Deadly Murder, page 16
“Of course.”
I watched as he set off, a striking figure, and not at all the sort of “gentleman” other women might prefer. He wore no hat in spite of the weather that morning, taller than those around him, wearing the jumper he preferred to a silk shirt and cravat. And though he was some distance away, there was no disguising the devil’s look he gave me now as he turned briefly.
As I turned to enter the passenger compartment I caught a glimpse of a man, simply dressed who quickly slipped through the crowd of passengers on the platform.
His way momentarily blocked, he pushed between a man and woman, ducking his head from sight beneath a cap. He stumbled, then pushed on with some difficulty, and appeared to have a noticeable limp.
I quickly descended the steps onto the platform and searched for sight of him among the crowd of passengers, but he had disappeared.
“Miss?”
I looked up at the rail attendant who now stood on the steps to the rail car.
“The train will be departing. You must board now.”
I found the seat Lily had taken with the other across and joined her.
“We should arrive by eleven o’clock,” she announced, then looked up.
“Ye look as if ye’ve seen a ghost, as Mrs. Ryan would say.”
Not a ghost, but someone very real I had glimpsed in barely more than a few seconds among a crowd of people?
Surely there was more than one man with limp in all of London, particularly among those who returned from military service.
We arrived at Cambridgeshire rail station on schedule.
It was a long low, stone building with arches across the front and a carriage barn for passengers who departed, undoubtedly including students who attended Cambridge University as well as local residents. The university, however, was not our destination.
“St. Andrew and St. Mary’s Parish church,” I told the driver as we climbed aboard a coach. The town of Grantchester was within walking distance of the university with the church beyond.
Lily stared out the window at the sprawling buildings of Cambridge with the dozens of buildings in the Gothic style amid green areas, which included that central tower with the river flowing through.
“That is the university?” Lily asked, obviously quite impressed.
“It’s made up of several colleges,” I explained. “Over thirty that include the college of medicine, mathematics, and science.”
“Did ye attend?” Lily asked.
She was well aware of my time in Paris at private school. However, Cambridge was not part of my education.
How best to respond, I thought, when both my great aunt and I had emphasized the value of an education for her.
“Women are allowed to attend lectures and study,” I replied. “However, they are not given certificates for their studies, which would allow them to become doctors.”
“But men are given certificates,” she concluded. “And become doctors, teachers, and scientists.”
I saw the frown that slowly worked its way onto her face.
“How then might a woman support herself? Other than work on the streets?”
That early education of another sort had most definitely not been forgotten.
“They might inherit through their family, or hope to marry,” I replied.
“Workhouses, mills, taverns, or places like the one in Edinburgh,” she replied.
A “church” of another calling, where we had first met. The frown deepened.
“It’s not right.”
“No,” I agreed. “It is not.”
“And yet, ye work with Mr. Brodie, and yer novels have been published quite successfully. That is the reason ye have insisted that I get an education.”
“So that you may be able to choose your own path forward and not be forced to rely on someone else,” I replied.
It was near midday when we reached the church in Grantchester.
It was made of limestone and fieldstone in a mix of Gothic and earlier Norman styles of the bell tower, arches and tower.
A stone wall surrounded the church cemetery with its ancient headstones. A small red-brick residence with arched windows, perhaps the vicarage, was on the other side of the wall with a gate between.
We left the coach at the end of the cobbled walkway that the led across the church yard to a small stone entryway that led into the church proper.
“I’ve not been in a real church before,” Lily whispered.
She was, of course, referring to the “Church” in Edinburgh, an abandoned church that had been turned into a whorehouse where she had worked as a lady’s maid.
“Good afternoon,” we were greeted. “I am Reverend Jeffers. Welcome to St. Andrew and St. Mary’s.”
I introduced us to him. “I hope we are not interrupting.”
There had been no service or meeting noted on the board at the entryway.
“We had early morning service for those who attend. The next service is this evening.”
“We’ve traveled from London,” I explained. “I’m hoping you can assist us with information from some time ago.”
He was quite young, although with that sort of calm demeanor I had found in other members of clergy, along with a friendly smile, and a warm brown gaze.
“I have only been here for two years; therefore, I am not certain how much assistance I might be.” He then asked us to follow him to his office in the rectory.
“You say this is from some time ago,” he said as he sat behind the plain desk. A crucifix hung on the wall, several leather-bound books on a reading table that included what appeared to be a Bible that lay open.
“I read daily,” he explained. “To remind myself of my own faults. It helps me understand the troubles that people bring to the church.” He smiled. “Now, I will try to help if I can.”
“We are making inquiries on behalf of someone who attended university quite some time ago,” I explained. “It would be helpful if we knew who the vicar was here at that time.”
He nodded. “There is a record in the bishop’s office, of course. That might provide the information you’re looking for. There is a record of documents that are kept here at the Church—for births, marriages, deaths in the parish, that would include those who presided over them. It might be possible to learn the vicar’s name from those records.” He rose from behind his desk and went to that table.
“What is the year?”
I replied that it would be 1860 or 1861.
He opened one of those leather-bound ledger.
“There are records from as early as the eleventh century, barely legible I must confess. I have found them most interesting. This particular one contains more recent entries for the past hundred years for residents of the parish.”
“Excuse me for interrupting.” A young woman appeared in the doorway of the rectory. “I didn’t know you had visitors.”
“Not at all, Livvy.” Reverend Jeffers introduced us. “My wife, Mrs. Jeffers. I was just assisting these ladies with a bit of church history,” he explained.
His wife smiled. “It is Mrs. Kearney. She is having some difficulty and has asked to speak with you. She is quite upset.”
“Ah, confessor for students, wayward souls, and marriage counselor. By all means, where might I find Mrs. Kearney?”
“She is in the small chapel,” his wife replied.
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.
She read it, then looked at us. “My eyes are not what they used to be,” she said with a frown.
“What do ye call him?” Lily asked as she bent to pet the dog.
“What is that, you say?” Mrs. Hollings replied.
“He must have a name.”
The dog caught her scent and immediately began to wag his tail.
“He has a name—Otis. He doesn’t usually take to strangers. And you would be Mikaela Forsythe and Miss Lily Montgomery,” Mrs. Hollings commented with note in hand and apparently no difficulty reading our names after all.
“Sit,” she said then. “Annie will bring tea and then you can tell me what you want to know about St. Andrew and St. Mary’s.”
As before, I explained that we were looking for information about the man who was vicar in the early months of 1861, and the name we found in the church records
She nodded. “That would be the Reverend Chastain, and a dreadful time for the parish with the scandal that involved those boys from the university.”
Historian indeed, I thought. “What can you tell us about that?”
“It involved several well-placed young men, very nearly got themselves dismissed,” she added with a nod. “There were four of them, called themselves…”
“The Four Horsemen,” I provided.
“That was it! Some sort of biblical reference, caused quite a stir at the time. But not nearly as much as the scandal over that poor girl, the vicar’s daughter, no less. Mary was her name.
“Not that I was surprised,” she said with a knowing look. “She was a wild young thing, the mother passed on. But the worst of it was that night at the Rose and Crown, the tavern at the other end of the village near the university.
“Those young men closed the tavern down, some twenty odd of them, including the young prince. It was said the girl was there as well. As I said, wild, if you get my meanin’.
“There was all sorts of gossip that went on that night, and His Highness was removed from the university shortly afterward by his father. It was said that he was sent out of the country to protect him against any scandal.
“It was a short while after that Mr. Chastain put in a request to end his term so that he could leave with the girl. The bishop agreed, and they were gone shortly after. I felt sorry for them both. Mr. Jewett came in after, a good man, bless his soul.”
“Do you know where Mr. Chastain and his daughter might have gone?”
“St. Pancras Old Church at Camden, according to Emma Mayhew. Her sister was housekeeper at the rectory there for some time, though I’m certain she has passed on now. She was older than me.” She cackled with laughter. “If you can imagine.”
We now had more information than when we arrived—a name and where the vicar had gone at the time. No doubt to avoid a scandal that the bishop at the time hoped to avoid.
“What sort of person was the vicar?” I asked. She had spoken a great deal about Mary, but little about her father.
“A good man as well, he doted on the girl. Did his best, I suppose, to raise her without the mother about. Not an easy task, as I well know.”
“Was there any mention about either of them after they left?”
“It all quieted down afterward. Mr. Jewett, who came in after, was a single man and did not tolerate gossip that involved the church.”
We stood to leave.
“I appreciate the visit. You will be taking the train back to London then?” she commented.
“It’s a short walk from here to the village,” she added. “I go two, sometimes three, times a week to market. Though the weather is fixing to set in.”
I thanked her for the tea as Lily said good-bye to Otis.
“She walks there two or three times a week?” Lily commented as we left. “She reminds me of Lady Montgomery.”
We reached the rail station in good time and purchased luncheon at a restaurant as we warmed ourselves and waited for the afternoon train.
On the return to London, Lily made notes.
We had learned a great deal, yet as with past inquiry cases, it raised an entirely new set of questions.
Was the Reverend Chastain still in London? Had he retired from the church and perhaps moved elsewhere? What had happened to Mary Chastain?
We arrived late afternoon back in London and found a driver to make the trip to the office on The Strand.
Mr. Cavendish informed us that Brodie had left earlier for the meeting with the Prince of Wales at Marlborough House. He then handed an envelope to me.
“This arrived this morning by courier.”
The envelope was the usual envelope used by the courier services around the city. Inside was another envelope, of the sort used as personal stationery. A note was written across the front of the envelope.
“I found this in my husband’s desk.” And the initials, A.W.
I opened the inside envelope. It was from Lady Walsingham.
A note was enclosed. It was smudged with dirt but still legible.
“The sins of the fathers shall be visited upon the sons”
And below that, another cryptic message:
“And then there were three”
With that cryptic message resembling the other notes that had been left on the bodies of two young men, it had obviously been found on Lady Walsingham’s son the day of the accident.
From the note she had written on the outside of the envelope, it appeared that she had searched for it after we met. And it seemed that the son of Sir Walsingham, one of those four young men years before, had been the first victim, followed then by the deaths of two more—the son of Lord Salisbery, and the death only days earlier of the son of Sir Huntingdon.
Three.
I thought of what had started our search, something my great aunt mentioned in passing that had disappeared from any mention in the dailies at the time, or any time afterward.
They had called themselves the Four Horsemen, those four sons of privilege, and the sort of foolish things those young men did. Foolishness, we had learned, that had led to the compromise of a young woman and the threat of scandal. That young woman, Mary Chastain, had left Grantchester and the scandal along with her father.
Now, after more than thirty years, the sons of three of those foolish young men were dead. With perhaps a fourth son to meet the same fate?
A father’s vengeance after all this time?
“What is to be done now?” Lily asked as I sat at the desk while we waited for Brodie to return from his meeting with Prince Edward.
Nineteen
MARLBOROUGH HOUSE
Brodie looked up as the motion of the coach changed, and the driver slowed the team at the gate.
He provided his name and informed the uniformed guard that he had an appointment with His Highness. It seemed that a message had been provided to the guards, a list checked, and then the driver was waved through.
He had gone back through the information the Prince of Wales had provided since taking the inquiry case, along with information they had learned that had not yet been made known.
