Murder at the National Cathedral

by Margaret Truman

  Annabel leaned against the back of the pew and looked at the depiction, above the altar, of the Good Shepherd cradling the lamb. “I’m sorry. I don’t understand violence.”

  “Better you don’t, Mrs. Smith, better you don’t understand many things surrounding Paul’s death.”

  “Maybe you’re right, but I’ll reserve judgment about that. Who were you working for? Who told you to scare us off?”

  “I’d rather not say. The organization represents interests far larger than you and me.” She sighed and said with a sense of relief, “I no longer work for them. That’s why I’m here, to see that no one else is hurt.” Annabel’s next questions received only evasive, noncommittal answers. She thought about Mac. Where was he? Did the organization to whom Clarissa referred intend to do harm to Mac, to her? she asked.

  “They do what they feel they must,” Clarissa said. “We don’t count for very much.”

  “Did they … did they kill Paul Singletary?”

  Clarissa raised her head, the long, perfect line of her jaw, nose, and forehead turned into a lovely silhouetted cameo in the light from the garth. “In a sense,” she said.

  “Did you kill him?” Annabel asked.

  Morgan said nothing.

  “You had an affair with him. Did you do that because your employer told you to?”

  “Yes.”

  “How dreadful.”

  Clarissa turned and stared at her.

  “I mean, for Paul,” Annabel said. “Did he ever know?”

  “No, never. I would never have done that to him. You see, Mrs. Smith, I came to love him very much. It didn’t happen at the beginning. At that point it was just another assignment, the sort of assignment I’d become quite expert at. But then something happened that had never happened to me before. I committed the cardinal sin.…” She laughed bitterly. “What an interesting choice of words. Possibly I should say canon sin. In any case I committed the sin of losing sight of why I was with him, losing myself to him in every way.”

  “And?”

  “And he lost his life because of it, I believe.”

  Both women tensed as they heard the doors leading to the outside swing open. Mac Smith stood in the chapel doorway. Annabel immediately went to him and wrapped her arms around him, wet raincoat or not. “Thank God you’re here,” she said. “What happened? I got your note, but—”

  “Mother took a fall. Broke her hip.”

  “How terrible. Is she all right?”

  “She’s fine. She’s at Georgetown University Hospital, resting comfortably. They’re doing surgery on her tomorrow.” He looked over Annabel’s shoulder and saw the woman seated in the pew. She hadn’t looked in their direction, as though not wanting to intrude upon their privacy.

  Smith said, “Miss Morgan. Sorry I’m late. There was a family emergency and—”

  She turned. “I heard. I’m sorry about your mother.”

  Smith moved to the altar and looked down at her. Annabel remained in the doorway. “I’m sorry we missed each other in London, Miss Morgan,” Smith said, “but I’m glad you’re here and called me. The question obviously is, why? What brings you to Washington?”

  Clarissa Morgan sat deep in thought as Mac and Annabel waited silently. Then the woman looked up at Smith and said, “I came here because I wanted to do something decent for once, Mr. Smith.”

  “Go on.”

  “You see, I’ve caused a great deal of pain and suffering for many people. I’m not that old, but I’ve spent much of my adult life lying and cheating and not really caring about the results. That happened with Paul. I lied to him. I cheated him. I manipulated him into a situation in which he lost his life. I would like to atone for that.” She looked around the chapel. “I suppose this is a fitting place for the atonement of Clarissa Morgan.”

  “I don’t think place matters when someone is trying to unload a heavy conscience,” Smith said.

  “No, I suppose not.”

  “Are you talking about your attempt to blackmail the Church of England?” Smith asked.

  “Oh, goodness, no. I saw that as my way out. But it was a silly attempt, ridiculous actually, very amateurish. I should have known better. I thought that by accumulating a goodly sum of money quickly, I could take myself away, disappear, but that wasn’t to be. They paid me well, but—”

  “Who paid you well?”

  “Your wife and I have gone into that a bit.”

  “Except I have no idea who it was you were working for,” Annabel said.

  Mac and Annabel, looking at Clarissa Morgan from their respective vantage points, were surprised to see her begin to cry.

  “Can I get you something?” Smith asked.

  “No, please, just … could you leave me alone for a few minutes? Paul’s death does this to me at the oddest times. I’d just like to be alone here.” She touched a handkerchief to her eyes. “I might even pray. I haven’t done that since I was a child.”

  Smith nodded at Annabel. “We won’t be far,” he said.

  They went out into the hallway and shut the door. Annabel grabbed his arm, whispered, “Mac, I think she killed Paul.”

  “That thought ran through my mind. But … did she say anything specific?”

  “No, damn it, she has this elusive way of talking around things, but for a moment I was gripped with the belief that she killed Paul. She’s a very troubled woman. She seduced him on the order of somebody she calls her ‘employer,’ whoever that is. She talks like a spy, a regular Mata Hari, entrapping men for this employer or organization. That must be it. She must work for an intelligence organization, and she seduced Paul for some purpose of theirs.”

  “Cam Bowes was pretty direct about the heavy involvement of intelligence agencies in Word of Peace. What do you think, Annie, that she set Paul up to be killed, or actually did it herself?”

  “I don’t know, but she is capable of taking physical action—of several kinds. Clarissa Morgan was the person on horseback in the Cotswolds.”

  Smith grunted. He wasn’t surprised. Clarissa Morgan knew when they would be in the Cotswolds, and where they were staying, because Smith had told her. “Look, I’m not happy you’re here,” he told Annabel, “although I can understand why you are. I’m going back and see if I can get her to tell me what she came all the way to Washington to say.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Find a phone and get George. Tell him you’re here and that you need a safe place to park for a while.”

  “All right,” Annabel said. “Please be careful, Mac.”

  “I will.”

  “I’m sorry about your mother.”

  “Happens to people that age. The doctor said it was a clean break and should heal nicely. She’ll be fine, I hope. What I want to make sure is that you stay fine.”

  He watched her go up the stairs. She turned, then disappeared from his view.

  In the choir room, Canon Wilfred Nickelson placed the final piece of music personally owned by him into a box and put the cover on it. He heard footsteps in the hall and opened the door slightly. Reverend Merle was about to enter the Bethlehem Chapel.

  “Finish the report, Jonathon?” Nickelson asked.

  “Yes.”

  Fifteen minutes later, Joey Kelsch tentatively looked around the edge of the high altar. He saw nothing, no one. Suitcase in hand, he left the sanctuary and chancel and made his way along the wall to the stairs leading to the bishop’s study. He moved as carefully and quietly as a cat. More than anything, he did not want to meet a single person before reaching the bishop. Once, when he thought he heard footsteps, he stopped and ducked behind a pillar, but he decided he had imagined the noises.

  He walked down the short hallway and stopped in front of the study. A typewritten note hung on the door: Joseph—I’m waiting for you in the Bethlehem Chapel. Please meet me there. Bishop St. James.

  Joey didn’t know what to do. He’d assumed—counted on—the bishop’s being in his study as his wif
e had promised. Joey didn’t relish the thought of going back down to the crypt level, but didn’t see any other choice. The bishop must have had business that took him there, and if Joey didn’t show up, he might offend the one person in whom he was putting his faith.

  The note was tacked to the door with a yellow pushpin. Joey yanked the note loose and put it in his pants pocket. Nobody else should know he was there. He was frightened, but also relieved. It would soon be over. Then maybe everything would be the way it was before, and he could enjoy his life again.

  He’d just passed the entrance to Good Shepherd Chapel when someone loomed large in the doorway. There was a light on behind the person. “Joey,” Mac Smith said. The boy froze in his tracks. The voice had been a man’s, but all Joey saw was the face of a woman. He bolted from where he’d been anchored to the floor and raced down the stairs, stumbled and sprawled on his belly at the bottom, his suitcase flying across the hall and hitting the wall. He scrambled to his feet and continued down the hall toward the Bethlehem Chapel. He ran so fast he almost went past the door, but stopped by grabbing the frame and pulling himself back. He looked inside; the chapel appeared to be empty. He looked up the hall and saw two people, the woman he’d seen through the doorway of Good Shepherd, and a man. They stopped at the foot of the stairs and watched him.

  He stepped inside the chapel and went to the middle of it, next to the communion rail. “Bishop St. James,” he said, his words echoing back at him. “It’s Joey Kelsch. I got the note.”

  Smith and Clarissa Morgan went on to the chapel but paused in the hall; they could not be seen from within, but they could hear.

  “Bishop, Bishop, it’s Joey.”

  “No need to be afraid, Joey,” a voice said. Joey turned in its direction. Someone stepped from behind the altar.

  “Where’s the bishop?” Joey asked, his voice breaking.

  “He’ll be here in a minute, Joey. He asked me to talk to you first.”

  Suddenly, Joey was a caged animal. He turned in a circle, his eyes open wide with a plea for help, his small body starting to shake.

  “Come here, Joey. Come to me.”

  “No … I want the bishop.” He turned and went for the door through which he’d entered, but another person stood in it. A tight whine came from Joey’s throat.

  The figure at the altar took several additional steps into the sanctuary and glared at the person standing in the doorway. “What are you doing here?”

  “I’ve come to right a wrong,” Clarissa Morgan said.

  Mac Smith took a step forward so that he could look through the door. Morgan entered the chapel and stood in direct confrontation with Reverend Carolyn Armstrong.

  A male voice sounded from the back of the chapel: “Come here, son, it’s all right.”

  Smith looked in for the source of the voice. Canon Jonathon Merle stood in the middle of the aisle. “You have nothing to fear from me, Joseph. Come.” He extended his hand and beckoned with long fingers.

  As Joey backed away from Merle, Smith heard footsteps behind him. He turned and saw Canon Wilfred Nickelson coming down the hall with purposeful strides, his face hard. Nickelson stopped when he saw Smith. Smith cocked his head and stepped back, leaving room for Nickelson to pass. Nickelson appeared to have been heading for the chapel, but he turned and went back up the hallway, pausing once to look over his shoulder, then bounded up the stairs toward Good Shepherd.

  Smith wheeled to get inside the chapel. Joey had sunk to his knees and was sobbing. Clarissa Morgan went to the boy, looked down at him, then stepped up onto a small rise in front of the communion rail. Directly behind it was Carolyn Armstrong.

  “How dare you come here!” Armstrong said.

  “How dare I come here? I think I have more right here than you do, Reverend.” She stressed the last word; her scorn was palpable.

  Armstrong took a step forward, her face only a few feet from Morgan’s. “How could you set foot in this chapel after what has happened?”

  Smith could see that Morgan was smiling, and in contrast to Carolyn Armstrong’s overt anger, which caused her to shake, was composed and very much in control of herself. She said, “Paul loved me, and you couldn’t bear that, could you?”

  Armstrong was mirthless. “Loved you? He detested you, only he didn’t know it. You deceived him, used him, and when you couldn’t use him anymore, you killed him.”

  Morgan looked again at Joey Kelsch, who still crouched on the floor, trying to make himself as small as possible. “You seem to have quite an effect on this young boy. He’s absolutely petrified of you.”

  “He’s an emotionally disturbed child. Get out of here! The sight of you disgusts me.”

  The uncharacteristically loud voice of Jonathon Merle now filled the small chapel. He had walked up the aisle until reaching Joey, then said to Carolyn Armstrong, “Who is this woman who violates this chapel?”

  Clarissa Morgan said, “Ah, Reverend Merle. Paul told me about you. He described you perfectly. How sad he had to spend so many of his days with hypocrites.”

  Merle made a move toward her.

  She said, “Don’t you dare touch me. I don’t intend to suffer at your hands or anyone else’s, as Paul did.”

  “I’ll call Security,” said Merle.

  “By all means.” Morgan came to the closed communion rail, lifted the hinged portion, and threw it back with such force that it threatened to break. Armstrong, shock on her face, stepped back until she met the edge of the altar. Morgan came through the rail’s opening and took one slow, small, deliberate step. “You couldn’t bear the thought that he loved another woman,” she said. “You have this facade behind which you hide, the uniform of God, your privileged place before altars, yet you couldn’t forgive him, or me, that we were in love.”

  “Love? He didn’t love you!” Armstrong screamed. “He hated you. He saw a pretty English face and your … experienced sexual favors, but he never loved you!” Her body went into a tremor, and she lowered her head, wrapping her arms about herself. “He never loved you. He loved me, but you wouldn’t let him see it.”

  Tony Buffolino had come through the door leading to Good Shepherd, heard the voices downstairs, and found his way to the chapel. He stood with Smith and watched the scene being played out at the altar.

  Merle said, “Reverend Armstrong, come with me. This woman is demented.”

  Morgan said, “You hated Paul. Paul told me so. Why are you defending her?”

  Armstrong snorted. “Defending me? How absurd.”

  “How can you claim to be a messenger of God when you know what you did? You killed him, murdered him in cold blood.” Morgan took another step toward Armstrong; they were less than two feet from each other.

  “I’ll get Security,” Merle said, and turned.

  The women ignored him. “Paul returned to Washington a day early because of a phone call from you,” Morgan said. “He told me on the plane why he was coming back, and he promised to end his relationship with you so that he and I could find a life together.”

  “That’s a lie,” Armstrong said, extending her arms behind her and placing them on the altar.

  “He told me that you were insanely jealous of us, that you’d threatened to smear him and ruin his reputation as a priest.”

  “That’s not true. I hated the fact that he was involved with a woman like you, a user, a woman who cared nothing for him except what you might get from him. I told him that many times.”

  “Yes, you did, and he didn’t believe it. He also never hesitated to tell you about me, about his feelings for me. I suppose it was cruel of him to do that, but I’m glad he did.”

  Clarissa Morgan knew that Paul never really loved her, but she also knew that he felt increasingly, desperately trapped by his relationship with Carolyn Armstrong. It was something she did not admire about Paul, his tendency to talk freely about other women. He’d talked about Armstrong a great deal on the plane, and Clarissa had begged him to disassociate himself
from her, to give himself a chance to see whether he did—could—love her. He promised her he would give himself that chance. He wasn’t allowed to live long enough to follow through on that decision.

  Hearing movement behind her, Morgan turned. Merle was walking toward the crouched, shaking Joey Kelsch. The boy looked up into Merle’s eyes, then looked at Morgan as she said loudly, as though addressing a crowd, “She murdered him!”

  Joey shoved his hands against Merle’s legs, scrambled to his feet, and ran toward the rear of the chapel. Merle lost his balance, then started after the boy.

  “Watch out!” Buffolino yelled from the door.

  Carolyn Armstrong had lifted a brass candlestick from the altar and was coming at the other woman with it. Morgan whirled, tensed, and pulled herself into a defensive shell, hands covering her head, knees bent.

  Smith and Buffolino ran into the chapel. “Get the boy, Tony,” Smith called. He vaulted the altar rail and said to Armstrong, “Why not give that to me, Reverend.” He extended his hand.

  “You don’t understand how it was,” Armstrong said, her body shaking.

  “No, I probably don’t, but I’m sure you can explain it.”

  Then, suddenly, Armstrong raised the candlestick again and threw it at Clarissa Morgan. It missed and ricocheted off the stone floor with a deafening clang. As the sharp sound of metal hitting stone reverberated throughout the chapel and faded, Buffolino came from the rear of the chapel. Joey had tried to hide in a pew, and Buffolino had half-coaxed him, half-dragged him from it. He held Joey by the arm, firmly but somehow gently herding Merle, too.

  “Tell them how it happened, Jonathon,” Armstrong said in a whisper.

  Merle looked desperately at Smith and Buffolino. “I don’t know what she’s talking about.”

  “Tell them how after I hit Paul, you offered to move his body to Good Shepherd so that it might seem that an outsider killed him. Tell them, Jonathon. You are a man of God. For God’s sake, tell them the truth!”