Page 29 of Deadly Murder (Angus Brodie and Mikaela Forsythe Murder Mystery #14)

It was a long low, stone building with arches across the front and a carriage barn for passengers who departed, undoubtedly including students who attended Cambridge University as well as local residents. The university, however, was not our destination.

“St. Andrew and St. Mary’s Parish church,” I told the driver as we climbed aboard a coach. The town of Grantchester was within walking distance of the university with the church beyond.

Lily stared out the window at the sprawling buildings of Cambridge with the dozens of buildings in the Gothic style amid green areas, which included that central tower with the river flowing through.

“That is the university?” Lily asked, obviously quite impressed.

“It’s made up of several colleges,” I explained. “Over thirty that include the college of medicine, mathematics, and science.”

“Did ye attend?” Lily asked.

She was well aware of my time in Paris at private school. However, Cambridge was not part of my education.

How best to respond, I thought, when both my great aunt and I had emphasized the value of an education for her.

“Women are allowed to attend lectures and study,” I replied. “However, they are not given certificates for their studies, which would allow them to become doctors.”

“But men are given certificates,” she concluded. “And become doctors, teachers, and scientists.”

I saw the frown that slowly worked its way onto her face.

“How then might a woman support herself? Other than work on the streets?”

That early education of another sort had most definitely not been forgotten.

“They might inherit through their family, or hope to marry,” I replied.

“Workhouses, mills, taverns, or places like the one in Edinburgh,” she replied.

A “church” of another calling, where we had first met. The frown deepened.

“It’s not right.”

“No,” I agreed. “It is not.”

“And yet, ye work with Mr. Brodie, and yer novels have been published quite successfully. That is the reason ye have insisted that I get an education.”

“So that you may be able to choose your own path forward and not be forced to rely on someone else,” I replied.

It was near midday when we reached the church in Grantchester.

It was made of limestone and fieldstone in a mix of Gothic and earlier Norman styles of the bell tower, arches and tower.

A stone wall surrounded the church cemetery with its ancient headstones. A small red-brick residence with arched windows, perhaps the vicarage, was on the other side of the wall with a gate between.

We left the coach at the end of the cobbled walkway that the led across the church yard to a small stone entryway that led into the church proper.

“I’ve not been in a real church before,” Lily whispered.

She was, of course, referring to the “Church” in Edinburgh, an abandoned church that had been turned into a whorehouse where she had worked as a lady’s maid.

“Good afternoon,” we were greeted. “I am Reverend Jeffers. Welcome to St. Andrew and St. Mary’s.”

I introduced us to him. “I hope we are not interrupting.”

There had been no service or meeting noted on the board at the entryway.

“We had early morning service for those who attend. The next service is this evening.”

“We’ve traveled from London,” I explained. “I’m hoping you can assist us with information from some time ago.”

He was quite young, although with that sort of calm demeanor I had found in other members of clergy, along with a friendly smile, and a warm brown gaze.

“I have only been here for two years; therefore, I am not certain how much assistance I might be.” He then asked us to follow him to his office in the rectory.

“You say this is from some time ago,” he said as he sat behind the plain desk. A crucifix hung on the wall, several leather-bound books on a reading table that included what appeared to be a Bible that lay open.

“I read daily,” he explained. “To remind myself of my own faults. It helps me understand the troubles that people bring to the church.” He smiled. “Now, I will try to help if I can.”

“We are making inquiries on behalf of someone who attended university quite some time ago,” I explained. “It would be helpful if we knew who the vicar was here at that time.”

He nodded. “There is a record in the bishop’s office, of course.

That might provide the information you’re looking for.

There is a record of documents that are kept here at the Church—for births, marriages, deaths in the parish, that would include those who presided over them.

It might be possible to learn the vicar’s name from those records.

” He rose from behind his desk and went to that table.

“What is the year?”

I replied that it would be 1860 or 1861.

He opened one of those leather-bound ledger.

“There are records from as early as the eleventh century, barely legible I must confess. I have found them most interesting. This particular one contains more recent entries for the past hundred years for residents of the parish.”

“Excuse me for interrupting.” A young woman appeared in the doorway of the rectory. “I didn’t know you had visitors.”

“Not at all, Livvy.” Reverend Jeffers introduced us. “My wife, Mrs. Jeffers. I was just assisting these ladies with a bit of church history,” he explained.

His wife smiled. “It is Mrs. Kearney. She is having some difficulty and has asked to speak with you. She is quite upset.”

“Ah, confessor for students, wayward souls, and marriage counselor. By all means, where might I find Mrs. Kearney?”

“She is in the small chapel,” his wife replied.

He excused himself then. “You are welcome to search the records” he told us in parting.

“I thought vicars could not marry,” Lily commented after he left.

“They are allowed to in the Anglican church. Catholic priests are not allowed to marry.”

“If priests are not allowed, how are they supposed to help someone like that woman, Mrs. Kearney?”

A very good question, I thought as I stepped to the table with the ledger and adjusted the light over for a better view.

I understood her confusion. Religion could be difficult to understand, particularly when one had been influenced by a woman who planned a Viking sendoff as I had been. And now Lily as well.

The entries I scanned in the recorded information were for the year 1860 and in Latin. Not unexpected.

I was hoping to find entries for April and May of 1861, which would have been at the time of that incident.

“I found a name however. All these entries are for 1860. The vicar at the time was J. Hollings.”

Lily opened the next ledger and began scanning the entries. I saw the confusion at her face.

“It’s written in Latin,” I explained.

She wrinkled her nose in frustration.

“Aprilis and Maius,” I translated. “Very similar to English, look for the year 1861 as well.”

She continued reading through the entries. The wrinkle eventually disappeared.

“I found the entries for April that year,” she announced excitedly. “The vicar’s name was Chastain? The name is on the entire page and then after.”

I peered over her shoulder. There were entries with that name well into the months of September and October. Then another name had been entered.

“Not even a year later? What does that mean?”

Reverend Jeffers had told us that those assigned to the church served three years and then moved on to another parish. Reading through these entries, it did seem that Reverend Chastain had either turned over his position or left St. Andrew and St. Mary’s at the end of October of 1861.

“I do apologize,” Reverend Jeffers said as he returned. “Mrs. Kearney was in quite a state, a frequent occurrence I’m afraid.”

“We found what we were looking for,” I replied. “Reverend Chastain apparently left October 1861. Would there be a record where he was assigned next?”

“That would be in the records kept by the bishop as well.

However, there is someone in the village who might know more about that.

Mrs. Hollings has been here for decades, one of our oldest members—ninety-six years old.

She fancies herself as sort of a church historian, if you will.

She lives just up the High Road toward the village, a cottage with a slate roof.

“I could send a note of introduction if you want to call on her. It’s not far.”

“Ninety-six years old,” Lily exclaimed after Mrs. Jeffers told us a little bit more about the church’s “historian.” “I didn’t know anyone lived that long.”

I didn’t either, however, it did seem as if my great aunt at the age of eighty-seven was going to give it a go.

With that note of introduction in hand, we left St. Andrew and St. Mary’s church and walked toward the village where we easily found Mrs. Hollings cottage.

It was small but tidy with a fence around the yard and faced the street. A middle-aged woman, her housekeeper perhaps, met us at the door. At ninety-six, I thought Mrs. Hollings was entitled to a little help.

“Who is at the door, Annie?”

“Visitors from the church. They have a note from Reverend Jeffers.”

The cottage was small, the kitchen adjoining the room with a hearth and two overstuffed chairs, a small bedroom just beyond.

A tiny woman sat in one of the chairs with a blanket across her lap, a scraggly grey dog at her feet. Her housekeeper handed her the note Reverend Jeffers had written.

She read it, then looked at us. “My eyes are not what they used to be,” she said with a frown.

“What do ye call him?” Lily asked as she bent to pet the dog.

“What is that, you say?” Mrs. Hollings replied.

“He must have a name.”

The dog caught her scent and immediately began to wag his tail.

“He has a name—Otis. He doesn’t usually take to strangers. And you would be Mikaela Forsythe and Miss Lily Montgomery,” Mrs. Hollings commented with note in hand and apparently no difficulty reading our names after all.

“Sit,” she said then. “Annie will bring tea and then you can tell me what you want to know about St. Andrew and St. Mary’s.”