Murder at the National Cathedral
Page 11
“We’ve never met, but he sounds absolutely charming, a very cultivated French accent, almost kissing my hand over the phone.”
They climbed into the king-size bed and pulled the covers up over them. “Will I see you after lunch?” Smith asked.
“Probably. Why don’t we leave messages at Reception, and we’ll coordinate, maybe have tea together.”
“Sounds fine.” He kissed her forehead and turned over.
She started to laugh.
He faced her. “What’s funny?”
“Us. We are funny, funny that is, and I think we should enjoy every minute of it. Good night, Mr. Smith.”
“Good night, Mrs. Smith.” He rolled over again. After a moment of silence, he sat up, lifted her right hand from beneath the covers, kissed it, and said, “Bonne nuit, ma minette en susucre.”
“What does that mean?”
“Good night, sugarpuss. And if the Frenchman kisses your hand, I’ll send Tony over to break his knees.”
As Smith and Annabel fell asleep at eleven o’clock London time, Joey Kelsch walked into St. Albans in Washington for his 6:00 P.M. meeting with Reverend Carolyn Armstrong. She hadn’t explained why she wanted to see him and he’d tried to make an excuse, but she’d insisted. “It will only take a few minutes, Joey,” she’d said. He hoped so.
They sat in the front pew of the small church. They were alone. Reverend Armstrong, who wore a stylishly tailored powder-blue suit over a starched white blouse, smiled warmly at the young boy. He returned the smile tentatively but avoided eye contact.
“Joey, I’ve been worried about you lately,” she said. She placed her fingertips on his hand. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, sure. I’m fine.”
“I was so upset for you when you became ill during Reverend Singletary’s funeral.”
“I’m sorry about that.”
“No need to be sorry. It could happen to any of us. I was quite upset myself. Was it the flu?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You look fine today.”
“It was … just a stomach sickness. I think I ate something.”
“Of course. Joey, I understand that you were working in the choir room the night Reverend Singletary was killed.”
“No, I … only for a little while.”
“Really? Reverend Nickelson said he’d assigned you a punishment until eleven that night.”
“No … Well, he did, but I … I left.”
“How early?”
“I … I knew Reverend Nickelson was gone that night, so I snuck out. I came in for a couple of minutes. Then I left. Honest.”
“I believe you. Well, I was just wondering. You didn’t hear anything or see anything that might have to do with what happened to Reverend Singletary that could be useful to the investigation?”
“No, ma’am. I wasn’t there long. I left.”
She sat back and smiled. “I was thinking how exciting it would be if you’d seen something that could help the police find out who killed Reverend Singletary. Wouldn’t that be exciting for you?”
“No, ma’am. I didn’t see anything. I swear.”
“Fine. Okay, now I want you to promise that if you remember anything, or want to talk about anything … anything … that you’ll come to me … first. Okay? Promise?”
“Yes, I promise.”
“Good, Joey. Thank you for coming.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
He fairly ran down the aisle and out the door.
11
London, Monday Morning—a.m. Precip; p.m. Partly Cloudy
After a leisurely breakfast in a tea shop around the corner from Duke’s, Mac flagged a taxi for Annabel and told her he’d call for messages at three. He returned to the suite, called Lambeth Palace, and asked for the archbishop. A minute later Malcolm Apt came on the line. Apt was cordial. He’d spoken with Bishop St. James about the possibility that Smith might call, and would be happy to meet at Smith’s convenience. They settled on two that afternoon.
“I’ll have a car pick you up at your hotel at one-thirty,” said Apt.
“That isn’t necessary. I’ll be happy to—”
“Please, I insist. The driver will fetch you at the hotel.”
“That’s very kind, Reverend Apt. Thank you.”
Smith took a brisk walk along Piccadilly, stopping to browse among the books in Hatchard’s and the beautifully presented fancy foods in Fortnum and Mason, and ordered something he’d been promising himself for years, a pure silk umbrella custom-crafted for his height from Swaine Adeney, Brigg & Sons. He felt superb; he always did when he was in London (or maybe just because he was away from Washington). As always, he hoped that he could carry a slice of the good feeling back home.
Jeffrey Woodcock’s law firm was on Old Bailey Street, two blocks from the Central Criminal Court. His office befitted a prestigious London barrister. Other than one that housed books from floor to ceiling, the walls were paneled in wood almost black in color. The furniture, including Woodcock’s massive leather-inlaid desk, were antiques. The only thing that seemed out of place with the serene, time-warp image was Woodcock’s personal secretary, Miss Amill, who was decidedly modern. She offered coffee or tea. Smith opted for coffee; Woodcock took the tea.
“Had enough tea since you’ve been here, Mac?” Woodcock asked.
“Not really, but I suppose I will by the time we leave.”
“You’ll have to drink three-point-six-two cups a day to keep up with us.”
“Interesting statistic,” Smith said. “Where did you come up with that number?”
“Read it in The Times this morning. Silly. Some study commissioned by a tea company, no doubt. Silly.”
“Or a coffee company about to release its next study that more than two cups of tea a day is bad for your health.”
Woodcock laughed softly and lifted the cup and saucer to just below his lips. He placed his cup and saucer on the table without drinking and said with furrowed brow, “Mac, you’ve had a great deal of experience in criminal matters.”
“I used to. I teach it now. There’s a difference.”
“Yes, quite, but it isn’t as though you’ve abandoned crime to teach biology or the decline of the British empire.”
“Never practiced crime, Jeffrey. I just teach how to help criminals get away with it. Do you have a criminal case you need some advice on?”
“Potentially.” Woodcock carefully formulated his next words. “This is a highly delicate matter, Mac, and despite the fact that we are colleagues, I would not have brought this up with you if you had not already become involved with the church over this tragic Singletary affair.”
“I’m listening.”
“I indicated last night—splendid evening, by the way … your new wife is a ravishing creature and so intelligent, too—I mentioned that I had met Father Singletary on two occasions, both having to do with the Word of Peace movement. That was true.”
“And?”
“And … and the second meeting—the third, actually—had absolutely nothing to do with law or the church. Mrs. Woodcock and I took a long weekend in the Cotswolds the day after my second meeting with Father Singletary. We have a favorite place in Broadway … Buckland, actually, but Buckland really isn’t much to talk about. At any rate, we particularly enjoy a hotel there called the Buckland Manor. Lovely spot, lovely.”
“Was Paul Singletary there?” Smith asked, assuming it was the connection Woodcock was getting to.
“Yes, he was. You can imagine how surprised I was to drive two hours out of London and see him again after having been with him only a day earlier.”
“He was staying at Buckland Manor?”
“Yes.”
“Did you find some additional time to talk about Word of Peace?”
“No, we didn’t. In fact, after we bumped into him as we were coming into the hotel, Father Singletary seemed to make a point of avoiding us.”
“Why would he do that?”
“What circumstances?”
“He was spending the weekend there with an extremely attractive woman.”
Smith silently wished the sexual cynics in his class were there with him to hear this.
Woodcock cleared his throat. “Of course, Mac, Mrs. Woodcock was slightly taken aback once I told her who he was. It meant nothing to me, of course. I really don’t concern myself with such things.”
“No, of course not.”
At this point Smith was wondering why he’d been called to meet with Woodcock. Bumping into an Episcopal priest with a beautiful woman on his arm in a hotel was mildly titillating but hardly grist for the collective legal brains sitting in Woodcock’s office.
“I never would have given this a second thought, Mac, until three days ago.”
“What happened three days ago?”
“I received a call from Reverend Apt at Lambeth.”
“I spoke with him this morning. We’re meeting at two.”
“Good. Father Apt’s call to me sounded quite urgent. He was upset. You couldn’t miss that on the phone. I went to Lambeth, and we spent an hour discussing the situation. It seems that Malcolm Apt had been visited earlier in the day by a young woman who brought him disturbing news.”
Mac’s mind was now drawing intriguing scenarios. Was it the same woman Woodcock had seen with Singletary at Buckland Manor? Every time he speculated on what Woodcock was about to say next, he was right. It made him feel good. If only it didn’t take so much time.
“Switch to tea, Mac?” Woodcock asked.
“No, Jeffrey, thank you. I want to save my three-point-six-two cups for Annabel.”
Woodcock laughed. “Jolly good, Mac. Well, this young woman’s name is Clarissa Morgan.”
“The same woman you saw with Father Singletary in Broadway, I take it.”
Woodcock slapped his hands on his knees and leaned forward. “Exactly! Exactly!”
“How can you be sure?” Smith asked. “You only saw her once at Buckland Manor. Was she introduced to you as Clarissa Morgan?”
“No, but he did mumble her first name, which I seem to recall was Clarissa. Can’t be two different women.”
Smith stifled the temptation to point out that despite his friend’s preeminent position in British law circles, his logic tended on occasion to be shaky. Instead, Smith asked, “Did she indicate to Reverend Apt what this so-called disturbing news was?”
“No. She told him that she’d been Paul Singletary’s lover right up until his death. In fact, she claimed that she’d been with Father Singletary the night before he died, that they’d slept together at her flat.”
“Hardly the stuff blackmail is made of. Unless she’s married. She’s looking for money?”
“Yes. She told Reverend Apt that Singletary owed her a large sum, and that she was not looking for anything more than what had been promised her. She also hinted that if she revealed her past—and present—she could uncover much unpleasant news about Singletary’s involvement with her and with other causes and institutions, yes, that’s what she said: causes and institutions.”
“ ‘What had been promised her’? In return for what?”
“She wouldn’t be specific with Apt. She suggested that he call her in a few days. He’s naturally reluctant to do that, which is why he contacted me. He wants me to call her.”
“I suppose you’ll know a great deal more after that call. How can I help?”
“I thought perhaps you might make that call.”
“Why me?”
“To be candid with you, Mac, the major concern here is to keep our client, the Church of England, as far away from scandal as possible. Far away. The fact that this firm and I have been closely linked for many years with the church makes me a part of this institution, too, makes it a bit sticky, if you catch my drift. Also, I thought direct contact might be useful to you in your investigation.”
Smith rubbed his eyes. On the one hand, he was not interested in trying to resolve an apparent blackmail attempt by Miss Clarissa Morgan. He had other things to do, including enjoying his honeymoon. On the other hand, if she had been as close to Paul Singletary as she claimed, she could be a valuable source of information, one he didn’t want to walk away from.
“It’s an odd request but all right, Jeffrey, I’ll call her.”
Woodcock gave Smith notes he’d made during his meeting with Reverend Apt. Written on the bottom were Clarissa Morgan’s name and telephone number.
“You will let me know what comes out of the conversation,” Woodcock said as he helped Smith put on his raincoat.
“Of course. I’m not sure I’ll call her today, but certainly by tomorrow. You’ll hear from me.”
The maroon Ford dispatched by Lambeth Palace to pick up Smith was too big to navigate Duke’s tiny courtyard. The driver left the car on narrow St. James’s Street, the tires on its right side up on the sidewalk, and walked Smith to it from the hotel. “Having a good stay, sir?” he asked as he opened the door.
“Yes, very. I always do when I’m in your great city.”
They crossed Lambeth Bridge and pulled up in front of the main entrance to the palace.
“Will you be waiting for me?” Smith asked.
“Yes, sir, I was told to wait.”
Smith was greeted at the door by a woman who introduced herself as the bursar. She led him to a small, comfortably furnished study, where the Reverend Malcolm Apt was waiting.
“Welcome to Lambeth Palace, Mr. Smith,” Apt said.
“Thank you for seeing me,” replied Smith. “And thank you for providing a car. It really wasn’t necessary.”
“Our pleasure. I hope you don’t think we have a fleet of automobiles at our disposal. We don’t own the autos, but we have a rather good arrangement with a local car hire.”
“It was a very comfortable ride, although I think a large Ford is a little inappropriate for London’s narrow streets.”
“I’ve told the car-hire company that very thing. I suppose their attitude is that when driving a dignitary, a large vehicle is in order. Please, sit down.” He pointed to a cream-colored couch in the center of the room. A two-shelf bookcase ran along part of the wall opposite where Smith sat. Above it was a window that faced the chapel. Walls and ceiling were covered in oak paneling; a set of gold drapes covered another wall, in front of which was a chair that matched the sofa. Apt sat in it.
“This is called the Old Paneled Room,” Apt said. “It was originally Archbishop Cranmer’s study, but that goes back a few hundred years.”
Smith laughed. “Everything in England goes back a few hundred years. When was Archbishop Cranmer in residence?”
“Fifteen thirty-three. He stayed around quite a while, more than twenty years. He presided over the special commission in 1543. That was when the London clergy took the Oath of Supremacy.”
“There was some controversy surrounding it, wasn’t there? Something to do with Sir Thomas More?”
“You have an excellent memory for history, Mr. Smith. Sir Thomas More was the only layman invited to the commission. He refused to take the oath giving the king powers over the church. So did the bishop of Rochester. They walked out, and paid dearly for their decision. But, Mr. Smith, as much as I enjoy talking history with you, I’m certain your schedule doesn’t allow it.”
“Unfortunately, it doesn’t.” Smith pulled from his jacket the letter of introduction to the archbishop of Canterbury from Bishop St. James and handed it to Apt. Apt placed half-glasses on his nose, read the letter, removed the glasses, and said, “I’m afraid it is quite impossible to meet personally with the archbishop. I assure you, however, that every aspect of our conversation will be transmitted to him, and I will relay to you his responses.”
As cordial as Apt was being, Smith didn’t like him. He reminded Smith of miscellaneous middle-level managers i
n corporations who reflect the power of their bosses, or secretaries to physicians who bask in their employers’ inflated sense of lofty calling. He also had the feeling that Apt had the ability to talk for an hour about things that had no bearing upon the purpose of any meeting—like Jeffrey Woodcock. British genes, or public-school training?
Smith got to the point. “I’ve come to London for two reasons, Reverend Apt. The first, at least the one that prompted the trip, was to take my wife of a few months on a honeymoon.”
Apt smiled weakly. He did not offer congratulations.
“The second reason has to do with the murder of Reverend Paul Singletary.”
“What tragic news that was. It saddened all of us, including the archbishop.”
“It’s my understanding that Paul Singletary had a meeting with you the day before he died. Is that correct?”
Apt adopted a thoughtful expression. He rolled his fingertips over his thumb and narrowed his eyes. “Yes, I suppose it was. I’m trying to fix the time of Reverend Singletary’s death. Yes, we met the day before.”
“It is my assumption that the purpose of the meeting was to discuss Word of Peace.”
“Among other things.”
“Did Reverend Singletary get to speak with the archbishop?”
“No, he did not.”
“Why did Reverend Singletary feel it necessary to speak with the archbishop? Was he disappointed when he couldn’t?”
“Yes. I was not especially pleased to be the one to tell him that the archbishop’s enthusiasm for Word of Peace had diminished in recent months.”
“None of us likes to be the bearer of bad news. Why has the archbishop’s enthusiasm diminished?”
“A number of reasons. Some of the movement’s leaders are not to the archbishop’s liking. Then, too, there is the matter of money.”
“Money given to Word of Peace?”
“Yes.” Apt sighed. “We may be a religious institution, Mr. Smith, but finances do play an important role in how we conduct and manage our faith. We, too, must deal with a bottom line.”
Smith thought of George St. James, who seemed always to be in the pursuit of funds. He also wondered whether Apt was hinting at some possible financial indiscretion. He decided to be direct: “Was Paul Singletary under suspicion by you or the archbishop concerning use of Word of Peace funds?”