“Then you wouldn’t say Sherrill’s the type to murder someone?” Phillis asked.
“One of the last persons I’d say could murder anyone, especially on the eve of a planned vacation with that person.”
Three quarters of an hour later, as they were having dessert, Ralph started talking about Sherrill again. “He’s very clever, you know. I once told him I was having an affair. You know me, always going into or coming out of one wild romance after another. Anyway, I told him my newest love was a professor by the name of Elwood, Elwood Edgar Elsworthy. Do you believe that name? As part of his research, Elwood raised bees on the university grounds. Well, the very next day after I told Sherrill about El, didn’t dear old Sherrill send me a card with a drawing on the front, one he drew himself, showing an old man surrounded by bee hives and bees swarming all around him, and inside there was a poem. A limerick. I still remember how it went:
There once was a beekeeper named El,
Whom you got to know very well.
He called you his “Honey,”
(Which we thought quite funny.)
Since all he wanted was Honeysuckle.
As they waited for the elevator and were saying their goodbyes, Ralph remembered something. “One thing you two guys ought to know. It might not mean a damn thing. You two are the detectives, so I’ll leave it up to you to decide if it’s worth investigating. Do you know that the sexton of that church--I don’t remember his name--was in prison for several years? Sherrill told me about him, oh, about a month or so ago, I’d say. We were talking about something or other, don’t remember what, and Sherrill was telling me that this priest he was seeing had a sexton--that’s how I know it’s the sexton of that church, Saint Somethingorother--who had been in jail. Capable of becoming violent, I’m told.”
“Did Sherrill go into any details?” Pat asked.
“Probably, but I really wasn’t that interested at the time. In fact, I didn’t remember it until just now. He did say, I remember, that that guy once had to be put in solitary--or whatever it is they do in those places--because he tried to kill a fellow prisoner. That’s really all I can tell you. Maybe Sherrill can tell you more, if the police let you talk to him.”
They both thanked Ralph and headed towards the gourmet department.
As they walked back to the rectory, Pat asked Phillis, “Well, what do you think of the mad sexton?”
“It could account for several things. He looked downright antisocial when we met him last evening. If he’s really unbalanced, he could be the one doing soft-shoe on the rectory staircase in the middle of the night and he could also be the one who tried to throttle Father Sieger. And murder Father Paul. What say we have a talk with him? We could ask Father Sieger about him, I suppose, if you think we should.”
“Let’s not say anything to Father Sieger about that for the moment, okay? I’d rather approach the sexton unforewarned and take him by surprise. We might get more out of him that way.”
It was mid-afternoon when they came through the front door of the rectory.
“Looks as though you have done some shopping,” Father Sieger said as he saw the packages they were carrying. He was standing in the doorway of his study, Hymn rubbing against his leg. Err was peeking around the other leg.
Pat wondered if he detected a bit of disappointment in the priest’s voice. “Actually,” he said, “we’ve been doing some detecting while shopping. Found out a few things we had to know. For one thing, Father, someone whose judgment I value believes Sherrill Rothe is incapable of murder. I know that won’t go very far with the police, but it at least makes me feel a little bit better.”
“I’m afraid it won’t carry any weight at all with the police,” Father Sieger told him as he accompanied them up the staircase to the second floor. “I was on the telephone less than an hour ago with Detective Worton. If it’s up to him, he intends to ask the District Attorney to try for an indictment.”
“Did he say what evidence they have against Sherrill?” Pat asked.
“I tried to find out, but that policeman was rather tight lipped. Purposely or not, he did let one thing slip, though. He said Sherrill had a ring in his possession that belonged to Paul. Seems it’s quite valuable. I suspect they’re going to say he stole the ring from Father Mowbray and got caught and killed him. I wonder if that will stick, as they say?”
Pat shrugged. “I doubt it. Even a mediocre lawyer ought to be able to blow that apart. Easy enough to say Father Mowbray gave it to him as a gift, and who’s to prove otherwise? Worton better have a lot more than that to go on, if he’s going to hold Sherrill. By the way, did Sherrill tell the police why he was here that day?”
“You know, that’s the strangest thing about that young man’s statement,” Father Sieger answered. “He claims he had an appointment to meet Paul here, but that he never saw him. Claims that when he got here, Paul had gone out on some kind of errand or other.”
“Couldn’t that be possible?” Phillis asked.
Father Sieger nodded. “Yes, certainly. But, you see, that’s why Detective Worton called me. Seems Mr. Rothe claims that when he got here, a woman answered the rectory door and told him Paul was out and that he shouldn’t wait for him. The police wanted to know who that woman was. They think I can tell them, but I can’t for the life of me imagine who that could be. There couldn’t be a strange woman here answering the door, so why would that young man make up such a story?”
They were standing outside Father Sieger’s second-floor sitting room. “Will you be joining me for dinner this evening?” the priest asked them.
Pat spoke up immediately. “I’m sorry, Father, but Phillis and I have some things that must be attended to.”
As soon as Father Sieger went into his rooms and was out of earshot, Phillis whispered, “What’ve we got to do this evening?”
“We are going--I don’t exactly know how--to get to meet some of those people Father Sieger told us have keys to this house. The first I’d like to meet would be his nephew, Leslie Whoever.”
“Victoire. Leslie Victoire,” she told him. “How you going to find him?”
“Beatrice.”
She smiled. “I see. She’s sort of the parish register, you might say.”
“You might.”
“Okay, so you find him, how you going to get to meet him?”
“Beatrice.”
“This is getting a bit monotonous. No matter what I ask you, I get the same answer, ‘Beatrice.’ Don’t you know any better answers?”
“Sure, but they’re not as effective. Beatrice will get a message to this Leslie. A few bucks and Beatrice will do damned near anything you ask, I’ll bet.”
Pat left Phillis in the hallway outside their upstairs bedrooms while he went down to the church garden and found Beatrice. He returned twenty minutes later and knocked at Phillis’ door.
“I was right,” he announced as he came into her room. “Beatrice went off to the nearest telephone and returned with the news that Leslie wants the two of us to come to dinner at his place this evening.”
“What were the magic words that got that invitation?”
“I told her to tell him that we were staying with his uncle and that there was something important we wanted to discuss with him.”
“You presume he cares what happens to his uncle?”
“It seems that Leslie Victoire is very much concerned about what happens to his uncle.” There was a glint in his eyes as he sat down on the edge of the bed. “Beatrice told me he is Father Sieger’s only living relative, that he will inherit whatever Father Sieger leaves when he dies, and that he’s always hanging around to see if the old priest’s health is getting any worse. Sounds to me like a bloodthirsty nephew in the classic tradition, à la Alfred Hitchcock, waiting for Uncle Victor to kick the bucket.”
“Does Father Sieger have anything to leave anyone?”
“According to Beatrice, there’s a little nest egg, not amounting to much. Don’t ask me how
she knows these things, but she evidently makes it her business to know them. That’s not the important thing. What is important is that Father Sieger is heir to the Sieger Department Store fortune, which has been left in trust. Uncle gets the interest off it, which I understand amounts to a fair bit each year, most of which he ends up giving away. When he dies, the money goes--according to the trust--to any and all living heirs, in a lump sum. That’s the end of the trust. And since Leslie is seemingly the only living relative, he’ll get the whole bit. Beatrice claims it’s a hefty sum.”
“I see, I see,” she said, nodding her head exaggeratedly. “But remember what Father said, that Beatrice and the truth are not the best of friends.”
“That’s why I’m anxious to meet and talk with this next of kin. If he doesn’t offer that information, we’ll come right out and ask if all this is true.”
“Pat?”
“Yes, sister.”
“Think our Leslie could be the one doing a staircase-to-pardise routine in the middle of the night? If uncle were to die of fright, die from a heart attack, no one’s likely to cry ‘murder’.”
“I’ve been thinking along those same lines ever since Beatrice told me.”
“If he won’t tell us, then what?”
“Then we’ll ask Father Sieger. One way or another, I intend to find out how much of what Beatrice told me is the truth.”
“What time is dinner?” she asked.
“Eight.”
“Dinner at Eight. That would make a good title for a movie.”
Pat shook his head in mock condescension. “Poor dear. After this is all over, we’ll get you the best psychiatric help money can buy.”
CHAPTER XIV
Leslie Victoire was born a plain child to a plain mother, Minerva Martindell, a Main Line debutante who had no poise, no beauty, no charm, only pedigree. His father was merely ugly, but had money as one of the heirs of the Sieger Department Store. In the halls of Darmshire School on the Main Line, Leslie earned the sobriquet of Ichabod because of his gangly frame and because his given name some of the boys considered more appropriately applied to girls.
In the fifth norm, Leslie learned that there were more things in life than a handsome face or even unlimited wealth, such as some of his fellow students’ families possessed. He himself had an old family name. The Siegers came to this country from Germany early in the nineteenth century and established themselves as merchants, first opening a haberdashery on Chestnut Street, then expanding until it became a high-rise department store in the center of town by the outbreak of war in 1917. It flourished until the fifties, not only surviving the depression, but prospering during it, until the board of directors, consisting solely of family members, decided, in their collective stupidity and cupidity, to go public. That was their downfall and the start of the rapid demise of the store. By the seventies, it was owned by a group of investors from the South, who knew little about running a large enterprise like Siegers, and even less about the city of Philadelphia and Philadelphians’ buying habits.
Young Leslie, however, knew and cared nothing for the mercantile life other than to take the generous allowance his mother gave him from the proceeds of said establishment. With Leslie’s father dead, she lavished money on her only child. By the time he was in his early teens, two things happened to Leslie which would serve to make him more acceptable in society: First--and this was at his mother’s insistence--he was enrolled with a well-known health enthusiast who promised to build the scrawny young boy’s body, which he did, through personal training and a vigorous schedule of exercises and diet. By nineteen, Leslie had lost his chicken legs, his shoulders and arms were impressively developed, and his waist was slim enough to make many women envious. The end result was that everyone, men as well as women, overlooked his rough facial features, his crooked nose, his uneven and too large ears, and his neck, which was twice as long as it should have been. Because of what he had accomplished with the rest of his body, there were those who now thought him handsome.
The second enhancement of Leslie Victoire was in the form of development of his mind. Here, however, the growth and new-found musculature to Leslie’s personality was not as admirable as that of his body. He became skilled in flattery, learned how to play upon and to others’ weaknesses, and could have (he was certain) sold a gross of Bibles at an atheists’ convention. While attending college, he was able to worm invitations to the best weekend house parties on the Main Line as well as vacations in Newport and Bar Harbor. Mothers gullible enough to be taken in by him, especially when he “accidentally” made physical contact with them, fantasized of him as a son-in-law. Fathers were willing to overlook his faults by convincing themselves that his family name, added to their own, couldn’t hurt.
Things went smoothly for young Leslie through his first three years of college. He studied hard and made several lists. He took part in sports, not the usual working-class sports, but those of society, such as polo and rugby, and was invited to join one of the rowing clubs on the Schuylkill River. He excelled in all three and was constantly in demand. At the start of his last year as an undergraduate, Leslie met Melody McElwayne, the sister of Brace McElwayne, one of his classmates. He was not especially taken with her. He was interested, however, in her family’s money, just as Melody’s mother, Sheila McElwayne, was interested in Leslie’s impressive physical measurements and obvious endowments. The older woman was reduced to a girlish giggle whenever Leslie made remarks about her seductiveness, such as the time he took her hand, stared into her eyes, and whispered to her that she was some kind of ruthless whore who could send a man to his death with uncontrollable desire.
He was invited to the McElwayne home for a long weekend. Sometime on Sunday afternoon, Melody, her brother Brace, and their father announced they were going for a ride. Leslie excused himself, saying he preferred to sun bathe next to the pool. He was in his bedroom changing when the door opened and Mrs. McElwayne walked in, wearing a skimpy bathing suit. She came on rather strong, not just suggesting, but demanding outright, that Leslie jump into the bed where she had already sprawled herself, adding that it would be to his advantage in many ways to do so.
In a moment he made a decision, not one of the more intelligent ones in his young life. He decided a little teasing wouldn’t hurt and might even help him. He slipped off his bathing suit and joined the over-age siren. She was immediately over him like a blanket on a cold night, her own bathing suit now lying in a pile on the floor. What neither of them heard was the sound of footsteps coming along the hall outside the bedroom door. Had it been the woman’s husband, he would have knocked on Leslie’s door. Had it been Melody, a young lady of breeding, she, too, would have knocked. Since it was the latter’s brother, Brace, a young man of Leslie’s age and sex, and since he was in a frantic hurry, he threw open the bedroom door and said, a bit out of breath, “Les, loan me your…”
He stopped in his tracks, stared, and found himself unable to utter a word. He stood frozen.
“Brace, we don’t have time to wait for….” It was Mr. McElwayne. He came up behind his son, then stepped into the room. What he saw was his wife clumsily falling out of bed, a sheet wrapped around her, and the naked Leslie now at the dresser, attempting to put both feet into one leg of his undershorts. The next moment, the room was filled with the awful sound of silence. Mother, wrapped in the sheet as though it were a sari, slipped silently out of the room. Leslie was busy extricating himself from the twisted underwear, lost his balance, and fell against the dresser. When he steadied himself, he tried again to get dressed. Mr. McElwayne instructed his son to go out to the car and tell his sister that only the two of them would be going, stressing that his daughter was to be taken away and kept out of the house for at least several hours. As soon as Brace left the room, his father told Leslie to get dressed, pack his belongings, and come downstairs where he would be waiting for him.
Leslie did as he was told, except for stopping to say good-bye to his host.
He slipped down the back staircase, through the kitchen, and outside to his car, which was parked behind the house. He drove steadily above the speed limit until he was back in the city. He breathed a deep sigh of relief when he got to his apartment.
During the days and weeks which followed, he expected to be contacted, either by Melody, Mr. McElwayne, or Brace. He heard nothing, not a phone call, not a letter, not even a communication from the McElwayne lawyer. What did begin, however, was something quite subtle at first. The Thursday following his escapade with Mrs. McElwayne, he was to attend a dinner in a private home on Rittenhouse Square. He received a short handwritten note from his hostess, explaining that the dinner had to be (“regretfully”) canceled. This was followed by several other cancellations for dinners, weekends, theatre parties. One day, he showed up at his rowing club along Boathouse Row on the Schuylkill to find out that he was no longer a member. The picture by that time was crystal clear. Mr. McElwayne had succeeded in blackballing Leslie in virtually every society household and every private club in the city. Leslie’s reputation was gone, without his having the opportunity to explain or have his side of the incident told, not that he could have reasonably excused his part in what happened. When graduation came at the end of that school year, there were many parties for the graduates, but Leslie was invited to none of them.
When the fact that he had been ostracized finally sank in, Leslie was at first puzzled at its thoroughness. Certainly Mr. McElwayne couldn’t have told the truth, that his wife had tried to seduce Leslie. He must have, Leslie concluded, twisted the whole story to make it look as though the latter had been the seducer. Yes, that was it. Yet, if so, then why was everyone taking the McElwayne’s side? Even with all their money, there were others who had more and didn’t have to care what the McElwaynes thought of them. Besides, a little boyish indiscretion could always be overlooked; might even ingratiate him even more with some of Sheila’s lady friends. No, there had to be more to it.
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