Aisle of the Dead

by Joseph E. Wright

  She seemed embarrassed and not able to find the right word.

  “Why don’t you first tell us a few things,” Pat said. “That way, we’ll all be able to help Father Sieger. Tell us something about the rectory, about the people closest to it, their relationships to one another and to Father Sieger. Yourself, for starters.”

  “Well… well, I’m sort of a glorified secretary, you might say,” she began hesitantly. “I take care of all of Father’s correspondence. I oversee anything he sends out to the parish at large, his telephone calls. I make most of his appointments for him.”

  “Much of your work is of a confidential nature, then?” Phillis put in.

  “Very. Father Sieger relies upon me a great deal to keep things within the bounds of privacy.”

  “You have a key to the rectory, we understand,” Pat said.

  The statement seemed to come as something of a shock to her. She stuttered, “Ye…es, of… course. Why… why do you ask?” Her hand was still shaking as she tried to take a puff on her cigarette.

  “It’s really not important,” he assured her. He wondered about her age (mid-fortyish?)‎, and about her relationship to Father Sieger, other than her employment. “His nephew Leslie also has one, I believe.”

  “Yes. In fact, I was the one who suggested to Father Sieger that Leslie should have one, in case there was ever a… an emergency.”

  “If one can get into the rectory, one can then get into the church?”

  “Yes, through the downstairs office. It’s a very roundabout way to go, but it can be done. And one would need a special key for the office door, sort of an added precaution.”

  “Who else? Who else has a key?” Pat asked.

  “Oh, dear, let me think. It’s not such a remarkable thing, and I don’t understand why you make it an issue. Is something missing? Has someone been abusing the use of the key?”

  Pat did not answer her. He merely shook his head slightly and smiled.

  “Well, there’s Nelson Paquette. He’s chairman of the vestry building committee. It’s a standing committee and he frequently has to take people through the church premises. He has a complete set of keys for all doors. It is sometimes his duty to bring contractors through for estimates or to have the systems examined. He also handles all the insurance on the property.”

  “What kind of person is he?” Phillis asked.

  “Several others have keys, too, but I really can’t think who they are at this minute,” she went on, ignoring Phillis’ question.

  Pat could feel his sister’s eyes penetrating him. When Grace stopped talking, he stared at her. He then spoke gently. “You did not answer Phillis’ question, Grace. Is there some reason?”

  Grace’s face turned a deep red. “I’m sorry. I didn’t hear… no, that’s a lie, Miss Toner. I did hear you. I guess I was hoping I could get away without having to answer you. I feel like such a… a traitor. I really shouldn’t say anything that--”

  Pat spoke up, his voice taking on a slightly harsh quality. “Grace, we are here to help Father Sieger, not to sit in judgment on anyone else. We, too, can keep a confidence. If there is something we should know, you really should tell us.”

  She looked down at the table and slowly nodded. “You are right. It’s just that I hate… really hate… to tell tales out of school. You see….” Here she looked up at them. “…Nelson Paquette truly despises Father Sieger. He’s disliked him since the first day Father Sieger came to this parish. Nelson was the only one on the vestry who did not vote for Father Sieger as his choice for rector of St. Alban’s, and ever since then he’s made no secret that he disapproves of our rector. He goes out of his way to find fault with Father, whether it concerns church services, Father’s sermons, his goals for the parish, his use of funds--anything at all.”

  “What about Father Mowbray? What were Mr. Paquette’s feelings towards him?” Phillis asked.

  Grace shook her head and smiled. “You should have heard Nelson’s bellowing. To put it mildly, he was outraged when he heard that Father Paul was coming here as curate. He swore he’d get rid of both of those priests if it was the last thing he did in life. Rumor has it that he was instrumental in having another priest who was stationed here transferred across the country a few years back.”

  “Grace, just why does Mr. Paquette dislike these priests so much? Surely, one would think that charity should extend to one’s priests. What did they ever do to make him hate them so?” Pat asked.

  “Nelson is about as homophobic as a person can be. I know what you’re going to say, that Father Sieger isn’t gay. But, you see, when the vestry was interviewing priests for the position of rector of this parish, Nelson put the same two questions to each and every one of them. One: ‘Are you gay?’ and two: ‘What is your position on gays in the church?’ Well, Father Sieger said he was not gay, but when it came to what he thought of gay parishioners, he was quite outspoken. He insisted that they are as much a part of the church as anyone else and that he would welcome them with outstretched arms. You may not know this, but we have quite a large gay membership at Saint Alban’s. Come to mass any Sunday and you’d be amazed at the number of gays in attendance.”

  “And that was enough for Mr. Paquette to hate Father Sieger?” Pat asked.

  “And Father Mowbray?” Phillis added.

  “Nelson borders on being psychopathic on the subject of homosexuality,” Grace told them. “He made it his business to find out from the outset that Father Paul was gay. It’s all so very unfair. Father Sieger is the kindest, sweetest man anyone could ever know. I’ve considered it a privilege being able to work for him.”

  “Speaking of Father Mowbray, do you have any ideas who could have killed him?” Pat asked.

  Grace seemed genuinely upset by the question. “No, none at all. Did you know him? Shame. He was a fine person and everyone liked him. It’s hard to accept, his being dead, killed while performing one of his priestly duties. Still--”

  “Do you know Sherrill Rothe? A friend of Father Mowbray?” Phillis asked.

  “I met him a couple of times. I like him. Were he and Father Paul…? I mean….”

  “Lovers?” Pat offered her the word, then shrugged. “Possibly. The police took him in today for questioning, you know.”

  “I heard. Father Sieger told me this afternoon. I just learned this evening that he’s been released. Seemed the police really didn’t have as much evidence as they claimed they had.”

  “Grace, this young man, Sherrill, says a woman came to the rectory door and told him Father Mowbray was out the afternoon he was murdered. Have you any idea who that woman could be?”

  Grace lit another cigarette. She shook her head as she blew the smoke away from their booth. “No, no, I can’t imagine anyone. Couldn’t be someone who works in the office. I was alone there all that afternoon. It couldn’t be anyone there. No, he must not be telling the truth. I mean, he must be mistaken. What puzzles me is that Father Sieger contacted you before Father Paul was killed. Did he know there was something about to happen? Did he have some kind of forewarning?”

  “He said nothing to you?” Pat asked.

  “All I knew was that he was going away for a day or two. For a long time, he hadn’t been looking well. I thought it was because he wasn’t sleeping. He spoke to his doctor about that.”

  “Did he give you any indication what it was that was causing his insomnia?” Phillis asked.

  Grace seemed genuinely upset. “No, he never told me what was keeping him from sleeping.”

  “Grace, is there anything else we should know about Father Sieger or about this parish that would help?” Pat asked.

  “I’m not really sure in my own mind what kind of help you’re offering. I don’t know why Father Sieger brought you here in the first place. It couldn’t have been because of Father Paul’s death. He wasn’t dead when Father Sieger went to see you. I don’t believe you were brought here to help Father Sieger sleep better, so you see, I’m still in the
dark as to what kind of help you could give him or this parish.”

  Pat and Phillis exchanged glances so subtly that it was doubtful Grace noticed it. Pat’s look said: She seems sincerely concerned about Father Sieger. If we tell her, she may be able to help. Phillis’ glance, more practical, said: And if we do tell her, it will be all over the parish before we go to bed tonight. Phillis’ won out.

  “For the time being, Grace, I’m afraid that will have to remain confidential,” Pat told her. His tone was gentle and sympathetic to her concern for her priest. “We must safeguard the trust Father Sieger placed in us. But when you approached us outside the rectory a little while ago, you said there was something important you wanted to tell us, something you did not want Father Sieger to overhear. What is it?”

  “There’s been something on my conscience these past few days and I’ve debated with myself whether or not I should tell you. I’ve come to a decision. I truly believe you are trying to help Father Sieger, so I feel I should tell you. It concerns something that happened the morning of Father Paul’s death.”

  They stared at her, waiting for her to go on.

  “The police questioned me about Father Mowbray’s activities the day he died. They wanted to know where he went, who he talked to, phone calls he got--anything at all that he did that day that might help them better understand the circumstances surrounding his death. I answered all their questions as best I could. All except one. At the time they were questioning me, it was not at all clear how he died. It could have been an accident, for all I knew. I had heard there was a gun involved, but no one even hinted that it was murder. Under the circumstances, I felt completely justified in withholding one item.”

  She lowered her voice as she continued. “On the morning of the day he was killed, around eleven-thirty or thereabouts, Father Paul was in his rooms in the rectory. The telephones in the rectory are hooked up to the telephone in my office. Mine is the only one that is connected like that, so when I’m not in my office, I lock my phone. Well, as I said, it was about eleven-thirty when the light went on on Father Paul’s line. I thought nothing of it until it started flashing rapidly, as though he was signaling me. That’s one of the ways the rectory can signal me in the office, although we also have an intercom button. Anyway, when I saw the flashing light, I picked up the receiver to see what Father Paul wanted. I don’t understand exactly what had happened, why the light was flashing; maybe he had been toying with the button as he spoke. As I brought the receiver to my ear, I heard a voice. It wasn’t Father Paul’s. I recognized it immediately. It belonged to Jeremy Knollys and he was evidently quite angry. He said something like, ‘How can you make such accusations? It’s probably nothing more than the wild gossip of people who have nothing better to do than….’ and Father Paul said, ‘Jeremy, I just want to get to the bottom of it. No one’s making any accusations, but unless you convince me otherwise, I shall have to go to the police.’ I quickly put the receiver back in place and sat there, staring at the telephone. I realized I had broken into a heated and probably highly confidential conversation. What struck me wasn’t really what was said, but the tone of their voices. Jeremy Knollys sounded as though… as though he could have killed, as the expression goes, and Father Paul seemed extremely upset. His voice was shaking. I’ve wondered since then if what they were talking about had anything to do with Jeremy Knollys’ wife’s death. She died only a few weeks ago, you know.”

  “We don’t know,” Pat said. “Tell us about it.”

  “There really isn’t much to tell. Diane Knollys was killed in an auto accident on the Atlantic City Expressway. Drove off the road and hit a cluster of trees. She was most likely drinking.”

  “She was an alcoholic?” Phillis asked.

  Grace nodded. “Yes, everyone knew Diane drank heavily. Can’t say that I blame her, though, with a husband who had a mistress. Had for years.”

  “Tell us, Grace, was that all you heard in that telephone conversation? Have you told us everything you heard?” Pat lowered his head so that he could better look into her face.

  She turned only light pink this time. She shook her head slightly, as though she expected it to be coaxed out of her.

  He obliged and coaxed.

  “I did hear one word.”

  “And what was that word, Grace?”

  “Murder.”

  Phillis and Pat echoed the word in unison.

  “Grace, who said that word?” Phillis asked.

  “That’s just it, I can’t remember. That’s not exactly true. I just don’t know. I didn’t know at the time. I just heard the word, that’s all. Almost as though the word existed by itself, as though… as though it wasn’t said by any one particular person. It could have been either one of them who said it. I can still hear it, over and over.”

  “You’ve told the police none of this?” Phillis checked.

  Grace shook her head.

  “Then you should. You should tell the police everything you just told us. Detective Worton would be very interested in it. There is one final thing, Grace. You say you were on the premises Wednesday afternoon. Were you anyplace where you might have heard that gunshot?”

  “As I told the police already, I was in the office all afternoon. It’s next to and below the first floor of the rectory and directly below the Parish House, on the lower level. It’s really too far from the church to hear any noise coming from there. I heard nothing that sounded like a gunshot. And with traffic going by outside all the time, I wouldn’t have heard it no matter how loud it might have been.”

  “And there were no others there. No one else there with you who might have heard or seen anything?”

  “I was alone all afternoon. Muriel, who comes in on a voluntary basis, was there in the morning. She’s a great help, but she can only be there when her family duties permit. And Tom, Tom Benson, the sexton, never works on Wednesday and I saw him take off shortly after lunch. He works weekends, so he takes a day off in the middle of the week.”

  On that note, they left Big Ben’s and walked Grace to her car, which was parked on Sycamine Street. They stopped and Grace took out her keys.

  “We were talking earlier about Sherrill Rothe and about Nelson Paquette’s hatred of gays,” she said. “Sherrill once wrote a limerick about Nelson and it went all around the office, probably around most of the parish, I suspect. It went:

  A homophobe named Paquette

  Asked everybody he met,

  “Why are faggots

  No better’n maggots,

  Instead of like me, Perf-e-quette?‘”

  “He likes to write limericks, I gather,” Pat said.

  “He’s very creative.” Grace opened her car door, then, her voice changing, becoming gentle, motherly, she added, “Be careful. I do mean that, Pat, Phillis. You don’t mind if I call you by your first names, do you? Remember, be careful, very, very careful. Death struck there in that place,” she said as she looked across the street towards the church. “It could strike again.” She got into her car.

  “She’s a nice woman,” Phillis said as they watched her drive away. “Or don’t you agree?”

  “A disappointed woman. She didn’t get the information she came for. I sometimes get pissed off by people who think we’re stupid enough to fall into their traps and tell them what they want to know. You think she’s nice only because she’s in love.”

  “I wonder if Father Sieger knows she’s in love with him?” Phillis asked, more herself than him.

  They stood for a moment longer on the sidewalk next to the iron gate of Saint Alban’s. A breeze was blowing off Rittenhouse Square causing the leaves of the magnolia tree on the church lawn to rustle.

  “It’s a beautiful evening. The air is perfect and it seems so safe and peaceful here, doesn’t it?” Phillis asked as they stepped up on the flagstone walk and headed towards the rectory door. “I can’t imagine this place being anything but calm and holy, in the midst of the noise and dirt and crime of the city aro
und us.”

  Pat looked up at the church with its bell tower, its gothic roofs, its stained glass windows. All about them were stone and slate, points and arches, reaching upwards.

  “I can. I can imagine this place on a windy, moonless Halloween Night with witches flying through the air and evil spirits and demons on the loose. Ever notice about churches, Phil? I mean, the classic gothic style of churches. They look so majestic, pointing towards heaven as if in prayer. But change their setting, the atmosphere around them, add wind or rushing clouds or lightning or driving rain, and they can look as though they were designed by some demonic architect and built in the very bowels of hell.”

  CHAPTER XVI

  As they let themselves into the rectory, Father Sieger came out of his first-floor study. “I was hoping it would be you. I understand you had dinner with my nephew.”

  “There really are no secrets in this parish, are there?” Pat asked. “Not, by the way, that we intended it to be a secret.”

  “Leslie called me a while ago and told me.”

  “Then he probably told you what we discussed,” Phillis said.

  They were standing in the doorway of the study.

  “Come in and sit a while, unless you’re too tired.” The priest backed into the room to let them enter. “Leslie said he felt I should know about your visit. I don’t fully understand why he thought it was important for me to know, but then I’ve never claimed to understand my brother’s son. As for what the three of you discussed this evening, I feel it is none of my business.”