Nelson silently nodded.
“And your secretary was in her office?”
Again Nelson nodded.
“That door over there,” Pat said as he pointed towards a section of one wall of book shelves, a portion of which was now presently ajar, sticking out into the room. “I presume it opens out onto a side hall, possibly connecting to the fire staircase?”
Before Nelson could respond, Pat continued, “Never mind. On my way out of the building, I can check on it.”
CHAPTER XXI
About the time Pat arrived at Nelson Paquette’s office, Phillis was standing on the doorstep of Jeremy Knollys’ Delancey Street mansion.
“I’m beginning to wonder if there are any poor parishioners at Saint Alban’s,” she mused as she waited and studied the other houses on the block. The brick sidewalks were exceptionally wide. Each house seemed to have vied with its neighbors in decoration, doorways, leaded glass windows, and elaborate brass knockers.
The white door opened and a white-haired gentleman in a white jacket looked down at her, both physically and appraisingly. She asked for Mr. Knollys and added she had an appointment. The butler opened the door wider and asked her to enter. He closed the front door and led Phillis through the center hall, opened another door, and gestured for her to enter. Before doing so, she managed to get a glimpse of a double center staircase which led to the upper levels. In the roof, a glass dome let the summer sun pour downwards and bathe in a yellow light the marble floor below.
“I bet even the butlers are wealthy on this street,” she said to herself as she walked into the room and stood in the middle of it. She looked about and realized she was in a houseplant refuge. There were ferns and rare varieties of cacti and hanging baskets of bleeding heart and fuchsia and a score of other brightly colored plants. A terrarium filled the top of a large round table. Inside the glass enclosure were dwarfed plants throughout a scaled miniature English village with thatched roofs and sheep and shepherds. A cat looked out a kitchen window at children playing with marbles while two women gossiped over a back fence, and a postman rode past on his antique wobbly bicycle.
This room where Phillis was now standing admiring the life growing about her was furnished with gleaming white wicker furniture: a small love seat with green and red fern-patterned cushions, several straight chairs, and one rocker. The walls were covered with cream-color rice paper and the floor was tiled with multi-shaded flagstone. A pair of French doors looked out onto an outdoor garden.
“Mr. Knollys will be with you presently,” the butler said to no one in particular and left, closing the door after him. Horbrace had been in the employ of the Knollys family for almost half a century, coming to work in this house when he was a mere lad, helping outdoors, sleeping in a room off the coal bin in the basement, and eventually working his way up to the position of butler. He had been there for the birth of Jeremy and the death of both of Jeremy’s parents, the marriage of Jeremy’s two younger sisters, the births of their children, and the death of one when only two years old. He had tried to be happy when Master Jeremy brought home his new bride, but he felt with the wisdom of those who can only stand by and watch and never speak out, that there was no hope for that marriage.
Horbrace climbed the marble staircase to the second floor, turned right, and walked toward the side of the house. He stopped at a door, knocked, and went in.
“A Miss Toner to see you,” the butler announced to Jeremy Knollys who was standing at the dresser, brushing his hair. The latter thanked Horbrace, who closed the bedroom door as he left.
Since he had received the telephone call from Phillis, Jeremy had been more than just curious. He had also been nervous. From what he had heard, these two young people staying at the rectory were somehow involved in solving Father Paul’s murder. Then why did they want to speak to him? He began to perspire. He hoped it wasn’t… of course not, this Miss Toner couldn’t possibly know that.
As Jeremy looked at his reflection in the mirror, he thought of his wife, Diane. She had been dead how long now, he wondered? Five? No, almost seven weeks since that day he received a telephone call from the New Jersey State Police. The years had gone by so fast. Gone, now, too, was his marriage.
Jeremy and Diane Knollys had had what could only have been called a rocky marriage. They met when he was an immature twenty-five and she a young woman of nineteen who knew precisely what she wanted out of life, especially what she wanted out of marriage: money.
Money was the only thing she wanted. She had had none as a child. Her mother died and her father brought her and his three other children up as best he could with nothing more than a fifth-grade education and a machinist’s salary. School for her meant someplace she had to go every day, dressed in hand-me-downs from slightly better off relatives. That, Diane discovered at an early age, meant clothes that did not fit properly, were already out of style, and definitely of inferior quality.
Life in the upstate Pennsylvania mining town of Morgenville was worse than drab. The unpainted houses, the mining soot on everything and everyone, the underground fires which had been burning beneath the town for the past thirty-some years, the chronic unemployment, the food kitchens for the families of the unemployed, all spelled poverty of the worst sort: poverty in a land of plenty. Everywhere one looked there was sickness, not always the kind of sickness the two local doctors could treat, but the sickness which comes from a lack of purpose in life. The children had pasty complexions and constant head colds all winter. When the girls reached puberty, some became pregnant, others roamed the streets at night; a few lucky ones found employed men who would spend money on them. Those who married already looked fifty by the time they were thirty. The boys went to work--when there was work--in the mines with their fathers.
Jeremy and Diane met when her cousin, passing through his hometown on business one Saturday, needed a date for Jeremy, his boss, who was accompanying him. Since every other girl he knew in town was unsuitable or had already been asked out (or both), he called upon Diane. Diane was exceptionally pretty and she knew it. She also knew how to come across as though she did not know it, as though she were shy, innocent, and positively virginal. Jeremy was impressed with her and began calling on her after he returned to Philadelphia. He drove up to Morgenville several times that winter with no pretense, solely to see her. They went to the only movie in town and always chaperoned. Diane’s father was determined he wasn’t going to end up with another mouth to feed, which is what would happen if Diane got herself pregnant.
By spring, Jeremy had made it clear that he wanted to marry Diane, and since he had money and since he was the only one-way ticket out of Morgenville Diane had ever been offered or was ever likely to be offered, she accepted. The only person more pleased than she, was her father. Not only did he no longer have to worry about having another mouth to feed, he was actually going to have one less.
By mid-summer, Diane and Jeremy had returned from their honeymoon and were settled in the house on Delancey Street. Everything seemed fine. Diane had more money than she ever thought likely and Jeremy was generous with her to a fault. He knew he had one of the most beautiful young brides in his whole circle of friends.
It took a while--two years--for the novelty to wear off for Diane. She eventually came to the realization that the one thing she was so positive she always wanted--money--wasn’t enough to ward off boredom. She had no depth on which to fall back. She discovered she could buy just so many clothes, go to just so many shows, entertain just so many people (most of whom bored her, anyway). There were still many hours of the day to fill. Jeremy suggested volunteer work. Many of the women he knew, both younger and older than his wife, did volunteer work in the local hospitals, at the free library--any number of places. Diane balked at the idea. She made it clear that if she were to work, she might just as well have stayed in Morgenville.
She finally tried what many a bored, rich woman had tried before her. The first one was Carl, a handsome stud
ent from the University who was earning his degree the hard way: entertaining lonely married women. After him came Henry, the studious type who tried to improve Diane’s mind and his own pocketbook. Then there were Wilt, and Stuart, and even a Rudolph who tried hard to act like a modern-day Valentino. None of them satisfied her. It was during a matinee with Bruce that Jeremy came home unexpectedly and found them together. That was the end of the men in Diane’s life.
The only other road Diane found open to her was one where she could walk without having to see Jeremy or their friends, where she didn’t even have to see herself: alcohol. She began with mid-afternoon cocktails so she would be sufficiently numb by the time her husband--whom she by now despised--came home. She moved the first drink up to lunchtime. Eventually, she began drinking early in the morning.
Diane succeeded in alienating nearly all their friends through her drunken obnoxious behavior. Only the staunchest and oldest remained faithful to Jeremy. She was no longer welcome in many homes in the city and in almost none of the better restaurants because of the scenes she had made in them at one time or another. Behind his back, people felt sorry for Jeremy and many a wife asked questions like, “Why does he put up with her?” or “Why doesn’t he divorce her?” and went on to make suggestions that usually began, “If she were my wife….” Their husbands looked longingly at Diane and knew why Jeremy put up with her actions and why he didn’t divorce her.
If alcohol had been Diane’s only demon and their marriage’s only problem, they might have sought and found help. It went much deeper. With Diane’s death, only Jeremy now knew and kept the secret the two of them had shared.
He put down his hairbrush, turned, left the room, and headed for the first floor. He opened the door of the solarium. “How do you do, I’m Jeremy Knollys,” he announced, pronouncing his surname in one syllable.
Phillis straightened up from the squatting position she had adopted to examine the terrarium. A bronzed face with gleaming white teeth greeted her. A hand of steel reached out and shook hers.
“Please, please do sit down,” Jeremy said as he took a single wicker chair with down-stuffed pillows.
Phillis sat on the matching love seat. The man across from her was still in his thirties, she guessed, slightly under six feet, with sandy brown hair and soft brown eyes. He seemed to her to be perfectly proportioned. So perfect, in fact, she wondered how he would be in bed. Don’t think about that now, she said to herself. Still, it wouldn’t hurt to make a mental note for later. Aloud, she returned his greeting and smiled graciously.
“We were no sooner off the telephone this morning,” Jeremy began, “than it occurred to me that you would be here at lunchtime. I called you back, but was told you had left. I hope you haven’t eaten, because I’ve had a little lunch prepared. Nothing special. Cold. Ideal on a hot day like this. I trust you will join me?”
She thanked him.
“You said something about investigating Father Mowbray’s death,” he said. “I still can’t accept the fact that he’s gone. So very young. So sudden. And so very… very unnecessary. I’ve always thought that a strange word to apply to death, don’t you? Unnecessary. What kind of death is necessary? I was fond of Father Paul. We all were, I’m sure.”
“Not all.”
Jeremy’s brown eyes widened.
“At least one person was not fond of him.”
He sighed. “Yes, I see what you mean. Have the police any news? Have you uncovered anything so far?”
“Very little. We were hoping you might be able to throw some light on what happened.”
“I? I would do anything I could to help, believe me, but I fail to see what I can do.”
“You had a phone conversation with Father Mowbray the morning of the day he was killed. Would you mind telling me about it?”
“I see telephone calls are no more confidential at Saint Alban’s than anything else is. Yes, Father Paul called me around eleven-thirty that morning, if memory serves me right. He and I had many talks these past few weeks, ever since… ever since my wife died. He was here many days, especially the first two weeks, but then I realized he had so many other things to attend to, so we often talked on the telephone after that. He was always most generous with his time.”
“It was a friendly call, then?”
“Friendly? Yes, of course, you could call it that. Our chats were always friendly. I couldn’t imagine anyone having any other kind of conversation with Father Paul.” He looked up. Horbrace was standing silently in the doorway. “Shall we?”
The dining room was large enough to be called a banquet room. Two places were set at one end of a mahogany table that could have seated at least forty people, Phillis guessed. Maybe more. The walls were in light-cream silk moiré and a crystal chandelier hung over the table. An oil painting of a good Flemish-school scene of peasants feasting filled most of the wall at one end of the room. The opposite wall held an equally impressive Titian original of a young couple lying on grass beneath a tree. It hung over a soapstone fireplace. The Chinese oriental underfoot felt luxuriously deep.
“I was not instrumental in bringing Father Sieger to this parish,” Jeremy resumed their conversation. “I was not then nor have I ever been elected to the vestry. I just don’t have the time. A very good friend of mine was on the vestry and spoke so highly of this priest that I knew I would have to like him. I did. I do, in fact. Over the years, we’ve been most fortunate in the priests we’ve had at Saint Alban’s. I must say, though, that Father Sieger has not been his usual self of late, but then I don’t suppose you’ve known him for very long, so I presume you wouldn’t know that.”
She was fully aware that Jeremy Knollys was fishing for information. She didn’t mind. “If you consider three or four days a short time, then you’re right, we don’t know him well. Still, he’s impressed us most favorably. He hasn’t been sleeping well lately, I understand.”
“I shouldn’t wonder,” he said as he helped himself to the salad Horbrace was serving. “With Father Paul’s death, it’s a wonder he’s sleeping at all. I wouldn’t want to be alone in that rectory at night, not after a murder just taking place nearby. It’s an old building. The locks are not what you’d call burglar-proof. Anyone, I dare say, could break in at any time. But I noticed Father Sieger showing signs of edginess and had rings under his eyes long before Father Paul’s death. It’s been going on for many months. I hesitated to say something to him about it because, you see, I was never as close to him as I was with Father Paul. A few weeks ago, just before Diane’s death, I said something to Paul about it. I said, ‘I think Father Sieger looks terrible. Has he been to see his doctor?’ Paul agreed our rector didn’t look good, and said he didn’t know if he’d been to his doctor, then promised he’d say something to him about it. Seems I wasn’t the only one who noticed those dark rings under the eyes and the shaking of his hands.”
“Probably the strain of running a large city parish,” she suggested. She felt Jeremy was searching now to find out what, if anything, Father Sieger had told them concerning his problems.
“The thought occurred to me that it might be the old rectory ghost acting up again,” he said.
She dropped her fork.
“Didn’t anyone tell you about the ghost of the rectory? No? I guess I’m not surprised. Not many people know about it, I dare say. I was very young the last time anyone claimed to have seen it. My grandmother knew all about it and gave me the details. Seems there’s a legend at Saint Alban’s about a specter that’s known to walk the staircase in the middle of the night. Supposedly the restless soul of one of the rectors who died there sometime in the mid-nineteenth century. Seems his son was killed in a hunting accident. Shortly thereafter, the good rector must have found life unbearable without his only child. He took his own life. Hanged himself over the banister from the third floor. They found him dangling over the staircase between floors. Ever since, from time to time, someone has claimed to meet a figure on the staircase dressed in
clergy attire typical of the period.”
“Surely, you….” Phillis started to protest.
He laughed heartily. “Good heavens, no! I was only being facetious in even mentioning it to you. But you must admit it makes interesting table conversation when someone hasn’t heard the story before.”
“Then it’s true? I mean the story?”
“Completely true. Every word of it. Not that anyone believes the old rector still walks, but it is true that he took his own life.”
“Is he buried on the church property?”
“Christian burial? For a suicide? Hardly. You must remember how terribly strict and medieval the church was in those days. One who took his own life would never be buried in hallowed ground. Of course, being denied Christian burial only adds to the believability of the story of his walking, restlessly, the halls of the rectory, searching for that peace that only Christian burial can provide.”
Horbrace served a fruit torte and iced coffee.
“I didn’t mean to digress,” Jeremy apologized.
“There was something else about that telephone conversation you had with Father Mowbray.”
He looked quizzical.
“One of you used the word, ‘Murder.‘”
“I did. I said it. Would you be violating a confidence by telling me who told you that, not that I don’t have my own suspicions.”
“Grace Everett. It’s not really a violation of a confidence. We have urged Grace to tell the police what she heard. If she doesn’t, she could be guilty of withholding evidence. It will soon be public record what she heard. Care to explain?”
He leaned back in his chair. “Why not. I might as well. It would be a great relief to. I recently came to the decision--within the past few hours, to be exact--to go to the police myself. I was going to do so before Diane died, then with her death, I thought, why should--”
“Was she involved in a murder?”
Jeremy got up and walked along the side of the table opposite to where she was seated. He stopped, his back to her, facing a sideboard along that wall. He stood there for a moment, then turned and faced his guest.
Aisle of the Dead Page 17
