by Nancy Geary
“Could I offer you anything?” Ruth asked, putting her car keys in a small basket by the entrance to the garage.
“No, thank you.”
“Why don’t we sit where it’s more comfortable?”
They walked through the kitchen, past a half-bath papered with a nativity scene repeating every six inches, and into the living room. The shades were drawn, and the dark upholstered furniture had doilies draped over the backs and arms. Ruth offered her a seat, and as she sat in a rocking chair facing the fireplace, Frances noticed an eight-by-ten portrait of an attractive young woman set against a studio cloud background. She had an oval face, light brown hair tied back in a ponytail, and deep blue eyes. “That’s Ginny,” Ruth said, following Frances’s gaze. “She was twenty-one in that picture. Two years before she died.”
“You’re kind to talk to me. I appreciate it.”
“Why don’t you tell me why you’re here and what I can do.”
Frances quickly summarized. She explained that her cousin had been murdered. In searching for anything that might lead them to the killer, they’d looked in Hope’s diary and found references to Father Burgess and Ginny, who she’d determined was Virginia Bailey. From her knapsack, she produced a computer printout of the newspaper article and picture. “In all honesty, I don’t know how they knew each other or knew of each other, but Hope wrote about your daughter as if they had a spiritual affinity.”
“Almost everyone who met Ginny did,” Ruth replied. She walked over to a chest of drawers to the left of the fireplace. From the top one, she removed a rectangular box, which she kept on her lap, unopened, as she returned to her seat. “My Ginny was a wonderful girl. You wouldn’t find a sweeter child, a more giving daughter. But when she graduated from college—she went to the University of Massachusetts at Amherst and graduated with a degree in psychology—she just seemed to have trouble. I’m not sure whether it was the difficulties of finding a job. There weren’t too many opportunities for her here on the Cape, but she kept saying she wasn’t ready to leave home.”
“That’s understandable,” Frances remarked, wanting to say something reassuring.
“I think it was in part that her father had passed away her junior year. He had a heart attack. It was the first real pain in her life, and she had a very difficult time adjusting. We’d been a very normal family. Or perhaps I should say unusual in this day and age in that we were so ordinary. Charles and I had been married nearly twenty-five years. He’d had a wonderful job working at Polaroid, and I stayed at home to raise our children, Virginia and her younger brother, Charlie. They were actually Irish twins, just ten months apart.” She laughed. “We were comfortable living in Dedham. Do you know it?”
Frances shook her head.
“It’s a suburb of Boston. A beautiful town. We moved to the Cape when my husband took early retirement. Charlie never really lived here. He had gone to West Point and then joined the air force. He’s a pilot now.”
“Congratulations.”
“Yes. He’s quite accomplished.” She smiled. “Please forgive me. I don’t have many visitors,” she offered, apparently in explanation for her digressions. “Ginny started to have issues after Charles’s death. She stopped calling home. She didn’t return my calls or respond to my letters. Her grades dropped. When she came home for spring break her junior year, she seemed different, distant. She wandered about at night, unable to sleep. She lost her appetite. Shortly after she returned, I got a call from her student adviser. She thought Ginny had some adjustment problems and should see a therapist. It was a very difficult conversation for me. Don’t misunderstand me. I wanted nothing more than for my child to be happy, but having a stranger tell me she needed a psychiatrist was hard. My husband and I didn’t do things that way.”
“But Virginia was a psychology major?”
“Yes. The difference between two generations, I suppose. Although when this started, she’d been an English major. I guess she’d taken enough psychology classes to switch at the last moment. In any event, I drove up and took her out to lunch and tried my best to have a conversation with her about her troubles. She didn’t want to talk and just sat at this booth at Friendly’s, pushing the pieces of a fish sandwich around on her plate. I’ll never forget it. She didn’t look me in the eye once, my own daughter.” Ruth’s voice cracked, and she cleared her throat to compose herself. “The spring of her graduation, she seemed worse than ever. She wouldn’t work. There’s a floral shop here in town that has a lot of business in July and August, what with all the weddings in this area, and they take on seasonal employees to help out. But she wasn’t interested.”
“Did she say why?”
“No.” Ruth removed the lid on the box on her lap, sorted through contents that Frances couldn’t see from where she sat, and produced a small photograph. She extended her hand to Frances, who got up to receive it. The picture showed Virginia in a tasseled cap and graduation gown, but her cheeks were pale, her lips were clenched, and her eyes stared vacantly at the camera. “I was scared, frustrated. It seemed unfair that I should be going through such difficulties with my only daughter when I’d recently lost my husband. I had no one to turn to for help. So I went to speak to Reverend Burgess.”
“Your priest?”
“Yes. We’ve always been churchgoing people. Charles was on the vestry at the church we belonged to in Dedham. It was important to us. When we moved, we joined Christ Church in Barnstable. Reverend Burgess was very welcoming. We thought he was a good man. And his assistant was also very kind.” She produced a piece of paper from her box and again handed it to Frances.
It was a newsletter from Christ Church. Volume XV, no. 3, dated September 1985. In the upper-right-hand corner was a picture of two men in cassocks, holding wooden spoons. They both smiled. The caption read: “All for the grace of God. Our Fathers help out with lunch for the Retired Men’s Club.” Frances lifted the paper slightly closer, thinking that her eyes were playing tricks on her. She studied the two faces, recognizing the one on the left from the newspaper clipping she’d seen. But the other man was also familiar. She lifted the picture closer. Staring out at her was Reverend Whitney.
“Is this Edgar Whitney?” she asked in disbelief.
“He was our assistant rector.”
“You know he’s the minister now at the church where Hope belonged.”
Ruth cocked her head slightly and fingered the contents of the box in front of her. “I wasn’t aware of that. I didn’t follow his pastoral career after he left.” She gave Frances a knowing look, as if she’d figured out something that was still beyond Frances’s comprehension.
“After I spoke to Reverend Burgess, he came by the house to meet Ginny,” she continued. “He convinced her to come and volunteer in the church office so her summer wouldn’t be wasted. I don’t know how he did it. I wasn’t part of the conversation. But I remember looking into this very room and seeing them sitting on this couch together. He held one of her hands in both of his, and she was totally engrossed, more so than I’d seen her since before Charles died. The next day, she was up even earlier than I.”
“He never talked to you about what he’d said?”
“No, but it didn’t matter. Ginny went off to work every day, went to church with me every Sunday, and seemed genuinely happier. I didn’t want to pry. I was so relieved. I think I thought it reflected the power of faith, something that I hold very dear.” She paused, and her eyes welled with tears. “In August, she told me Father Burgess had offered her full-time employment and that she’d accepted. I was disappointed. Her education had been expensive, and I thought she should aspire to something more than clerical work at the church office, but I was afraid to confront her. I didn’t want her to feel that I was being judgmental.”
“Did you talk to the minister?”
“I did. Perhaps I shouldn’t have, I don’t know.”
“What did he say?”
“He said that Ginny was a very special girl.
God had chosen her for the work at Christ Church, and I should be very proud of her. She was invaluable to him and Father Whitney. That was his word. ‘Invaluable.’” Ruth hung her head and covered her mouth with her hands. When she spoke again, her words were muffled with tears. “So I went along. Who am I to question the word of the Lord? She and I lived in this house together, but she spent more and more time at the church. She had inquirers’ class. She volunteered for every activity. She spent several weekends away on retreat. I couldn’t keep up with all she did, but it seemed an awful lot of time for fourteen thousand dollars a year in salary.”
“Did you talk to anyone about your concerns?”
“I mentioned it once or twice to Reverend Burgess during coffee hour, but he reassured me about the wonderful work she was doing. He said that with all the good Ginny was doing, she’d deliver our whole family into heaven. And people in the church were constantly coming up to me praising her. ‘She did everything for the Christmas fair,’ someone would say. ‘The Youth Group loves her.’ The compliments abounded. It seemed the first positive thing that had happened since Charles’s death. So instead of being skeptical, I filled with pride, too much pride. My darling daughter was special. But pride comes before the fall. And then I found her.”
Ruth looked up and stared directly at Frances. “It was Ash Wednesday, the start of the Lenten season, where we atone for our sins.” She reached into the box once more and this time produced an off-white card with a cross on the cover. “This is Ginny’s note. What she left behind for me to find.”
Frances opened it. The rounded letters looked as though they’d been written by someone considerably younger than twenty-three.
I have examined myself and found it despicable. I have repented, prayed, fasted, and meditated on God’s Holy Word, but I cannot be redeemed. I have been filled with lust for Father Burgess, and I have acted on that perversion. I am the sinner, not he. I am Satan taunting Jesus in the desert; I am the snake in the Garden of Eden. Now I am the lamb. In my sacrifice, I seek forgiveness.
Frances got up and joined Ruth on the couch. Without saying a word, Ruth passed her the box. For the first time she could see all it contained: yellowed newspaper clippings describing Virginia’s death, the discovery of her body and the ensuing trial, handwritten notes, condolence letters and prayer cards, several photographs of Virginia, including one beside her brother in dress uniform, a lock of light brown hair, and the copy of the death certificate. She picked up a thick document and read the caption. It was the amended complaint filed in In re Estate of Virginia Bailey v. Christ Church et al, with a Barnstable Superior Court civil action docket number from 1987.
Frances scanned the paragraphs.
This action for wrongful death and breach of fiduciary duty is brought by Ruth Carlton Bailey, Executrix of the Estate of Virginia Bailey (hereinafter “Executrix") against Christ Church, an Episcopal Church located in Barnstable County, Reverend Thomas Burgess, in his capacity as Rector, and Reverend Edgar Whitney, in his capacity as Assistant Rector (hereinafter collectively “Defendants").
Paragraph 54
Knowing of Virginia’s susceptibility to influence, knowing of the power he held over her as her spiritual adviser, and knowing of her fragile emotional and physical condition, Reverend Burgess abused his position of trust by (a) insisting that she engage in almost daily sex acts with him; (b) instructing her that she would go to hell if she refused; and (c) threatening to expel her from the church if she informed anyone of what they had done.
Paragraph 66
Reverend Whitney knowingly aided and abetted the rector’s abuse by (a) failing to bring it to the attention of the Vestry; (b) abdicating his pastoral responsibilities by leaving the Parish Hall during regular hours of operation so that Virginia would be left alone with Reverend Burgess; (c) reinforcing to Virginia the importance of silence.
Paragraph 80
Because of the power Reverend Burgess exerted over her, Virginia saw no escape from her misery other than to take her own life. This violation of his position of trust was the direct and proximate cause of her death.
Ruth returned to the chest of drawers and removed several volumes of what appeared to be trial transcripts. “I do need a cup of tea after all. Please excuse me one moment. Perhaps you’d like to take a look at these while I’m gone,” she said, handing the volumes to Frances.
Alone, Frances flipped through the second day of trial. Skimming pages, she found a portion of the testimony of the medical examiner.
Mr. Dailey
Dr. Harvey, could you describe for the ladies and gentlemen of this jury what this photograph depicts?
Ms. Kessler
Objection. It speaks for itself.
Mr. Dailey
Fine. Withdrawn. Did you go to the Bailey residence on October 22?
Dr. Harvey
Yes.
Mr. Dailey
And did you see Virginia Bailey there?
Dr. Harvey
Yes.
Mr. Dailey
Was she dead or alive?
Dr. Harvey
She was dead by the time I got there.
Mr. Dailey
How did she appear?
Dr. Harvey
She was hanging from a noose tied to a beam in the Baileys’ basement. Her head was tilted, her tongue was hanging out. Blood had pooled in her lower legs.
Mr. Dailey
Was she completely suspended from the ground?
Dr. Harvey
No. Her feet touched the floor.
Mr. Dailey
I’m showing you a photograph that’s been previously marked Plaintiff’s Exhibit 14, and I ask you whether that’s a true and accurate representation of the condition of Virginia Bailey’s body at the time you first saw her?
Dr. Harvey
Yes.
Attached to the back of the transcript was a photocopy of Exhibit 14. Frances forced herself to look at the image of a distorted face with bulged eyes, the limp body clothed in a flowered skirt and T-shirt, and turned ankles pressed into the floor. In the background were the normal contents of a basement: tools, paint supplies, boxes, a bicycle. She sat motionless and closed her eyes, wanting the image to vacate her brain. The similarities between Hope and Virginia Bailey were more than spiritual.
Ruth returned with a cup in her hand, walked to the fireplace, and touched the portrait of her daughter. “The trial wasn’t about money.”
The thought hadn’t occurred to her. “What was the verdict?”
She held on to the mantelpiece as if for balance. “For the defendants. Reverend Burgess confessed to their relationship but looked me straight in the eye and said it was consensual. That it was what Ginny wanted and that she’d been so unbalanced that he hadn’t known how to say no. His testimony was horrible, lies about Ginny’s promiscuity, lies about things she asked him to do to her. They said she’d been the seductress. And there was nothing I could do. There was no way to guard her honor or protect her memory. Charlie was so mad, I thought he’d kill the man himself, but we had a sense of right and wrong even if he didn’t. The jury believed him.” Her lips quivered and she began to cry, but she kept talking, stammering out her words. “They… didn’t… think… there… was… anything… wrong with what he did… to… my little… girl.”
“What about Reverend Whitney?”
She coughed. “He testified. That… that man had the nerve to apologize to me and say he’d exercised poor judgment. But he claimed he didn’t know Ginny was damaged by the relationship. He said she always seemed so happy when she was around Reverend Burgess.”
“And the church?”
“The church couldn’t be liable without the ministers. The vestry began a search for a new minister and sent me a ten-thousand-dollar ‘gift’ in Ginny’s memory. That’s about it. Reverend Harris, who’s there now, is a wonderful man, full of compassion and concern. He checks on me all the time. He brought me back into the fold, so to speak.”
“I’m sorry if this question seems insensitive,” Frances said, “but was an autopsy done?”
“Yes.”
“And there was no doubt about the suicide?”
Ruth sighed. “No. There was nothing to indicate otherwise.” As she struggled visibly to contain her tears, she looked at Frances with imploring eyes and flared nostrils.
“How did you ever find out? I mean, how did you even gather the evidence to bring the lawsuit?”
“Well, Mr. Dailey, our lawyer, did most of the preparation. But there was one person who really made us aware. He was the church custodian, a kind older gentleman named Jerry, who’d taken care of the buildings and grounds for years. He knew Ginny, was fond of her, and was truly distraught by her death. Several weeks after her funeral, he came to this house. He told me he’d seen her with Father Burgess on several occasions. He’d actually… found them, you know, being intimate one evening. He’d been very concerned, but when he said something, the minister threatened to fire him. He’d also spoken to Father Whitney, who said it was nobody’s business, that what happens between two people is private. And he even told Jerry several times not to come to the church on days he was supposed to work. Jerry knew it was to let them be alone, but he didn’t know what to do. He felt tremendous guilt that he hadn’t done more to try to protect her. We thought his testimony would convince the jury, but that lady lawyer who represented the defendants did quite a job discrediting him. She made him out to be a crazy old coot, an alcoholic who fabricated stories. But he was a good man. He hadn’t made anything up. The jury just didn’t want to believe the horror of the truth.”
