I smiled to myself. It was.
We encountered no delays and arrived well in time for our meeting with the vicar. I asked Mr. Jarvis to wait.
True to his nature, the hound was excited to explore the churchyard that surrounded St. Pancras Church.
We were met by the clerk of the church as we stepped inside and were informed that the vicar had been called to a meeting at Westminster. However, the clerk, a slender young man by the name of James with a kind smile, had been authorized to assist us in whatever we needed.
“If you will follow me, the church records are in the library.”
The original church of St. Pancras was several hundred years old, with the new section added early in the 19thcentury that included a sanctuary, chancel, and nave.
We passed the sanctuary where a sign noted that service would be held on the following Friday and then on Sunday as usual. Otherwise, it was quite empty.
The library was in what remained of the Old Church with hand-carved stone walls, the faint echo of our footsteps on the stone floor, and the familiar smell of books, hundreds of them.
“I’m told that it was far easier to keep this as the library, rather than rebuild it and then move all the books. Some of these are hundreds of years old from when the old church was founded,” the clerk explained.
“The records you are looking for should be here as all records of the church have been meticulously preserved.”
Following our trip to Cambridge, and St. Andrew and St. Mary’s church in Grantchester, Lily and I were quite familiar with church records.
“I took the liberty of pulling the records that cover the years the new church was built until present. They’re on this table. The vicar, Mr. Powell, indicated these should provide the information you’re looking for.”
“I will leave you to your search, as I have work in the office,” he explained. “I will return later if you have any questions.”
The records had been laid out on a reading table with an electric lamp. We both removed our coats before sitting at the table. I took my notebook from my bag and smiled as Lily did the same. We each spread a large leather-bound book filled with entries.
The beginning date of the one before me was 1762. The entries included a record of births, marriages, deaths, and the dates a new vicar arrived with an occasional entry noting the departure date of a prior vicar, Henry Winston.
He had arrived in May 1784, for a period of almost ten years! He departed for a new parish in June 1793, with the new vicar arriving a month prior, according to what had been written there.
There were other entries for clerks and the occasion of a visit by the bishop of the archdiocese as well as visits by notable persons, including a visit by the Duke of Kent, Queen Victoria’s father, April 1816. Most were written in Latin.
I quickly scanned each page as the years passed, the archive ending in January of 1860.
“It must be in the one you have,” I told Lily as I closed the book I’d searched. “An entry could have been made any time in 1861 or perhaps 1862, depending on the church record-keeping.”
It was tedious, although I was grateful for my ability to translate Latin, while Lily was unusually quiet.
“I can’t read most of this,” she finally said. “The year for each one is written in Latin as well.”
I glanced over her shoulder.
“Look for the Reverend Chastain’s name,” I suggested. “That should be easier.”
“I found it,” she eventually announced.
I translated the remainder of the entry. “The Reverend Joseph Chastain, Vicar, arrived 8 September 1861.”
“Continue searching for when he might have been sent to a new parish,” I told her as I opened my notebook and entered the date she’d found.
“The usual term is three years before being assigned elsewhere. That might be sometime in 1864, or possibly later.”
She continued to scan the entries on the following pages.
“I didn’t find anything,” she eventually announced.
Was it possible Reverend Chastain had remained longer?
