“We’ll find out why before we’re through,” Detective Worton announced.
Pat stood up. “If there’s nothing more, and you don’t need us, there is something Phillis and I have to attend to,” he told the policeman.
Without acknowledging Pat’s statement, Detective Worton left the room.
“Will you be all right if we leave you alone for a while?” Phillis asked Father Sieger.
The priest looked at them, then looked down at the floor. He nodded.
Pat and Phillis went out the front door of the rectory. Both looked exceptionally somber. Pat, especially, had a look on his face that said he was about to do something, and God help anyone who tried to stop him.
CHAPTER XXIII
They walked to the corner and stopped. Pat took out his cell phone and a small address book. He dialed. “Ralph? Pat. Thank God you’re home. Listen….”
He told Ralph about Sherrill’s murder. “You mentioned the name of someone Sherrill knew very well. Could you get him to talk to us? Give me the address. We’ll go there right now. If you manage…. Great. We owe you twice.” Pat hung up. A taxi was approaching. He flagged it down. Ten minutes later, they pulled up in front of a red brick four-story house on Eleventh Street.
Frank Zahn answered the intercom immediately and buzzed them in. He called down from the third floor.
As they approached, Pat spoke and introduced themselves.
Ralph had done his job well. “You want to talk to me about Sherrill, I understand.” Frank brought them into his small apartment. He was noticeably shaken by the news of Sherrill’s murder.
“You were Sherrill’s best friend, I understand,” Pat began.
“Ralph told me.… Just how did it happen?” Frank motioned them to sit down.
“It happened in Saint Alban’s Church. Someone shot him. We came here in the hope that you might be able to help us. Did you know he was going there? To Saint Alban’s? Why? He didn’t attend that church, did he? Any reason he’d want to talk to a priest?”
Frank shook his head. “He never went to church, I’m positive of that. But….” He stopped talking.
They waited for Frank to pull himself together.
“Last night, I stopped at his place on my way home.” Frank paused as though trying to remember something. “This morning, actually. I worked till two this morning. Last evening he asked me to stop by his place when I got off work. After we closed up, I called him and he said to stop by no matter how late it was. Said he wasn’t going to work today. I got to his place ’bout two–thirty, two–forty-five. He told me he was taking the day off because there was something important he had to discuss with someone, but wasn’t sure what to do about it.”
“Did he say who that person was he was going to see today?”
“Yes. He said he was going to call the rector of Saint Alban’s. I asked him why he wanted to do that. He said he knew something, something someone had told him and he was afraid a crime would go unpunished. Everyone knew about the priest at that church who was murdered a few days ago and I asked him if that was what he was talking about, but he denied it, said it wasn’t the priest’s murder he wanted to speak to the rector about. He said he was talking about another murder. Do you know what he meant?”
“Another murder?” Phillis asked. “Are you sure you understood him correctly? Until a few hours ago, there was only one murder at Saint Alban’s, the murder of Father Paul Mowbray.”
“I’m sure. He was very clear on the subject, that it had nothing directly to do with that priest’s death. Then he said something that puzzled me. You know how it is, someone says something you don’t quite understand and you’re about to ask them, but the conversation goes on and you never do. Ask them, that is. Sherrill said… let me make sure I get it just right. It might be important. He said, yes, he said, ‘Not telling something got Paul killed. I don’t want to make that same mistake.’ God, I want a drink. You?”
“What’s so difficult to fathom,” Pat said as he took a drink from their host, “is not so much that he wanted to tell Father Sieger something, but that he had just come from several hours of interrogation by the police. They’re thorough. Why didn’t he tell them? What was it he kept back from the police, but decided he had to tell the rector of Saint Alban’s?”
“I think I can answer that. He told me that after he came home from the police station and was alone he was able to think clearly without the police badgering him about all that had happened. He began to realize that something that priest, Father Mowbray, had told him really meant something all together different than what he thought it had meant up until that time.”
“Did he tell you what that something was?” Phillis asked.
“Sherrill liked to be cryptic. Always got kicks out of being mysterious, talking in riddles, making up puzzles for others to solve. You know the type. Sherrill could get away with it. He was intelligent, well read, always seeing the hidden meanings of things. I tried to get it out of him but all he’d say was that the police were too dense to recognize the truth even when it was staring them in the face.”
Pat shook his head. “Did any of that make any sense to you? Did you have any inkling of what he was going to tell Father Sieger and why it was so very important?”
“I’m sorry, I don’t. When you’re not part of something, when others are involved, the way Sherrill and that priest were, it doesn’t seem to matter that much. Little did I know that what Sherrill knew would get him murdered. All I thought at the time was that he had something on his mind which concerned Saint Alban’s and he had to tell someone about it. Sorry.”
Pat and Phillis stood up. “You’ve been a help, just the same,” Pat told Frank. “Maybe we’ll still be able to find out what it was Sherrill wanted to tell the rector of Saint Alban’s and if we do, then I’m sure we’ll know who killed him.”
They left the apartment and started down the stairs.
Frank called to them over the banister. “There is someone else you might talk to. Try the bartender at Butch’s. He’ll be working there now. Name’s Terry. Tell him you’re a friend of mine and he’ll tell you anything he can.”
“Think Sherrill spoke to him about this?” Pat asked.
“I’ll bet you my next paycheck he did. Bet he stopped in there today on his way to see that priest.”
“Thanks,” they both said and headed down the stairs.
Butch’s on Twelfth Street was only a block away. They went in and sat at the bar.
“Hi! What’ll it be?” the bartender asked them. He had the word “Terry” embroidered on his skin-tight white T-shirt over his left pectoral muscle.
They gave their orders. As Terry placed the drinks in front of them, Pat said, “We’ve just come from Frank Zahn’s place.”
“Frank and I go ’way back. Used to work together years ago in the old Allegro on Spruce Street. How’s he doing?”
“Frank’s fine,” Phillis said. “We were discussing Sherrill Rothe.”
Terry backed away and leaned against the cash register. He suddenly seemed suspicious.
“He’s been murdered,” Pat said.
“Holy Christ!” Terry leaned forward and supported himself with his hands resting on the edge of the bar.
“We want to talk to you about him,” Phillis said.
“You two?” Terry stared, and pointed at them.
“We’re not the police, if that’s what you’re asking,” Pat told him. “We’re friends of the rector of Saint Alban’s church. That’s where Sherrill was killed only a few hours ago. We know he went there today to see the rector, only he never got to see him. He was murdered first. Frank Zahn thinks Sherrill might have stopped in here on his way and told you why he was going there. It’s vital that we find out what was so damned important to him that he had to the tell the rector. And we’re also positive it was something he knew that got him killed.”
Terry absent-mindedly began wiping the bar in a circular motion with the rag in his ha
nd. “Yeah, he told me where he was headed, and I thought he needed a priest to talk to. He was taking it pretty hard, losing his lover. He and that priest who was killed a couple days ago were pretty close and those sons of bitches, the police, were damned rotten to Sherrill yesterday, accusing him of killing his lover. He stayed here, oh, about a half hour or so. Wanted to talk to someone about the guy he lost, rehashing the things they did together, the things the other said, the little things that make up a relationship. You know how it is. I usually hear their stories when they break up. They come in here and need a shoulder to cry on. They either tear up their ex or they cry in their beer over him. Sherrill’s case was different, of course. To lose a lover through murder, that’s damned rotten. Then he said something odd. Just before he left, he got down from that barstool, the same one you’re sitting on right now, and said, ‘Y’know, Terr, Paul--Father Mowbray--told me if anything ever happened to him, I was to contact Father Sieger, the rector of Saint Alban’s.’ He said it all had to do with the state the rector came from. I don’t know which state that is, but something must have happened to him back there.”
“As far as we know,” Pat said, “Father Sieger was born in Pennsylvania. Philadelphia, I think. Wonder what state Sherrill was talking about? Maybe it had to do with some other parish where he was assigned years ago.”
“Must have,” Terry said. “He said that priest--you know, the one who got himself killed--had said to tell the rector to remember that people can be removed by, as well as from, a state. Sherrill was always talking like that. Damned if I know what he meant by that, do you?”
“No, afraid not,” Pat answered. He gulped his drink and turned to Phillis. “C’mon, we’ve got work to do. Thanks, Terry.”
“Sure, anytime.”
Outside, Pat hailed a taxi. “We better get back to the rectory before anything else happens.”
They rode in silence, breaking it only once when Phillis said softly, “How does that make you feel?”
“It makes me sad. Sometimes the truth can be very painful.”
The taxi stopped outside Saint Alban’s. Inside the rectory, they found Father Sieger still in his study. The priest looked up as they came in.
“Detective Worton still here?” Pat asked.
“Yes, and I’m sure he’ll be here for a good many hours to come. He’s in the church, as far as I know.”
“We won’t need him right this minute,” Pat said and began pacing the study floor, his hands in his pockets. “You’re the one we want to talk to. It’s vitally important that all the pieces fit together and right now we’re not entirely sure we have all the pieces, still less whether or not they fit together. We think they do, but we must first put them in their proper perspective.
“I spoke to Nelson Paquette this morning. His homophobia got the better of him before I left. His hatred of Father Mowbray was quite intense, wasn’t it? He doesn’t have a much better opinion of you, either. I saw what you meant when you said he couldn’t have been the rectory phantom. It would take all his strength to climb those stairs to the second floor and he couldn’t have done it with anything approaching agility. What’s more, I don’t think scaring people in the middle of the night is exactly Nelson Paquette’s modus operandi. Murder, now that’s something quite different. He impressed me as a man who would do whatever it was he thought he had to do to achieve his end. And that includes murder.”
“Oh, dear me,” Father Sieger sighed. “Do you really think Nelson could? I just can’t accept that.”
“And your administrative assistant, Father, what about her?” Phillis asked as she took a seat. “How long has she worked for you? How long has she been in this parish? Where did she come from before she arrived at Saint Alban’s?”
“Mrs. Everett started working here four years ago last February. Before coming to Philadelphia, she lived in Baltimore. You’re not really going to.… I really must insist, both of you, that you--”
“Your nephew, what about him,” Pat went on, ignoring the priest’s protests. “Tell us, has he always been afraid of the dark?”
“Good heavens, yes. Ever since he was a child. He could never stay alone any place at night. If that houseboy of his stays away overnight, Leslie comes here or goes to one of his friends’ houses rather than remain alone in that apartment of his. But I don’t see what any of this has to do with.… Oh, you mean the things in the night? You think… you think Leslie could have been here and caused all those terrible things. No, no, I just can’t imagine him coming here in the middle of the night, alone, walking up those stairs. He’d be petrified.”
“But just how long ago was it that you knew for a fact that he was still afraid of the dark?” Phillis moved towards the edge of her seat.
“Well, now, I can’t say for sure, I’m afraid. Wait. Yes, I may be able to. It was less than a month ago that he told me he spent the night with friends because his manservant was away overnight.”
“People can be cured of their phobias. And, if he wanted people to think he was still afraid of the dark, he’d naturally continue to remind them of it. We really don’t have any foolproof evidence that he’s still afraid of the dark, do we?
“I had lunch today with Jeremy Knollys.” She went on to a new subject. “I’m not exactly sure what to think about him. Tell us about his wife’s death.” There was an urgency in her voice.
“Well, it was about six, maybe seven weeks ago. She drove off the highway. It was evident from the post mortem that she had been drinking excessively. Her problem with alcoholism was one of those secrets everyone knew. Jeremy had his hands full keeping her out of trouble. When she drank, she sometimes caused trouble.”
“What kind of trouble,” Pat asked.
“The usual kind associated with drinking. She became noisy. Boisterous. Abusive. If they were in a public place and she had a few drinks, they were more than once asked to leave.”
“What about threats?” Pat asked. “In my experience with alcoholics, I’ve found that some can become quite threatening, if someone tries to keep them and their booze apart. Is there any reason, Father, why anyone, anyone at all--and I’m including her husband, Jeremy, when I ask this--might have wanted Diane Knollys dead?”
Father Sieger gasped. “You mean, she could have been deliberately killed? But… but it was an accident. She was quite inebriated and--”
“And someone could have helped her get into that condition,” Pat suggested. “Someone could have made the booze too readily available that day or may have put something in it that would have made her pass out, lose control of her car. What I’m getting at is, was the post mortem extensive? Or did everyone presume that because she was a drunk she was therefore drinking. Did the medical examiner look for anything other than alcohol?”
“She could have been drugged?” Father Sieger asked. “If she was, then I would say it was because someone did it to her. To the best of my knowledge, Diane Knollys was not involved in drugs. No. Alcohol, yes. Quite a lot of that, but not drugs. You realize, I trust, that you’re implying she could have been murdered, too, just like Father Paul and that young man, Sherrill Rothe?”
“We have reason to believe Jeremy Knollys had--and maybe still has--a mistress,” Phillis spoke up. “If that is so, then it could provide him with a perfect motive for getting rid of a troublesome wife.”
“I know absolutely nothing whatever about that,” Father Sieger said with an emphasis in his voice that caused her to back away from pursuing the subject further.
“Finally, your so-called sexton, Tom Benson, are his activities accounted for the day of Father Mowbray’s murder?” Pat asked.
“Really! You two suspect everyone, don’t you? Have you really made any progress or are you just floundering around in the dark? I mean, you seem to be fishing for answers.”
“We’re not floundering, not at all.” Pat’s voice was the most severe Father Sieger had heard it so far. He stopped directly in front of the priest and addressed him. “We
know exactly who killed Father Mowbray and Sherrill Rothe and, quite possibly, Diane Knollys. There is no doubt in our minds about that. It’s the loose ends we’re trying to tie up right now. It’s essential that we not only know who committed those murders, but that we know who couldn’t have done them, who had no part in them whatsoever, directly or indirectly. That may not be clear right now, I’m not sure, but I do know it will become clear to you in time. Before this evening is over, if I’m not mistaken. Now, to get back to Tom Benson, where was he the afternoon Father Mowbray was murdered, and did he have any reason to want Father Mowbray or Sherrill Rothe out of the way?”
“I’m afraid I can’t help you on that score,” Father Sieger told him. “You’ll have to ask him that yourself.”
“We did.”
“And?”
“And that’s why we’re asking you. According to Tom Benson, he and Father Mowbray were the best of friends.”
“I believe they were. Yes, I’m sure they were.”
“Yet it is possible Father Mowbray felt someone he considered a friend was actually a danger to him, someone he should fear,” Phillis pointed out.
“And you say you know who the killer is?” Father Sieger asked. “Who?”
“If you don’t mind, Father, we will have to keep that to ourselves, at least a few more hours,” Pat insisted. “One final thing and we’ll be off to see Detective Worton. There is a legend here at Saint Alban’s about a ghost who walks the halls of the rectory. Supposedly it’s Father Fotheringay who committed suicide. Are you familiar with it?”
Father Sieger chuckled a humorless laugh. “You are good, I’ll grant you that.”
“We’re the best at what we do,” Pat agreed, naturally and without boasting.
“The story is true. A former rector of this parish took his own life in this rectory. Hanged himself from the top banister on the third floor. From time to time, someone, for whatever reason is anyone’s guess, revives the legend and claims to have seen the unfortunate priest roaming these halls.”
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