Rescue me, Lord, from my enemies, I have fled to You for refuge.
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Psalm 143
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The dark wood choir stalls filled the sanctuary of the chapel, and in the summer evening a polychrome shaft of light descended from a stained-glass window high above them, falling on the just and unjust alike, making Nathaniel's beard look like the dyed hair of a young delinquent. Back and forth between the stalls the verses of the psalm were traded, the words of David that had defined Jewish and Christian worship for millennia, sung in a way that also had its origins in Israel and had been modified in the monasteries to carry the prayer of the Church, the opus Dei, up to God, hour after hour, day after day, year after year, century after century ⦠Boniface never felt more a part of the long history of the faith than when he said or sang the office, his voice blending with those of long-dead Jews and monks, the choirs of angels harmonizing with them, solving the great mystery of Israel, the covenant and the cross at last in concord. And the recovery of this practice among them they owed to Nathaniel.
A church remains cool in summer, in shadows, the invisible ceiling above with the great arches making them safe as Jonah in
the belly of the whale, old men with their reedy voices finding in the mesmerizing monotone of chant the purpose of their lives as they moved toward the little variation at the middle of the verse and the greater one at the end. And then the other side picked it up. At the end of the psalm, the deep bow as they sang the doxology. Oh, dear God, how he loved it, and how he hated the man who had made it possible again, Nathaniel at the organ, Nathaniel with his golden voice, Nathaniel the Judas among them.
Boniface realized that the community was split along the lines of their opposite views on the proposal that Nathaniel had put before them. How could those men be so insensible of the sanctity of this place that they could imagine putting it on the block for a mess of pottage? But they would go from the church to the common room where the by now all-too-familiar discussion would go on. But tonight it would go on with a difference.
He opened the meeting with a statement.
“I am told that canon law prevents us from selling, even if we were agreed,” Boniface said. He had wanted to hold back this precious information, but noticing the wavering among his allies, he could not restrain himself.
“Whoever told you that is wrong,” Nathaniel said.
“My informant has a degree in canon law.”
“But law is a matter of precedents, even Church law. Other communities have sold their property.”
“But not licitly, I have been informed. It amounts to the alienation of Church property.”
“Are you saying that the Church has never sold a piece of land in two thousand years?”
Old Martin piped up. “During the Reformation, churches were confiscated, the heads of statues knocked off, terrible sacrileges committed.”
“Don't forget the goddess of Reason on the main altar of Notre Dame,” Ambrose said, and a moment of silence ensued when the rest of them tried to remember.
“Of course it all would depend on what we did with any money gained from the sale of the property,” Boniface said.
What did he mean?
“If it were used to establish another Marygrove elsewhere, the goods of the Church would not be alienated, but put to a different sacred use.”
Boniface watched Nathaniel as he said this. It proved to be far more of a trump than his first invocation of canon law. Father Dowling had described for Boniface the precedent that had so pained Amos Cadbury and himself, the nuns in Los Angeles who had enriched themselves personally with money gained from the sale of their property, each one pocketing her share and heading into the world. Hadn't Nathaniel said that the woman he married had been a nun of that community? Boniface felt that he had indeed hit upon the precedent that motivated Nathaniel, and if that was so it cast his return to the community in the darkest of lights. In any case, Nathaniel for a change fell silent and there were looks of consternation on the faces of his allies. What had they been persuaded to favor? Surely they had had no notion of enriching themselves at the expense of the Order of St. Athanasius. Dark frowns formed and Nathaniel angrily left the room.
Boniface breathed a prayer that he had been spared the need to make known what John Sullivan had told him.
“Has Father Nathaniel made any comment on my presence here, Father?” the visitor had asked.
“Of course he noticed it.”
“He is avoiding me.”
“Avoiding you?”
“My name is not John Sullivan, Father. It is Stanley Morgan.” The mystery of the initials on the man's briefcase was solved. “I am here under false pretenses. I knew Nathaniel in California where he was known as Nathaniel Richards. He stole a large sum of money from me.”
“Good God.”
“He siphoned money from people's savings and from my firm and transferred it to an account in a Zurich bank.”
If Father Boniface had not been sitting, he would have fallen. “Why are you here?”
“To confront him. To demand that he give back that money. I spent time in prison for what he did, but there is no way he could be successfully prosecuted for it. This is a peaceful place, Father, I almost wish I were here for the reason I gave you. But you have a traitor amongst you. Mr. George showed me the story in the local paper suggesting that Richards favors selling this property. I have no doubt that it was the thought of the fortune it represented that drew him back to you.”
Nathaniel's reaction to what Father Boniface had said, at last making use of the ammunition provided him by Father Dowling and Amos Cadbury, seemed to justify Stanley Morgan's interpretation of the prodigal's return. In the course of the evening, two of those who had allied themselves with Nathaniel came to Boniface to assure him that they had been motivated solely by the thought that they were preventing worthy people from having the property they themselves loved so much and where they had lived their long lives. In some of their cases, a life lived under the vow of poverty had made money so odd a substance that he would have had trouble imagining himself with several hundred dollars, let alone a fortune.
“Did Nathaniel intend that each of us should become wealthy?”
“Perhaps he didn't know what he intended.”
“You are a good man, Father Boniface.”
Meaning he had a good face. Black thoughts stirred in his heart, at the enormity of what Nathaniel had done, misleading those good old men. Perhaps he had a further plan whereby he would come into possession of it all, putting it into his Swiss account. Boniface had known annoyance before, he had responded to the small irritations of community life, but never had he felt a temptation to dark and murderous anger. He was in no condition to speak to Nathaniel now. God knew what he might do if Nathaniel's motive had indeed been exposed. But by waiting he was giving the man time to think of some plausible explanation of what he had done. No, the time was now.
But when he left his room and the mansion, Boniface took the path to the chapel and there in the dark church he knelt and asked that his heart be cleansed. He would tell Nathaniel that he must leave, his probation was up and Boniface would not permit him to rejoin the community permanently. He would stand at the front gate like the angels showing Adam and Eve out of the garden, but he prayed that he would not do it from a vindictive motive. He stayed in the church for an hour, but when he left his heart was still not cleansed of anger and hatred.
Nathaniel did not respond to the knock on his door. Had he already expelled himself, slinking off now that his purpose was known? It seemed too good to be true. He wanted the object of his dark thoughts out of the house, off the grounds, gone.
“Have you seen Nathaniel?”
“He said he was going to the grotto.”
Boniface looked at his informant, to see if there was any irony
in his expression that had not been in his voice. But he was simply answering a question. Full of disappointment, deflated because his thought that Nathaniel had fled was not true, Boniface returned to his room.
The body of Richard Krause, Father Nathaniel, was found at the grotto the following morning. The weapon that had killed him still jutted horribly from his bloody back, a garden tool from the maintenance shed. The victim was wearing his religious habit.
Do not fret because of evildoers.
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Psalm 37
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Dr. Pippen, the auburn-haired assistant coroner, watched the officious Lubins take command of the scene at the grotto, alienating all and sundry with his many and conflicting orders. The body had been found on a prie-dieu in front of the grotto by Andrew George, the head of the grounds crew. He had come upon what he thought was one of the fathers at prayer and was going respectfully by when he saw the handle of the pickax and stopped. Captain Phil Keegan and Lieutenant Cy Horvath were listening impassively to the head gardener's excited account.
“What time was that?”
“Seven, maybe a little before. Every morning at seven I go to the maintenance shed.”
“Were you surprised to see someone kneeling at the grotto?”
George looked from Horvath to Keegan. “That is what they do there.”
Pippen joined them, if only to distance herself from the coroner. She was itching to get at the body, but she was damned if she would risk being pushed aside by Lubins.
“Who was he?” she asked Horvath.
“One of the priests.”
“That's weird,” she said, and then, “Isn't it?”
“Yes.”
“Killed with an ax?”
“You're the coroner.”
“Lubins is here.”
The coroner was not as stupid as Pippens pretended, but Cy Horvath adopted her point of view. Stolidly and happily married, he had never felt the lures of infidelity prior to the arrival of Dr. Pippen as assistant to Lubins. Her hair was gathered into a ponytail, she wore jeans and a baggy sweatshirt against the morning chill on which Greek letters Cy did not understand were lettered. Her ponytail swished as she turned toward Lubins and then back again to Cy.
The medical examiner's wagon had been backed along the path from the parking lot behind the greenhouse, a lot that separated the greenhouse from the maintenance shed. It was from that shed that the ostensible murder weapon had come. George identified it when he was taken to the body. Lubins did not want the ax removed from the body.
“That's mine,” George said, having stooped to look at the handle. “Ours.”
By concentrating on the handle he could avoid looking at the body. It was not a pretty sight. Lubins called Pippen over and the two of them stood on either side of the body until by some imperceptible sign Lubins gave her the go-ahead and she finally got things under way. Lubins went around letting people know he was leaving, interrupting Keegan who was talking with one of the priests, and then saying to Cy, “Well, back to the salt mines.”
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Pippen had the pickax removed, handed it to Cy as if he were assisting her at surgery, and had the body transferred to the meat wagon so she could complete the on-site investigation. Cy took the pickax in a plastic bag to Keegan, who tried its heft as Cy had, and then it went with other items thought pertinent to the inquiry. Although it was private property, the area was taped off and uniformed cops posted as if they meant to hinder the movements of the old priests. The kneeling bench where the body was found was off bounds, so any praying would have to be done from a distance. Keegan's phrase.
“Maybe it always is.”
Keegan looked at Cy. “Ever been here before?”
“Maybe when I was a kid.”
“You ever want to know what the Church used to be, this is the place.”
“I remember.”
“But it was still going on here.”
“Who were you talking to?”
“Father Watchamacallit. Boniface, the man in charge, is in the chapel, taking this pretty hard.”
What Phil regarded as an island of preconciliar tranquillity had been shaken by the articles Tetzel wrote in the
Tribune,
but things were bound to get a lot worse now. Cy spotted Tetzel skulking around the edges of the little gathering. The dead man was the one who had spilled his guts to Tetzel, sounding anxious to sell the property before Leo Corbett could get his hands on it. Coming up the drive from the county road, Cy had been reminded of the practice field at Champaign, his freshman and only year in
college. An injury had ended his promising athletic career, but he had joined the force and Phil Keegan, recognizing the name of the local high school star, had moved him swiftly up the ranks in order to have him at his side.
Cy went around the wagon in which Pippen was at work and followed the path back to the greenhouse. It was the old-fashioned kind of greenhouse, hundreds of puttied windows, green frames, the low-angled roof reflecting everything in sightâsky, clouds, trees, the swift flight of a bird. Some of the windows looked whitewashed, to cut the sun. The door was open and Cy looked in, expecting to find Andrew George, who had identified the ax. But this was a young kid.
“I'm Horvath,” he said, still in the doorway. The kid had an egg-shaped head, large eyes, and needed a shave. Cy went inside. “Lieutenant Horvath.”
“Police?”
Well, people say stupid things at a murder scene. He nodded. “Who are you?”
“Michael. I live here.”
“In the greenhouse?”
“My father is in charge of the grounds.”
“Andrew George.”
“That's right. Is he really dead?”
“Didn't your father tell you?”
“My father.”
“He found the body. Didn't he tell you?” George's story was that he ran back to the lodge and called the mansion to summon Boniface. Then, on Boniface's orders, he had called the police.
“I haven't seen him yet.” The grotto was on the path that came from the lodge to the greenhouse. Of course, there were other ways Michael George could have come.
“You live in the lodge with your family.”
“That's right. Is it Father Nathaniel?”
“I suppose you knew them all.”
“I grew up here. I went to school here.”
“Tell me about Father Nathaniel.”
“He was a sonofabitch.”
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The older George did not want to comment on community affairs, what did he know, but everyone knew that the one who got killed was a troublemaker.
“Maybe you read the articles in the paper?” he said to Phil Keegan.
“Tell me about them.”
Phil had read the articles, of course. George's version of them was very personal. His family's tenure as groundskeepers was threatened by all this talk about selling Marygrove.
“A couple months ago, last year, any time, no one's talking about leaving here, selling the property. Things may not be good, talk to Boniface, but leave here? No way. This is where they have been since ⦠My father worked here before me. And I have a son.”
“He here now?”
“I haven't seen him this morning.”
“Is this him?”
A man had looked into the kitchen where Keegan was talking with George, and then withdrawn. “Hey,” Keegan called. “Come back.”
But this was not the son. This was a man on retreat who was living in the lodge. John Sullivan. “What's going on?”
“You just getting up?” It was now after nine-thirty.
“This fresh air! Windows wide open, I could have slept till
noon. The sun woke me up, shining right in my face.”
“Something awful has happened,” George said, putting a stop to his guest's cheerful patter.
“I'm Captain Keegan, chief of detectives, Fox River.” There was no special reaction. “We've got a murder here.”
This got his attention. Phil let George tell him the story. How he found the body.
“But who was it that was murdered?”
“Nathaniel.”
“No kidding!”
The man pulled out a chair and joined them at the kitchen table. Cy arrived with the son, who was allowed to go on to his room after an exchange with his father.
“Where you been?”
“In the greenhouse.”
“At a time like this?”
Keegan said, “Your son work with you?”
“Thank God his mother's away.”
Mrs. George had taken the bus to Peoria to be with her daughter who was about to deliver the Georges' first grandchild.
Cy had gotten the guest away from the table and was talking to him in a corner.
“How come you're staying here?” Cy asked, when Sullivan told him he was on retreat.
“This is where they put me.”
“They?”
“Father Boniface.”
“How long have you been here?”
Sullivan thought. “It's going on five days.”
“How long is a retreat?”
“That depends. You Catholic?”
Cy nodded. “Five days seems a pretty long one.”
“To tell you the truth, it's open-ended. I was kind of at the end of my tether when I drove up the driveway. I had a long talk with Father Boniface.”
“The head man.”
“Yes.”
“How many priests here, do you know?”
“Eight.”
“A big place for that small a number.”
“I think there used to be a lot more of them.”
“How did you hear of them?”
“What do you mean?”
“Why did you come here to make a retreat?”
“Pure chance.”
“So how's it going?”
Sullivan smiled, man to man. “It's not like riding a bicycle. But I'm getting the hang of it.”
“Did you know Father Nathaniel?”
“I can't believe he's dead.”
“When did you last see him?”
“Yesterday.”
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Father Boniface was seated in his choir stall, hands up his sleeves, staring straight ahead. He was startled when Phil Keegan whispered in his ear. Could they talk outside? Boniface nodded, got up slowly, and stepped out of the stall. He genuflected slowly, and Phil realized he had forgotten to, so he bent his knee and bowed toward the tabernacle.
“Have they taken the body away?”
“They're about to, Father.”
“I gave him conditional absolution when Mr. George called me. He was already dead.”
“You take his pulse or what?”
In his office, Boniface directed Phil to a chair and pulled another out from behind the desk. They sat facing one another. “He had stopped bleeding.”
Boniface might have been remembering coming on the body, slumped over the kneeler with the ax handle sticking out the back. That was the blood he meant had stopped.
“This has to be a terrible shock, Father.”
“We've been getting a lot of shocks lately.”
“The newspaper stories?”
“Recent years have not been good ones for us.” He shook his head. “Now this.”
“How old was Nathaniel?”
“His early sixties, I think. He was young among us.”
“Tell me about him.”
“He had been away. He left the Order and lived in California for some years. He came back to us only a few months ago.”
“Certainly no one in the community could have killed him?”
“God forbid.”
“Any idea who might have? Did he ever mention being under threat?”
“He was killed with an ax.”
“That's right.”
“The ax belonged to us, Mr. George tells me.”
In his oblique way, Father Boniface seemed to be telling Phil not to discount too quickly a local murderer.
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Pippen summed up her preliminary exam for Cy. Death had occurred perhaps six to eight hours ago. It was now ten in the morning.
“Between two and four?”
“You work that out right in your head?” But she smiled prettily. Cy had been sure his attraction for her would diminish when she married four months ago, but she seemed to have passed into another and riper phase.
“Weapon, pickax.”
“What is a pickax?”