Murder at the National Cathedral

by Margaret Truman

  The Reverend Canon Paul Singletary looked up at the library’s hammerbeam ceiling, then to a faded, coarse beige-and-red tapestry that covered much of one wall. On the tapestry was the inwoven cross of the archbishop of Canterbury—primus inter pares, first among equals—whose seat of power as head of the worldwide Anglican Communion was the medieval Lambeth Palace, to which Singletary had come this late October afternoon.

  A window on the west wall afforded a view across the Thames to Westminster and its Abbey, and to the Houses of Parliament. A twelfth-century primate had bought the land on which Lambeth Palace sat in order to be close—but not too close, God forbid—to the Crown.

  Towering fuscous cumulonimbus clouds over Westminster unleashed a brief, brilliant shaft of white lightning as the door to the library opened and the Reverend Canon Malcolm Apt entered. Nice timing, Singletary thought. He sat in the chair and scrutinized Apt as he approached, not because he didn’t know him, but because he always found Apt’s face to be interesting. It was as though Apt’s features had been pasted on the flat plane of his face slightly off-center, which created the effect of eyes, nose, and mouth out of alignment, pointing in a slightly different direction than the face itself. He wore a white surplice over a purple cassock; the cassock reached the floor. Apt was a short block of a man whose salt-and-pepper hair was the consistency of wire; he’d lost few wires in his fifty years.

  Singletary stood without energy. “I didn’t expect to be kept waiting this long,” he said.

  Apt ignored the comment and the tone in which it was delivered. “Come,” he said, “we’ll talk in the archbishop’s study.” He led Singletary along the Great Corridor, where portraits of all the archbishops from Victorian times hung, then into a large, comfortably furnished room. Apt went to the windows, looked out over the river as though to assure himself it was still there, and drew on a cord that caused heavy drapes to slide closed with a soft whoosh.

  “Well?” Singletary said.

  “He won’t be able to see you, I’m afraid.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Some people think I’m too serious.”

  Singletary looked at his watch; it was seven o’clock. Seven peals of a church bell confirmed it. “I’ve wasted my time then.”

  “If you choose to view it that way, Paul,” Apt said. “Sit down. The archbishop asked me to discuss certain aspects of this with you.”

  Singletary was not interested in discussing anything with Malcolm Apt. He’d wanted to see the archbishop of Canterbury himself. Apt was the archbishop’s suffragan bishop, or VP in charge of … well, public relations. At least that’s what his title would be in the secular, business world. His official title was director of church information.

  Apt sat behind a highly polished cherrywood table. Singletary sat across from him. Although dusk was starting to fall outside, the open drapes had permitted some light to enter. With them closed, the efficacy of the study’s interior lighting seemed to have been diminished by half.

  “Paul, the archbishop is growing increasingly concerned about this Word of Peace thing.”

  Singletary laughed crisply enough to make his point, but not enough to indicate disrespect to the archbishop of Canterbury. Apt continued, and Singletary knew that he was speaking words that had been carefully considered, perhaps even written prior to his arrival at the library. “You must understand that when the archbishop gave his support to Word of Peace, not a great deal was known about it. Frankly, I tried my best to dissuade him from involving us in it.” Apt smiled—not much of a smile, but because it tended to stretch his mouth slightly, it enhanced the feeling that the paste-up job had been hasty. “I must admit that you were very effective when you presented the Word of Peace program to the archbishop. How long ago was that, Paul, a year?”

  Singletary shrugged.

  “Of course, there was the weight of the others with you, especially the African bishop. What’s his name?” Apt asked it with seeming sincerity, but Singletary knew that Apt was well aware of the African bishop’s name. He’d seen Apt do this before, degrade someone by pretending to have forgotten the name.

  “Bishop Eastland.”

  “Ah, yes, Bishop Eastland. Certainly one of our high-visibility bishops. Nasty mess, that apartheid. We’ll all be happy when that’s resolved. How is Bishop Eastland?”

  “Fine, and still fighting apartheid, according to what I read in the press.”

  “A most impressive man. As I was saying, the archbishop’s enthusiasm for Word of Peace has waned, although he has not withdrawn his support. Has your Bishop St. James’s enthusiasm back in Washington been sustained, or has it waned, too?”

  “Heightened might be a more accurate way to describe it,” Singletary said flatly.

  Apt sat back and clasped his hands on his belly. “Heightened. Interesting.”

  “Malcolm, you said the archbishop wanted you to discuss something with me about Word of Peace. Is this it, that his enthusiasm has waned?”

  “In a sense, yes, although there is more behind it. He is, of course, not only charged with the administration of the church; he is equally responsible for how we are viewed by others. That is also my particular responsibility, one I take very seriously. You will admit that some of those who have become involved with Word of Peace seem self-seeking, or political, and many are controversial at best, including yourself.”

  Singletary laughed again; this time it was more genuine, and with less concern for the archbishop. “Controversial? We pray each night to a highly controversial figure.”

  “Prayers are our leveling factor, Paul. What we do between prayers is another matter.”

  “You mean, of course, to what extent we become involved in …” He thought before finishing. “To what extent we become involved in things not very churchy.”

  “I’d rather not be told what I mean, Paul, although that is your prerogative … and bent.” Apt smiled.

  They’d had this conversation before, especially since Singletary had become a conspicuous leader of the worldwide and nondenominational Word of Peace movement, in which the world’s clergy were to use their collective weight and individual pulpits to spread the word of peace. Apt, and the archbishop of Canterbury, whose religious philosophy Apt shared (genuinely or because it was good for tenure? Singletary often wondered) were advocates of the Anglo-Catholic division of the church—the “Oxford movement”—archconservative (he was not called “archbishop” for nothing, Singletary thought in a whimsical moment), rigid, authoritarian, puritanical, and intolerant of the more liberal wing that did not, in Anglo-Catholic eyes, adhere strictly enough to Catholic doctrine, of all things. They were for peace, to be sure, but not for disturbing it.

  Singletary, on the other hand, was very much part of what was called the Broad Church (in political jargon, the Episcopal “liberal party”). There was also the so-called Evangelical movement, claiming to represent a middle ground of philosophy but firmly sin-based, Luther- and Calvin-influenced, and without much respect from either the conservative or the liberal wing of the church.

  Word of Peace was a distinctly liberal movement, aggressively intermixed with Singletary’s widely publicized work with drug addicts, runaway teens, the homeless, and a score of other social causes back in D.C. And nationally. Truth was, it was not those social causes but politics that prompted criticism of the Word of Peace movement. The movement stood for boycotting South Africa until it rid itself of apartheid, and for getting out of Ollie North’s Central America and dissociating from its so-called freedom fighters. The olive branch in place of the B-1. Politics!

  Singletary looked at his watch again. He said, “You know, Malcolm, you and I are both canons because we serve bishops and cathedrals. I will give you that your boss holds higher rank, but mine, George St. James, is not exactly, as some of my friends would say, ‘chopped liver.’ I would also remind you that in both Luke and Matthew Our Lord calls for the church to feed the hungry, clothe the naked, heal the sick
, be the harbinger of comfort and caring and hope.”

  “I am familiar with Matthew and Luke.”

  “Wasn’t it from the gate I entered this afternoon that the Lambeth dole was practiced?” Singletary frowned as he pulled from his memory the words “ ‘Every Friday and Sunday, unto every beggar that came to the door, a loaf of bread of a farthing price.’ ”

  Apt stretched another thin smile.

  “And you’re also familiar with what Canon Casson told the executive council,” Singletary said. “That the Gospel isn’t believable unless the church relates to its neighborhoods—including the larger neighborhood called the planet.”

  “So endeth the lesson!” Apt stood. “I have another appointment.”

  “So do I. I’m already late.”

  “Safe journey home, Paul.”

  “Yes. Please tell the archbishop how disappointed I was not to be able to see him on this trip.”

  “You didn’t come to London just to see him, did you?”

  “You know I didn’t. Still, first things first …”

  “You’ll be staying a few days?”

  “One more day. I have a meeting tomorrow in your limpid countryside. Then back to Washington on Thursday.”

  Singletary picked up his black raincoat from the chair. Apt opened the study door. And began to accompany him. Singletary said, “It’s okay, Malcolm, I know my Luke, Matthew, and the way out.”

  Singletary had been provided a car and driver by the London Word of Peace Committee for his visit to Lambeth Palace. It was at his disposal for the evening. He climbed in the back of the navy-blue Ford and gave the driver an address in Mayfair, near Berkeley Square. When they reached it, the driver slowed to read numbers. Singletary said, “This will be fine.”

  “Shall I wait?” the elderly British driver asked.

  Singletary wrinkled his brow and pursed his lips in thought. “No, Bob, I think I’ll be here awhile. I’ll take a cab back to the hotel or walk. It isn’t far. Thank you very much for your courtesy.”

  Singletary waited until the car had been driven away. Then, after looking left and right, he walked back to the corner of Charles Street and went up Davies Street. At number 418 he climbed the short set of steps and announced his arrival with three brisk raps of the brass knocker on the red door.

  “Paul?” a voice asked from behind the door.

  “Yes.”

  The door was opened by a tall and slender, broad-shouldered woman of thirty-one. Clarissa Morgan possessed what Singletary considered a rare combination—black hair and eyes with milky-white skin. She wore pink silk lounging pajamas. “Come in,” she said, her accent edged with a touch of Welsh clarity. “I was about to become worried.”

  Singletary stepped into the foyer, and she closed the door behind them. “He kept me waiting, didn’t even see me,” he said.

  “Poor dear,” she said, taking his coat. “Hardly the sort of behavior one would expect from the archbishop of Canterbury.”

  “Exactly what one would expect of this archbishop of Canterbury, considering the fact that he’s to the right of Thomas Cartwright.” Realizing that she didn’t understand the reference, he muttered, “Another puritanical right-winger of the faith.”

  He walked into a small, tastefully decorated parlor and went directly to a cupboard, opened its doors, and pulled out a metal bottle of Danska. Clarissa came to his side carrying a bucket of ice. “You?” he asked as he put ice and the vodka into a glass and removed his jacket.

  “I prefer wine.”

  They touched glasses and sat on a very contemporary-looking leather sofa, a jarring note in the midst of the room’s antique furnishings. She touched his cheek with slender fingers tipped with nails the color of dusty roses, smiled, and said softly, “You look older when you’re angry. Don’t be angry, at least not tonight.”

  He managed to smile, downed half of his drink, and removed his clerical collar. “Where are we eating?”

  Her voice now had a softer quality. “I thought we’d eat right here. If that’s all right with you, of course.” She looked into his eyes. “It is all right that we stay here, isn’t it?”

  His face said that the anger he’d felt since leaving Lambeth Palace was fading fast. “Yes, it’s all right with me. Very all right. What are we having?”

  She smiled and stood. “Cold tarragon chicken, a simple salad with raspberry dressing, rolls and butter, and a peach tart for dessert. How … hungry are you? All of it will keep nicely. But will you? Will I? Do you know how sinfully handsome you are?”

  He stood and embraced her. The smell of her hair and perfume filled his nostrils as he touched his lips to her neck. His hands slid slowly down her back. The only words spoken between them as they entered the bedroom came from Clarissa. “If you’d like to unleash a little bit of that controlled anger now, Reverend,” she said, “I’d love it.”

  As the Reverend Canon Paul Singletary communed with Clarissa Morgan, the driver called Bob pulled up in front of the Red Lion pub in Mayfair. He told the barmaid that Mr. Leighton’s car was waiting. She disappeared into the back dining room while Bob returned to the Ford. A few minutes later a tall, gray-haired gentleman with a Burberry raincoat neatly folded over the sleeve of his brown tweed suit left the pub. He carried an umbrella, and walked with an odd slight leaning to the left, as though too many years of toting a heavy briefcase had bent him that way. Bob opened the back door of the Ford, and the man got in.

  “Home?”

  “Yes.”

  After driving a block, Brett Leighton asked, “Well, did you take our clerical friend someplace interesting?”

  “To the house in Mayfair with the red door. Actually, to a nearby address—but he walked to his final destination.”

  “Yes.” Leighton smiled to himself. “A most beautiful altar at which to pray.”

  Bob said nothing.

  “His plans?”

  “He said he would be going out of town tomorrow.”

  “Out of town. You’ll be driving him?”

  “Not likely. The dispatcher said nothing about it.”

  “Let me know if you do.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  Bob dropped Leighton in front of a white townhouse in Belgravia. “Thank you, Bob,” Leighton said.

  “My pleasure,” said the driver. “Will there be anything else tonight?”

  Leighton handed Bob a sealed envelope, which, after Leighton had disappeared inside his house, the driver opened. He put the hundred-pound note in his pocket and drove to the Lamb and Flag on Rose Street in Covent Garden, a pub formerly known as the Bucket of Blood, where he ordered a clanger and a Directors bitter and joined his friends at a round corner table.

  “Good day?” Eddie asked.

  “A bloody bore ’cept for the traffic. I swear it gets worse every day,” Bob said. “Can ’ardly see where you’re going. Have to keep your eyes open for sure. Bloody Americans everywhere. No idea how to drive.”

  After eating his pastry roll of bacon, onion, and herbs, Bob considered leaving. His wife would be angry that he was late again, but what did she know? He deserved his relaxation, with the important work he did. Couldn’t tell her. Just as well.

  He bought the next round. And another. And the hundred-pound note became smaller in proportion to Bob’s growing expansiveness.

  3

  The National Cathedral, Washington, D.C.—The Next Night, Wednesday

  Joseph Kelsch idly pulled sheet music from a large pile on the table in front of him. The choirboy knew there really wasn’t any need to refile the music. Ordinarily, the cathedral’s vast collection of religious music was meticulously maintained; Joey had been assigned the unnecessary task as punishment for having disrupted that afternoon’s rehearsal of the boys’ choir. What was especially annoying to him was that he was ten years old, it was nine o’clock at night, and he’d been told by the choirmaster, Canon Wilfred Nickelson, that he was to continue with this make-work until eleven, after which he
’d surely be twenty years old, and which also meant he would be unable to participate in the Ping-Pong contest that was going on at that moment back in the boys’ dormitory. Joey was one of the better Ping-Pong players in the school and had advanced to the final round, the winner to be decided that evening. Canon Willy Nickelson has caused him to lose his opportunity to be the winner.

  If Joey Kelsch, the boys’ choir’s finest young voice and biggest cutup, had been honest with himself, he would have admitted that the worst thing about his punishment was having to be alone in the choir room at night. He’d turned on all the lights. Still, there was something murkily forbidding about being here alone, about being alone anywhere in the vast cathedral after dark. Every sound was magnified and caused him to stiffen. His eyes darted from window to window. Thoughts of the tournament took his mind off his fears for a moment. That nerd Billy would probably win, now that Joey couldn’t compete. A series of black thoughts about choirmaster Nickelson filled Joey’s head as he lazily shuffled another piece of paper onto a pile. He was better at Ping-Pong than Billy. This wasn’t fair. He hadn’t done anything terrible during rehearsal, just talked too much after Nickel-Pickle had twice told him to stop.

  As he sat at the long table in the choir room, Joey heard voices a few times when people passed in the hallway outside the door. He recognized Bishop St. James’s rumble on one occasion, and he considered going into the hallway to voice a complaint to the bishop about his punishment. “The punishment doesn’t fit the crime,” he would say to St. James if he went into the hallway. He didn’t; Bishop St. James was a nice man, but he would say, “I suggest you take this up with Reverend Nickelson.”

  Joey sighed and looked at a clock on the wall. Another whole hour and a half to go. Though he wasn’t always on the side of the angels, in the soft, subdued light he resembled one. “Crap!” he muttered.

  Across the hall from the choir room, behind the altar in the Bethlehem Chapel, which had been Mac and Annabel Smith’s wedding site, a man stood in the shadows. He cocked his head at the sound of footsteps on the hard stone floor. They became louder, then stopped. A figure appeared at one side of the altar, paused, looked down at the vault in which the Right Reverend Henry Yates Satterlee, first bishop of Washington, and his wife, Jane Lawrence, had long ago been interred, looked up at an alabaster tomb bearing a recumbent likeness of Bishop Satterlee, and then, through narrowed eyes, peered at the man in the shadows. They began to talk, their tones low, their anger soon evident. The one who’d been second to enter the chapel closed the gap between them; they were only a few feet from each other now, their voices rising in intensity and volume, their words coming back at them in fragments off the hard walls.