Aisle of the Dead

by Joseph E. Wright

  “A kind of murder,” he began. His voice was little more than a whisper. “I know people talked behind our backs. No one in our circle of friends could understand why we were still together, why I put up with her drinking, especially the past two years when it became worse. You see… the secret Diane and I shared kept us together, like some kind of diabolical pact.

  “It happened a couple of years ago. We were at a party. Some friends in Bucks County. I had gone there directly from work, took the train, and met Diane there, and by the time we left the party, I was dead tired. To give you some idea of just how tired I was, when Diane said she’d drive, I didn’t put up a fuss, didn’t check to see how much she had been drinking. It must have been quite a bit. Anyway, we weren’t on the road long before I fell asleep. Next thing I knew, I heard--no I felt--a thud, followed by the sound of screeching tires. She hadn’t seen him. He had been riding a bicycle. I found out later he was only fifteen years old. She didn’t stop. Instead, she stepped on the gas. I tried to stop her. We struggled for control of the car, almost went off the road. When I finally got control of the steering wheel and had my foot on the break, we must have been a couple of miles down the road. She was hysterical. She begged me not to go back, said there was no point, there was nothing we could do, she was so certain the boy was dead. There was a gas station ahead. It was closed. I made her drive there and I used the public telephone to call the police, careful not to leave any fingerprints on it in case the police figured that was where the call was made. I didn’t dare use my cellphone. We found out the next day that the boy wasn’t dead. Maybe he should have died. He became and still is a paraplegic. He’s in his teens, a vegetable, with no hope of ever being anything else but a helpless mass the rest of his life.

  “I guess I’m old fashioned enough to think that one should pay for what one does, but Diane insisted we didn’t have to tell and I was weak enough to go along with her.”

  “But surely--”

  Jeremy raised a hand to silence her. “I know, I know. You didn’t know Diane. You never saw her, saw how beautiful she was, how loving she was when she wanted to be. Well, I started sending money to the boy’s family. It was easy to find out where he lived. The papers were filled with the story of the hit-and-run, and a collection was taken up. I sent cash. I’ve sent a great deal of cash over the past two years. Evidently the family doesn’t report it, otherwise I would think it could be traced.

  “The hit-and-run wasn’t the only accident that evening,” Jeremy went on. He had resumed his seat at the table and was sipping his coffee. “After making that phone call to the police, I got back into the car and took the wheel. We drove home here, but just as I pulled into the alley behind the house, headed for our garage, a car pulled out of the next-door garage. It was our neighbor, the man who lives right next to us. He didn’t look where he was going. I hit his car with my right fender, the same one with which Diane had hit that young boy. We exchanged insurance information. I expected to hear from my insurance company, but no. Evidently, our neighbor did not report it. Anyway, I had something much more pressing on my mind, of course. The next few weeks I frequently urged Diane to go to the police, told her I’d go with her, stand by her, get her the very finest legal help the city had to offer, but she steadfastly refused. Then one evening, when I brought the subject up for what must have been the twentieth time, she asked me, ‘Why should I go to the police? After all, I wasn’t driving.’ I stared at her, not quite understanding what she was saying. ‘What do you mean, you weren’t driving?’ I asked her. She laughed. ‘I wasn’t driving. You were,’ she said. ‘There’s even a witness that you were driving. Mr. Stein next door. He saw you drive into the alley, so drunk you hit his car. I’ll tell the police you were the one who hit that boy. Want to bet the police would take my word for it and not yours?’

  “I couldn’t believe my ears. She was putting the blame on me for what she had done. That was the end of our marriage. Only our horrible secret kept us together, like two worms caught on the same hook. After that, I took a separate bedroom. She drank even more, until finally… well, you know what happened. You don’t? She simply drank so much one day she drove at her usual excessive sped off the Atlantic City Expressway, hit a cluster of trees, and was dead before anyone could get to her.

  “I’ve told you all this today because I had to tell someone or go crazy.”

  Phillis stood up.

  “I’m happy you came here today,” Jeremy said as he held out his hand. “I’m only sorry I couldn’t have been of any help to you. I have already informed Father Sieger that I think a collection should be taken up to offer a reward for the apprehension of Father Paul’s murderer. I have offered to donate a sizeable amount towards that end. It’s the least we can do for him.”

  “Did Father Sieger agree to that suggestion?”

  He shrugged. “He indicated he did not like the idea, but said he would present it to the vestry for their consideration.”

  They were in the front vestibule. Phillis wondered if she should pose the question that was forming in her head. She decided she would. (What the hell, he can’t take his lunch back, she told herself.)‎ “Mr. Knollys,” she said, making sure to pronounce his name correctly.

  “Jeremy,” her host corrected her.

  “Jeremy. There’s a delicate question I feel I must put to you. It may be painful.”

  “If it concerns Diane or her death, Phillis, go ahead. The pain is beginning to let up. There were years of pain before this for both of us. In some ways, I’m relieved. And I’m sure Diane is, too. I only hope and pray she has finally found peace. She never knew any when she was alive.”

  “You said she was drinking when she died. What did you do to help curb that drinking?”

  “Her drinking was out of control for a long time. If you don’t know that already, you will. There are precious few secrets in Center City Philadelphia. We’re a small town with none of the small town advantages and all of the big city disadvantages. Diane was not able to cope with her problem. With her problems. She had a very unhappy life. I tried to help. I really did. When she wouldn’t accept the professional help offered her, when she wouldn’t agree to try A.A., I did the next best thing. I cut off temptation. We kept no alcohol whatever in this house. All our friends knew that. I cut off charge accounts. In fact, all money. But, somehow or other Diane always seemed to have enough money to support her… affliction.”

  “Thank you,” Phillis said and turned the doorknob. “It’s sometimes not a very pleasant job, this prying into other people’s lives.”

  Jeremy nodded and held the door open as she turned and walked down the front steps.

  It was a short distance from Jeremy Knollys’ house to Big Ben’s, where she was to meet Pat. As she walked, Phillis rehashed the meeting with her Delancey Street host. Something was bothering her. Why had no one told them about the Rectory Ghost before this? Did Father Sieger know about it? If he had ever heard the story, even though he wouldn’t have believed it, why didn’t he at least say something to the effect that, if he didn’t know better, he’d think all those goings-on in the middle of the night were the doings of the ghost of the rector who took his own life, or something to that effect? She was beginning to feel that Father Sieger had kept more than one thing back and had not been totally honest with them. Lies coming from others she could handle, but she did expect the rector of Saint Alban’s to be totally truthful with them.

  She wondered if Pat would be angry that she had not questioned Jeremy Knollys about his extramarital activities, especially about the mistress Grace Everett claimed he had. No matter. Phillis had decided against asking that question. Jeremy seemed genuinely affected by his wife’s death and if he did have a mistress, as Grace Everett maintained, there would be other sources that could confirm it.

  CHAPTER XXII

  Pat was already seated in a booth when Phillis entered the restaurant. When they finished telling one another of their morning’s activities, P
hillis announced she wanted to see Beatrice.

  “Why her?” Pat asked.

  “Got a question for her,” she told him as she led the way past the main gate and continued to the far end of the church property. They could see the cemetery and Beatrice sitting under the oak tree, her straw hat down over her face, a hand shovel laying on her lap. Phillis whispered to Pat, “Bet she’s asleep,” as she opened the seldom-used rusty iron gate. Aloud, she said, “Good afternoon, Beatrice.”

  Beatrice started and quickly pulled the straw hat away from her face and looked up. “Oh, it’s only youse two.” She fanned herself with the hat.

  Phillis squatted down next to her. “Been digging?”

  “Searchin’ for the fountain a’youth.” Beatrice’s frame shook with laughter. “Not that I needs it, mind ya, so I gave up.”

  Phillis assumed a serious tone and expression. “Beatrice, we have a question we’d like to ask you”

  “Seems t’me that’s all you two do, is aks questions.” Beatrice threw the shovel off to one side. She took a rag from her apron pocket, wiped her brow with it, and carefully placed the straw hat on the cement bench next to her. “What’s it be this time?”

  “Beatrice, we understand that many years ago one of the rectors of Saint Alban’s committed suicide, took his own life over the loss of his son. We were told he was refused burial in this cemetery. Know the story?”

  “That’d be Rev’ren’ Fotheringay,” Beatrice said after thinking about it for a moment. “Kilt hisself right in that there rec’try. Tied the rope t’one a the upstairs banisters, tied other end round his neck, and jumped over the side. Me sainted grandmother use’ta tell the story. Many’s the time I heard her tell that one, ‘n’ scared the livin’ shi–– bejeebers outta me ev’rytime she’d go over the grizzly details, let me tell ya.”

  “There are those, Beatrice, who claim the Reverend Fotheringay walks the halls of that rectory to this very day.” Phillis made her words sound ominous, not at all unlike the teller of such a tale around a campfire.

  Beatrice turned, looked up at her, then at Pat, and brought her right hand up, then slapped it with all her might against the side of her thigh. She threw back her head, showed the few stubs of teeth she still had, and let out a roar that must have been heard inside the church. “God bless ya!” she cried out. “Ain’t hear that one these past fifty or more years, not since me grandma died, God rest ‘er! She was the only one I heard tell that whopper. Ain’t heard ’nother livin’ soul speak of it all these here years.”

  “Beatrice, you mean it’s not common knowledge? Not many people know the legend of the rectory ghost?” Phillis leaned down close to her.

  The older woman shook her head. “Like I says, ain’t heard that there ghost story since I was no higher’n this here bench I be sittin’ on. God bless ya both, it makes me feel like a young ‘un again.”

  Phillis straightened up. “Thank you, Beatrice.” She reached into her side pocket and took out a bill which she pressed into the gardener’s hand. Beatrice protested. “You gave me the information I was looking for and we always pay for information. Shall we?” she asked her brother and turned towards the gate.

  Beatrice called out after them, “Youse two ain’t goin’ inta the rec’try, are ya?”

  They stopped.

  “As a matter of fact, we are,” Pat answered her. “Any problem?”

  Beatrice approached. “That’s your business, a course. If it was upta me, I’d stay ‘way as far as I could. Cops in there right this very minute. That there Worton, and he brought half the station with ‘im. Know what that means, don’t ya? You two been round long ‘nuff ta know why a big shot like that there l’tenent would bring all them experts along. Couple stationed out back, too. Ain’t much Beatrice misses, eh?”

  “C’mon, Phil, let’s hurry.” Pat broke out into a trot towards the rectory. “Someone’s in serious trouble and it must be Father Sieger.”

  As they approached the rectory door, they could hear voices raised inside. One of them was Detective Worton’s. Father Sieger opened the door before they reached it.

  “What’s going on, Father? Why are the police here?”

  “Oh, my word, Patrick, it’s terrible, absolutely terrible. Thank God you’re here. I was watching for you, hoping you’d get back soon.” Father Sieger was wringing his hands and pacing back and forth in the foyer.

  “Calm down, Father,” Phillis said. “If you’re in trouble, if the police are giving you a hard time, don’t let them. Do you have a lawyer? Someone to advise you? Pat and I will do whatever we can to help you.”

  Father Sieger stared at her. Finally, he answered, “Why, thank you. That is most generous of you. And of you, too, Pat. But, tell me, why do you think I need a lawyer?”

  Phillis and Pat looked at one another.

  “We thought… that is, we thought….” Phillis stuttered.

  Pat spoke a bit more coherently. “With Detective Worton here with uniformed police, we thought they were here to make an arrest and--”

  Father Sieger pointed a finger first at Pat, then at Phillis. “And… and you thought… you thought they…. Really, now! Did you honestly think they came here to arrest me? Do you think that I killed Father Paul?”

  Both were embarrassed.

  “We truly are sorry,” Pat said. “Please forgive us. We thought of you being here alone, and--”

  “Father, just why are the police here?” Phillis interrupted.

  The priest’s face darkened. “In your… your misunderstanding, I forgot for a moment why they were here. It’s horrible.” His eyes filled as he looked at both of them. “There’s been a murder.”

  “What? Who?” Pat cried out.

  Father Sieger’s voice was shaking, “It was horrible. I was the one who found… who found the body… lying face down… in the church.”

  “We know you found Father Paul’s body,” Phillis said and placed a hand gently on the older man’s arm. To Pat, she said, “Shock. Just setting in now.”

  “No, no, you don’t understand,” Father Sieger insisted, and began pacing once more.

  “Come into the study and tell us all about it.” Pat gently took the older man by the arm. “Calmly, quietly tell us everything.” Pat led the rector to a chair.

  “I really don’t know where to begin. The series of events seem, now that I look back, to have happened too rapidly, one thing after another until my head is fairly spinning. I still… I still can’t comprehend it all. But you’re wrong. I’m not talking about Paul. No, today. Today, there’s been another… another…. Where do I begin?”

  “Try going back to this morning,” Phillis suggested. “When we left this morning everything seemed all right. Tell us what happened after that.”

  “Well, I left shortly after you two did,” Father Sieger began, as though in a trance. “I had to go to the hospital to visit one of our parishioners who’s quite ill. But I think I told you that, didn’t I? I was there about an hour, I would guess. Stopped and had lunch. When I got back, I came directly in here, into the study. I wanted to attack the mail that’s been piling up ever since… ever since Paul’s death. Grace says I simply must get on with it. But I don’t suppose you want to hear about that….” His voice trailed off and there was a look of helplessness on his face. He made an effort to go on. “I got only part way through the mail when I decided I wanted to take a break. I finally had to admit the events of the past few days were taking their toll on me. I had to stop. I had to get away, if only for a few hours. When that happens, I sometimes go into the church. It’s so very peaceful there when it’s closed up. No telephones, no one wanting your time, a piece of you. You can sort things out, talk not only to God, but to yourself. I needed that. I went outside through the garden and through the main doors of the church.. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the semi-darkness, and when they did, I started towards the middle aisle, then began walking towards the front of the church.” He stopped talking and
began to shake.

  Pat and Phillis waited for him to continue.

  He took a deep breath, then went on: “I saw something half-way down the aisle, something large, somewhat colorful, as though someone had thrown a pile of clothing there. Then it took shape and I could see someone was lying there, face down, exactly the way I had seen Paul, in… well, in virtually the very same spot. It’s a wonder I didn’t have a stroke or something worse, right then and there. I finally reached down--you know, I’m terrible when it comes to corpses--and touched the wrist. I could find no pulse. I ran out of the church and ran all the way down to the office. I called the police and they arrived very soon. You got here no more than thirty, forty minutes after Detective Worton did. I understand there will be more people arriving, technical persons, to examine everything. The church is overrun with all kinds of people doing God-only-knows-what again. It’s just like the day I found Father Paul’s body.”

  “Maybe Detective Worton can give us more information now,” Pat said as he looked across the room to the doorway.

  The detective came into the room. “The deceased’s name was Sherrill Rothe,” he announced, deliberately not looking at any one of the three people he addressed. “We should have kept him in custody a bit longer, it looks. He might still be alive if we had. No question of suicide being admission of guilt. Like Father Mowbray, there’s no way he could have shot himself, then gotten rid of the weapon.”

  “Do you know what he was doing here?” Pat asked the policeman, but included Father Sieger in the sweep of his eyes.

  “I have no idea whatever,” Father Sieger answered. “As I told you, he called me shortly after the police released him yesterday evening, but I can’t imagine why he was here today, still less what he was doing in the church when it was closed.”