Page 35 of Deadly Murder (Angus Brodie and Mikaela Forsythe Murder Mystery #14)

Twenty-Two

It was cold, the rain in London had turned to snow once more. Not unexpected. Though it was not far, the train to Hendon was late due to the weather.

Upon our arrival at the rail station, Brodie sent a telegram to Sir Avery explaining where we had gone and why.

He then found a driver to take us to the church where we hoped to find more information about Reverend Chastain.

“That would be at Church End,” the driver acknowledged as we stepped aboard the coach.

It was late morning when we arrived at St. Mary’s church. According to the clerk at St. Pancras, there were several churches around greater London so named. Hendon was one of the oldest, dating back to the eleventh century.

It was a large church, a blend of various additions over the past eight hundred years, with a medieval tower, nave, north aisle and chapel of white-washed stone in the Gothic style.

An enormous churchyard with an arched stone entrance and statues of two angels adjoined the building amidst a forest of cedar and yew trees.

We entered the nave and were eventually greeted by a clerk of the church. He had a studious demeanor with thinning hair and a curious but welcoming smile.

“I was certain we would have no visitors today with the weather.” He introduced himself as Mr. Mannering.

“But you are more than welcome. The small chapel is always open.”

Brodie handed him one of our calling cards and explained that we were looking for information about a man who once served as vicar of the church.

“I see,” Mr. Mannering replied, somewhat curious by the expression at his face.

“Perhaps you would care to speak with the vicar. He can perhaps help you in the matter.” He asked us to wait.

When he returned, he announced that Reverend Frankland would be pleased to meet with us.

“He’s making the final changes to his sermon for Sunday’s service,” he explained as we reached a rather aged wood door with iron braces that might be found in a medieval castle, then escorted us into the reverend’s office.

The vicar rose from behind a large desk with papers spread before him, a welcoming smile on his face. He was of medium height with brown hair that had just begun to turn grey, a warm gaze, and a welcoming smile.

“You have rescued me,” the vicar commented after Brodie introduced both of us. “It’s still not quite right, my sermon that is. There are so many things to speak on. I will come back to it later. Please be seated.”

He gestured to the two chairs that sat before his desk.

“You are inquiring about a previous brother who served St. Mary’s. How may I help you?”

“We are attempting to find the gentleman,” Brodie explained.

“Over a private matter on behalf of a client. Lady Forsythe has learned that he first served at St. Pancras after arriving in London some time ago and then took up the position as vicar here. We are hoping to learn where he might live now.”

“We keep a very thorough record of all who serve,” the reverend replied. “Our oldest records go back to 1073, a very long history serving the people of the parish.

“We usually have another clerk to assist with such things, but he is away attending a family matter. You are welcome to search through the records yourselves. They are in another part of the church.

“However, I will warn you that it can be tedious, particularly since most of the records are in Latin.”

I was tempted to look over at Brodie but did not.

“Lady Forsythe has an understanding of the language,” Brodie replied.

I smiled to myself.

St. Mary’s was originally a Catholic church, then later Anglican after the Reformation. The history of it was there in faded paintings on walls of the north aisle that led from the nave.

There were images similar to those in the old part of Sussex Square, Norman knights of almost a thousand years before seen kneeling before a priest. Then other murals that told the church history.

I did not consider myself a person of faith. So much that I had seen during my travels had convinced me that faith came in many shapes and forms. Who was I to say that one belief was superior to another?

The church was quiet, with the faint echo of footsteps down the north aisle, a brief conversation overheard, then the sound of a door closing and Mr. Mannering returned. He asked us to follow him to what was called the reading room.

He laid a large leather-bound journal much the same as I had seen at St. Pancras on a reading stand. He then turned on a reading lamp.

“This does make it easier to read than by candlelight,” he commented. “This should provide the information you’re looking for. I am available if you have any questions.”

Brodie thanked him as I opened the church register.

Church records were very often the only records of births, deaths and marriages across England for hundreds of years. Journals that my great aunt had at Sussex Square had been written by priests and other clerics from the time William of Normandy had arrived in Britain.

Now, I scanned entries of the past two hundred years for St. Mary’s parish. It was tedious, even with my knowledge of the language, entries often written in faded text.

I eventually found the entry for Reverend Chastain. It was very near the date I had found that he had left St. Pancras.

“He was the vicar here for almost ten years!” I told Brodie, then looked for an entry recording where he had been sent afterward. There was none. However, I noted something else.

“He never left St. Mary’s.”

“What do ye mean?” Brodie asked.

He had been studying the framed paintings and documents on the adjacent wall of the reading room.

I read that last entry again.

“He never left. He died in 1877. It’s entered here, and according to this, he’s buried in the churchyard.”

A sound echoed through the doorway, the clerk returning perhaps. Or possibly the vicar.

What did Chastain’s death mean now?

From the beginning, there were few clues, except for that tragic event years before, as we attempted to find a motive for the murders.

The assumption, though difficult to believe, was that the vicar sought revenge for what happened even after all these years, with that cryptic message, “ The sins of the fathers.”

As Brodie had reminded me, the vicar was a father as well, and in his experience, not above such things.

Where did that leave us now?

I closed the church archive.

“Is it possible that Mary Chastain might be responsible?” I asked. “If she had eventually married? Or someone else is doing this for blackmail?” Even though no demand had been made.

“Aye, perhaps,” Brodie replied.

That might be the answer as to motive. As for opportunity, it would not be that difficult to plan how she would take that revenge once she and her father had come to London.

And the means that it might be done?

Perhaps it is not so difficult if someone was paid enough or was given the promise of it.

A man who was tall, thick set and strong, who had found employment at Marlborough House stables weeks before, and I was certain I had seen on The Strand.

Yet, that did not answer the question about the man with the infirmity in his leg who was seen that night after the murder outside White’s and whom I had glimpsed at the rail station.

Mr. Mannering had not yet returned.

“I’ll find the man and let him know we are finished here, then I will meet ye at the front entrance,” Brodie said then, and set off to find him.

He was gone for some time when Mr. Mannering appeared.

“Were you able to find the information you were looking for?” he inquired.

“Yes.”

And no , I thought.

“Mr. Brodie went to thank you. We will be leaving.”

“I must have missed him,” he replied. “Perhaps he lost the way. I will tell him that we spoke if I see him.”

Was Brodie waiting for me now at the entrance, having not found the clerk?

I thanked Mr. Mannering and asked him to thank Reverend Frankland as well. He accompanied me as we left the reading room.

“A moment, Lady Forsythe and I will accompany you, so that you do not lose your way. It seems that someone has left a door open.”

A door across the hall stood ajar, cold air filling the hallway.

“Where does this lead?” I asked.

“The churchyard and the adjacent graveyard beyond.”

A hallway door that was not open before. I would surely have noticed as we passed by.

Brodie had gone to tell the clerk we would be leaving, yet Mr. Mannering had not seen him. Had something drawn his attention elsewhere?

It would be just like him to go off on his own, particularly after our earlier conversation.

I thanked Mr. Mannering once more and assured him that I could find my way back to the entrance. Then, I stepped past him onto a stone path before he could close and bolt the door.

The landing had been protected from the weather by the overhang of the roof. Just beyond I discovered boot prints in the newly fallen snow.

They were a good size, the sort a gentleman might wear, and unless I missed my guess, I knew who they belonged to. I followed that trail of prints past the churchyard to the entrance of the graveyard.

As I entered the graveyard, those prints faded then disappeared altogether, the falling snow thicker as it dusted the trees and monuments of those buried there. And among them, the grave of Reverend Chastain, in what was noted in the register as the pavilion for the “Servants of God.”

I found a small stone marker beside the pathway, and in the distance the vague outline of a small structure.

Elaborate headstones, simple markers, and stone vaults lined the path that I followed. At the end was a columned pavilion with a slate roof.

Graves surrounded the pavilion, some headstones adorned with Latin inscriptions, others with images of angels, along with a name and date of passing for the person buried there.

The headstone for Reverend William Chastain was among them with the year that he had died, 1877. And beside it, another headstone.

I brushed the snow from the name etched there:

Mary Chastain, beloved mother. 10 September 1892

“You cannot stop what must be done!”

The warning came from behind me.

“For her! For what they did!”

A man was there, a half dozen steps away, no more. Beside the grave of Mary Chastain.

He was of medium height, neither old nor young, dressed in black, pale hair tangled around his head, a crazed look in light blue eyes, as he slowly came toward me, bent over as if holding himself against some pain, his steps slow as he dragged one foot.

A man with a limp, seen after one of the murders, then briefly glimpsed through the crowd of passengers at the rail station.

“I followed you to Cambridge. You know what they did,” he whispered.

I wanted to ask who he was, but it was there on Mary Chastain’s gravestone—beloved mother—and evident in the way he glanced down at it now with sadness and some other emotion that narrowed his eyes as he looked back at me.

“Lady Forsythe!”

The way he said it was filled with contempt and pain as he continued to slowly move toward me.

“What she went through. All these years living with the shame of it and not even a name that any of them would give her! I have no name!

“I am nothing, but a cripple, dirt beneath their feet!”

The words were filled with pain and anger.

“No one would help her! Not any of them! And now you come here for them! To ease their guilt? I will not let you! No one can help you! Just as there was no one to help her!”

His shoulder caught me in my shoulder as he lunged at me, my bag with the revolver thrown to the ground.

He was surprisingly strong, and I was spun around, his arm clamped across my shoulders, the edge of a knife cold against my throat as I clawed at that arm and fought for footing in the mud and snow.

“Let her go.”

It came from behind us, my attacker’s breath hot against my cheek. And that faint scent I had smelled before.

Incense that someone might burn, the thought came and then slipped away as I continued to struggle.

That arm tightened, and I was pulled back, away from those words and a man who stepped out of the shadows of the pavilion and slowly followed, his revolver aimed at us.

“Let her go, now,” Brodie repeated as he stalked us.

I was dragged backward, that blade at my throat, as I stared at Brodie and the slow but deliberate way he moved as the son of Mary Chastain limped haltingly, taking me with him.

“She had no part in what happened all those years before,” Brodie told him. “Just as those young men had nothing to do with it.”

“You don’t know. You don’t understand!” the man with that knife screamed.

“I do know,” Brodie said then in that same calm voice as he took another step toward us.

“I found my own mother butchered and left for dead as a lad. I know what it is to have something taken from ye that ye can never get back.”

“No!” the man at my back screamed. “It has to be done. The sins of the fathers. An eye for an eye!”

Through the snow that had begun to fall once more, I saw shadows that moved through the trees. He must have seen as well as they moved closer.

I felt a sharp prick of pain as that blade pressed against my neck, the knife cold. And something far colder in the expression on Brodie’s face.

The sharp report of the revolver shattered the silence, smoke exploding in the air as he came toward us, then fired again, and again.

The man behind me staggered, then fell backwards and I was pulled down with him into the cold snow.

I fought and screamed, clawing to free myself of that arm and the weight of that body, those pale blue eyes of Mary Chastain’s son staring at me.

Brodie pulled me to my feet.

I was covered in mud, bloodied, and shaking.

“Bloody hell!”

There might have been another curse, but it was muffled by the front of his coat as Brodie pulled me against him.

“Is he dead?”

His beard was soft against my cheek, as those other shadows I had glimpsed only moments before emerged from the trees and rushed toward us.

“Aye.”