Murder at the National Cathedral (21 page)

He looked at the altar. There was nothing on it except a tiny vase of wilting yellow flowers. His thoughts returned to the small church in Buckland where he’d discovered the body of Reverend Priestly. He saw again, in his mind, the candlestick that had been used to murder Priestly. Such an obvious instrument of death in a church setting. But no weapon had been conveniently left behind here. The Washington police, according to their statements, had examined every cross, chalice, and candlestick in the cathedral. None showed any signs of having been used to end Singletary’s life. Could they have missed anything? The cathedral was so large and contained so many “hiding places”—for objects or for people. To focus, as Smith was, on finding a churchly weapon not only represented seeking the proverbial needle in a haystack, it was uncalled for. Would he be dwelling upon it if there had not been the coincidence of an Anglican priest’s being murdered in a church thousands of miles away? Of course not.

Smith left the chapel and descended the greenish stone stairs leading to the crypt floor.

A sign for visitors pointed the way to the Bethlehem Chapel. Smith stopped every few feet to take in his surroundings. There was another flight of steps to his left. He moved on; a men’s room was on his left, then an oak-paneled wall that went up six or seven feet. Above the paneling was a clock visible from the hallway. Just before the wall began was a door with a sign:
WASHINGTON CATHEDRAL
ACOLYTES
. A series of glass display cases came next. They contained antique crosses and other gifts from churches around the world.

As he progressed toward the Bethlehem Chapel, Smith passed a door labeled BISHOP’S GUESTS, then the door to the choir room. Immediately across from it was the entrance to the chapel.

Smith looked back up the hall before entering the chapel. How far was it from Good Shepherd to the Bethlehem Chapel? One hundred and eighty feet, maybe two hundred. A reasonable distance to drag a body, although there was that flight of steps to contend with. Not many of them, though. Certainly not out of the question for the murder to have taken place in any of the cathedral’s quiet, secluded corners.

But why? he asked himself. In the first place, why speculate that the body had been moved? The police seemed convinced of it because of the lack of blood in Good Shepherd. A reasonable deduction, certainly, but the lack of blood only suggested that the murder might have happened elsewhere. The much larger question for Smith was: Why move the body? To create the impression that anyone, from anywhere, might have done the deed, since the chapel was open twenty-four hours a day? Why else? Then again, why bother?

As he stepped into the chapel, his eyes went immediately to the Indiana limestone altar. A woman carrying a vase of flowers came from behind it. She approached the communion rail, genuflected, and stepped up to the altar, where she gently placed the flowers between two tall, graceful brass candlesticks, each holding a long, slender white candle. She took great care to be sure that the vase was precisely centered between the candles. Content that it was, she returned to the communion rail, faced the altar, and genuflected again, then started to leave through the door through which Smith had entered.

“Excuse me,” Smith said. The loudness of his voice surprised him; they were in a stone boom box.

The woman turned and smiled. “May I help you?” she asked.

“Yes, perhaps you can,” said Smith, approaching her. “My name is Mackensie Smith. I’m about to have lunch with Bishop St. James.”

“Yes, Mr. Smith, I know who you are.”

“I was interested in the routine of dressing an altar,” said Smith, “particularly in this chapel. Are you a member of the Altar Guild?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Is it the guild’s responsibility to take care of the items on the altar—the flowers, the candles, things like that?”

“Yes, we take care of those things.”

Smith looked at the altar again and smiled. “It looks beautiful. The flowers are lovely. So are the candles.”

“Yes, they are.”

“Is the Altar Guild responsible for keeping the candlesticks shined?”

“In a sense, yes. Sometimes we polish them ourselves, although that’s generally left to the maintenance staff. We keep an eye on them, though, and when we see one that needs attention, we point it out to them.”

“Do the same candlesticks always remain on the same altar? Are those holders up there designated for the Bethlehem Chapel?”

“Oh, no, it would depend upon the service to be celebrated.”

“Of course it would. Do you happen to know whether that set of candlesticks has been on this altar for a while?”

“No,” she said pleasantly. “They were put there just this morning.”

“What about the ones that were there before?” Smith asked.

“They’re in the back of the altar. It’s a big area, and some
things are left there, but never for long. I put the candlesticks that were on the altar back there myself.” She laughed. “You certainly have a deep interest in candlesticks, Mr. Smith.”

Smith joined in her laughter. “Well, candles always add so much to the visual beauty of a service. I sometimes think of earlier times when candles were the only source of illumination.”

“I think about that, too. Of course, they do have even greater symbolism. Some think that two candles represent the divine and human natures of God, but I prefer to think that lights on the altar signify the joy we receive from the light of Christ’s Gospel.”

“That’s nice,” Smith said. “Would it be permissible for me to go behind the altar?”

“Of course. I’ll turn on the lights.”

They stepped behind the altar, and Smith looked at the vault to his left. The woman explained that the first bishop of Washington, Bishop Satterlee, and his wife were interred there.

Smith’s attention next went to a pair of candlesticks on a table. “Excuse me,” he said, picking up one of them and lightly running his fingertips over the entire rim of the base, then doing the same with the other. He had a feeling the woman was looking at him strangely. He said pleasantly, “Yes, I do have a deep interest in these things. I’m a collector of sorts. My wife has a gallery.” He knew it wasn’t necessary to explain his actions, but he did anyway. He checked his watch. “Time to meet with the bishop. You’ve been very kind. Thank you.”

“Any time, Mr. Smith.” She hesitated, and he leaned forward to encourage her to say what she was holding back. “Mr. Smith, I know you were a friend of Reverend Singletary’s, and that you are helping the cathedral in this matter. Is there anything new? Will they ever find the person who killed him?”

“I don’t know,” Smith said. “All we can do is hope and pray like everyone else that his killer will be brought to justice. Thank you again. I am late.”

When Smith walked into the bishop’s study, it was immediately apparent to him that St. James was agitated. No, distraught and angry more aptly described his mood. Smith mentioned it to him as they sat down for a lunch of onion soup, egg salad, and popovers, served by a member of the kitchen staff.

St. James locked eyes with Smith. “It’s probably not for a bishop to say, but it’s been one hell of a morning,” he said. “I can do without such mornings.”

“Care to share it with your rabbi here?” Smith asked.

“I have to share it with somebody. I’ve spent most of this morning with two of my canons, Merle and Armstrong.”

“They must have said something out of the ordinary to upset you so.”

“They certainly did. You know, Mac, from the moment of the initial shock of Paul’s murder, my concern has been to protect this cathedral from any scandal that might result. You know that, don’t you? You understand how important that is to me.”

Smith nodded.

“I sometimes wonder if I would do anything to protect and preserve the cathedral’s image, perhaps to a fault.”

“That’s always possible, George. Have you—done it ‘to a fault’?”

St. James sat back and pushed his plate away. He sighed and chewed his cheek as he formulated what he would say next. Smith decided to help him along. “Tell me about the conversation you had this morning with Merle and Carolyn Armstrong.”

St. James took Smith’s lead. “How do I begin? At the beginning, of course. As you know, the police questioned everyone who was in the cathedral the night of Paul’s murder.
There doesn’t seem to be any doubt, does there, that he was killed the night before the body was found?”

“That seems to be firmly established.”

“Reverend Merle told the police that he was not in the cathedral that night.”

“And?”

“And he has been contradicted.”

“Who contradicted him?”

“Reverend Armstrong. You know her, I believe.”

“Not well, but Annabel and she have become friendly over the past few months. They’ve been working together on the mission fund-raiser that’s being held at Annabel’s gallery. Why would Reverend Merle have lied about being in the cathedral? He’d have every right to be here.”

“I don’t know, but he continues to maintain that he was not here. He says Reverend Armstrong is mistaken. I think the police tend to believe her, Mac. They’ve been back twice to speak with Merle.”

“You can’t blame them for that, considering the conflicting testimony. What do
you
think, George? Was Merle in the cathedral and is he lying, or is Reverend Armstrong lying, or mistaken?”

“I have no idea. Jonathon assures me that he was not here that night, and I have no reason to disbelieve him. On the other hand, I have no reason to question the honesty of Reverend Armstrong.” His smile was pained, and he slowly shook his head. “It almost doesn’t matter who is telling the truth. The result is that instead of my clergy pulling together and closing ranks in the interest of protecting this cathedral, they are now squabbling. It would be bad enough if they did it privately, but Carolyn Armstrong has made it plain to the police that she is certain Jonathon was in the cathedral that night. Their behavior is so destructive.”

“Yes, but there isn’t much you can do about it.”

“I’m well aware of that.” St. James hadn’t meant to snap at Smith. He apologized.

“No apologies needed, George. You’ve been under the gun ever since this happened. This kind of pressure takes its toll. What concerns me is why either of them might lie. Does Merle think that if he denies that he was in the cathedral, no one will consider him a suspect? Or, is he lying because …?”

“Exactly what I was thinking, Mac. Is he lying because he has something to cover up?”

Smith put his finger in the air. “Or is there a reason for Armstrong to lie about Merle? Could this be an attempt to get some kind of shot at him?”

“I almost don’t want to know. Eat something, Mac.”

Smith laughed. “Before it gets cold? It’s already cold, which is what egg salad is supposed to be.” He ate some of the salad and half a popover.

St. James appeared to be having difficulty finding a comfortable position in his chair. There was more going on in the bishop’s mind than this conflict between his two canons, Smith knew. St. James eventually got up and went to a window overlooking the cathedral close. He stood erect, his hands locked behind his back, his upper body moving with each deep breath, the body language of a man summoning up the fortitude to face a further unpleasant reality.

“The egg salad is good, George, but I prefer conversation,” said Smith.

The bishop gave Smith a strong, definitive nod of his head. “You read people pretty well, don’t you, Mac?”

“Sometimes. I think this might be one of them. Come, sit down.” After St. James returned to his chair, Smith said, “All right, you have a potential problem because of the conflicting stories of two of your canons. What else happened this morning that has you so uptight?”

St. James let out a baleful sigh. “Just about everything has me upset, Mac, all having to do with Paul’s murder. Reverend Armstrong’s accusation about Merle being in the cathedral that night wasn’t the only thing she brought up
this morning. I’m meeting this afternoon with a Korean gentleman named Jin Tse. I met with him immediately after Paul’s death. Mr. Tse was anxious … I suppose I can’t blame him … that the cathedral’s support of the Word of Peace movement not diminish because of Paul’s passing. I assured him it wouldn’t, although I must admit I was not acting out of deep conviction. Frankly, I don’t like Mr. Tse, and although I can’t quarrel with the stated purpose of Word of Peace, I have had many uneasy moments about it. These movements sweep up people with all sorts of motives, and Word of Peace seems better supplied with self-seekers than peace-seekers. It occurred to me when you mentioned the murder of Reverend Priestly in England to ask whether he had any connection with the movement.”

“Not that I know of, unless his friendship with Paul is an indication. Why do you ask?”

“Do you think it’s possible …?”

Smith waited for the bishop to complete his thought.

“Do you think it’s remotely possible that whoever murdered Paul had some connection with Word of Peace?”

“Of course it’s possible, George, and I’ve pondered that. It’s also just as plausible that Paul was murdered by someone not
from
Word of Peace, but who was an enemy of the group.” Smith narrowed his eyes. “You obviously are doing more than speculating here. What triggered this question?”

“I believe the purpose of the meeting this afternoon is to encourage me to delegate someone to take Paul’s place in the movement.”

“Who gets the nod?” Smith asked.

“I could be cruel to both parties and assign Reverend Merle.”

Smith laughed. “Merle? He doesn’t strike me as the type to get involved in liberal causes.”

“Exactly. That’s where the cruelty comes in. It certainly wouldn’t be fair to Word of Peace, either. The obvious choice is Reverend Armstrong. She was very much in sympathy
with the movement and Paul’s connection with it.” He lowered his eyes. “At least I thought she was until this morning.”

“What did she say to change your mind?”

“She told me that she’d warned Paul only a few days before his death to be careful of the people from Word of Peace. She told him—at least she claims to have told him—that some of the people were evil zealots who would not allow anything or anybody to stand in their way.”