He wasn’t even aware of the drive home. His mind was too filled with questions.
18
Monday Morning—Sunny, of Course
At 6:00 A.M. Monday morning, Smith sat in the small study in his house in Foggy Bottom and peered at a pile of briefs his students had written. He’d just got up, was in his robe and pajamas. He’d decided to block out as much of the day as needed to read the briefs, and then to visit his mother at the Sevier Home. He looked forward to spending time with her; he didn’t look forward to the briefs, but they went with the territory.
Rufus paced the room in his customary manner of communicating his needs to his master.
“In a minute,” Smith said as he turned on a small, powerful battery-operated shortwave radio that was tuned to the BBC. He often did this, if only to be able to offer a different analysis of world news at lunch. Could seem pretentious, but he liked the calm and reach of the British Broadcasting Corporation. He listened to the comforting, careful, assured voice of the British newscaster’s report on events in the United Kingdom, and was disappointed there was no mention of the Priestly murder. Then, again, he reasoned, why should there be? Priestly was nothing more than a local parish priest in the Cotswolds, hardly the sort of crime victim who would interest broadcasters in the major cities.
He opened his telephone book, found Jeffrey Woodcock’s number, and dialed it. It would be approximately eleven o’clock in London. Miss Amill put him through.
“Mac, good to hear from you. Have you settled back in to your Washington routine?”
“No, but I’m in the process. Jeffrey, heard any more from Clarissa Morgan?”
“No, although I understand she has left London. Good riddance, I say.”
“How did you find that out?”
“Reverend Apt at Lambeth called me, said he’d received a call from her. She’s no longer pursuing her claim, and was leaving London. I think she said she was leaving the country, as a matter of fact.”
“Apt told you that?”
“Yes. Meant to call you. I was delighted, relieved, as I’m sure he was. Bloody nuisance, that kind of conniving woman. I’m sure her claim had no merit, but these people can make problems for others, wouldn’t you say?”
“Yes, they certainly can. Have you heard anything new about the murder of the priest in Buckland?”
“Just smatterings. Dreadful that you had to discover the body. Dreadful. Hardly British hospitality at its finest. No, I think the last report I heard was that the local authorities had no leads. Probably have dropped the case by now. Obviously, some demented person, some lob who happened upon Priestly and killed him for whatever he had in his pockets, poor fellow.”
“Had he been robbed?” Smith asked.
“I don’t know. I just assume he was. Would you like me to check? I’d be happy to check.”
“Yes, I’d appreciate that.” Smith gave Woodcock the name of the lead investigator in Buckland who’d questioned him and Annabel. “By the way, Jeffrey, did you have an opportunity to find out whether Father Priestly had been involved with Word of Peace?”
“Glad you reminded me. Yes, as a matter of fact I did. Seems he was, at least according to one of the chaps from the organization here in London. Not heavily involved, though. Attended a meeting or two. About it.”
“Appreciate the effort, Jeffrey.”
“No bother, no bother. Terribly early for you to be up and around, isn’t it?”
“I’m an early riser, although this is a little early even for me. Couldn’t sleep. Lots on my mind, Jeffrey. Besides, I have a ton of work to do today, and thought I’d get a jump on it. Best to Judith. I’ll call again in a few days.”
Smith sat back in his leather swivel chair and pondered the conversation. How remarkably similar both murders were. Each priest was hit on the side of the head with what seemed to be an object of roughly the same dimensions. Both were alone in a religious facility, and in both cases it was assumed that the murderer was nothing more than a demented drifter, a derelict, a total stranger who happened upon them. “Can’t be,” Smith grunted.
Rufus had given up subtle communication. The Dane placed his large head on Smith’s leg and growled, wagging his tail at the same time to make sure Smith knew it was not an act of aggression. Smith looked down into the beast’s eyes and smiled, roughed up the hair on its head. “Okay, I wouldn’t appreciate it if you kept me from heeding nature’s call. Come on, we’ll go out in the back.”
Minutes later, mission accomplished, and Rufus’s food disappearing from a large stainless-steel bowl on the kitchen floor, Smith poked his head into the bedroom. Annabel was still asleep. “Hey, I thought you had a busy day, too.”
A tousled mane of red hair came up off the white pillow, and a sleepy voice said, “I do, but not that busy. What are you up so early for?”
“I always get up early. You know that. I walked Rufus and fed him, and talked to Jeffrey Woodcock in London.”
“About what?”
“About whether there’d been any further news on Priestly’s murder. I listened to the BBC, but they didn’t cover it. I’m getting in the shower. What does your day look like?”
Annabel sat up in bed and shook the sleep from her head. “The accountants are coming in this morning, and that fellow I hired starts today. Let’s see, I really have to start getting ready for inventory … oh, and I’m meeting with Reverend Armstrong at four o’clock.”
“You are? I had an interesting conversation with George St. James about her.”
“Concerning what?”
“Concerning the fact that a few days before Paul was murdered, she expressed her concern to him not only for the image of the cathedral because of its backing of Word of Peace, but because she was concerned for Paul’s safety as a result of his involvement.”
Annabel swung her legs off the bed and stood. All sleep was now gone. “She told that to George?”
“Yes. I told him I wanted to have a conversation with Reverend Armstrong. Maybe you could do it better and easier.”
Annabel slipped on her robe and slippers and went into the kitchen to pour a cup of coffee. Smith followed. “What do you want me to ask her?”
“I don’t know, but be subtle about it. George is concerned that Armstrong not think their private conversations are being spread to other people. Maybe just getting into a talk about Paul and Word of Peace will cause her to bring it up.”
“I’ll try,” she said.
* * *
It was busier at the gallery than Annabel had expected. The carpenters working on the renovation of the additional space were noticeably behind schedule, which upset her. She didn’t show it; instead, she was cordial and urged them to work a little faster—applying honey instead of vinegar, an approach she usually found more effective than complaining.
The new person she’d hired for the gallery, a young man just out of American University’s fine-arts program, seemed more interested in demonstrating his academic knowledge of pre-Columbian art than in listening to what Annabel had to say. That, too, annoyed her, but she kept her feelings in check and suggested he find a quiet corner to read the catalog of pieces currently on display in the gallery.
In the midst of this, she had to sit down with her accountants, who were critical of her handling of the new bookkeeping system they’d implemented. And no wonder.
By the time four o’clock rolled around, she was happy to see everyone leave, and to welcome Carolyn Armstrong to the gallery.
“It’s been a crazy day here,” Annabel said. “I haven’t even had a chance for lunch and was about to order something in. Join me?”
“No, thank you, I had lunch.”
Annabel ordered a salad for herself, and two cups of tea. The women settled in her office and, once again, Annabel was quietly taken with Carolyn Armstrong’s natural beauty. One thing was different this time, however. The priest was visibly nervous, something Annabel hadn’t seen in her before, but it was there, unmistakab
le and disconcerting. Armstrong’s serenity had always added an extra dimension to her appeal.
“First of all,” Annabel said, “the good news. They’re running behind on the renovations next door. They assured me today that they would finish in time for your exhibition and I have every reason to expect they will, but it’s going to be close.”
“Why is that good news?”
“Because everything else is worse. But you don’t want to hear about my bookkeeping problems.”
“I’m sure it will all work out,” Armstrong said. “I have two more artists for the show.” She handed Annabel biographies of two Washington artists whose work she felt was worthy of being included.
“Yes, I know this person,” Annabel said. “She’s very good. She’ll be a real addition to the show. I’m not familiar with this other name.”
Armstrong filled in the man’s background, and Annabel was reasonably pleased with this second choice. Not absolutely original, but okay.
There were myriad details to go over concerning the upcoming exhibition, and they worked steadily to resolve them over the next hour. It was now dark outside; the pinspots Annabel had softened with dimmers gave the gallery a warm, inviting glow. She was locking the front door and turning a small sign to indicate the gallery was closed when Armstrong came from the office and examined the valuable works of art on display. “So beautiful,” she said.
“Yes, I love coming here,” Annabel said. “I find a lovely sense of quiet and solace when I’m here … and when contractors aren’t.”
Armstrong, whose attention was focused upon a black basalt feathered serpent on a Lucite pedestal, said without turning, “I’ve been looking for quiet and solace ever since Paul’s death.” She faced Annabel. “I always found those things in my faith, in being able to use the quiet sanctuary of a church to ask for them from God.” A rueful smile came to her face. “It hasn’t been working lately.”
“Yes, I think I can understand,” Annabel said. “Something that senseless and tragic is a pretty powerful force to overcome. I have many moments during the day when I think of Paul, of my wedding day. Of course, I didn’t know him nearly as well as you did.”
Armstrong looked back at the black serpent. Annabel came up behind her and stood silently, then asked, “Would you enjoy an early dinner together, or a drink?” The other woman had begun to cry. Annabel couldn’t see her face, nor was there any sound, but the telltale movement in her back and neck revealed her sobs. Annabel tentatively placed her hand on the priest’s shoulder. “Come on,” she said, “let’s go and have a bite. I just ate, but it was only a little salad. For some reason I’m hungry again.”
Armstrong turned and pressed her eyes shut, opened them, and managed a small smile. “Yes, I think I would like that. I’m not due back at St. Albans until eight. Are you sure you have the time?”
“Of course. I just have to call my husband.” It sounded good to say that.
Smith had just returned from visiting his mother at Sevier House. Annabel told him of her plan to have a quick dinner with Carolyn Armstrong.
“Fine,” he said.
“How was your mother?”
“Good, although she got a call from a British journalist in Buckland who’s doing a story about the Priestly murder.”
“Why would he call her?”
“About me. The English tabloid press will try to track anybody down, anywhere—at least by phone. He asked for an interview, and she told him she didn’t give interviews. Or read them.” Smith laughed.
“Did you finish reading all those briefs?”
“Yes. Some were pretty good, one was excellent, most of the rest were ho-hum, one or two positively illegal. Have you had a chance to talk to Carolyn Armstrong about Paul?”
“No, but I suspect that will come up. She has to be back at St. Albans by eight. I should be home around then. There’s leftover chicken in the refrigerator, and some frozen dinners.”
“I’ll manage just fine,” Smith said. “Desolate, but fine. Enjoy your dinner. Love you, Mrs. Smith.”
“Me, too, Mr. Smith.”
Annabel Smith and Carolyn Armstrong left the Georgetown Bar & Grill at seven-thirty and said good night on the sidewalk. Annabel was happy to see that Carolyn’s spirits were elevated. She’d become animated, even verbose, during dinner, and seemed anxious—no, “desperate” was a more accurate description—to talk to Annabel about anything and everything, including Paul’s murder.
Annabel was eager to get home to share the conversation with Mac, but the minute she walked through the front door, she knew he wasn’t there. She went to the study and read the note he’d left on the desk: Have gone to MPD—Reverend Merle has been taken in for questioning—George called and asked if I would go—hope dinner was pleasant and productive—back as soon as possible.
He called a half hour later and said he expected to finish up shortly and would head straight home.
“Have they arrested Merle?” Annabel asked.
“No, just brought him in for questioning. He came willingly, but it’s good I was here. I’ll fill you in.”
Annabel sat at the desk and made notes of what she remembered from dinner. She turned on CNN, but when there was nothing of local interest—aside from national and international politics, subjects which, in Washington, were considered local news by many—turned to a local newscast. There was a brief item about Jonathon Merle’s having been taken in for questioning, although the wording of the report made it sound as if he’d been arrested.
She kept looking at the clock; Mac was a lot later than he’d indicated he would be. Finally, at almost eleven, he came through the door and received his customary exuberant, face-washing, stand-up greeting from Rufus.
“Where have you been?” Annabel asked.
“Tell you all about it as soon as I’ve taken the beast out. You didn’t, did you?”
“No, I did not.” She loved Rufus, but never enjoyed being dragged through the streets of Foggy Bottom by this powerful, albeit magnificent, four-legged animal.
Upon his return, Smith poured himself a brandy, a Nocello for Annabel, and joined her in the den. “Who goes first?” he asked.
“You,” she said. “You show me yours, and I’ll show you mine.”
They both laughed. Smith then recounted for her what had occurred at MPD. Merle had been asked late in the afternoon to make himself available for questioning. Initially, he’d balked, but changed his mind after conferring with Bishop St. James and went with two detectives to MPD headquarters on Indiana Avenue. The questioning focused on two things: First, the inconsistency in his story about being in the cathedral the night of Singletary’s murder. He stuck to it, claimed he’d retired to his apartment across the street in the Satterlee Apartment Building, where he spent the evening preparing a sermon he was to give the following Sunday. He had no one to verify that, nor could he explain why Reverend Armstrong would claim to have seen him in the cathedral that night. She was mistaken, Merle said, although Smith commented that the way Merle put it left little doubt in anyone’s mind that he felt she was deliberately lying.
The other line of questioning had to do with rumors that Merle’s personal dislike of Paul Singletary was intense. Merle did not deny that, although he repeatedly said that his feelings about Singletary—about any other human being, for that matter—could never be strong enough to wish him bodily harm.
“How did the police accept his answers?” Annabel asked.
“In their usual delicate way, with lots of sighs, raised eyes, grunts, and moans. I don’t think they seriously consider him a suspect, but you never know. I’m just glad I was there as his counsel.”
“That was your official role?”
“Yes.”
“Then you’re in all the way.”
“I now have a client named Reverend Jonathon Merle, if that’s what you mean.”
“Damn!” she said.
“We’ll see what develops next. Enough of this. Tell me ab
out your dinner with Carolyn Armstrong.”
“Well, let’s see. We had dinner at the Georgetown Bar and Grill. I had a club sandwich, she had a salad with smoked chicken.”
“I wasn’t looking for the menu,” Smith said. “Did you have a chance to get into the conversation she’d had with George the day before Paul’s murder?”
“It came up. She said that she’d warned Paul early on about his involvement in Word of Peace. She said she asked him to get out, but he sort of laughed it off.”
“Was she specific about any of the people in Word of Peace who might have been a threat to his life?”
“No, although I had a feeling that there could be a person or two whom she knew more about than she was willing to share with me. Nothing more than that, Mac—a feeling. Anyway, I asked plainly whether she thought someone from Word of Peace had murdered Paul. She said she thought it was a possibility, but then she focused more on Merle.”
“I don’t wonder,” Smith said, “the way she was quick to tell the police that Merle was in the cathedral. What did she base her feelings on?”
“Mutual dislike. It wasn’t easy for her to be this critical of a fellow priest, but she was candid. She told me that Merle was a warped and evil man, paranoid, jealous of Paul, and a man she felt was sufficiently unbalanced to have done such an act.”
“You might say that Merle has a real enemy there.”
“He sure does. What do you think?”
“About Merle, or about Word of Peace? I suppose they’re all players in the game, not to be summarily dismissed, but I don’t know. I wish I did.”
They changed and climbed into bed. Annabel browsed through a lovely book Smith had bought for her, The Artist in His Studio, while Mac picked up where he’d left off with material for his next class at GW. Just before they turned off the lights, Annabel said, “There’s one more thing I should mention about my dinner with Carolyn.”
Murder at the National Cathedral Page 18
