“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 arealchurch 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.
