Murder at the National Cathedral

by Margaret Truman

  She looked at him as though he’d physically assaulted her, but his tone had its effect. She looked at Finnerty and said, “No, I did not see the body right away. When I go to that chapel, I sit in the back pew.”

  “The one immediately opposite the door?”

  “Yes.”

  “And so you walked into the chapel and sat in that back pew. Was there anyone else in the chapel?”

  “No, only …”

  “Only what?”

  “Only … him.” She found the strength to say, “The body!”

  “Did you notice the body as soon as you sat in that pew?”

  “No. I prayed … for a long time. Then I went to the altar.”

  “To do what?”

  “To be near it.”

  “I see. Go on.”

  “Then … then I happened to look at the little pew against the wall, and I saw him.”

  “Mr. Singletary.”

  “Somebody. Yes, Father Singletary.”

  “What did you do then?”

  “I was shocked. I thought he was alive. I said something to him.”

  “What did you say to him?”

  “I said … ‘Excuse me,’ I think I said. Then I saw his head, and I started to scream.”

  “That was when Bishop St. James came in?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you stay in the chapel long with the bishop?”

  She shook her head. “No. He took me away.”

  “Upstairs, to his room?”

  “Yes.” As the memories of that moment in Good Shepherd Chapel flooded her, she began once again to cry, softly this time, childlike.

  Finnerty raised his eyebrows at the stenographer. She nodded that she’d got everything. He said to Mrs. Waters, “I know this has been tough for you, but I appreciate your coming here.” To her son he said, “Thanks.”

  “I thought it was best for her,” Brian Waters said.

  “Why don’t you take your mother home. We’ll want to speak to both of you again, so don’t go anywhere.”

  “Fine.” Brian took his mother’s elbow and helped her from the room.

  “Captain, there’s a long-distance call for you,” Finnerty’s secretary said through the open door.

  “Long distance? Who’s calling?”

  “Mackensie Smith. He’s calling from England.”

  “I’ll take it in my office.”

  “Bored with your honeymoon, Mac?” Finnerty said upon picking up the receiver.

  “Hardly,” Smith said. “I’m calling because there’s been a murder here that I think could have bearing on the Singletary case.”

  “How so?”

  “A parish priest in Buckland has been murdered in the small church next to our hotel. His name was Robert Priestly. I found his body about an hour ago.”

  “How do you figure it means anything to the Singletary case?”

  “A couple of things. First, Singletary and Priestly were friendly. Second, Singletary probably came out here to see him. Third, he was killed by a blow to the head. This time the murder weapon was on the scene.”

  “Yeah? What was it?”

  “A candlestick.”

  “Come on, Mac. What do you think happened, the person who killed Singletary here in Washington flies over to England and kills this priest in this town of … what was the name?”

  “Buckland.”

  “Don’t make sense to me,” Finnerty said.

  “Murder seldom makes sense, but suit yourself, Terry. I thought it was worth calling you about. Remind me not to bother in the future.”

  “Okay, Mac, hold on. I appreciate you making a long-distance call and all that. By the way, I just got finished interrogating Evelyn Waters. She’s the lady who found Singletary’s body.”

  “Did she shed any light on what happened?” Smith asked.

  “Not yet, but it’s good to know who she is. When are you coming back?”

  “Soon. Who is she?”

  “Just Mrs. Waters. Nice lady, kind of pathetic, a religious nut.”

  “Well, I’m glad one piece of the puzzle is in place. I’ll check in with you when we return.”

  “Hey, Mac, you say you found this priest’s body? I thought you were on your honeymoon. What are you doing over there, playing cop?”

  “No, just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. I’ll talk to you when the call is cheaper.”

  14

  London, Friday Afternoon—The Fog Persists

  Smith and Annabel sat at their table in the small bar at Duke’s. Gilberto had served them Grahams 1945 port as a farewell gesture; their flight back to the States would leave in four hours.

  “She’s disappeared,” Mac said. “After calling her number all day yesterday, I got hold of Jeffrey Woodcock. This morning we went to her apartment—flat, I guess it’s called here—and it was empty. The landlord let us in. The place was bare, not a trace.”

  “That sends a message, doesn’t it?” Annabel said.

  “It sure does. This Clarissa Morgan puts the arm on church officials at Lambeth Palace. She claims she’s owed money because of Paul Singletary. The church contacts Woodcock, and Woodcock has me call her. She’s hardly what you’d consider friendly on the phone, but she does promise to get together when we get back. She obviously can’t pursue her claim—call it blackmail—if she can’t be found.”

  They’d driven back to London two nights before, after having been interrogated in Buckland by local authorities, and after spending another two hours in the sheep meadows where Annabel almost lost her life.

  Their decision to return to the scene was made an hour after Smith had gone to the room to comfort his wife, and to find out from her what had actually happened. She gave him a full account, but his lawyer’s instincts and training caused him to follow up on her answers, sometimes to the point of angering her.

  “I’m not on a witness stand,” she’d snapped twice. Both times he apologized but pressed forward, attempting to wring every bit of information from her. Once, when she balked at his questioning, he said, “Annabel, there is a murdered priest in the church next to this hotel, and someone apparently tried to murder you. Come on, now, go over it again while it’s still fresh in your mind.”

  “It will always be fresh in my mind,” she said.

  “I know, but humor me. You were relieved when you saw this person on horseback coming out of the trees in the distance. Did you yell?”

  “No. The rider seemed to be heading in my direction. I figured I’d wait until whoever it was came close enough for me to ask directions. I snapped a couple of pictures and—”

  “You snapped ‘a couple of pictures’? Of the rider?”

  “Yes. Damn, I forgot about that. Worse, I don’t have the camera.”

  “Where is it?”

  “I think I tossed it as I tried to get out of the horse’s way.”

  Smith glanced to a table on which her binoculars rested. “You have your binoculars.”

  “Yes, they were around my neck. I’d shoved the camera in the pocket of my jacket and took it out to take the pictures. It was such a beautiful scene. I thought the fog would add something special to it.”

  Ten minutes later, after Annabel had exhausted her memories of the event, Mac said, “We have to go back and get that camera.”

  Annabel nodded. “I know. I was waiting for you to say that. I hate to.”

  “You don’t have to come. I’ll round up some people and—”

  “Don’t be silly, Mac. I’m the only one who knows where I was.” She smiled. “I think I know where I was. At any rate, I’ll do my best. I just hope the woman on that horse didn’t come back and grab it.”

  Mac and Annabel huddled with Nigel and Tracy over the walking map Annabel had used, and identified an area where the near-miss might have taken place. Nigel assigned as many members of the hotel staff as he could spare. Some had cars, and they drove in a caravan to a point that precluded having to retrace Annabel’s long
trek on foot. The fog hadn’t lifted, but as Annabel stood in the center of one of the fields, she said, “Yes, it was right about here.” She pointed to the wall she’d thrown herself over, and indicated the trees from which the rider had emerged. Smith, Annabel, and the hotel workers fanned out. Within minutes, a kitchen worker held up the camera, a wide grin on his boyish face.

  They returned to the hotel and sat in one of its public rooms with local police. Mac replayed the circumstances surrounding his discovery of Reverend Priestly’s body, and when that subject had been exhausted, it was Annabel’s turn to describe what had happened to her in the sheep pasture.

  “I understand you took some snapshots of the wayward equestrian,” the investigating officer said pleasantly.

  Annabel looked at Mac. “Yes, that’s true.”

  “I also understand you returned and found the camera, Mrs. Smith.”

  “Yes, we were very fortunate.”

  “I’m afraid you’ll have to leave the roll of film with me.”

  “Inspector,” Mac said, “I understand why you want it, but it has significance for us, too. Do you have photo-processing facilities at your headquarters?”

  The inspector shook his head. “Afraid not. We send it all up to London.”

  “Fine,” Smith said. “Can we arrange to have two sets of prints made in London, one for you, one for us?” He smiled. “It would be nice to have something to remember this lovely day in the Cotswolds.”

  “Fair enough,” said the officer.

  Mac rewound the film and removed it from the camera, then handed to the officer, who, in turn, gave it to one of his men with instructions to have it driven to London immediately. Mac gave the officer their Washington address and was assured a set of prints would be sent there by courier.

  “Hate to say it,” Annabel murmured, “but the pictures probably won’t amount to much with all that fog. I did have fast film, though.”

  After the authorities had left, Mac and Annabel sat with Nigel and Tracy. Mac brought up Paul Singletary again. “What did he do when he was here?” Smith asked Nigel.

  “Relaxed, I suppose,” Nigel said. “He had a favorite room, one facing the gardens behind the hotel.”

  “He was here one weekend with an attractive woman named Morgan. Do you recall that?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Did they share the same room?”

  Nigel grimaced. “I don’t think it is appropriate for someone in my position to reveal such information.”

  “And I respect your discretion,” Smith said, “but we’re talking about two murders here, first Reverend Singletary’s, and now your local parish priest’s. Mrs. Smith and I are here in the United Kingdom on our honeymoon, but there is another purpose for this trip. I am serving as legal counsel to the National Cathedral of Washington. Father Singletary, who was murdered there, was a friend. He officiated at our wedding in August. Bishop St. James of the National Cathedral asked me to look into Reverend Singletary’s movements while he was here in England. He was in London the day before he was murdered, but told people he would be spending the next day in the country, presumably here, before returning to Washington. That obviously didn’t happen, because he was murdered the next night.”

  “I see,” Nigel said.

  “Was that the only time he came here with a woman?” Annabel asked.

  Tracy said, “Yes, I think it was.”

  “Did they see anyone else while they were here?” Smith asked.

  “No, they kept very much to themselves, which would be expected,” Nigel said. “Except, of course, for Reverend Priestly. As I told you, they were chums.”

  “Because they were fellow priests?”

  “More than that. I overheard them talking one day in the library,” Nigel said. “They evidently went back a long way, perhaps to university.”

  “Anything else you remember about the conversation you overheard?”

  “Not really.”

  “Did Reverend Singletary and Reverend Priestly get together the weekend Singletary was here with Miss Morgan?” Annabel asked.

  Nigel and Tracy shrugged. “I don’t recall,” Nigel said.

  “Well, you’ve been very generous with your time and information,” Smith said. “I think we’d better head back to London.”

  “Mr. and Mrs. Smith, I can’t tell you how upset we are that your initial visit to Buckland Manor involved such horrible experiences. Being the one to find the body of Reverend Priestly must’ve been a ghastly occurrence. And you, Mrs. Smith, almost being killed by an irresponsible equestrian is appalling. We’ve never had anything like that happen before. Please accept our apologies for the two days you’ve had to endure. And come and stay with us again as our guests—on the house, I think you say.”

  Smith smiled and shook the young manager’s hand. “It’s a wonderful house. Aside from priests being murdered and my wife almost being run over by a horse, we enjoyed our stay very much. Ideally, we’ll come back one day and have the sort of tranquil vacation you’re used to providing.”

  Mac and Annabel were early for their flight and settled into the Clipper Club at the airport. Mac called Jeffrey Woodcock and asked, “Anything new on Miss Morgan?”

  “No, Mac. Most unusual, most distressing.”

  “Do me a favor, Jeffrey. See if you can find out if Reverend Priestly was involved with the Word of Peace movement.”

  “Shall do, Mac. Again, horrible what happened to Annabel. Please give her our warmest regards.”

  “Could have been worse. A hell of a lot worse. She might have ended up permanently planted in that field in the Cotswolds.”

  15

  Washington, D.C., That Evening—Chilly

  They arrived at Foggy Bottom too late to spring Rufus from the kennel. The grating electronic voice on the answering machine informed them that there were eleven messages. Mac noted the names and numbers on a yellow legal pad. Some could wait; calls from Bishop St. James, Terry Finnerty, and Tony Buffolino would be answered immediately. He called the bishop first.

  “Welcome back, Mac. Good trip?”

  “Depends upon how you look at it, George. Annabel and I had some fine moments, although the whole thing was not what you’d call without incident.” He told the bishop of Annabel’s strange experience while walking in the fields, and of the murder of the parish priest, Robert Priestly.

  “That’s horrible!” St. James said. “You say he was killed in the same manner as Paul?”

  “A blow to the head, only this time the weapon, a candlestick, was left at the scene.”

  “I see. Was there any connection between Paul and this Reverend Priestly?”

  “You didn’t know about him?”

  “No.”

  “There was a specific link between them. They evidently knew each other pretty well, and often spent time together when Paul was in England. I’ll fill you in on this tomorrow. I have a class in the morning but thought I’d come by the cathedral after that. I should be there about noon.”

  “They have you working on Saturday.”

  “A makeup class. The price you pay for a honeymoon. See you tomorrow.”

  Smith failed to connect with Finnerty, but reached Tony Buffolino at the Spotlight Room. “You called while I was away?” Smith said.

  “Yeah. When did you get back?”

  “A little while ago. What did you get on Reverend Singletary?”

  “Mac, I spent a pretty good hunk of time on it.”

  Smith asked when they could get together.

  “How about tonight?”

  “No, Tony, we’re beat.” It was eight o’clock in Washington, one in the morning London time. “How about tomorrow afternoon?”

  “Can’t do it, Mac.”

  Smith put his hand over the mouthpiece and said to Annabel, “Feel like a little nightclubbing?”

  Her expression was what Smith would have expected if he’d suggested a walk in a foggy Cotswold sheep pasture. “Just for an hour,”
he said.

  She shook her head, and Smith knew she meant it. He said to Buffolino, “Annabel is exhausted, but I’ll be there in a half hour.”

  “Great.”

  “Is there a place we can talk quietly? I really don’t feel like hearing what you’ve learned while your impressionist does obscure personalities.”

  “I got an office in the back. Lousy view of the stage. See ya.”

  “You don’t mind, do you?” Smith asked Annabel after hanging up on Buffolino.

  “Absolutely not,” she said. “I’m going to take a hot bath and unpack. Frankly, I think you’re crazy, but I’m beginning to wonder why that would surprise me.” She came to him, wrapped her arms around his neck, and kissed him. “Don’t be long, Mac. You have your class first thing in the morning, and I have to get cracking, too. Let’s cuddle up for a good night’s sleep.”

  “With even half of that invitation, I’ll be back quicker than I planned.”

  There weren’t many customers in Tony’s place, and the show hadn’t started, for which Smith was grateful. Three bored musicians played slow music with a backbeat. A couple danced.

  “A table, or do you prefer the bar?” a sunken-cheeked young woman wearing minimal clothing asked.

  “I have an appointment with Mr. Buffolino.”

  “You do? I’ll tell him you’re here. What’s your name?”

  “Smith, Mackensie Smith.”

  Alicia Buffolino appeared from the rear of the club. For a second, Smith wasn’t sure it was Alicia. She had always worn her auburn hair long, and was fond of tight shiny toreador pants, and tight shirts scooped low at the neck. Now she’d had her hair cut into a trendy bob, had applied a considerably lighter hand to her makeup, and wore a nicely tailored rust-colored suit and white blouse with a bow at the neck. “Good to see you, Mac,” she said, kissing him on the cheek.

  “Nice to see you, too, Alicia. Forgive me if I make no sense. We just got back from London, and I’m still operating on their time. Is Tony here?”

  “He’s in the office going over bills. We have more bills than customers. Come on back.”

  If Alicia and Tony hadn’t called it an office, Smith would have assumed they were in a storeroom. Except for a small, genuinely distressed desk, a chair that had suffered too many heavy sitters (and maybe a hand-grenade attack), and a leaning tower of battered black file cabinets, the rest of the room was piled with boxes. Buffolino sat at the desk going through a swirl of papers. The minute Alicia opened the door he stood up and said, “Hey, Mac, good to see you again.” To Alicia: “Get a chair for Mac, would you?”