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.
