Murder at the National Cathedral (22 page)

Smith shrugged. “She’s right, of course. Extremists on any side of an issue tend to be myopic. Did she name anybody in particular?”

“No. Unfortunately, I had to leave the room at that moment to take a long-distance call from my son, who was on the phone with his mother. When I returned, she was pacing the room and anxious to leave. I asked her to elaborate, but she said she was too upset.”

“Did you believe her, George? Do you think she actually did warn Paul?”

“I certainly believed her then, or at least took it as a simple statement of fact. Sitting with you always changes my view of such things. I must admit that you create in me a certain cynicism, or at least skepticism, when it comes to believing people. Not very healthy for a bishop.”

Smith pushed back his chair and stood. “Maybe healthier than you think. Jesus had plenty of reason to be cynical and skeptical about some of his so-called friends. Look, George, I’d like to have a few words with Reverend Armstrong. Is that okay with you?”

“I suppose it is, although I wouldn’t want her to think I divulged information from our private conversation.”

“Don’t worry about that.”

“I just realized sitting here how selfish I’ve been during this lunch. You went through some horrendous experiences in England, and I haven’t even mentioned them. How
dreadful to have discovered that priest’s body, and to have had Annabel almost killed.”

“It was upsetting at the time, but I suppose we can dine out on the stories for a while. Funny, before I arrived here I spent some time dwelling on the possibility that a candlestick was used to kill Paul. I suppose I wouldn’t have become this fixated on it if Reverend Priestly hadn’t been killed by one. I just can’t get it out of my mind.”

“Because both were priests and were murdered in a church?”

“That probably has something to do with it, although I won’t try to defend the notion. It’s like the shrinks say. Tell someone not to think of a pink elephant, and that’s all you can think of. Are you sure the police had access to every candlestick in the cathedral?”

St. James extended his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “How could I possibly know? I have many duties, but the candlestick inventory isn’t one of them.”

“I would hope not. I just thought you might be aware of another place within the cathedral that the police might have overlooked.”

St. James shook his head. “No. I have to assume they were thorough. Besides, any object could have been used to kill Paul. Any object.”

Smith thought of Jeffrey Woodcock’s tendency to repeat, and the fact that George St. James never did. But he had now. For emphasis, obviously. “Well,” Smith said, “if you think of something or someplace that might have been passed over in the investigation, let me know. In the meantime, I have some things to attend to, including a wife who would probably like to see a little of me this weekend. I plan a Sunday with the phone off the hook and my shoes never leaving the closet. Thanks for lunch, George. Tasty.”

Smith returned to the cathedral’s nave and wandered its imposing dimensions, stopping to reflect upon the seven-feet-six-inch-tall white Vermont marble statue of George
Washington. He paused in the St. Paul tower porch, dedicated to the memory of Winston Churchill; in Glover Bay, which celebrates the first meeting of those interested in building a national cathedral in Washington, held at the home of Charles Carroll Glover in December, 1891; in Wilson Bay, which contains the body of former president Woodrow Wilson, the only American president to be buried in the District of Columbia. Then Smith looked up for a long time at the Space Window, a stained-glass jewel high above the south aisle. The plaque said it had been created by Rodney Winfield, and was designed around a piece of lunar rock presented to the cathedral by the
Apollo XI
astronauts. No matter how many times he visited the National Cathedral, there was always something else to observe, to learn from, to wonder at.

He started to leave by the south transept, but couldn’t resist the urge to visit the Good Shepherd Chapel once again. He stood outside—a young couple was praying in one of the pews. Smith backed away and retraced his steps to the Bethlehem Chapel. As he looked in at the altar, he heard a noise behind him. He turned and saw that the door to the choir room was slightly open. It suddenly closed.

Smith knocked on the door. No one responded, although he could hear a piece of furniture being bumped, then heard a door open and close. He turned the handle on the door, and it opened. He stepped into the choir room and looked around. It was empty. He quickly walked to the only other door, which led to the outside. He looked through the glass in the door, and saw a young boy running in the direction of the St. Albans school. Smith couldn’t be sure, but it looked like the young choirboy who’d sung so beautifully at his wedding, and who’d become ill during Paul Singletary’s funeral. Why does he seem so frightened? Smith wondered.

He returned to the door through which he’d entered and opened it a crack. He could see directly across into the front of the Bethlehem Chapel. He opened the door farther and
put his head out, looking to his right down the hallway leading to the set of stairs that went up to the Good Shepherd Chapel. The stairs were empty; nothing seemed amiss.

He wasn’t even aware of the drive home. His mind was too filled with questions.

Monday Morning—Sunny, of Course

At 6:00
A.M.
Monday morning, Smith sat in the small study in his house in Foggy Bottom and peered at a pile of briefs his students had written. He’d just got up, was in his robe and pajamas. He’d decided to block out as much of the day as needed to read the briefs, and then to visit his mother at the Sevier Home. He looked forward to spending time with her; he didn’t look forward to the briefs, but they went with the territory.

Rufus paced the room in his customary manner of communicating his needs to his master.

“In a minute,” Smith said as he turned on a small, powerful battery-operated shortwave radio that was tuned to the BBC. He often did this, if only to be able to offer a different analysis of world news at lunch. Could seem pretentious, but he liked the calm and reach of the British Broadcasting Corporation. He listened to the comforting, careful, assured voice of the British newscaster’s report on events in the
United Kingdom, and was disappointed there was no mention of the Priestly murder. Then, again, he reasoned, why should there be? Priestly was nothing more than a local parish priest in the Cotswolds, hardly the sort of crime victim who would interest broadcasters in the major cities.

He opened his telephone book, found Jeffrey Woodcock’s number, and dialed it. It would be approximately eleven o’clock in London. Miss Amill put him through.

“Mac, good to hear from you. Have you settled back in to your Washington routine?”

“No, but I’m in the process. Jeffrey, heard any more from Clarissa Morgan?”

“No, although I understand she has left London. Good riddance, I say.”

“How did you find that out?”

“Reverend Apt at Lambeth called me, said he’d received a call from her. She’s no longer pursuing her claim, and was leaving London. I think she said she was leaving the country, as a matter of fact.”

“Apt told you that?”

“Yes. Meant to call you. I was delighted, relieved, as I’m sure he was. Bloody nuisance, that kind of conniving woman. I’m sure her claim had no merit, but these people can make problems for others, wouldn’t you say?”

“Yes, they certainly can. Have you heard anything new about the murder of the priest in Buckland?”

“Just smatterings. Dreadful that you had to discover the body. Dreadful. Hardly British hospitality at its finest. No, I think the last report I heard was that the local authorities had no leads. Probably have dropped the case by now. Obviously, some demented person, some lob who happened upon Priestly and killed him for whatever he had in his pockets, poor fellow.”

“Had he been robbed?” Smith asked.

“I don’t know. I just assume he was. Would you like me to check? I’d be happy to check.”

“Yes, I’d appreciate that.” Smith gave Woodcock the name of the lead investigator in Buckland who’d questioned him and Annabel. “By the way, Jeffrey, did you have an opportunity to find out whether Father Priestly had been involved with Word of Peace?”

“Glad you reminded me. Yes, as a matter of fact I did. Seems he was, at least according to one of the chaps from the organization here in London. Not heavily involved, though. Attended a meeting or two. About it.”

“Appreciate the effort, Jeffrey.”

“No bother, no bother. Terribly early for you to be up and around, isn’t it?”

“I’m an early riser, although this is a little early even for me. Couldn’t sleep. Lots on my mind, Jeffrey. Besides, I have a ton of work to do today, and thought I’d get a jump on it. Best to Judith. I’ll call again in a few days.”

Smith sat back in his leather swivel chair and pondered the conversation. How remarkably similar both murders were. Each priest was hit on the side of the head with what seemed to be an object of roughly the same dimensions. Both were alone in a religious facility, and in both cases it was assumed that the murderer was nothing more than a demented drifter, a derelict, a total stranger who happened upon them. “Can’t be,” Smith grunted.

Rufus had given up subtle communication. The Dane placed his large head on Smith’s leg and growled, wagging his tail at the same time to make sure Smith knew it was not an act of aggression. Smith looked down into the beast’s eyes and smiled, roughed up the hair on its head. “Okay, I wouldn’t appreciate it if you kept me from heeding nature’s call. Come on, we’ll go out in the back.”

Minutes later, mission accomplished, and Rufus’s food disappearing from a large stainless-steel bowl on the kitchen floor, Smith poked his head into the bedroom. Annabel was still asleep. “Hey, I thought you had a busy day, too.”

A tousled mane of red hair came up off the white pillow,
and a sleepy voice said, “I do, but not
that
busy. What are you up so early for?”

“I always get up early. You know that. I walked Rufus and fed him, and talked to Jeffrey Woodcock in London.”

“About what?”

“About whether there’d been any further news on Priestly’s murder. I listened to the BBC, but they didn’t cover it. I’m getting in the shower. What does your day look like?”

Annabel sat up in bed and shook the sleep from her head. “The accountants are coming in this morning, and that fellow I hired starts today. Let’s see, I really have to start getting ready for inventory … oh, and I’m meeting with Reverend Armstrong at four o’clock.”

“You are? I had an interesting conversation with George St. James about her.”

“Concerning what?”

“Concerning the fact that a few days before Paul was murdered, she expressed her concern to him not only for the image of the cathedral because of its backing of Word of Peace, but because she was concerned for Paul’s safety as a result of his involvement.”

Annabel swung her legs off the bed and stood. All sleep was now gone. “She told that to George?”

“Yes. I told him I wanted to have a conversation with Reverend Armstrong. Maybe you could do it better and easier.”

Annabel slipped on her robe and slippers and went into the kitchen to pour a cup of coffee. Smith followed. “What do you want me to ask her?”

“I don’t know, but be subtle about it. George is concerned that Armstrong not think their private conversations are being spread to other people. Maybe just getting into a talk about Paul and Word of Peace will cause her to bring it up.”

“I’ll try,” she said.

*   *   *

It was busier at the gallery than Annabel had expected. The carpenters working on the renovation of the additional space were noticeably behind schedule, which upset her. She didn’t show it; instead, she was cordial and urged them to work a little faster—applying honey instead of vinegar, an approach she usually found more effective than complaining.

The new person she’d hired for the gallery, a young man just out of American University’s fine-arts program, seemed more interested in demonstrating his academic knowledge of pre-Columbian art than in listening to what Annabel had to say. That, too, annoyed her, but she kept her feelings in check and suggested he find a quiet corner to read the catalog of pieces currently on display in the gallery.

In the midst of this, she had to sit down with her accountants, who were critical of her handling of the new bookkeeping system they’d implemented. And no wonder.

By the time four o’clock rolled around, she was happy to see everyone leave, and to welcome Carolyn Armstrong to the gallery.

“It’s been a crazy day here,” Annabel said. “I haven’t even had a chance for lunch and was about to order something in. Join me?”

“No, thank you, I had lunch.”

Annabel ordered a salad for herself, and two cups of tea. The women settled in her office and, once again, Annabel was quietly taken with Carolyn Armstrong’s natural beauty. One thing was different this time, however. The priest was visibly nervous, something Annabel hadn’t seen in her before, but it was there, unmistakable and disconcerting. Armstrong’s serenity had always added an extra dimension to her appeal.

“First of all,” Annabel said, “the good news. They’re running behind on the renovations next door. They assured me today that they would finish in time for your exhibition
and I have every reason to expect they will, but it’s going to be close.”

“Why is that good news?”

“Because everything else is worse. But you don’t want to hear about my bookkeeping problems.”

“I’m sure it will all work out,” Armstrong said. “I have two more artists for the show.” She handed Annabel biographies of two Washington artists whose work she felt was worthy of being included.

“Yes, I know this person,” Annabel said. “She’s
very
good. She’ll be a real addition to the show. I’m not familiar with this other name.”

Armstrong filled in the man’s background, and Annabel was reasonably pleased with this second choice. Not absolutely original, but okay.