“I had no part in the discussion,” I reminded him. “You may send me off to Sussex Square, but I will go to Hendon and St. Mary’s Church.”
With that, I hitched up the hem of my skirt and set off across The Strand toward the messenger office. They were already open for the business of London.
“That would be King’s Cross station, miss,” the clerk informed me. “With a train departing at ten o’clock, if they’re running on time.”
I thanked him, then opened my umbrella as I stepped out onto the sidewalk, looked for a driver, and discovered Brodie had followed.
“The train departs at ten o’clock, which would be a considerably faster than going by coach.” I stepped past him and waved down a driver.
“We might share the ride to King’s Cross station and save the double fare,” I suggested.
I didn’t wait for a response but stepped up into the coach. I gave the driver the destination of the rail station. As I sat back in the seat, Brodie climbed aboard and slammed the door.
The train for Hendon was on schedule.
I purchased my own fare when we arrived. I must admit that I would not have put it past Brodie to summon a constable and have me packed off to the office or to Sussex Square. Such was the anger behind that dark gaze.
“Many of the entries in the records at St. Pancras were written in Latin,” I commented as we found two seats in the main car. “It is quite common in older churches. Do you read Latin?”
Brodie shook his head. “Ye’re to do exactly as I say when we arrive.”
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.
