A half hour later Clarissa Morgan gave her boarding pass to the attendant, climbed the drop-down stairs, and disappeared through a door. The man went to a public phone. He pulled a dozen scraps of paper from the pocket of his soiled safari jacket, cursed, dropped several others to the ground, picked them up, cursed again, and found what he was looking for. He put on glasses, leaned close to the phone’s dial pad, and slowly, tentatively, punched in numbers. The operator came on the line, and the man gave her a long series of numbers. “Collect,” he said. “Make it collect. Tell them this is Dedgeby from the BVI.” His accent was Cockney. He waited for several seconds, and then heard the sound of a phone ringing. After four rings a crisp voice said, “Yes.”
“A collect call from Mr. Dedgeby in the British Virgin Islands.”
“Hold on.” After a minute of static and crackling, the person said, “Go ahead.”
“Give me Control.”
“Hold on,” the man on the other end said. Seconds later another voice came on the line. “Mr. Dedgeby. What do you have?”
“The Morgan woman. She’s getting on a plane for Puerto Rico.”
“Is that so? Perhaps she has friends there.”
“I don’t know anything about that,” Dedgeby said, wiping perspiration from his brow. He didn’t like making a living watching other people. It was too demanding. But it paid well. Besides, it was that or jail. He preferred spending his days and nights in one of the local places, drinking rum. You couldn’t do that when you were told to watch somebody, had to be on tap all the time, waiting for them, spying on them, taking away time better spent with friends over some Pussers.
“Mr. Dedgeby.”
“Yes, I’m here.”
“You say she’s boarding a flight to Puerto Rico. Has it left yet?”
“No, it’s bloody well still here. These people don’t know how to run an airline. Probably sit out there in the heat for another hour.”
The man on the other end said, “Thank you for the information, Dedgeby.” A loud click broke the connection.
Dedgeby got into his battered minivan. It threatened not to start, but it eventually did, and he drove off, talking to himself, a smile on his face. “Bloody glad she’s gone. Hope she never comes back.”
“Leighton here,” Brett Leighton said into the phone.
“Sir, we received a call from Dedgeby in the BVI.”
“Yes? What did he have to say?”
“Miss Morgan has boarded a flight for San Juan, Puerto Rico.”
“I see. Is that her final destination?”
“Dedgeby didn’t know, sir.”
“Yes. Well, thank you for calling.” He hung up.
Two hours later Brett Leighton, wearing a new tweed suit tailored for him at P. A. Crowe in a way that accommodated his slightly leftward leaning posture, boarded a Concorde flight to New York. Once settled, he removed a piece of paper from his inside jacket pocket on which was written a flight itinerary, commencing in the British Virgin Islands and terminating in New York, with a two-hour layover in Puerto Rico.
“Foolish woman,” he said quietly.
The man seated next to him turned. “Pardon?”
Leighton smiled. “Nothing, sorry to disturb you. Nasty habit I have of talking to myself at times. Shan’t do it again.”
His seat companion smiled, too, and went back to his magazine.
Foolish woman, Leighton thought, silently this time. Involving women in such projects was always a mistake, in his judgment, and he’d expressed that view to his superiors on more than one occasion. Too emotional, too impetuous. Too likely to fall in love with the one person they shouldn’t. Here she was, promised a chance to stay alive if she’d just stay put. Well, he could have put someone on her in San Juan, but he believed that he knew where she was heading.
“Cocktail, sir?” a flight attendant asked.
“Yes, I think that is much needed. I’ve taken to talking to myself,” Leighton replied pleasantly. “Gin, a double, and please withhold the ice.”
23
That Afternoon—Indian Summer Fading Fast
Upon returning home from class, Smith placed a couple of calls to Terry Finnerty at MPD. He was informed on the first one that Finnerty was away from his office but would return shortly. Smith left his number, but decided not to wait for Finnerty to return his call. He tried again twenty minutes later. This time Finnerty was there.
“Congratulations, Terry,” Smith said, “on picking up the murder weapon.”
“Sometimes you get lucky.”
“I read that you got a tip from an anonymous caller.”
Finnerty chuckled. “Nothing but good citizens out there.”
Smith ignored the cynicism. “It was a man who called?”
“Yeah.”
“What did he say exactly?” Smith asked.
“I’ll read it to you. ‘You’ll find the weapon used to kill Reverend Singletary on the altar in the Children’s Chapel in the National Cathedral.’ ”
“Couldn’t have been plainer than that,” Smith said. “As I recall, the person who reported Singletary’s body was a woman.”
“That’s right.”
“Any doubts about the candlestick?”
“Whether it’s really the weapon? Nah. No question at all.”
“Thanks for your time, Terry. Just wanted to keep in touch.”
“That’s what a good lawyer is supposed to do, keep in touch for his client.”
“I don’t have a client, or have you decided to charge Merle with the murder?”
“No comment.”
“What about Brian Waters?”
“What about him?” Finnerty’s voice suddenly changed. He’d been relaxed, almost jovial, with Smith. Now, at the mention of Waters’s name, he tightened. “What about him?”
“I got an idea you might be more than casually interested.”
“Butt out of this, Mac.”
“I didn’t mean to upset you, Terry. I heard a rumor that—.”
“Yeah, yeah, you heard a rumor. What you heard was garbage from that wacko you got working for you, Buffolino.”
“I wouldn’t call Tony a wacko.”
“You call him what you want. I say nobody’s home there.”
Smith wasn’t in the mood to argue Buffolino’s relative sanity. “I just thought in light of the anonymous tip about the candlestick that it could have been someone like Brian Waters.”
“Brilliant deduction, Sherlock. Great minds think alike. I have to go. Nice talking to you, Mac.” He hung up with enough force to make the point that the conversation had, indeed, ended.
After walking Rufus, Smith left just as Annabel was arriving. “Where are you going?” she asked.
“The cathedral. I want to check on something. How come you’re home?”
“I left some papers in the den. What are you checking on?”
“Something that’s been nagging at me since the last time I met with George. I won’t be long. You?”
“I’ll be home for dinner. You?”
“Not only will I be home for dinner, I intend to cook it.”
“How wonderful. I married the Legal Gourmet. What’s on the menu?”
“A big surprise. See you tonight.”
When he arrived at the cathedral, two MPD patrol cars were parked immediately outside the south entrance. There was also a van marked METROPOLITAN POLICE DEPARTMENT—FORENSIC UNIT.
Smith entered the cathedral and looked around. The usual tour groups were being led through the massive church by volunteers. Smith went into the War Memorial Chapel, where a member of the Altar Guild was dressing the altar. He looked into the Children’s Chapel over yellow MPD crime-scene tape. It was empty. Two new candlesticks rested upon the small altar. He closed his eyes and tried to imagine what had occurred that fateful night. Had the murderer actually killed Paul in the Children’s Chapel and dragged the body all the way to Good Shepherd? Probably not, but the idea was not out of the question, eithe
r. The entire cathedral was a potential scene of the killing. Distance could not be used to rule out any possibility.
Or had the murder actually taken place in Good Shepherd, the assailant bringing the murder weapon all the way to the Children’s Chapel? Why would anyone do that? Then again, why would the person who’d called the police choose the Children’s Chapel in which to place the murder weapon? Did that location have relevance, or was it simply the most convenient place? Most important, where had the dented candlestick bearing traces of Singletary’s hair and blood been stashed all this time? And why?
Smith crossed the nave and went down the stairs leading to the lower level, where the Bethlehem, Resurrection, and St. Joseph chapels were located. He went to the Bethlehem’s door. Another yellow crime-scene ribbon blocked access. Inside, a Forensic team was going over the floor of the chapel with some sort of electronic gear. The man operating the unit was dressed in a white lab coat. His eyes were glued to a screen on which eerie green lines were in constant motion. “Terry Finnerty here?” Smith asked over the yellow tape.
One of the Forensic men looked up. “He’s upstairs with the bishop, I think.”
“Thanks.”
Smith knocked on the door to St. James’s study. “Come in,” the bishop said.
St. James was seated with Finnerty and two members of the cathedral chapter, and Smith joined them in a semicircle of chairs around the bishop’s desk.
“Didn’t think I’d see you,” Finnerty said. “I was just telling the bishop why we’ve sent in a Forensic team to go over other areas. We figure that whoever murdered Singletary did it outside the little chapel where he was found, but not too far away. Make sense to you?”
“I’ve been thinking that for a while.” Smith hadn’t meant to upstage Finnerty, but the sour look on the detective’s face indicated he had. Smith decided not to mollify him; he’d thought of it before the detective assigned to solve the murder had, so let it be.
St. James managed a weak smile, sighed deeply, and shook his head. “When will this be over?” he asked.
Smith nodded at Finnerty. The wiry little detective said, “That’s what the politicos have been asking us. That’s why we’re back here extending the investigation, you might say. They’re putting the arm on my boss, so he puts it on me. Chain of command. Anyway, Bishop, I know you don’t like having us around, but it’s the only choice we have. They want action. Besides, they invested megabucks in new equipment and like to use it.”
One of the chapter members told Smith that an emergency meeting had been called for six that evening. “We hope you’ll be there, Mac.”
“I don’t know, I think I—”
“We know you’re busy, and that this is not your ‘job,’ if I may call it that, but your presence is comforting to all of us,” said another chapter member.
“I’ll see what I can do about shifting a dinner appointment I made for this evening.” That shift wouldn’t be easy.
Finnerty and the chapter members soon left, leaving Smith and St. James alone.
“I’m surprised to see you, Mac,” the bishop said.
“I didn’t mean to barge in, but—”
St. James shook his head. “Here I am being dishonest again. The fact is, I did expect to see you, if not today, certainly within the next few days. You know, don’t you?”
“About the candlestick? About the call to MPD telling them it was in the Children’s Chapel? Yes. I didn’t know as fact, but I had a pretty strong feeling. Your language was too specific to be that of a layman. The only question I have is, why?”
“Yes, that would be the logical question. First, let me tell you how I learned of it. I was passing the Children’s Chapel two days after the murder when a member of the Altar Guild, who was rearranging things there, stopped me. She said she had discovered something she thought I would want to know about.”
“She’d found the candlestick.”
“Exactly, although she didn’t know the significance of it. She pointed it out to me because its base was damaged, and thought I might want to have it replaced. I remember laughing, saying something about how the bishop of the National Cathedral has to keep his finger on everything. She is a good woman, and she was embarrassed. I realized I had said the wrong thing. She’d only stopped me because I happened to be there. At any rate, Mac, I went to the altar and looked at the candlestick. I knew somehow the moment I touched it that it was the weapon used to kill Paul. My next thought was that if I was correct, it might somehow give weight to the possibility that he’d been murdered by someone from the cathedral staff.
“Having handy, immediate access to it suggested someone standing near the altar, where laypeople almost never go. Knowing that in the cathedral there are hundreds of candlesticks, I saw no need to get rid of it. The dent was small. A whole lot of things came to my confused mind, but, as always, I guess I wanted no further damage done to the cathedral and its people or to the work of God we’re trying to do here. So, foolishly, I hid it, replaced it, and went back to breathing again. Full of guilt, of course.”
“I understand your motivation, George, but why didn’t you just get rid of it if that was the way you felt?”
“I replaced it on the altar and hid it in my house, but after talking to you about the murder of that priest in England, I knew I might at some time have to make it available to the authorities … no matter what the consequences. I suppose I wanted to hedge my bets, as they say.” He saw the puzzled look on Smith’s face and added, “With Him. I mean, it was bad enough that I didn’t report it, but to physically destroy evidence would have gone beyond even my limits of wrongdoing.”
Smith sighed and gave his friend a reassuring grin. “Yes, George, destroying it would have been a more serious act. Not that this isn’t. By the way. Did the woman who pointed out the damaged holder see you remove it from the altar, make the swap?”
St. James almost laughed. “I certainly hope not. I mean, I assume she didn’t. She walked away. As I said, she was embarrassed.”
“Is it possible that someone else might have seen you?”
“Unlikely. There were people in the cathedral, but I think I was quick and careful. I was startled for a moment, though, as I was leaving the chapel.”
“What startled you?”
“One of our maintenance men was standing just outside.”
“Just outside the chapel?”
“Yes. He’s a disagreeable sort, always slinking around someplace or other. Some of the staff have complained about him, but no one can find cause to dismiss him. He does his work.”
“Is he the same one I talked to after you told me he’d had an altercation with Paul?”
“Yes,” St. James said quickly.
“I didn’t like him much, either,” Smith said. “He told me Paul was always ‘on his back,’ always being critical. I don’t believe that.”
“Nor do I. At any rate, he was loitering about the chapel when I took the candlestick, but I’m almost positive he wasn’t looking in when I did it.”
“Let’s hope so. I may talk to him again. I’m glad you called the police, George. As far as I’m concerned, we may be able to think that it never happened.”
“Thank you, Mac, but I’m not sure your forgiveness is enough. I’ve let this entire cathedral down with my foolish, irresponsible thinking.”
Smith shrugged. “Don’t be too hard on yourself, George. Yes, you made a mistake. You were risking prosecution to serve other purposes. What it says to me is that you’re human.”
St. James managed a smile. “Yes, I suppose we all are. Flawed. Misguided. Meaning well and doing foolish things. But that was the idea, wasn’t it, when He created us?”
“The biggest flaw is in people who don’t recognize that they’re flawed. You’ll work this out with yourself—and with Him, who risked prosecution, too. In the meantime, I’d like to bring up something that’s been on my mind.”
“Are you about to confess something, too? I am in
that business, after all.”
Both men laughed quietly. Smith said, “I came to a conclusion this morning that I really have to bow out of this case.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” said St. James, “but I’m not surprised. This has been a considerable imposition on your time and talents, and everything you have done to this date will always elicit gratitude from me and everyone else at the National Cathedral. I mentioned to the chapter members who were here earlier that I thought we should find money in the budget to pay you.”
Smith shook his head and waved his hands. “No, money has nothing to do with my decision, George. I’ve spent a little for a private investigator, but no matter. I’ve done this out of …” He smiled. “Well, out of my respect for you and our friendship, out of an abiding belief in this cathedral, and a regard for Paul, and … and out of my own sense of guilt, I suppose. You mention money for my services. I’m sure you’re aware that I only show up here at weddings, funerals, Easter, and Christmas, and I don’t always make the latter two. Let’s just consider anything I’ve done to be a down payment on delinquent tithing.”
“As you wish, but don’t be so hard on yourself. You spend more time here than simply on those occasions.”
“Strictly because of a pragmatic interest in certain events. I don’t get down on my knees very much.”
“From what I’ve always heard, you never did, to anyone.”
They shook hands, and Smith said he would try to return for the six o’clock meeting.
“No, Mac, no need. I’ll explain to the chapter why you are no longer able to be involved.”
“Thanks for the offer, George, but I’d rather tell them myself.” What he didn’t add was that he wasn’t sure he would follow through on his decision. In fact, he knew he probably wouldn’t, but it had felt good saying it. At least he could tell Annabel he’d tried. And suggest that late dinners were more romantic.
He worked out at the Yale Field House and arrived home at four-thirty. There was the usual variety of messages on the machine, but the last one was less usual. It stopped him cold: “Mr. Smith, this is Clarissa Morgan. I trust you remember me from our brief telephone conversation in London. Sorry to have broken our date, but circumstances seemed to dictate it. I would appreciate a chance to meet with you as quickly as possible. No need to fly to London. I’m here in Washington. I’m reluctant to tell you where I’m staying and have it recorded, but I will make an attempt to contact you again, possibly this evening. Thank you.”
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