Or was she just being fanciful?
The rational side of her head stepped in, as it always did. Being barrister trained, Adira was programmed to automatically see both sides of an argument and assess the case. And, in order to do that, she had to analyse the evidence, of which she had none yet. Parish records, that’s what she needed to look at; written facts, in black and white.
So, armed with pen and paper, she made her way back to the church, this time hoping it would be open.
Walking up the old paving slabs forming a pathway to St Jude’s, Adira stopped for a moment to admire the impressive stone structure. It stood, fortress-like, with sturdy stone walls, arched mullion windows, their stained glass twinkling like jewels in the sunlight. A square bell tower rose majestically, ready to give panoramic views of the village.
Adira willed the cast-iron door handle to turn and allow her entrance. To her relief, it did and she quietly pushed the wooden door open with a creak.
An elderly lady polishing the pews looked up at her in surprise.
‘Hello,’ Adira smiled.
The lady smiled back and continued with her cleaning.
‘Excuse me,’ Adira approached the lady, ‘would it be possible to look at the parish records?’
‘Well, you’d have to ask Father Forbes.’ The lady nodded towards the vestry. ‘He’s in there.’
‘Thank you.’ Adira walked down the aisle towards the vestry at the side of the altar, marvelling at the high vaulted ceiling and the intricate carvings. She heard humming and tapped on the door, which was slightly ajar.
‘Hello!’ called a cheery voice.
Adira poked her head through.
‘Excuse me, but would it be possible to look at the parish records? I… I’d like to learn more about one of your graves.’
The priest grinned. He had a kind, lived-in face, Adira thought.
‘I see. Not from these parts then?’ His grey eyebrow raised.
‘No.I’m on holiday… sort of.’ Realising she wasn’t being particularly eloquent, she held out her hand, which he shook firmly. ‘Adira Summers.’
‘Father Edwin Forbes,’ he supplied. Adira liked the way he included his Christian name, making him seem more personable.
‘I was strolling round the graveyard here and came across a tombstone which I wondered if it belonged to a relation.’
‘Really? How interesting.’
‘Yes,’ she agreed. ‘It belongs to a Grace Conway. Conway was my grandmother’s maiden name and I know her grandmother was called Grace. The dates on the stone all correspond, you see—’
‘And you want to delve further?’ interrupted the priest.
‘Exactly.’
‘Well, come this way, Miss Marple,’ he grinned again, causing Adira to warm further to him.
He opened a drawer in a nearby sideboard and took out a small key. Then he turned and walked to the far end of the room, where a row of glass cabinets lined the wall.
‘What where the dates on the gravestone?’ he asked.
‘1891 to 1941,’ Adira replied, anticipation building.
‘Let me see…’ He opened the middle cabinet and pulled out a huge ledger. With care, he opened the faded pages and finally found an entry. Adira had moved to look over his shoulder, her heart had started to thump. ‘Here we are, Grace Conway, wife of Timothy Conway, died the first of June 1941. Buried St Jude’s, Lilacwell, Forest of Bowland, Lancashire.’
‘Timothy? That was my grandmother’s father’s name,’ she stated in surprise. ‘Could these be his parents, do you think?’ Adira was thinking out loud.
‘It is possible. Very often children were named after their father. Especially the first born. Was your Timothy the eldest child, do you know?’
