Murder at the National Cathedral

by Margaret Truman

  As he progressed toward the Bethlehem Chapel, Smith passed a door labeled BISHOP’S GUESTS, then the door to the choir room. Immediately across from it was the entrance to the chapel.

  Smith looked back up the hall before entering the chapel. How far was it from Good Shepherd to the Bethlehem Chapel? One hundred and eighty feet, maybe two hundred. A reasonable distance to drag a body, although there was that flight of steps to contend with. Not many of them, though. Certainly not out of the question for the murder to have taken place in any of the cathedral’s quiet, secluded corners.

  But why? he asked himself. In the first place, why speculate that the body had been moved? The police seemed convinced of it because of the lack of blood in Good Shepherd. A reasonable deduction, certainly, but the lack of blood only suggested that the murder might have happened elsewhere. The much larger question for Smith was: Why move the body? To create the impression that anyone, from anywhere, might have done the deed, since the chapel was open twenty-four hours a day? Why else? Then again, why bother?

  As he stepped into the chapel, his eyes went immediately to the Indiana limestone altar. A woman carrying a vase of flowers came from behind it. She approached the communion rail, genuflected, and stepped up to the altar, where she gently placed the flowers between two tall, graceful brass candlesticks, each holding a long, slender white candle. She took great care to be sure that the vase was precisely centered between the candles. Content that it was, she returned to the communion rail, faced the altar, and genuflected again, then started to leave through the door through which Smith had entered.

  “Excuse me,” Smith said. The loudness of his voice surprised him; they were in a stone boom box.

  The woman turned and smiled. “May I help you?” she asked.

  “Yes, perhaps you can,” said Smith, approaching her. “My name is Mackensie Smith. I’m about to have lunch with Bishop St. James.”

  “Yes, Mr. Smith, I know who you are.”

  “I was interested in the routine of dressing an altar,” said Smith, “particularly in this chapel. Are you a member of the Altar Guild?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Is it the guild’s responsibility to take care of the items on the altar—the flowers, the candles, things like that?”

  “Yes, we take care of those things.”

  Smith looked at the altar again and smiled. “It looks beautiful. The flowers are lovely. So are the candles.”

  “Yes, they are.”

  “Is the Altar Guild responsible for keeping the candlesticks shined?”

  “In a sense, yes. Sometimes we polish them ourselves, although that’s generally left to the maintenance staff. We keep an eye on them, though, and when we see one that needs attention, we point it out to them.”

  “Do the same candlesticks always remain on the same altar? Are those holders up there designated for the Bethlehem Chapel?”

  “Oh, no, it would depend upon the service to be celebrated.”

  “Of course it would. Do you happen to know whether that set of candlesticks has been on this altar for a while?”

  “No,” she said pleasantly. “They were put there just this morning.”

  “What about the ones that were there before?” Smith asked.

  “They’re in the back of the altar. It’s a big area, and some things are left there, but never for long. I put the candlesticks that were on the altar back there myself.” She laughed. “You certainly have a deep interest in candlesticks, Mr. Smith.”

  Smith joined in her laughter. “Well, candles always add so much to the visual beauty of a service. I sometimes think of earlier times when candles were the only source of illumination.”

  “I think about that, too. Of course, they do have even greater symbolism. Some think that two candles represent the divine and human natures of God, but I prefer to think that lights on the altar signify the joy we receive from the light of Christ’s Gospel.”

  “That’s nice,” Smith said. “Would it be permissible for me to go behind the altar?”

  “Of course. I’ll turn on the lights.”

  They stepped behind the altar, and Smith looked at the vault to his left. The woman explained that the first bishop of Washington, Bishop Satterlee, and his wife were interred there.

  Smith’s attention next went to a pair of candlesticks on a table. “Excuse me,” he said, picking up one of them and lightly running his fingertips over the entire rim of the base, then doing the same with the other. He had a feeling the woman was looking at him strangely. He said pleasantly, “Yes, I do have a deep interest in these things. I’m a collector of sorts. My wife has a gallery.” He knew it wasn’t necessary to explain his actions, but he did anyway. He checked his watch. “Time to meet with the bishop. You’ve been very kind. Thank you.”

  “Any time, Mr. Smith.” She hesitated, and he leaned forward to encourage her to say what she was holding back. “Mr. Smith, I know you were a friend of Reverend Singletary’s, and that you are helping the cathedral in this matter. Is there anything new? Will they ever find the person who killed him?”

  “I don’t know,” Smith said. “All we can do is hope and pray like everyone else that his killer will be brought to justice. Thank you again. I am late.”

  When Smith walked into the bishop’s study, it was immediately apparent to him that St. James was agitated. No, distraught and angry more aptly described his mood. Smith mentioned it to him as they sat down for a lunch of onion soup, egg salad, and popovers, served by a member of the kitchen staff.

  St. James locked eyes with Smith. “It’s probably not for a bishop to say, but it’s been one hell of a morning,” he said. “I can do without such mornings.”

  “Care to share it with your rabbi here?” Smith asked.

  “I have to share it with somebody. I’ve spent most of this morning with two of my canons, Merle and Armstrong.”

  “They must have said something out of the ordinary to upset you so.”

  “They certainly did. You know, Mac, from the moment of the initial shock of Paul’s murder, my concern has been to protect this cathedral from any scandal that might result. You know that, don’t you? You understand how important that is to me.”

  Smith nodded.

  “I sometimes wonder if I would do anything to protect and preserve the cathedral’s image, perhaps to a fault.”

  “That’s always possible, George. Have you—done it ‘to a fault’?”

  St. James sat back and pushed his plate away. He sighed and chewed his cheek as he formulated what he would say next. Smith decided to help him along. “Tell me about the conversation you had this morning with Merle and Carolyn Armstrong.”

  St. James took Smith’s lead. “How do I begin? At the beginning, of course. As you know, the police questioned everyone who was in the cathedral the night of Paul’s murder. There doesn’t seem to be any doubt, does there, that he was killed the night before the body was found?”

  “That seems to be firmly established.”

  “Reverend Merle told the police that he was not in the cathedral that night.”

  “And?”

  “And he has been contradicted.”

  “Who contradicted him?”

  “Reverend Armstrong. You know her, I believe.”

  “Not well, but Annabel and she have become friendly over the past few months. They’ve been working together on the mission fund-raiser that’s being held at Annabel’s gallery. Why would Reverend Merle have lied about being in the cathedral? He’d have every right to be here.”

  “I don’t know, but he continues to maintain that he was not here. He says Reverend Armstrong is mistaken. I think the police tend to believe her, Mac. They’ve been back twice to speak with Merle.”

  “You can’t blame them for that, considering the conflicting testimony. What do you think, George? Was Merle in the cathedral and is he lying, or is Reverend Armstrong lying, or mistaken?”

  “I have no idea. Jonathon assures me that he
was not here that night, and I have no reason to disbelieve him. On the other hand, I have no reason to question the honesty of Reverend Armstrong.” His smile was pained, and he slowly shook his head. “It almost doesn’t matter who is telling the truth. The result is that instead of my clergy pulling together and closing ranks in the interest of protecting this cathedral, they are now squabbling. It would be bad enough if they did it privately, but Carolyn Armstrong has made it plain to the police that she is certain Jonathon was in the cathedral that night. Their behavior is so destructive.”

  “Yes, but there isn’t much you can do about it.”

  “I’m well aware of that.” St. James hadn’t meant to snap at Smith. He apologized.

  “No apologies needed, George. You’ve been under the gun ever since this happened. This kind of pressure takes its toll. What concerns me is why either of them might lie. Does Merle think that if he denies that he was in the cathedral, no one will consider him a suspect? Or, is he lying because …?”

  “Exactly what I was thinking, Mac. Is he lying because he has something to cover up?”

  Smith put his finger in the air. “Or is there a reason for Armstrong to lie about Merle? Could this be an attempt to get some kind of shot at him?”

  “I almost don’t want to know. Eat something, Mac.”

  Smith laughed. “Before it gets cold? It’s already cold, which is what egg salad is supposed to be.” He ate some of the salad and half a popover.

  St. James appeared to be having difficulty finding a comfortable position in his chair. There was more going on in the bishop’s mind than this conflict between his two canons, Smith knew. St. James eventually got up and went to a window overlooking the cathedral close. He stood erect, his hands locked behind his back, his upper body moving with each deep breath, the body language of a man summoning up the fortitude to face a further unpleasant reality.

  “The egg salad is good, George, but I prefer conversation,” said Smith.

  The bishop gave Smith a strong, definitive nod of his head. “You read people pretty well, don’t you, Mac?”

  “Sometimes. I think this might be one of them. Come, sit down.” After St. James returned to his chair, Smith said, “All right, you have a potential problem because of the conflicting stories of two of your canons. What else happened this morning that has you so uptight?”

  St. James let out a baleful sigh. “Just about everything has me upset, Mac, all having to do with Paul’s murder. Reverend Armstrong’s accusation about Merle being in the cathedral that night wasn’t the only thing she brought up this morning. I’m meeting this afternoon with a Korean gentleman named Jin Tse. I met with him immediately after Paul’s death. Mr. Tse was anxious … I suppose I can’t blame him … that the cathedral’s support of the Word of Peace movement not diminish because of Paul’s passing. I assured him it wouldn’t, although I must admit I was not acting out of deep conviction. Frankly, I don’t like Mr. Tse, and although I can’t quarrel with the stated purpose of Word of Peace, I have had many uneasy moments about it. These movements sweep up people with all sorts of motives, and Word of Peace seems better supplied with self-seekers than peace-seekers. It occurred to me when you mentioned the murder of Reverend Priestly in England to ask whether he had any connection with the movement.”

  “Not that I know of, unless his friendship with Paul is an indication. Why do you ask?”

  “Do you think it’s possible …?”

  Smith waited for the bishop to complete his thought.

  “Do you think it’s remotely possible that whoever murdered Paul had some connection with Word of Peace?”

  “Of course it’s possible, George, and I’ve pondered that. It’s also just as plausible that Paul was murdered by someone not from Word of Peace, but who was an enemy of the group.” Smith narrowed his eyes. “You obviously are doing more than speculating here. What triggered this question?”

  “I believe the purpose of the meeting this afternoon is to encourage me to delegate someone to take Paul’s place in the movement.”

  “Who gets the nod?” Smith asked.

  “I could be cruel to both parties and assign Reverend Merle.”

  Smith laughed. “Merle? He doesn’t strike me as the type to get involved in liberal causes.”

  “Exactly. That’s where the cruelty comes in. It certainly wouldn’t be fair to Word of Peace, either. The obvious choice is Reverend Armstrong. She was very much in sympathy with the movement and Paul’s connection with it.” He lowered his eyes. “At least I thought she was until this morning.”

  “What did she say to change your mind?”

  “She told me that she’d warned Paul only a few days before his death to be careful of the people from Word of Peace. She told him—at least she claims to have told him—that some of the people were evil zealots who would not allow anything or anybody to stand in their way.”

  Smith shrugged. “She’s right, of course. Extremists on any side of an issue tend to be myopic. Did she name anybody in particular?”

  “No. Unfortunately, I had to leave the room at that moment to take a long-distance call from my son, who was on the phone with his mother. When I returned, she was pacing the room and anxious to leave. I asked her to elaborate, but she said she was too upset.”

  “Did you believe her, George? Do you think she actually did warn Paul?”

  “I certainly believed her then, or at least took it as a simple statement of fact. Sitting with you always changes my view of such things. I must admit that you create in me a certain cynicism, or at least skepticism, when it comes to believing people. Not very healthy for a bishop.”

  Smith pushed back his chair and stood. “Maybe healthier than you think. Jesus had plenty of reason to be cynical and skeptical about some of his so-called friends. Look, George, I’d like to have a few words with Reverend Armstrong. Is that okay with you?”

  “I suppose it is, although I wouldn’t want her to think I divulged information from our private conversation.”

  “Don’t worry about that.”

  “I just realized sitting here how selfish I’ve been during this lunch. You went through some horrendous experiences in England, and I haven’t even mentioned them. How dreadful to have discovered that priest’s body, and to have had Annabel almost killed.”

  “It was upsetting at the time, but I suppose we can dine out on the stories for a while. Funny, before I arrived here I spent some time dwelling on the possibility that a candlestick was used to kill Paul. I suppose I wouldn’t have become this fixated on it if Reverend Priestly hadn’t been killed by one. I just can’t get it out of my mind.”

  “Because both were priests and were murdered in a church?”

  “That probably has something to do with it, although I won’t try to defend the notion. It’s like the shrinks say. Tell someone not to think of a pink elephant, and that’s all you can think of. Are you sure the police had access to every candlestick in the cathedral?”

  St. James extended his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “How could I possibly know? I have many duties, but the candlestick inventory isn’t one of them.”

  “I would hope not. I just thought you might be aware of another place within the cathedral that the police might have overlooked.”

  St. James shook his head. “No. I have to assume they were thorough. Besides, any object could have been used to kill Paul. Any object.”

  Smith thought of Jeffrey Woodcock’s tendency to repeat, and the fact that George St. James never did. But he had now. For emphasis, obviously. “Well,” Smith said, “if you think of something or someplace that might have been passed over in the investigation, let me know. In the meantime, I have some things to attend to, including a wife who would probably like to see a little of me this weekend. I plan a Sunday with the phone off the hook and my shoes never leaving the closet. Thanks for lunch, George. Tasty.”

  Smith returned to the cathedral’s nave and wandered its imposing dimensions, stopping
to reflect upon the seven-feet-six-inch-tall white Vermont marble statue of George Washington. He paused in the St. Paul tower porch, dedicated to the memory of Winston Churchill; in Glover Bay, which celebrates the first meeting of those interested in building a national cathedral in Washington, held at the home of Charles Carroll Glover in December, 1891; in Wilson Bay, which contains the body of former president Woodrow Wilson, the only American president to be buried in the District of Columbia. Then Smith looked up for a long time at the Space Window, a stained-glass jewel high above the south aisle. The plaque said it had been created by Rodney Winfield, and was designed around a piece of lunar rock presented to the cathedral by the Apollo XI astronauts. No matter how many times he visited the National Cathedral, there was always something else to observe, to learn from, to wonder at.

  He started to leave by the south transept, but couldn’t resist the urge to visit the Good Shepherd Chapel once again. He stood outside—a young couple was praying in one of the pews. Smith backed away and retraced his steps to the Bethlehem Chapel. As he looked in at the altar, he heard a noise behind him. He turned and saw that the door to the choir room was slightly open. It suddenly closed.

  Smith knocked on the door. No one responded, although he could hear a piece of furniture being bumped, then heard a door open and close. He turned the handle on the door, and it opened. He stepped into the choir room and looked around. It was empty. He quickly walked to the only other door, which led to the outside. He looked through the glass in the door, and saw a young boy running in the direction of the St. Albans school. Smith couldn’t be sure, but it looked like the young choirboy who’d sung so beautifully at his wedding, and who’d become ill during Paul Singletary’s funeral. Why does he seem so frightened? Smith wondered.

  He returned to the door through which he’d entered and opened it a crack. He could see directly across into the front of the Bethlehem Chapel. He opened the door farther and put his head out, looking to his right down the hallway leading to the set of stairs that went up to the Good Shepherd Chapel. The stairs were empty; nothing seemed amiss.