than a goldfish might have had. He never preached, rarely visited with the poor, and spent most of his days here, in Cleveland Row—but his power was unassailable. He presided over the city’s Catholic institutions, whether from the board or with a softer kind of influence, and the Vatican never filled a significant vacancy in the country without consulting him first. The archbishop could make no such claim.

Lenox had known him for decades now, and liked the fellow; and if there was one man who could apply some slight pressure on a group of stubborn nuns, it was Hepworth.

The priest was sitting on an armchair and leaned forward from its edge, face full of interest, hands clasped before him. “What can I do for you?” he asked.

“Have you heard of the murder of Inspector Thomas Jenkins?”

It took just a few minutes for Lenox to describe to Hepworth the sequence of interactions he and Scotland Yard had had with the sisters of St. Anselm’s, and the absolute refusal of Sister Amity to speak to them, on the one hand, and the absolute inability of Sister Grethe to do so, on the other.

As Lenox spoke, Hepworth’s face had slowly taken on a look of consternation. After the story was finished, he leaned back in his chair. “St. Anselm’s, you say?”

“Yes.”

“You’re sure that’s what they said? At 77 Portland Place?”

“Yes,” said Lenox.

Just then the door opened, and a footman came in behind a rolling table, which was topped with a silver half-globe. He retracted this when the table was between Hepworth and Lenox, revealing a teapot, a plate of sandwiches, and several piles of toast. Lenox realized how hungry he was when he saw it.

Hepworth stood up, buttoning his blue velvet jacket. “If you wouldn’t mind pouring your own tea, I think I can help,” he said. “Wait here for two minutes—less, probably.”

As he waited, Lenox fell gratefully upon a stack of cinnamon toast wedges, piping hot and running with butter. When fully half a dozen of these were gone, he poured himself a cup of the light, fragrant tea, stirred in his milk and sugar, took a long sip, and sat back with a sigh of profound contentment.

To think: In Rome there wasn’t a cup of the stuff to be found.

Hepworth reappeared just as Lenox was pouring himself a little more. He was carrying a large leather book and accepted Lenox’s offer to give him a cup of tea only with some distraction. He sat down and opened the book, flipping through it.

“Is anything wrong?” asked Lenox.

Hepworth took a sip of tea and was silent for a moment. “Yes,” he said at last.

Lenox felt a surge of interest. “What?”

“Only what I suspected, when I heard your story—and what this book has confirmed. The Catholic Church has no record at all of a convent called St. Anselm’s in London, on Portland Place or anywhere else.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Within the precincts of Regent’s Park there were several churches, Hepworth explained, including St. Thomas’s on Longford Street, which was the closest building to 77 Portland Place that the Catholic Church owned. There was no order of nuns nearby, however.

Lenox was silent for a moment and then said, “The Church owns the land upon which St. Thomas’s sits, you mentioned. Would the Church ever rent a building?”

Hepworth shook his head. “No, we buy them. They have a fair number of accountants there at the Vatican, you know—just as sharp as our fellows near the Inns, only they wear long robes.”

“Where is the closest convent to Regent’s Park?”

“Half a mile from Portland Place, just off Bayswater Road. It’s called Her Sisters of the Holy Heart, a Benedictine order. I know it well myself. They’ve been working in close concert with the Temperance Christians on behalf of the horses who drive the London cabs. It doesn’t sound like much, but you wouldn’t believe the bloody lives they lead, the poor beasts. They rarely live longer than a year or two. And it’s excellent for the reputation of our Church for the sisters to be working with Protestants.”

Lenox’s mind was racing. “Might St. Anselm’s be some sort of renegade offshoot of the church?” he asked.

“I cannot conceive that such a group would have escaped my attention,” said Hepworth seriously. “What’s more, it’s no small matter to establish an exchange with convents in other lands. Germany, you said?”

“Yes, Germany.” Lenox thought of Sister Grethe. “But it’s possible?”

Hepworth shrugged. “Anything is possible, I suppose. Do they advertise their presence there? Is there a sign on the gate? A cross?”

“Nothing at all of that sort. On the contrary, it looks designed to keep people out.”