Murder at the National Cathedral

by Margaret Truman

  “I know. Did you see the look on the child’s face just before it happened? He seemed to be searching every corner, every crevice, for something.”

  “Maybe for a place to hide. Let’s change the subject. Did you get the feeling from Finnerty that he was a lot surer that the body had been moved than he was letting on?”

  She shook her head. “No. Why do you say that?”

  “Oh, I don’t know, just something about him. I got to know him fairly well when I was practicing, got to know when he was lying and when he was being straight. If Paul was murdered elsewhere and his body taken to the Good Shepherd Chapel, it adds weight to the possibility that someone who knew the cathedral killed him, not just a drifter Paul stumbled into in the chapel. Good Shepherd, open all day and night, is the most obvious place if the stranger-as-killer theory is at the top of the list.”

  She nodded. “What I can’t fathom, Mac, is why anyone would kill him even if they had met suddenly in that little chapel. Nothing was taken from Paul. The newspapers said his wallet was intact, there was money in his pockets. What could he have come upon that would warrant killing him? Two people passing drugs? I don’t think drug dealers would come to a chapel in a cathedral to do business.”

  “Drug dealers will deal anywhere. Speaking of business, how are preparations coming for our honeymoon?”

  “Good. I checked with the travel agent, and all the confirmations are back. I do want to pick up a dress and a blouse or two before we go. Other than that, I’m set. How about you?”

  “I’m ready. I still have to work on my speech, and I want to talk with George before looking into Paul’s movements in London. I’d say we’re in pretty good shape.” They were stopped at a light. He leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. “I love you very much, Annabel.”

  “Why this sudden gush of affection?” she asked.

  “Just a spontaneous eruption of understanding of how good life can be. That is, when you’re alive and with the right woman.”

  Later in the day, Bishop St. James held a meeting of cathedral and St. Albans clergy. He used the occasion to assure them that while Paul Singletary’s murder had disrupted things, to understate, it was necessary for each of them to get on with the important task of moving forward on many missions vital to the cathedral’s future. He was only slightly annoyed when Carolyn Armstrong interrupted to ask who would replace Paul.

  “I’m afraid I haven’t given that much thought,” St. James said, “but I know it has to be addressed. Until it is, we’re all going to have to assume some of the burden that Paul carried.” He checked Merle’s reaction. As dedicated as Merle was to his religion and cathedral, taking on additional workload would not please him. Jonathon always wished for more time (as many of the clergy did) to use in personal meditations and for sermon writing and research. In addition, he was somewhat shy, a condition covered over with bristles, and uncomfortable in face-to-face work with coy people. He cared, but never knew how to show it.

  “Will you go outside for a replacement?” Armstrong asked.

  “I have no idea what steps will be taken to replace Paul. We’ll discuss that at another meeting.” He took in the rest of the room. “We’re so close to seeing this cathedral completed that we can’t allow anything to deter us from that goal. I know how difficult it is to focus on our tasks, but Paul, like all of us, lived for the day when the final stone would be placed in the West Tower. He can’t be here to rejoice in that moment, but we can deliver it to him.”

  The bishop left the room for a few minutes to greet a visitor.

  “How unfortunate, the Kelsch boy interrupting the service like that,” said Jonathon Merle.

  “Much worse for him, poor dear,” said Carolyn Armstrong.

  Choirmaster Nickelson said, “He’s a difficult young man. I’ve been having nothing but trouble with him since the night before the murder.”

  “Really?” Merle said.

  “Yes. He’d been cutting up in rehearsal, and I assigned him a punishment detail in the choir room that night.”

  “How late was he there?” Merle asked.

  “He was supposed to stay until eleven. I assume he did.”

  Merle grunted and looked at the door as the bishop entered. They spent another twenty minutes together before St. James ended the meeting by leading them in prayer.

  Outside in the hallway of the administration building, Carolyn Armstrong said to Nickelson, “Has Joey Kelsch ever said anything about Paul’s death?”

  “Not to me,” Nickelson said.

  “He should talk to someone. He may need counseling. I was upset myself during the service, but to become physically ill might represent some deep turmoil he’s going through about Paul’s murder.”

  “Maybe. I’m not a shrink. I conduct a choir. Excuse me, Reverend, I have an appointment.”

  “Well, I don’t conduct a choir,” she said after him, realizing how silly her comment was. And your mother wears army boots. She left the building and walked to St. Albans, where she always felt more at home than in the cathedral. St. Albans was her church, a small country parish in the imposing shadow of the titanic National Cathedral, a true place of simple faith and worship without the destructive intrusions of power and politics, manipulation and machinations of the cathedral itself.

  * * *

  The meeting of the bishop and his staff had begun at noon. Simultaneously—although five hours later in London—the Reverend Malcolm Apt escorted solicitor Jeffrey Woodcock to one of the doors to Lambeth Palace. They’d been meeting for an hour.

  Woodcock, who was short and round and who attempted to cover his bald pate with strands of hair from low down on his right side, energetically shook Apt’s hand. “This was a most useful meeting, I do say, most useful.”

  “Yes, but unfortunate that it needed to take place, Mr. Woodcock. While this whole business is obviously a legal matter, there are potentially damaging ramifications where the image of the church is concerned. I feel confident after this meeting that you are fully aware of that fact, and that you understand the need to proceed cautiously in order to avoid unseemly scandal.”

  “Of course. I assure you that any legal maneuvering will be done with discretion. Good evening, Reverend Apt.”

  “Good evening, Mr. Woodcock.”

  Woodcock had intended to return to his office, but considering the hour decided instead to go directly to his club for a quiet drink and dinner. His family was in the country on a brief holiday, leaving him to fend for himself, something that, despite his brilliant law career, he was remarkably incapable of doing. His wife did everything for him; when she was away, he found the familiar comfort of the club to provide a sense of shelter.

  Malcolm Apt, on the other hand, was supremely confident in his ability to handle every aspect of his life without the help of others. He went into Lambeth’s kitchen, made himself a simple dinner of steamed vegetables and boiled chicken, and took it to his office.

  At nine, he called for a taxi, slipped on his black raincoat and black rain hat, and waited near the entrance. He climbed into the black London taxi that had been dispatched and said, “The Red Lion pub on Waverton in Mayfair.”

  When the cab pulled up in front of the pub, Apt paid the fare and looked out through the window at a dark blue Ford parked down a narrow street a dozen yards away. He checked his watch; he was precisely on time. He got out of the cab and watched it drive off, its lights reflecting off glistening pavement that had been moistened by a brief shower. He strolled casually in the direction of the Ford, and when he reached it, climbed into the backseat.

  Without a word, the driver got out and entered the pub, where he announced that Mr. Leighton’s car was waiting. He returned to the car, again saying nothing to Apt.

  Ten minutes later Brett Leighton, wearing his customary tweed suit and carrying an umbrella, came to the car and climbed into the back to join Apt. Bob drove slowly and without purpose through Mayfair, its small, exclusive shops closed, only an
occasional person walking on the streets. Leighton and Apt spoke in hushed tones. After a half hour, Leighton said to Bob, “Home, please.” He turned and said to Apt, “Bob will drive you back to Lambeth.”

  “No, I prefer not,” said Apt. “He can take me to a busy intersection where there will be taxis.”

  “As you wish,” Leighton said.

  Leighton, about to exit the car as it stopped in front of his Belgravia home, said to Reverend Apt, “Remember, she is a real problem. We must keep that in mind at every step.”

  Apt was annoyed at being reminded of what he felt should have been obvious. He gave Leighton a slight, sour smile and watched the long, lean assistant director of MI5’s “B” Division stop to admire a large stoneware pot of mums in front of his house before inserting a key in the door and disappearing inside.

  “The nearest taxi queue,” Apt said curtly. He was dropped off at Sloane Square, where he immediately got into a cab. Bob, who’d been handed an envelope by Leighton, drove to the Lamb and Flag and indulged in a dinner of a T-bone steak served heavily salted and vinegared in a brown paper bag, and a Directors bitter. His wife had told him that he could take care of his own dinner if he came home late again, which is what he was doing. Better food here than what she was likely to have left for him.

  And better conversation, too. Maude always asked too many questions, while he’d made a perfectly good life by asking next to none.

  10

  The Following Sunday—Outside Temperature, Minus 68 Degrees

  “To us,” Mac Smith said, touching the rim of his glass against Annabel’s. “Airborne at last.”

  “To a sublime honeymoon,” she said.

  The Pan Am 747 had lifted into the air over New York’s John F. Kennedy Airport, banked left, and reached its cruising altitude of thirty-seven thousand feet for its flight to London.

  “Nice champagne, nice to be here,” Smith said. “It’s been a mad scramble the last few days.”

  It had been. Under the unwritten but well-understood law of diminishing time when preparing for a trip, Smith had found himself racing to fit everything in.

  First, there had been an emergency meeting of the cathedral chapter to discuss a number of procedural questions, the most pressing of them, in the bishop’s view, being what action would be taken should Singletary’s murderer turn out to be connected with the cathedral. Smith had declined Bishop St. James’s invitation to attend, but the bishop was relentlessly persuasive. Representatives from the cathedral’s law firm were there, too, neither of whom had any experience in criminal law.

  “Highly unlikely it was anyone from the cathedral,” said the chapter president, “but better to be prepared.”

  Smith certainly agreed with that thinking. He was asked whether he had learned of any further developments from the MPD. He had; Smith had met that morning with the chief of Homicide. The final autopsy results were in, and Finnerty had given Smith a copy of the medical examiner’s notes.

  Pressed for details, Mac avoided them, but one nice gray-haired, carefully coiffed and garbed parishioner kept asking to know everything. Smith winced, finally said, “All right,” and proceeded to read: “… skin and subcutaneous tissue crushed against underlying bone … surrounding bruising characterized by rough and uneven edges … hairs, tissue and damaged blood vessels, customary in such injury, at base of wound … wound crescent-shaped—two and three-quarter inches (weapon not blunt) … force of blow substantial … fractures to skull depressed and comminuted … considerable bone splinters driven into soft tissues … heavy hemorrhaging (blood vessels bled into space between skull and brain membrane) … internal bleeding collected between dura and inner surface … fracture and secondary radiating fissures indicate blow was delivered in a horizontal plane … minimal hypostatic staining of skin on lower back and back of neck … body temperature eighty-two degrees (subject was clothed and indoors—rate of cooling necessarily slowed by virtue of cause of death) … level of rigor not advanced (stiffness confined primarily to face) … time of death approximately ten P.M. night prior to discovery of victim … analysis of abdominal contents support estimated time of death … analysis of clothing and body indicate absence of substances other than belonging to victim … clothing clean … no bruises on hands or arms to indicate defense taken against weapon … death was instantaneous …”

  Smith looked around the table. The nice gray-haired woman went grayer still, and Smith repressed a small sense of satisfaction. The blunt, unpleasant words of the report had had their predictable effect on others, as well. Some feigned disinterest by looking away. One man’s face was drained of blood; Smith wondered if he would be the latest Episcopalian to become ill. “How horrible” … “Sad” … “Barbaric” … “Brutal,” said the chapter members.

  “Do the police feel that anything in the report is useful to their investigation?” Smith was asked.

  “I haven’t discussed that with them at length,” he replied. “They’re being very cooperative with me, particularly Chief Finnerty. He and I go back a long way. He really doesn’t have any obligation to share this information, but he seems to view me as having an official capacity. I haven’t dissuaded him.”

  “You will handle the defense if someone from the cathedral is charged?”

  “I haven’t committed myself to that yet,” Smith said. “I suppose, like all of us, in a way, I’m hoping that it will turn out to be a stranger, or at least someone not close to the cathedral. I have promised the bishop, however, that I will be as helpful as possible. That is still my intention.” Bishop St. James’s smile spilled over with appreciation.

  Smith and the bishop met privately following the chapter meeting. St. James handed Smith a letter of introduction to the archbishop of Canterbury as Smith had requested. “You’re likely to see Reverend Malcolm Apt,” St. James told Smith. “It may be difficult to see the archbishop in person, but this letter might help. I’ll call Apt.”

  “I was intrigued with something you said during Paul’s funeral,” Smith said as he slipped the letter into his jacket pocket. “Was Paul ever a chaplain?”

  “Yes.”

  “Navy, I take it.”

  “Right.”

  “When?”

  “Evidently, soon after he was ordained. He rarely spoke of it. Maybe once, twice, as I recall. He did love that verse, though, and liked to use it when comforting the bereaved.”

  “How long did he serve?”

  “I have no idea, Mac. Why?”

  “Just want to know as much as possible about him. Well, I have to go. I’ll call when we return.”

  St. James placed a hand on Smith’s shoulder. “You know how grateful I am.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “Have a safe trip, and don’t spend all your time on this. Remember, it is your honeymoon.”

  “Annabel will see to it that I don’t forget. Good night, George.”

  Smith’s next meeting was with Tony Buffolino, the former Washington narcotics detective who’d been dismissed from the force for taking money from a South American drug dealer. A highly decorated cop, Buffolino had never touched any of the loose and plentiful dirty money available to narcs until a flood of bills for cancer treatment of a son washed him against the wall. As his attorney, Smith managed to quash criminal charges, but couldn’t stave off Tony’s dishonorable discharge from the MPD. For a time, Buffolino blamed Smith for making that deal. He’d loved being a cop, loved it even more than the freedom Smith had won for him. Then, after years without contact, Smith had called him in to help with the investigation of the murder of the presidential candidate’s aide at the Kennedy Center, and found him a job when the investigation was over.

  When Smith walked into Tony’s Spotlight Room at noon, he found the cop-turned-restaurateur sitting at the bar. The establishment, sandwiched between two topless clubs on lower K Street, was open only at night. A young Hispanic swept beneath tables on which chairs had been stacked. The PA system played Sinatra. A
heavy smell of tobacco and perfume hung like the red velvet drapes behind the small bandstand on which a set of drums and several electronic musical instruments stood abandoned like tools of war awaiting the next deafening battle. Illumination came from spotlights covered with red and blue gel. “Las Vegas Comes to D.C.” a poster outside read.

  “How goes it, Tony?” Smith asked as he joined him at the bar.

  “Mezza-mezza,” Buffolino said. He looked up from the copy of Variety he’d been reading. “How come you never come in here, Mac?”

  “Here I am.”

  “I mean at night when the action’s going. You and Annabel come to the gala opening, then I never see you again. I got a dynamite show in here for a couple ’a weeks. The chick singer is a knockout, Mac, and I got a mimic who does the wildest obscure people you ever saw.”

  “That sounds safe … for a mimic,” Smith said. “How is Alicia?”

  Buffolino looked around before saying in a low voice, “Wonnerful. Loving and kind and drivin’ me nuts.” He sighed. “Things were good till we got married. You marry ’em, and they change.”

  “Ah, yes, I’ve heard that. And you should know, since this is not your first time around. Give her my best.”

  “I will. Same to Annabel. So, what brings you here? You sing? Always wanted to do stand-up comedy?”

  “I was wondering if you were up to a job.”

  “PI stuff? Nah. Thanks, though. Too busy with the joint.”

  “Well, that settles that.”

  “You want a drink?”

  “No, thanks.”

  Buffolino yelled in pidgin Spanish at the cleaning boy to bring them coffee.

  “Not for me,” Smith said, standing.

  “Sit a minute, Mac. Relax. Coffee’s not a drink. Good for your nerves. Keeps them hummin’. I kind of miss us talking.” He grinned. Buffolino was a handsome man in a coarse, thick-featured way. He had sleepy, heavy-lidded eyes—bedroom eyes, they were once called. His was a fighter’s face.