Death by His Grace

by Kwei Quartey

  More comfortable now, Michael leaned back against the tree, his arms folded. “But as time went on, his mood changed again, this time for the worse. He stopped talking and became depressed. After asking him over and over again what was wrong, he told me he thought Katherine had been unfaithful to him by fornicating with Bishop Howard-Mills. That alarmed me because I knew he was getting delusional again. We had some medicines left over from the last time he had seen a psychiatrist, but he refused to take them.”

  Michael’s shoulders slumped, and his hands dropped. Darko could feel his profound defeat.

  “Honestly, I was at a loss,” Michael continued. “Last Friday, I was supposed to go to the training in Takoradi. I tried to cancel it because I was worried about Peter, but it was too late. StanChart’s regional director said I had to go. When I returned Sunday, Peter was gone. I called everyone in the family including my parents, but no one knew where Peter was.

  “Monday morning, I learned about Katherine’s death and then when you told me Peter had attacked the bishop, I became worried.”

  “So you were willing to protect a suspected murderer?” Darko demanded.

  Michael hung his head. “He’s my brother, Inspector. He’s family. My mother always told me to watch over him, and I’ve become so accustomed to covering for him.” He shrugged. “But I’m not proud of lying to you about him, and I’m ashamed of what he did to the bishop.”

  “Yet here you are at this party drinking beer,” Darko pointed out.

  With a rueful smile, Michael looked away toward the distant sound of the ocean. “I knew you were going to ask me about that.”

  “And what is your response?”

  “Yesterday evening, I went to see Bishop Howard-Mills at his office to apologize to him on Peter’s behalf, but he wasn’t in. He was resting at home. John said I could meet with the bishop for a few minutes this evening before the vigil, so I came early to talk to him. He prayed for me, and we prayed for Peter too. When I was about to leave, the bishop asked me why not stay and have some food and drink, so I did. That’s how you came to find me here. It’s true, I have drunk too much beer, but not necessarily because I’m feeling happy.”

  “Where is the bishop now?”

  “Please, I don’t know. People say he doesn’t attend these parties. His wife always represents him. He comes to check everything is okay early in the day, and then he leaves and returns at around ten.”

  “I see.” Darko observed him awhile. “Mr. Amalba, you certainly know how to flirt with danger.”

  Michael squirmed under Darko’s gaze.

  “How, and why,” Darko said, “did you and Solomon remove Katherine’s name from the house deed and replace it with Maude Vanderpuye’s?”

  “I didn’t do it without misgivings,” Michael said, “but Solomon is a good friend and well, he’s persuasive. You know, in Ghana, we do things for our friends. Solo has done favors for me as well.”

  “Was what you did legal?”

  “Please, the fact is that Katherine was giving her share of the mortgage to Solo in cash, but the funds were directly from Solomon’s individual account. So, unfortunately for her, as far as the bank is concerned, she’s invisible.”

  “Still, her name is legally in the original document,” Darko pointed out. “How could you just pull the property from under her like that?”

  Michael fidgeted. “I told Solo to have Kate sign a letter permitting a transfer of ownership to his mother.”

  Darko frowned. “She came into the bank to sign the letter in person?”

  Michael cleared his throat. “No, he persuaded me to allow her to sign it at home and then he returned with it.”

  Darko shook his head. “What a joke, Mr. Amalba. Solomon forged the signature, and you know it. The letter might appear legal, but the transfer is still fraudulent. You didn’t have permission to execute it.”

  Michael bowed his head again, one leg twitching back and forth.

  “Did you get cash back from the transaction?” Darko asked.

  “No, please,” Michael whispered.

  “Were you aware that Katherine was taking Solo to court over this issue?”

  Michael looked up. “Inspector, she wasn’t only suing Solo; she also named me and the entire StanChart branch in the suit.”

  Interesting, Darko thought. That potentially gave Michael a motive to kill Katherine. “Did Solo ever tell you he was going to kill his wife?” Darko asked.

  Michael groaned and looked up at the sky. No stars were out tonight. “Awurade. I beg you, Inspector. Can I decline to answer?”

  “You are free to refuse, but then I will bring both you and Solo in as accessories to murder.”

  Michael panicked. “Please, are you serious?”

  “Do I look like I’m joking?”

  “Okay, okay. Solomon never said he wanted to kill Katherine, but he did say he hated her and that he thought maybe what Maude said—that Kate was a witch—might be true.”

  “Did he ever ask you to help kill her?”

  “No, no,” Michael said, shaking his head repeatedly. “I’m telling you the truth, Mr. Dawson.”

  Darko grunted in disgust. At this point, he believed no one. “What about your brother?” he demanded. “Answer me honestly. Did he kill Katherine?”

  Michael chewed on his bottom lip. “Honestly, I don’t know.”

  “But it’s possible?”

  “Awurade, forgive me.” Michael wiped his face with his palm. “I don’t believe I’m saying this about my own kin, but yes, Inspector. It’s possible.”

  Chapter Thirty

  Bishop Howard-Mills cut a commanding figure in a tailored, vanilla suit with a bronze stripe down the length of the thigh-length tunic. Darko and the other guests occupied a bank of seats closest to the stage and accessed via the tent. The choir stood behind the Bishop in a crescent configuration with the band in the center and began a performance of gospel hip-life. The crowd danced and sang as they waved white handkerchiefs. On the jumbo screens, it looked like a giant flock of seagulls. When Howard-Mills joined in the performance with a few dance moves of his own, his audience went wild.

  Afterward, the choir members took their seats and the bishop, breathing a little heavily, got his followers to settle down. For over an hour, he delivered a sermon on how spitefulness ruins the life of the individual, the family, and the nation. Sometimes Howard-Mills mixed in Twi with English, which Darko called Twinglish. When he quoted from the Bible, the jumbo screens captioned the passages.

  1 Peter 2:1-25

  So put away all malice and all deceit and hypocrisy and envy and all slander.

  Ephesians 4:31

  Let all bitterness and wrath and anger and clamor and slander be put away from you, along with all malice.

  Psalm 140:3

  They sharpen their tongues as a serpent; poison of a viper is under their lips.

  1 Corinthians 5:8

  Therefore let us celebrate the feast, not with old leaven, nor with the leaven of malice and wickedness, but with the unleavened bread of sincerity and truth.

  “Are you troubled by spitefulness?” Howard-Mills asked, pacing the stage and dropping his voice almost to a whisper into his microphone. “Is your soul bound by malice or overwhelmed by demons and evil? If you know this in your heart, and you are ready to be healed now, then come to me. God has invested power in me to cast out the iniquity and wickedness from you.”

  Flanked by bodyguards—no one wanted history to repeat—the bishop came off the stage to ground level. Some of the chaperones, wearing reflective orange jackets marked STAFF shepherded congregants to form two long lines approaching the bishop at right angles to each other. Other members of the staff, the “catchers,” took their positions along the sides of the congregation and in the breaks between the rows of chairs.

  But an
y semblance of orderliness didn’t last long. Within minutes, two chaperones half carried, half dragged a screaming, writhing woman to the bishop’s feet. She had clumped, matted hair, and her clothes were ragged. Every so often, one of the chaperones had to pull down her skirt as it rose indecorously above her thighs with her thrashing about. The crowd stood and craned forward to see, or else watched the screens.

  Howard-Mills came closer and kneeled down. John, who seemed to have appeared from nowhere, held a microphone to pick up both the bishop and the stricken woman.

  “Awura,” Howard-Mills said in Twi, “ye fre wo sen?”

  “Ye fre me Abena,” she moaned. “Please, Bishop Howard-Mills, help me.”

  “What troubles you so much?”

  Abena twisted and turned. “It’s my sister!” she cried out.

  “What has she done?”

  “She won’t leave me alone. She torments me day and night.”

  “What is her name?”

  “Grace.”

  “Where does she live?”

  “Brong-Ahafo Region.”

  “Is it her spirit that comes to disturb you?” the bishop asked.

  “Yes, please.”

  “Why does she come?”

  “She says I am the one preventing her from giving birth to a child.”

  “Is that the truth?”

  “Oh, no please, Bishop!”

  “Then let’s pray to cast out Grace’s spirit.” To the chaperones, Howard-Mills said, “Help Abena stand up.”

  The chaperones held Abena up on either side, which was difficult because she was dead weight. Howard-Mills began to pray, his voice rising and falling. Abena let out a shriek that distorted the loudspeakers. She began to flail so wildly the chaperones had to block her hands and let her back down to the ground for fear of her striking them.

  “She’s hurting me!” she screamed, holding her head, then clutching at her back, abdomen, and finally her legs, as if her sister was moving down Abena’s body. “She’s trying to kill me!”

  “Let me speak to her!” the bishop shouted. “Let me talk to her, now!”

  Strangely, a different, much deeper voice emerged from Abena. “I am Grace. You can’t cast me out, Bishop!”

  “Are you sure?” Howard-Mills challenged. “Do you know the power of God?”

  The audience jumped up and down, screaming their approval, raising their hands and waving handkerchiefs.

  Howard-Mills knelt and pressed his hand on Abena’s forehead as she bucked and kicked. “Come out, Grace!” he yelled. “The Lord Jesus is here! You have no power over Him, for He rules over all dominions. I say, be gone, Grace!”

  She bellowed, and Howard-Mills shouted back at her. They went back and forth like this for at least several cycles until the bishop stood up and raised his hand. “Abena!” he cried out, “she is leaving!”

  The audience yelled, cheering Abena on as she went through the last throes of her battle.

  “Help her up,” the bishop said to the chaperones.

  Abena stood, this time mostly on her own. She was drenched with sweat and clearly exhausted, but her expression was one of relief, almost elation.

  “See the wondrous power of the Lord, Abena,” the bishop said. “Now go in peace. May God be with you.”

  Pandemonium broke loose as people shouted and danced in the aisles. The catchers began to rush back and forth to keep people from harm as they collapsed. Darko asked the gentleman beside him what the falling meant.

  “They are slain in the spirit,” the man shouted, his eyes wide with excitement and the thrill of the spectacle.

  As the cheering died down, more people came forward—a man bent over with age received power from the bishop and was able to throw away his cane and leave walking ramrod straight without assistance. A woman’s baby who suffered from evil spirits in the form of convulsions was cured by Howard-Mills’s touch. Gradually, the space in front of the stage filled up with people rolling around, quivering, speaking in tongues, pacing up and down, and self-flagellating. And still, the catchers scurried around to secure those who were falling as they were “slain in the spirit.” When they stood up again, they were renewed in the spirit or converted by it.

  The bishop kept this up for an astounding two hours at least. To Darko, it was an exhausting display, but he had brief moments of feeling swept up by the emotion and euphoria of the crowd, the way he might feel in a soccer stadium full of exuberant fans.

  Past midnight, Darko felt chilly and exceptionally weary. As Howard-Mills joined the choir in another performance and the audience sang along while swaying and waving their hands in the air, people came up and deposited their small and large church donations into shoulder-high barrels, which would be full to capacity at the end of the night. How did the bank count all that? Darko wondered. And what cut did the Bishop take?

  On that thought, he decided he had had enough. He got up, went back through the tent, which had very few people in it now, and continued to the entrance. The huge policeman sitting in a chair at the entrance was still watchful but considerably more relaxed than before. Darko nodded and smiled at him, and just as he was about to leave, the big guy beckoned to him. “Come over,” he said.

  Darko went. “Yes, my friend?”

  They shook hands and snapped fingers.

  “Are you leaving now?” the policeman asked. His ID badge read cpl. blankson.

  “Yes, I have to work tomorrow,” Darko said.

  Blankson made a face. “Me too.”

  “Is this what you do on the side for extra cash?”

  “Man has to survive,” Blankson said with resignation. “I have worked four or five of Bishop Howard-Mills’s prayer vigils. Is this your first time attending?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “How did you find it?”

  “Fascinating. How does the bishop perform all night long?”

  “Not all night, though,” Blankson said. “Usually one of his junior bishops will take over between about one and three in the morning, and then the bishop will return to the stage to finish the vigil.”

  That corroborated what both Bishop Howard-Mills and Reverend Atiemo had told Darko and Safo. “During the break, what does Bishop Howard-Mills do?”

  Blankson shrugged. “Sometimes he will just come and rest in the tent or read the scriptures, other times he will get in his car and go somewhere for a while.”

  “Ah, okay,” Darko said, keeping his manner offhand. “To where?”

  “Eh? I don’t know.”

  “The bishop had a vigil at Baden Powell Hall last Friday,” Darko said. “Did you work that one too?”

  Blankson nodded. “Yes.”

  “Do you know or remember if Mr. Howard-Mills was away between one and three?”

  The corporal frowned. “My friend, why these questions?”

  Darko decided it was time to come clean, but a few people were hanging around within earshot. “Can I talk to you in private for one moment, Corporal Blankson? Over there.”

  Looking both wary and curious, Blankson followed Darko a few meters.

  “My name is Chief Inspector Dawson,” Darko said, showing the corporal his ID under the beam of the floodlights.

  Blankson looked at it and immediately braced, chest out and hands by his sides. “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”

  “Relax. I’m looking into the death of a certain woman. Maybe you can help me. Hold on one second.” Darko got out his phone and scrolled to Katherine’s picture. “Have you ever seen this woman at any of the bishop’s prayer meetings?”

  Blankson scrutinized it and then shook his head.

  “And my question about Friday night at Baden Powell—did you see the bishop leave the premises?”

  The corporal cleared his throat. “Please, I know he went to his vehicle, but I didn’t notice wh
en he came back.”

  “Do you know where the bishop’s vehicle is parked at the moment?” Darko asked.

  “Yes, sir. I can show you.”

  Darko walked with him to the secured parking area, where a watchman hung around looking at his phone but putting it away as the two policemen came up. They greeted him. Blankson pointed out the bishop’s black Mercedes SUV.

  “Thanks,” Darko said. “What about Mrs. Howard-Mills? Is she still here at the event?”

  “No, please,” Blankson said. “Normally, she leaves after the party.”

  Convenient for the bishop, Darko thought. “And Reverend Atiemo?”

  “For sure he was there through the whole night until morning,” Blankson said. “I know because at one point even, I had to help remove somebody from around the reverend’s neck.” Blankson began to laugh. “He was blessing a certain woman after he cast out her demons. She said she loved him and wrapped herself around him like an octopus. It took me and three chaperones about four minutes to get her off.”

  Darko joined in the laughter. “Funny story, Corporal. And John Papafio?”

  “Well, you know, boss, he is running around all night. Seems like he’s everywhere at once.”

  “Was he involved in the altercation with the woman and the reverend?”

  Blankson shook his head. “No. We security people handle that kind of problem, not John.”

  “Do you recall if you saw him after one A.M.?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “Yes, please, what? You recall or you saw him?”

  “Yeah, I’m sure I saw him, but to be honest, I can’t tell you exactly when, sir. I wasn’t paying that much attention.”

  “Would it be unusual if you didn’t see John around for a couple of hours?”

  “Not at all. Like I was saying, boss, he roams around, always checking if everything is running smoothly and never staying in one place for long.”