Murder at the National Cathedral (17 page)

“Yeah, I know all that, but if we can’t talk to her, we’ll get nowhere.”

Brian sat on the edge of the table next to his mother and placed his hands on her shoulders. “Mom, please, try to pull yourself together. You aren’t in any trouble. They just want to ask you some questions to help find whoever killed the priest.”

She took a rapid series of deep breaths and vigorously shook her head. “How could you do this to your own mother?”

“Mom, I couldn’t see you living the way you’ve been ever since you discovered that body. I did it because I love you. These people aren’t out to hurt you. They just want you to help them.” He said to Finnerty, “She’s been a wreck ever since that morning. I didn’t know what else to do but call you.”

“You did the right thing, Mr. Waters. Try to convince her she’s doing the right thing.”

No matter how upset someone is, there is just so much energy of despair, just so many tears in the tank. Eventually—it was only minutes but seemed like hours to Finnerty—Evelyn Waters gained enough composure to apologize, and to indicate that she would try to answer his questions.

“What I’d like you to do, Mrs. Waters, is to remember exactly what happened that morning from the time you entered the chapel to when you discovered the body, went up to the bishop’s dressing room with the bishop’s wife, and then left. Take your time, and don’t worry if you forget things. We’ll help you.”

She looked up into her son’s eyes. He was a nice guy, Finnerty decided, a little wimpy maybe but okay. Brian Waters touched his mother’s shoulder again and gave her a reassuring smile. Finnerty pegged him to be in his late twenties. They’d had a chance to talk a little before bringing his mother into the room. He’d dropped out of college and was
working as a salesman in an auto dealership on Wisconsin Avenue, not far from the cathedral. He lived with his mother; she had been widowed for eight years. According to the son, his father’s death sent his mother into religious immersion. She attended six o’clock mass almost every morning at the cathedral, made most noontime masses in the War Memorial Chapel, and spent her time away from church reading the Bible and listening to religious broadcasts. “Did she often go to that little chapel by herself at odd hours?” Finnerty had asked. “When she was especially upset,” the son had replied.

“Okay, Mrs. Waters, let’s begin,” Finnerty said. “I assume you went to the chapel because you were upset about something. Is that correct?”

Mrs. Waters bit her lip against another torrent of tears. She tried to reply verbally, but ended up simply nodding.

“What were you particularly upset about that morning?”

“I … it all seemed so hopeless.”

“What did?”

“Life … my life … everything happening in the world. He has to come and stop it.”

“Who has to come and stop it?”

“Jesus, the son of God. He’s our only hope for salvation. I’d been up all night and …”

When she didn’t continue, Finnerty asked her why she’d been up all night.

“I couldn’t sleep. I had on my movies.”

“Movies?”

Her son spoke for her. “She buys videotapes from religious organizations, from radio and TV evangelists. She watches them when she can’t sleep.”

“I see,” said Finnerty. “Go on, Mrs. Waters. Did something on one of the tapes especially upset you?”

She shook her head.

“Then why did you come to the chapel? What time did you come to the chapel?”

She looked up at her son.

“Go ahead, Mom,” he said. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

She raised her hands as though to indicate the futility of trying to remember the precise time. “Seven, yes, maybe seven-thirty.”

“In the morning.”

“Yes.”

“Did you drive there?”

“No. I walked.”

Her son answered. “She doesn’t drive, and when we looked for a new apartment in the neighborhood a few years ago after my dad’s death, it made sense to be within walking distance of the place where she spends so much of her time. It’s also near my job.”

“Okay,” Finnerty said. “How many times a week do you end up in that small chapel, the Good Shepherd one?”

Another fluttering of the hands in frustration with the question.

“Had you been there earlier in the week, the day before you found the body, two days before?”

“No. Yes, two days before. I went there at night.”

“What time at night?”

“Eleven.”

Finnerty knew she’d guessed at that time, and renounced trying to pin her down. It really wasn’t important. He said, “Okay, Mrs. Waters, you walked into the chapel. First, you had to enter the cathedral. Did you come through those doors just outside the chapel?”

“Doors? What doors?”

“There are doors that separate the inside from the outside. Just inside those doors is the chapel.”

For the first time she exhibited an emotion other than despair. “Yes, of course I came through the doors. How could I get to the chapel if I didn’t?”

Finnerty was pleased that she’d snapped at him. Could be
a sign she would get through the rest of the interview without more sobbing and invoking the name of God. “I came in to pray,” she said softly.

“Did you see the body right away?”

Oh, God, Finnerty thought, my mention of “body” has turned on her faucet again.

“Please, Mrs. Waters, I’m trying to be gentle and to use the right words, but you must—”

Her son now demonstrated a sternness that hadn’t been there before. He said with grit in his voice, “Mother,
stop
it and answer the questions.”

She looked at him as though he’d physically assaulted her, but his tone had its effect. She looked at Finnerty and said, “No, I did not see the body right away. When I go to that chapel, I sit in the back pew.”

“The one immediately opposite the door?”

“Yes.”

“And so you walked into the chapel and sat in that back pew. Was there anyone else in the chapel?”

“No, only …”

“Only what?”

“Only … him.” She found the strength to say, “The body!”

“Did you notice the body as soon as you sat in that pew?”

“No. I prayed … for a long time. Then I went to the altar.”

“To do what?”

“To be near it.”

“I see. Go on.”

“Then … then I happened to look at the little pew against the wall, and I saw him.”

“Mr. Singletary.”

“Somebody. Yes, Father Singletary.”

“What did you do then?”

“I was shocked. I thought he was alive. I said something to him.”

“What did you say to him?”

“I said … ‘Excuse me,’ I think I said. Then I saw his head, and I started to scream.”

“That was when Bishop St. James came in?”

“Yes.”

“Did you stay in the chapel long with the bishop?”

She shook her head. “No. He took me away.”

“Upstairs, to his room?”

“Yes.” As the memories of that moment in Good Shepherd Chapel flooded her, she began once again to cry, softly this time, childlike.

Finnerty raised his eyebrows at the stenographer. She nodded that she’d got everything. He said to Mrs. Waters, “I know this has been tough for you, but I appreciate your coming here.” To her son he said, “Thanks.”

“I thought it was best for her,” Brian Waters said.

“Why don’t you take your mother home. We’ll want to speak to both of you again, so don’t go anywhere.”

“Fine.” Brian took his mother’s elbow and helped her from the room.

“Captain, there’s a long-distance call for you,” Finnerty’s secretary said through the open door.

“Long distance? Who’s calling?”

“Mackensie Smith. He’s calling from England.”

“I’ll take it in my office.”

“Bored with your honeymoon, Mac?” Finnerty said upon picking up the receiver.

“Hardly,” Smith said. “I’m calling because there’s been a murder here that I think could have bearing on the Singletary case.”

“How so?”

“A parish priest in Buckland has been murdered in the small church next to our hotel. His name was Robert Priestly. I found his body about an hour ago.”

“How do you figure it means anything to the Singletary case?”

“A couple of things. First, Singletary and Priestly were friendly. Second, Singletary probably came out here to see him. Third, he was killed by a blow to the head. This time the murder weapon was on the scene.”

“Yeah? What was it?”

“A candlestick.”

“Come on, Mac. What do you think happened, the person who killed Singletary here in Washington flies over to England and kills this priest in this town of … what was the name?”

“Buckland.”

“Don’t make sense to me,” Finnerty said.

“Murder seldom makes sense, but suit yourself, Terry. I thought it was worth calling you about. Remind me not to bother in the future.”

“Okay, Mac, hold on. I appreciate you making a long-distance call and all that. By the way, I just got finished interrogating Evelyn Waters. She’s the lady who found Singletary’s body.”

“Did she shed any light on what happened?” Smith asked.

“Not yet, but it’s good to know who she is. When are you coming back?”

“Soon. Who is she?”

“Just Mrs. Waters. Nice lady, kind of pathetic, a religious nut.”

“Well, I’m glad one piece of the puzzle is in place. I’ll check in with you when we return.”

“Hey, Mac, you say
you
found this priest’s body? I thought you were on your honeymoon. What are you doing over there, playing cop?”

“No, just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. I’ll talk to you when the call is cheaper.”

London, Friday Afternoon—The Fog Persists

Smith and Annabel sat at their table in the small bar at Duke’s. Gilberto had served them Grahams 1945 port as a farewell gesture; their flight back to the States would leave in four hours.

“She’s disappeared,” Mac said. “After calling her number all day yesterday, I got hold of Jeffrey Woodcock. This morning we went to her apartment—flat, I guess it’s called here—and it was empty. The landlord let us in. The place was bare, not a trace.”

“That sends a message, doesn’t it?” Annabel said.

“It sure does. This Clarissa Morgan puts the arm on church officials at Lambeth Palace. She claims she’s owed money because of Paul Singletary. The church contacts Woodcock, and Woodcock has me call her. She’s hardly what you’d consider friendly on the phone, but she does promise to get together when we get back. She obviously can’t pursue her claim—call it blackmail—if she can’t be found.”

They’d driven back to London two nights before, after having been interrogated in Buckland by local authorities, and after spending another two hours in the sheep meadows where Annabel almost lost her life.

Their decision to return to the scene was made an hour after Smith had gone to the room to comfort his wife, and to find out from her what had actually happened. She gave him a full account, but his lawyer’s instincts and training caused him to follow up on her answers, sometimes to the point of angering her.

“I’m not on a witness stand,” she’d snapped twice. Both times he apologized but pressed forward, attempting to wring every bit of information from her. Once, when she balked at his questioning, he said, “Annabel, there is a murdered priest in the church next to this hotel, and someone apparently tried to murder you. Come on, now, go over it again while it’s still fresh in your mind.”

“It will always be fresh in my mind,” she said.

“I know, but humor me. You were relieved when you saw this person on horseback coming out of the trees in the distance. Did you yell?”

“No. The rider seemed to be heading in my direction. I figured I’d wait until whoever it was came close enough for me to ask directions. I snapped a couple of pictures and—”

“You snapped ‘a couple of pictures’? Of the rider?”

“Yes. Damn, I forgot about that. Worse, I don’t have the camera.”

“Where is it?”

“I think I tossed it as I tried to get out of the horse’s way.”

Smith glanced to a table on which her binoculars rested. “You have your binoculars.”

“Yes, they were around my neck. I’d shoved the camera in the pocket of my jacket and took it out to take the pictures. It was such a beautiful scene. I thought the fog would add something special to it.”

Ten minutes later, after Annabel had exhausted her memories
of the event, Mac said, “We have to go back and get that camera.”

Annabel nodded. “I know. I was waiting for you to say that. I hate to.”

“You don’t have to come. I’ll round up some people and—”

“Don’t be silly, Mac. I’m the only one who knows where I was.” She smiled. “I
think
I know where I was. At any rate, I’ll do my best. I just hope the woman on that horse didn’t come back and grab it.”

Mac and Annabel huddled with Nigel and Tracy over the walking map Annabel had used, and identified an area where the near-miss might have taken place. Nigel assigned as many members of the hotel staff as he could spare. Some had cars, and they drove in a caravan to a point that precluded having to retrace Annabel’s long trek on foot. The fog hadn’t lifted, but as Annabel stood in the center of one of the fields, she said, “Yes, it was right about here.” She pointed to the wall she’d thrown herself over, and indicated the trees from which the rider had emerged. Smith, Annabel, and the hotel workers fanned out. Within minutes, a kitchen worker held up the camera, a wide grin on his boyish face.

They returned to the hotel and sat in one of its public rooms with local police. Mac replayed the circumstances surrounding his discovery of Reverend Priestly’s body, and when that subject had been exhausted, it was Annabel’s turn to describe what had happened to her in the sheep pasture.

“I understand you took some snapshots of the wayward equestrian,” the investigating officer said pleasantly.

Annabel looked at Mac. “Yes, that’s true.”

“I also understand you returned and found the camera, Mrs. Smith.”

“Yes, we were very fortunate.”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to leave the roll of film with me.”

“Inspector,” Mac said, “I understand why you want it,
but it has significance for us, too. Do you have photo-processing facilities at your headquarters?”