“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 Forsythehas 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?
