Aisle of the Dead

by Joseph E. Wright

  “One of the main things we talked about was the family trust,” Pat told the rector.

  “Ah, yes, that damned trust. I wish to heaven my father had never thought of such a thing. Talk about affecting a family. Can you imagine what it would have been like if there were many heirs to it, instead of only one? Families can be torn apart by such foolish and antiquated arrangements. Downright Victorian, if you ask me.”

  “We heard Sherrill Rothe was released by the police,” Phillis said, anxious to find out about the only suspect. “Got any details?”

  “That young man called me a couple of hours ago. Naturally, he seemed quite upset about the whole ordeal and I can certainly understand why he would be. He said the police questioned him at great length about his relationship with Father Mowbray, refused to believe that the two of them were… well, were intimate… and insisted the ring Sherrill had with him must have been stolen from Paul. They wanted to know what Sherrill was doing here at the rectory that day. It must have been a harrowing experience, to put it mildly. I told him that if he needed anything, if there was anything I could do for him, by all means let me know.”

  “What was he doing here at the rectory that day?” Pat asked.

  “As I understand him, he was here at Paul’s invitation. Evidently, it was a pleasant afternoon’s visit, nothing more.”

  “And the ring? How did Sherrill come into possession of it?”

  “He told me it was a gift from Paul.”

  “We should look up Sherrill tomorrow,” Pat said to Phillis. “There are a lot of things I think we ought to speak to him about.”

  She agreed. “And, just maybe, get to the bottom of why he says there was a strange woman here at the rectory and answered the door for him on Wednesday afternoon. Unless you’ve already figured that one out, Father?”

  Father Sieger shook his head. “No, it’s still a mystery to me. If there really was someone, woman or man, in this rectory who took it upon him or herself to answer the door, then I’d certainly like to know who it was. On the other hand, if Sherrill has made up that whole thing about a woman being here, then I’d like to know what he hopes to achieve by doing that. Surely he knows he’d be expected to produce her, should it come to that.”

  “There are a few more of your parishioners we still want to talk to,” Pat told the priest. “Nelson Paquette, for starters. And after that, we intend to pay Jeremy Knollys a visit.”

  “Whatever for? Surely you don’t think either of those gentlemen had anything to do with the events in this rectory the past year or so, do you? And still less, I trust, had anything to do with Father Paul’s death. Nelson may not be an easy person to get to know, and he may have his own set of values and rather extreme prejudices, but he’s surely not capable of murder. And I can not see Nelson climbing up the rectory staircase in the middle of the night trying to scare the life out of me. If you do get to meet him, you’ll see why I don’t think he’s the midnight ghost of Saint Alban’s rectory. As for Jeremy, I feel equally positive he is not your man. Poor Jeremy lost his wife only a few weeks ago, so I do ask that you be most considerate in what you say to him. He’s still not over the loss of Diane.”

  “We’ll be the epitome of tact,” Pat assured him and smiled. “By the way, what arrangements have been made for Father Mowbray’s funeral?”

  “His body will be taken to his home town where there will be a mass and internment there. I feel I should be present. I know his family quite well and I would like to pay my condolences to them. I do hope this whole terrible situation will be cleared up by that time.”

  “I wouldn’t bank on it, Father, I just wouldn’t bank on it,” Pat said. “Murders are seldom solved that quickly, and rarely so conveniently, except in murder novels. But there’s an even more cogent reason than Father Mowbray’s funeral arrangements why we should hope the killer is found and found quickly.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Because murder is like going on a diet.”

  “What a gruesome simile,” Phillis said.

  “I don’t understand,” Father Sieger said as he looked from one to the other.

  “It’s like going on a diet,” Pat explained, “because it’s something that seldom accomplishes what it’s supposed to do, and one ends up doing it over and over again.”

  CHAPTER XVII

  Pat and Phillis came into the dining room early the following morning. Kelsey Quentin was leaning against the sideboard, a cup of coffee in his hand. They introduced themselves.

  “Father? He’s in the church this very minute,” Kelsey said, stroking his sandy red beard as he answered their question concerning the rector’s whereabouts. “I don’t expect him for another half hour.”

  “And Tom Benson, do you have any idea where he is?” Pat asked.

  Kelsey poured himself another cup of coffee and sat down at the table. “Well now, that’s a pretty good question, if ever I heard one.” He chuckled.

  Kelsey had, Pat thought to himself, more than a little of the scholar about him with an ever-so-slight stoop to the shoulders, like one who had spent many an hour over books. He had a gravity at first blush, which was quickly softened by a twinkle in his gray eyes as he spoke.

  “Tom could be working, of course,” Kelsey continued. “But then we’d have to report it to the bishop and the bishop would have to get busy setting up a special commission to investigate such a miracle. Tom could be in church, although I doubt that. It’s still standing, I believe, and it’d sure as hell come crashing down on our heads the day Tom Benson set foot in it. He could be cleaning the parish house, but then we’d all hear him, for he’d certainly make sure everyone was aware of his unaccustomed activity. He’s not in the kitchen here in the rectory, filling his face. I was just out there and there was no sign of Tom Benson’s attractive buns sticking out of the refrigerator. No, my guess is you’d be most likely to find him in his room, reading or watching television. If there is one thing he’s good at, it’s lounging.”

  “I gather you don’t have a very high opinion of Mr. Benson,” Phillis suggested.

  “Then you would be wrong,” Kelsey quickly corrected her. “I happen to like Tom. Got a bit of a brain in his head. A good looking man like Tom could make a decent living, if the right person worked on him long enough.”

  “And who would the right person be?” she asked.

  “Seriously, though, you might look in his room. Know where it is?” Kelsey asked.

  “Top floor of the parish house,” Pat said. “Couple of things we’d like to talk to you about.”

  “You are those private detectives I’ve heard about.” Kelsey arose and helped himself to a slice of toast from the sideboard. “The whole parish is talking about you.”

  “One wonders why newspapers were ever invented, the way things get around here,” Phillis said.

  “Newspapers are a poor substitute. Only good for classified ads. Even then not that good. If I wanted to sell something, I could still do it faster without the help of the ads. Well, what can I tell you?”

  “First of all, were you anywhere around here the day Father Mowbray was murdered?” Pat began.

  Kelsey shook his head. “Not in the afternoon, and that’s when I understand it happened. I was here most of the morning. I usually don’t come here on Wednesdays, but since I had a lot to do--people don’t realize just how much paperwork there is--I came in and did some work upstairs. I have a small office--actually nothing more than a hole in the wall--where I can get things done: scheduling volunteers, getting our programs known, convincing people--especially those in the inner city--of the importance of reading.”

  “What time did you get here?” Phillis asked.

  “Got here about seven-thirty or so and stayed until almost noon. Told the police that already.”

  “The past few days, did you see anything strange, anything out of the ordinary?” Pat asked.

  “You’re like the police, always looking for something different, something o
ut of the ordinary, something… something strange. Why not something usual, ordinary, familiar? Sometimes the usual, ordinary, familiar are none of those things. Then you’d have something, something to help in your investigation.”

  “Such as?” Phillis asked.

  “Such as Father Sieger and Father Paul having breakfast here Tuesday morning, a few hours before Father Sieger took off. They were sitting at this very dining table, eating a hearty meal, and chatting away like two old cronies.”

  Pat leaned forward. “Mr. Quentin, what in the name of all that’s holy is so interesting about that? They lived here together in this house. They knew one another for years. Why shouldn’t they have breakfast together?”

  “Because,” Kelsey said, and clasped his hands together in front of him on the table, looked long and intently first at Pat, then at Phillis, and lowered his voice to no more than a whisper. “You’d know why if you had been here the evening before. I stayed later than usual Monday evening. Much later. Didn’t realize it was so late. When I left my office up in the library, I took the back stairs that lead to the kitchen here in the rectory. I discovered Father Sieger and Father Paul were having dinner. I didn’t want to walk through the dining room and disturb them. They were just finishing and getting up from their seats, so I waited a couple of minutes until I heard them go upstairs to the second floor sitting room, Father Sieger’s sitting room. Next thing I heard, Father Sieger raised his voice. My first reaction was that they were laughing about something. I was wrong. Father Paul shouted something about not listening to any more, that he was going to his room. But he didn’t go to his room. Father Sieger shouted that he’d put a stop to something or other, even if it meant asking Father Paul to leave Saint Alban’s. Then Father Paul said he’d never have to be asked to leave, that he could leave perfectly well enough on his own. Just then, one of them must have closed the door, because after that, all I could hear were muffled sounds; but take my word for it, they were still shouting at one another. Any wonder I didn’t expect to see the two of them having breakfast the next morning, least of all in such a good mood?”

  “Two priests should not find it impossible to forgive and patch things up,” Phillis commented.

  “Two bloody saints couldn’t have had breakfast together the next morning, after the way they were going at it hammer and tongs the evening before,” Kelsey insisted.

  “Mr. Quentin, do you have any idea what they were fighting about, what brought it all on?” Pat asked.

  “Certainly I do. In fact, I knew it was coming ever since that letter that arrived downstairs in the office, the one from the bishop. I’ve been debating with myself and I decided I’d look you two up this morning and tell you about that letter. Grace Everett claims she opened it by mistake, that it looked like the usual letters coming from the bishop’s office, the kind with routine announcements and the like--nothing confidential--and that she didn’t see the ‘Personal and Confidential’ on the envelope. Who knows, maybe she didn’t. Anyway, the bishop said he had received a letter from someone at Saint Alban’s complaining about the priest in this parish who was openly having an illicit affair. Of course, it wasn’t referring to Father Sieger. The man wouldn’t know how to go about having an affair, illicit or otherwise. The writer meant Father Paul, although he or she did not come right out and mention him by name.”

  “And you mean Miss Everett actually showed you that letter?” Phillis asked.

  “Hell, no. She’d never do a thing like that. After she read it, she was so upset, she put it into another plain envelope and taped it shut and addressed it to Father Sieger. She figured he would have at least one question why the letter addressed to him with ‘Personal and Confidential’ on it had been opened, so she wrote on the outside of the new envelope, ‘Q? See me,’ meaning if he had any questions he should see her. She then gave it along with a stack of mail to Muriel to be distributed. Muriel, you may or may not know, works in the office as a volunteer.

  “I have a letter tray in the office where I pick up mail for the library. I found the envelope in my tray, took it for granted that it was for me, and opened it. I admit I read it through to the end. When I asked Grace why she put it in my tray, she got all flustered and said Muriel must have put it there by mistake. She asked Muriel, and Muriel said that she remembered the envelope and presumed Grace was forwarding it to me, that the ‘Q’ was for ‘Quentin.’ Grace was so terribly upset she made me promise I wouldn’t tell anyone, especially Father Sieger or Father Paul, that I had read that letter. But with Father Paul’s murder, I thought you two ought to know about it. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.”

  “Could we impose upon you for one more thing?” Pat asked as he reached into his shirt pocket and took out the photograph they had found in Father Mowbray’s prayer book. “This photo is of you,” he said as he laid it down on the dining table.

  Kelsey picked it up. “Ah, yes. Last year. Paul was in rare form that day. We had a ball. I presume you know that’s Sherrill Rothe with him?”

  “Tell us about it.”

  “It was a picnic, sponsored by the Gay/Lesbian Union of New Jersey and was held in Asbury Park. A good time was had by all, and that’s really all there is to tell.”

  Pat shook his head. “No, I mean tell us about Father Paul’s and Sherrill’s relationship. Just how close were they?”

  “About as close as any two people can get, from what I understand. They were lovers in the best possible meaning of that word, and if Paul had not been a priest, I’m sure they would have been living together by this time.”

  “What about yourself?”

  “Well, I don’t see why I should have to--”

  Pat interrupted him. “This picture shows more than three people at a picnic.” He picked it up and studied it closer. “I see two people standing next to one another, possibly in love with one another. But I also see a third person in the background and the look on his face makes me wonder if he feels left out in the cold. You’re staring, staring at Sherrill. Could be you find him attractive?”

  Kelsey had stood up and now had his hands resting on the back of one of the chairs. He spoke slowly, deliberately. “Sherrill Rothe is a very attractive young man. He has a body that doesn’t know when to stop. Muscles other men wouldn’t know how to use. What’s more, he has an intelligence as well. Brilliant. Genuinely humorous. He is fond of limericks, you know, a form I find irresistible. Once, I was invited to his place along with a few others. I’m a light eater, but for some reason I hadn’t eaten anything all that day. I was famished when I got to Sherrill’s place. I guess I ate quite a bit. The next day, I received a card from Sherrill and on it he wrote:

  There once was a librarian named Quentin

  Whose appetite was anything but lenten.

  Six rolls and a steak,

  Two pies and a cake--

  With a bottle of gin--in Quentin went in.

  “Any gay man would find him attractive, but if you’re implying that I wanted to take him away from Father Paul, you’re sadly mistaken. I would never have done that to Paul, even if Sherrill had been interested in me. I could never have hurt Paul like that. Besides, I have someone else who interests me far more than Sherrill Rothe ever could. Now, if that’s an end of your interrogation, I have work to do. The literati of Center City await me.” Kelsey turned and went into the kitchen and up the back staircase to the library in the Parish House.

  “That wasn’t very kind,” Phillis said to her brother.

  “I wasn’t trying to be kind. And I’m sick of being nice. I want to rattle a few bones around here. It’s time we started making accusations. Nothing gets people talking more and faster than giving them something juicy to talk about. Now, let’s find the sexton of this parish, the jailbird who, according to Ralph, once had to be put in solitary for trying to kill someone in prison.” He turned and left the dining room and headed for the front door.

  CHAPTER XVIII

  They stood outside the plai
n, stained door, much of its original color worn off. Pat knocked.

  “It’s not locked,” a voice bellowed.

  They let themselves in. Sunlight blinded them as it poured into the room. The ceiling pitched steeply on two sides, a double dormer window projecting from each slant of the roof with another window straight ahead near the top of the facing wall. Exposed beams added an English manor touch to the somewhat crudely stuccoed walls. A sofa of indeterminate period filled one side of the room to their right, while an inviting stuffed chair with ottoman and reading lamp filled a corner to their left. A lean figure was stretched out on the sofa, a book opened face down on its chest. It moved, swung its legs over the front of the furniture, and stood up.

  “We’re…” Pat started to explain.

  “I know. Father Sieger introduced us, remember?” He held a hand out to each of them. “Besides, by now everyone in this parish knows who you two are. I’ve been expecting you. Sit down.” He picked up a four-day-old copy of the New York Times and threw it on the floor.

  Phillis and Pat sat on the sofa. Tom Benson took the single chair.

  Tom was, his visitors guessed, in his early fifties, obviously in excellent physical condition, like one who was used to strenuous activities. He possessed an indifference and self-confidence that were interesting. His hair, still jet black with little more than a score of rebellious gray hairs at the sides, was wavy and at the moment tussled, as though he had been sleeping when they had arrived.

  “I suppose it’s my turn to be cross-examined by you two. Okay, let’s get on with it. The police have already had a crack at me, so I might as well let you do your job. It’s what you’re paid to do, right? You’ll want to know if I saw anything out of the ordinary the day of Father Paul’s murder, any strangers lurking around the property, any disreputable souls hiding in corners. Well, let me tell you, this is a city church. We have them all. The derelicts, the mentally ill, the screamers--you know, the kind who stand on street corners and shout at the world--the.… If there’s something wrong with them, they manage to find us sooner or later. They sleep under the bushes in the garden at night, they slip into the church when no one is looking and try to hide in the boiler room, they come for food on the days we distribute it. The poor bastards, you feel sorry for them, even when you don’t know or understand what brings someone to such a low level. Maybe they feel sorry for us, who knows?”