Murder at the National Cathedral (13 page)

“Meet Mrs. Smith,” Mac said.

Gilberto, who’d been smiling broadly, frowned. “I have met Mrs. Smith before,” he said in his Italian accent.

“No you haven’t,” Mac said. “We’ve only been married two months.”

The smile returned to Gilberto’s face. “Ah, I understand. That deserves a celebration.” He went behind the bar, and Mac and Annabel took the two barstools. There were three other couples at tables in the small room, and one pair had overheard the conversation. “Congratulations,” the man offered.

Mac and Annabel turned and smiled. “Thank you,” they said.

“Let me buy you a drink,” the man said.

Gilberto placed his hands on the bar and said to the other customer, “
Grazie
, but this is my treat.”

The bar in Duke’s Hotel was known to many Londoners and American guests not only because of the professional charm of its barmen, Gilberto and Salvatore, but because
they were supported by the hotel in an ongoing search for the rarest ports, cognacs, and Armagnacs. A dozen bottles stood on a special shelf behind the bar. There was an 1802 Napoleon cognac, an 1894 B. Gelas et Fils Armagnac, and a 1908 Ware’s port. Only the port was unopened; it was on sale for £500, approximately $750. A one-third gill of the Napoleon cognac, barely enough to cover the bottom of a large snifter, cost £150, or about $225.

Gilberto took a half-empty bottle of Grahams 1945 port that sold for £40 per glass and carefully filled two small, elegantly etched aperitif glasses. He placed them in front of Mac and Annabel and said, “
Salute!
To love and marriage and to my good American friends.”

Mac and Annabel held the glasses up to each other, then tasted. “Superb!” Smith said. They placed the glasses on the bar and continued to look at each other. Gilberto put the glasses on a small silver tray. “What suite?” he asked.

“Twenty-five,” Smith said.

“I will take these to your room. You may prefer to be there.”

Smith knew that Jeffrey Woodcock would insist upon dinner at Wilton’s, a popular restaurant on Jermyn Street that served up traditional food in traditional ways in an atmosphere that was a little too stuffy and clubby for Smith’s taste. Wilton’s, he thought, was the sort of place that perpetuated the stereotype of British cooking as being bland, boiled, and without verve. It was precisely those qualities that attracted Woodcock to it, however. He was as clubby as the restaurant—a perfect match. There was one advantage to Wilton’s for Mac and Annabel. It was within a few blocks of Duke’s Hotel.

Judith Woodcock, whom Mac had met only once, was an animated woman with gray hair who doted on her husband, which he seemed to relish, and like him was given to repeating. She reminded Mac a little of his own mother, a younger
version, of course—he knew Woodcock was sixty-two; Judith was probably within a year or two of that.

After a dinner that surprised Mac with its excellence, the four of them walked back to Duke’s and settled at a corner table in the bar. The conversation eventually came around to what Mac called the subsidiary purpose of their visit to London—aside from honeymooning, of course.

“That’s shocking, absolutely shocking,” Woodcock said when Mac told him that Paul Singletary was the priest who’d married them. “Had no idea,” Woodcock said. “I met the poor chap twice when he was over here discussing this Word of Peace project. Charming young man … well, perhaps not so young, but certainly charming. Yes, perfectly charming.”

Smith pressed his knee against Annabel’s beneath the table. She was in a discussion with Judith Woodcock, but Mac knew she was tuned in to both conversations with equally clear reception, something at which she was expert.

“How did you have occasion to meet him?” Smith asked.

“As I said, this peace project he was involved with. The church was reluctant to enter into any sort of supportive posture without consulting the firm for a legal opinion. We saw nothing wrong with it, although I must say there were some individuals involved who are not the sort of chaps I would invite to the club.” Woodcock laughed; Mac smiled. “No, not to the club, or to Wilton’s, for that matter. Still, nothing wrong with the movement. One can’t very well be critical of efforts to bring peace to the world, can one?”

Smith shook his head. “No, one can’t.” Now I’m repeating, he thought.

“Do your police chaps have any leads?” Woodcock asked.

“Not yet,” Smith replied. “One of the things I’ve promised the bishop of the National Cathedral I’d do while we’re in London is to attempt to trace Paul’s tracks during his last
visit. He evidently returned to Washington a day earlier than he’d planned.”

“That so? Why?”

“I don’t know. I have a letter of introduction to the archbishop of Canterbury from Bishop St. James in Washington. I was hoping to learn something from him about Paul’s visit.”

“I can certainly pave the way for you over at Lambeth,” Woodcock said. “I was there just the other day.”

“You were?” Smith said. “Do you meet often with your clerical clients?”

Woodcock laughed; it had a certain forced ring to it. “No, just on occasion. When something comes up that needs discussion.”

“Any talk of Paul Singletary’s murder the last time you were there?”

“No, absolutely none.” He didn’t repeat “None.” Smith knew his friend was not being honest.

“Word of Peace?” Smith asked.

“Pardon?”

“Word of Peace. Is that what you were meeting at Lambeth about?”

“No … well, yes, that is a continuing topic of discussion.”

“The church … the archbishop, that is, has been supportive of the movement, I gather.”

“Yes, quite.”

“Do you deal with the archbishop himself?”

“No, almost never. Frankly, Mac, I’ll be surprised if your letter gains you an audience with him. He sees very few people. Rumor has it he’s not been well, but I can’t confirm that. No, I deal with Reverend Malcolm Apt.”

“I know the name. Our bishop mentioned him to me, indicated he’s sort of an information officer for the church.”

“Yes, that and many other things. He seems to be directly involved in almost every aspect of Lambeth, almost all aspects,
a right-hand man-of-all-seasons for the archbishop.”

“I intend to call him in the morning,” said Smith, “see if I can arrange an interview with the archbishop.”

“Well, as I said, don’t count on it. Chances are you’ll meet with Reverend Apt.”

Annabel turned to Jeffrey Woodcock and said, as though she’d been part of the conversation, “You can see that this husband of mine plans a busy honeymoon.”

Both the Woodcocks laughed. “Very clever of you, Mac,” Jeffrey Woodcock said, “working in enough business to satisfy your Internal Revenue chaps back home. Write off your honeymoon. Damned clever, I’d say.”

Smith didn’t bother explaining that he hadn’t even thought of that until Woodcock brought it up. They finished their drinks and walked the Woodcocks to where they’d parked their Jaguar on Jermyn Street. During the short walk, Smith had the feeling that Woodcock had something to tell him, perhaps a favor to ask, but was not sure whether he should. Smith’s feeling was confirmed after Mrs. Woodcock was inside the Jag and Annabel was bidding a final good night to her through the open window. Smith and Woodcock stood next to the driver’s door. “Mac,” Woodcock said, “I was wondering if I could impose upon you while you’re here for a bit of legal consultation. Frankly, I could use the American view of things.”

“Go ahead,” Smith said.

“Not here, not now. Would you be able to find some time tomorrow?”

Smith glanced over the roof of the automobile at Annabel, who didn’t seem to be hearing the conversation. Did he dare build another business meeting into the honeymoon? He decided to take the chance, provided it didn’t take more than a little conversation with Woodcock. They agreed to meet the following day at eleven at Woodcock’s office.

Back in Suite 25, and bundled up in fluffy terry-cloth
robes provided by the hotel, Smith asked Annabel what she thought of the Woodcocks.

“Very nice people. Very nice. Very nice.” He laughed. She asked, “What are you meeting him for tomorrow?”

“You …?” Yes, she did have a remarkable ability to tune in on two conversations at once, even across the roof of a car. “I don’t know. He said he needed my counsel on something, a legal matter. I really couldn’t say no. He did pick up dinner.”

“No such thing as a free lunch,” she said.

“No, there isn’t.” He looked at his watch. “I suddenly am very tired. How about settling in for a good sleep?”

“Sounds lovely. Will I see you at all tomorrow?”

“Of course. We’ll meet for lunch. We have theater tickets and …”

“Sorry, Mac, can’t make lunch. Business. I forgot to tell you that I called that collector, Pierre Quarle, and made a date with him for lunch tomorrow.”

“You did. What’s he like?”

“We’ve never met, but he sounds absolutely charming, a very cultivated French accent, almost kissing my hand over the phone.”

They climbed into the king-size bed and pulled the covers up over them. “Will I see you after lunch?” Smith asked.

“Probably. Why don’t we leave messages at Reception, and we’ll coordinate, maybe have tea together.”

“Sounds fine.” He kissed her forehead and turned over.

She started to laugh.

He faced her. “What’s funny?”

“Us. We are funny, funny that is, and I think we should enjoy every minute of it. Good night, Mr. Smith.”

“Good night, Mrs. Smith.” He rolled over again. After a moment of silence, he sat up, lifted her right hand from beneath the covers, kissed it, and said,
“Bonne nuit, ma minette en susucre.”

“What does that mean?”

“Good night, sugarpuss. And if the Frenchman kisses your hand, I’ll send Tony over to break his knees.”

As Smith and Annabel fell asleep at eleven o’clock London time, Joey Kelsch walked into St. Albans in Washington for his 6:00
P.M.
meeting with Reverend Carolyn Armstrong. She hadn’t explained why she wanted to see him and he’d tried to make an excuse, but she’d insisted. “It will only take a few minutes, Joey,” she’d said. He hoped so.

They sat in the front pew of the small church. They were alone. Reverend Armstrong, who wore a stylishly tailored powder-blue suit over a starched white blouse, smiled warmly at the young boy. He returned the smile tentatively but avoided eye contact.

“Joey, I’ve been worried about you lately,” she said. She placed her fingertips on his hand. “Are you all right?”

“Yes, sure. I’m fine.”

“I was so upset for you when you became ill during Reverend Singletary’s funeral.”

“I’m sorry about that.”

“No need to be sorry. It could happen to any of us. I was quite upset myself. Was it the flu?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You look fine today.”

“It was … just a stomach sickness. I think I ate something.”

“Of course. Joey, I understand that you were working in the choir room the night Reverend Singletary was killed.”

“No, I … only for a little while.”

“Really? Reverend Nickelson said he’d assigned you a punishment until eleven that night.”

“No … Well, he did, but I … I left.”

“How early?”

“I … I knew Reverend Nickelson was gone that night, so I snuck out. I came in for a couple of minutes. Then I left. Honest.”

“I believe you. Well, I was just wondering. You didn’t hear anything or see anything that might have to do with what happened to Reverend Singletary that could be useful to the investigation?”

“No, ma’am. I wasn’t there long. I left.”

She sat back and smiled. “I was thinking how exciting it would be if you’d seen something that could help the police find out who killed Reverend Singletary. Wouldn’t that be exciting for you?”

“No, ma’am. I didn’t see anything. I swear.”

“Fine. Okay, now I want you to promise that if you remember anything, or want to talk about anything … 
anything
 … that you’ll come to me … first. Okay? Promise?”

“Yes, I promise.”

“Good, Joey. Thank you for coming.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

He fairly ran down the aisle and out the door.

London, Monday Morning—a.m. Precip; p.m. Partly Cloudy

After a leisurely breakfast in a tea shop around the corner from Duke’s, Mac flagged a taxi for Annabel and told her he’d call for messages at three. He returned to the suite, called Lambeth Palace, and asked for the archbishop. A minute later Malcolm Apt came on the line. Apt was cordial. He’d spoken with Bishop St. James about the possibility that Smith might call, and would be happy to meet at Smith’s convenience. They settled on two that afternoon.

“I’ll have a car pick you up at your hotel at one-thirty,” said Apt.

“That isn’t necessary. I’ll be happy to—”

“Please, I insist. The driver will fetch you at the hotel.”

“That’s very kind, Reverend Apt. Thank you.”

Smith took a brisk walk along Piccadilly, stopping to browse among the books in Hatchard’s and the beautifully
presented fancy foods in Fortnum and Mason, and ordered something he’d been promising himself for years, a pure silk umbrella custom-crafted for his height from Swaine Adeney, Brigg & Sons. He felt superb; he always did when he was in London (or maybe just because he was away from Washington). As always, he hoped that he could carry a slice of the good feeling back home.

Jeffrey Woodcock’s law firm was on Old Bailey Street, two blocks from the Central Criminal Court. His office befitted a prestigious London barrister. Other than one that housed books from floor to ceiling, the walls were paneled in wood almost black in color. The furniture, including Woodcock’s massive leather-inlaid desk, were antiques. The only thing that seemed out of place with the serene, time-warp image was Woodcock’s personal secretary, Miss Amill, who was decidedly modern. She offered coffee or tea. Smith opted for coffee; Woodcock took the tea.

“Had enough tea since you’ve been here, Mac?” Woodcock asked.

“Not really, but I suppose I will by the time we leave.”

“You’ll have to drink three-point-six-two cups a day to keep up with us.”