Page 53 of A Hint of Scandal

Out of the bustle of the busy street, a blessed silence descended as Max closed the door behind them.

“I believe the parish registers will be stored in the vestry,” Serafina said. “If we’re lucky. This church doesn’t look as though whoever the vicar is will be living close by. His residence could be anywhere in this town.”

“City,” Max said. “You must remember Oxford is a city. She has a cathedral and that makes her a city, about which she’s very proud.”

“City, then. No matter. What we need to do is find those records.”

The vestry was easily located, as was the iron bound chest that contained the church records. One book each for marriages, deaths and baptisms. A quick perusal found the one they wanted, and they laid it on the small table that occupied the center of the vestry. Serafina opened the heavy, leatherbound tome to find it full of closely packed lines of faded writing. “I think this goes back for years. What year are we looking for? Do you have the exact date?”

Max shook his head. “I have the year—1782—but not the date. Julian thought it was May or June but he couldn’t be sure.” He shook his head. “He was not himself this morning, and it was hard to elicit the information we needed. I think yesterday took more out of him than he would have liked to admit.”

Serafina turned the pages until the correct year was reached, a good three quarters of the way through the enormous book. The writing was still spidery and difficult to read, as though whoever had inscribed the names of those being married hadn’t meant anyone else to be able to work out who they were. The whole book was like that, in fact.

She ran her finger over the pages, Max leaning over her shoulder as though to follow her every move. Nothing in May, save a whole host of people she’d never see and who might even be dead by now, but June produced something. “There.” She jabbed her finger on the page. “Look.”

With difficulty, she read aloud what had been written by the then vicar of this church on the 14th of June, 1782.

“Julian Aubrey, Viscount Lavington, lawful son and heir to John Aubrey, Earl of Westbury, of Bratton Park in the county of Wiltshire and Abigail Lewis, spinster of this parish, lawful daughter of Amos Lewis, of Taunton, were joined in marriage this day the 14th of June by Common License by Thomas Abraham, Vicar of St Michael-at-the-North-Gate, in the City of Oxford.”

Max let out a deep breath. “So he did marry her. It’s written here in plain English.”

“Did you ever doubt his word? I wonder if the same vicar is still here?” Serafina peered at the signatures of the married couple and those of two witnesses—Robert Trubshawe and George Paynter. “Or at least one of the witnesses. The trouble is, it’s such a long time ago now. We need to talk to at least one of those three, if any of them are still living. If only to get a description of the married couple to verify if they were indeed your brother Julian and this mysterious Abigail.”

Max nodded.

“Excuse me?” A refined and yet troubled voice sounded behind them.

Serafina and Max swung around as one, like children caught out in some naughtiness. The man standing behind them was elderly and wore the black uniform of his trade—vicaring.

“Oh, you made me jump.” Serafina put a hand to her throat. “I’m so sorry if we shouldn’t be in here, but we have something very important to do.”

The vicar harrumphed. “Well, you could have come and asked me. I would have been quite happy to assist you. What is it you are searching for?” He didn’t sound all that friendly.

“Were you the incumbent here twenty-seven years ago?” Max asked.

The vicar shook his head. “Alas, no. I have been here but twenty years. A long time, I concede, but not so long as my predecessor who died whilst in office here. I think perhaps he would be the gentleman you are enquiring about. The Reverend Abraham.”

Serafina couldn’t help the frown. No chance of questioning the vicar then. But that left the two witnesses. She put her finger on their names. “What about these two men? Robert Trubshawe and George Paynter? They give their origins as ‘of this parish.’ Do you know if either of them might still be living here in Oxford?”

The vicar stepped forward and read for himself the record of the marriage. “You are making enquiries about this marriage? That seems more than a little strange.” He raised his rather bushy gray brows. “What is it to you, might I ask?” His tone remained cold and forbidding, as though they were requesting something clandestine.

“You might ask, but I might not tell you,” Max said.

“Then I might not divulge the whereabouts of either Robert or George.”

So he knew them by their first names. They were likely then to be members of his congregation, or to have been members, once. Twenty-seven years was a long time and they might not have been young when they’d acted as witnesses to this marriage. But why did he find their request strange?

She put a hand on Max’s arm to restrain him. “Could I ask you why you’re so surprised we’re enquiring about this, Father?”

The old man narrowed his eyes as though considering whether to divulge anything to her. “Because you are not the first to come here asking me about this marriage.”

Serafina and Max exchanged glances. So that was how the woman had found out her marriage had not been false. She’d come enquiring at the church to see if they had any record of it—and found the same thing they just had.

“It is a matter of inheritance,” Serafina said, frowning at Max again to keep him quiet, as she could feel the tension in his arm. “My companion is the brother to the man in question, who is now the earl himself, and on his death bed. You will understand how important this matter is, and how quickly we must resolve it.”

The vicar’s brows did another wiggle upwards. “Aha,” he said, sounding perhaps a little less stern. “A lost heir, perhaps. Then that is different. But I’m sorry to say that Mr. Trubshawe, who ran a respectable inn, is no longer with us. I conducted his funeral myself, some five years since.”

“And George Paynter?”

“Still living, but in a parlous condition. He has fallen on hard times since his wife died and old age took him. I do what I can for him, but he spends much of his money on liquor. You will no doubt find him in The Malt Shovel, Mr. Trubshawe’s old place of business. Just down the lane from here.”

Serafina bestowed a grateful smile on the old man. “Thank you so much for your help.” Then she thought of something else. “Was the other person who came here enquiring about the marriage a woman?”

The vicar nodded. “She was.”

“And did she ask to speak to the witnesses?”

“She didn’t mention them at all, so I refrained from drawing her attention to them.”

That was odd. “Could you tell me why you did that?”

He shifted uncomfortably as though not at ease with further revelations, but it seemed honesty got the better of him. “She did not seem to be a lady,” he said, with infinite care. “And I did not care for her attitude.”

Max held out his hand. “Thank you very much for your assistance.”

The old man took it. “Don’t give George Paynter any money,” he warned as Max opened the door back into the nave. “He will only pour it down his throat. If you wish to reward him in any way, buy him food.”

“We will,” Serafina called as she hurried after Max.