Gradually, Leslie was able to piece together the truth, thanks to bits of information dropped by others, whether intentional or not, he wasn’t sure. Lest he be guilty of slander, Mr. McElwayne had been careful not to say anything actionable about the young man who had been a guest in his home. The story he told each time went along these lines: A few months back--he always related it in a matter-of-fact tone--his insurance agent had strongly suggested that Mrs. McElwayne have her jewelry reappraised with the idea that their coverage might be brought more in line with the current value of the pieces. The agent, along with a professional appraiser, appeared at the McElwayne house on a Friday afternoon. All the jewelry was present. Two days later, on Sunday, several of the more valuable pieces were discovered missing. No one had been in the house, except for a houseguest, a Mr. Leslie Victoire. Mr. McElwayne was exceptionally vociferous in his protestations that that upstanding young man couldn’t possibly have taken the jewelry. After all, he did come from a fine--if now somewhat less affluent--family. In each telling, his audience would agree that the Victoires were more than socially acceptable. After all, wasn’t that young man’s uncle the rector of Saint Alban’s right in the midst of their fair city? Knowing glances were then exchanged between those hearing the story, and all then rushed home to see if Leslie Victoire’s name was on any of their guest lists.
By the time Pat and Phillis heard the name Leslie Victoire, he was something of a broken young man, unwanted by the very social circle to which he so desperately longed to belong. Money, he knew, was the one thing which could reinstate him. If he had enough, he was sure, a little peccadillo of youth could easily be overlooked and quickly forgotten. It might even, he hoped, make him appear a little dangerous, not a bad attribute when courting wealthy young women and their sometimes overly romantic and frustrated mothers.
It was exactly eight o’clock when Pat and Phillis stepped off the elevator on the thirty-second floor of the Rittenhouse House. They rang the buzzer on the door with the discreet bronze nameplate, L. Victoire. The door was opened by a young man in white serving jacket, who stepped aside for them to enter.
Their host immediately came into the foyer. “Good evening. I’m Leslie and you must be--”.
Leslie Victoire was, Pat guessed, in his late twenties, and made Pat who was six-two feel rather short.
“Please, let’s go into the living room,” Leslie said and led the way into an enormous room with windows which faced east and looked down on Rittenhouse Square. Thick carpeting underfoot was white. The walls were covered with white-on-white silk and a six-tiered gold-plated chandelier hung from the center of the ceiling. The furniture, too, was white, giving the impression one had suddenly walked into a blinding blizzard.
Eustace--so Leslie called him--was standing next to a white lacquered sideboard awaiting their pleasure.
“What will you have?” their host asked and gestured towards the well-stocked bar which Eustace had just opened. After they gave their orders, Leslie led the way to a small cluster of chairs set in one corner of the room. Phillis and Pat took individual matching white velvet chairs. Eustace brought their drinks to them.
For several minutes, the conversation was stilted, until they began discussing the state of the city, a condition Leslie insisted was growing more desperate each day. Pat and Phillis agreed, somewhat, but pointed out the cultural advantages of the City of Philadelphia. Leslie confessed to a hidden desire to get away from it all, chuck all this squalor, and head for an island someplace.
“But then I presume all city dwellers secretly want to move away from it all and all country folk, from time to time, wonder what it would be like to live in the big, wicked city,” Leslie observed.
Eustace appeared at the archway of the living room and nodded to his employer.
“Shall we?” Leslie asked and stood up.
They followed him into a dining room almost as large as the sitting room. One end wall was completely covered with mirrors: large mirrors, small mirrors, gold leaf and silver leaf mirrors, wildly decorated and simple wooden mirrors. The table was the largest piece of plate glass, Phillis thought to herself, in existence.
Dinner was in keeping with their surroundings. Pat and Phillis complimented--and meant it--Leslie’s cook.
Their host suggested they have their coffee and dessert in the sitting room, which was not the same room they had occupied prior to dinner. This room was smaller, more intimate, and of a polychrome decor, rather than the monochrome of the living room. The furniture here was less intimidating, consisting of large, over-stuffed down chairs and an exceptionally inviting sofa. Pat had to fight off the temptation to stretch out full length on it and go to sleep. He was about to say something about the view from this room, a view of the two Art Deco Liberty Plazas and the Victorian grotesquery which was City Hall, when Leslie spoke.
“If you don’t mind, I would like to get down to the real purpose of your visit this evening, the reason we are here at this moment.”
Pat nodded. “Yes, of course. It was most kind of you to invite us here and have us for dinner, and now--”
“And now you will have to sing for your supper,” Leslie interjected with a smile that was not ungenerous. “I admit I’m more than a little bit curious, curious to find out why my uncle hired two private investigators and has them ensconced in Saint Alban’s rectory. That’s enough to make some of those founding fathers in the cemetery out back get up and walk away. Oh, don’t look so stunned. I knew I had never once in my life heard my uncle mention either of your names, and lo and behold here you two are staying with him in that rectory. I just couldn’t stand it. I had to find out who and what you are. Please forgive me.”
Phillis laughed aloud. “You should become a detective yourself,” she exclaimed.
“Your uncle contacted us because he’s been having some problems of a rather serious nature,” Pat began.
Leslie sighed. “You mean those noises he’s been imagining he hears in the middle of the night? He told me all about them and I hoped I had convinced him that they were nothing more than figments of his imagination; bad dreams, nothing more.”
“Evidently you don’t believe they happened?”
“Oh, come now, do you? Honestly, a grown man, a man of the cloth, and one who’s supposed to have had a good education, believing such things. I fully expected him to begin performing rites of exorcism or the like. I’m beginning to wonder if dear uncle might not be….”
“Father Sieger believes those noises are real enough to keep a gun in the rectory.”
“I know. Ridiculous. I learned of the existence of that gun only a few days ago, on Tuesday evening. I went to see uncle the next day to talk him into giving me that gun, or at least convincing him to get rid of it.”
“What did he say to that suggestion?”
“He wasn’t at home when I got there.”
“Do you believe that Father Mowbray’s death had anything to do with those occurrences, real or imaginary?” Phillis asked Leslie.
He turned, stared at her, and studied her as though he had not been aware she was in the same room with him and Pat. “Con… connection? No, of course not! Father Paul was killed by someone who somehow got into the church and was stealing something. He came in and surprised the thief and was killed as a result.”
“Do you know Sherrill Rothe?” Pat asked.
Leslie repeated the name quite slowly and thought a fraction of a second too long to suit Pat, before responding with a pleasant smile. “No, I don’t believe I know the young man. Does he have anything to do with all this?”
“Well, for one thing, this afternoon the police took him in for questioning. Detective Worton is of the opinion that he killed Father Mowbray.”
Leslie suddenly seemed very far off and lost in thought. He soon came back to his surroundings. “Oh, really? Well, then, that confirms what I said, doesn’t it? Those noises of dear uncle’s have nothing to do with Father Paul’s death, unless of course, the poli
ce manage to prove that this Rothe fellow had access to the rectory and was coming in at night to frighten dear uncle Victor.”
“Leslie, there is one area upon which we would like to tread, if you won’t be too offended,” Phillis said. “It concerns money. Needless to say, you need not answer if you don’t wish to, but it concerns--”
“You’re referring to the trust, I suspect.”
Eustace appeared, carrying a tray with silver service. He began pouring coffee. Another tray weighted down with petit fours, baba au rhums, and miniature éclairs materialized on a side table.
“It’s no secret,” Leslie continued. “In fact, it’s public knowledge. My family, you see, was at one time quite wealthy. What you’re looking at tonight is the last pathetic remnant of a once great family, the Sieger family. Sieger in German means Victor. My great-grandfather, thanks to my great-grandmother’s insistence, just before the outbreak of the First World War, demanded that we change it. She thought the French equivalent more appropriate, if we were to take our place in society. Sort of like the way the Schoenbergs became the Beaumonts. Or the English changed Battenberg to Mountbatten. It was all quite common in its day. Their son, grandfather Gunther Victoire, left his wealth to his three sons--my father and my father’s two brothers, Uncle Karl and Uncle Victor--with the stipulation that the capital remain in trust until the last one of them died. I guess he expected to have a great many grandchildren, because upon the demise of his last son, the money was to be divided equally among all the grandchildren. Well, grandfather died much sooner than he or anyone else expected and he never knew that he had only one grandchild. Uncle Karl died on his honeymoon and Uncle Victor chose not to marry. When he was quite young--in the seminary I think--he decided to return to the original Germanic spelling of the family name. Don’t ask me why. Since I was an only child, it leaves just little old me to inherit the family fortune. Don’t get any idea that I’ll be filthy rich, but still there’ll be enough to keep me very comfortable.
“But I must confess I see there’s madness in your methodology.” Leslie continued while still staring at Phillis. “I suspect you both think Uncle Victor is telling the truth about things happening in the night in that old rectory and that I’m the one doing it. Sort of scaring the poor old soul to death so I’ll get the family fortune. Well, don’t worry yourselves on that score, my dears, because I wouldn’t have the nerve to do the things he’s telling people have been happening there. I’m afraid of the dark myself. Sleep every night with a light on in my bedroom, and if Eustace weren’t here, I’d have to sleep elsewhere. In fact, whenever Eustace is away overnight, I go to a friend’s place. Devout coward when it comes to scary things. Couldn’t stand frightening movies when I was a child. So, you see, portraying me as the sinister cloaked figure slinking up the rectory staircase in the dead of night is poor casting.”
“You have a key to the rectory?” Pat asked.
“Of course. Uncle suggested it and I agreed it was a good idea. He’s frequently alone there and anything could happen to him. Would hate to have to break the door down or wait for someone to open it for me. Does that make me some kind of suspect in your little black book?”
Pat shrugged. “One needn’t have a key to be a suspect. As for Father Mowbray’s death, since we’re being so open about all this, I hope you won’t mind if I ask you where you were on Wednesday, between midday and four in the afternoon.”
“I was shopping for the entire afternoon. With a friend. Then, we stopped in at Butch’s for a late afternoon--or early evening, whichever you like--cocktail.”
“No doubt the place was busy that time of day.”
“If you’re asking did anyone see me there, if I have any witnesses, you’re making it sound as though Father Paul was murdered.”
“I am.”
“Murder! I was being facetious. Who says it’s murder?”
Again, Pat shrugged. “Hard to imagine it anything else. The police have labeled it homicide, but to us it smells like downright, outright, premeditated murder. Gun shot too far away to be suicide or self-inflicted accident.”
“Did you know Father Mowbray very well?” Phillis asked.
“Not what you’d call well. Was in his company only a few times this past year. Nice enough chap, I guess, for a priest.”
“Was he gay?”
“I really haven’t the foggiest. Wouldn’t surprise me, though. I’ve always taken it for granted that all clergy are. Except Uncle Victor. Don’t honestly think he’s had a sexual stirring, homo or hetero, in his entire life. A natural-born virgin. The priesthood was the only thing he could have gone into.”
They finished dessert.
“It’s getting late,” Pat said as he glanced at his wristwatch. “And Phillis and I have a very early appointment in the morning.”
They said their farewells in the foyer and were soon on the elevator.
Outside, Phillis was the first to speak. “Was it worth it?”
“We got some worthwhile information, if that’s what you mean. We learned about the trust fund and he confirmed what Beatrice told me earlier. Notice anything else? About Sherrill Rothe?”
“Leslie certainly slipped up there, didn’t he? In the same breath he claims he doesn’t know Sherrill and then refers to him as ‘that young man.’ Most people, especially the way you made it sound more like Shirl, would presume you were talking about a female. And who said he was young? He knows Sherrill Rothe, all right.”
“Other than that, what did you think of our host? Strike you as being totally honest? That certainly was the picture he was trying hard to paint for us. A little too hard, I thought.”
“Yes, and I had the feeling that there was something unsaid the whole evening, something he either wanted to say or wanted to ask us. Did you get that feeling?”
“Something like it, I guess. A cloud hanging over us. Couldn’t put my finger on it; almost as though someone was watching us from above, almost as though another person was in that apartment with us. Know what I mean?”
“There was another person.”
They stopped walking.
“Who?” Pat asked.
“Eustace.”
“My dear, at least once a day you manage to amaze me. I missed it, but now that I think about it, you’re a thousand percent right. It’s a lot more than an employer-employee relationship, isn’t it?”
“Maybe. Or maybe there is an employer-employee relationship, but not the way we were supposed to see it. At times, it was almost as though Eustace was the one giving orders, the one who was directing Leslie in what he should or shouldn’t say. Whatever their relationship is, I’ll bet you it’s at least bordering on the unconventional.”
“I was so concerned about something else, that’s why I missed it,” Pat said as they continued walking. “What I’m especially talking about is that story of Leslie being afraid of the dark. If it’s true, and he’s as phobic as he claims, then we could write Leslie off as the Phantom of the Rectory.”
“If I had to guess, I’d say he was telling the truth on that one point.”
They were walking along the sidewalk on Sycamine Street and were approaching the iron gate which opened onto the church property when they heard a car door slam, followed by the sound of footsteps hurrying in their direction.
“Mr. Montgomary? Miss Toner?”
They stopped. A woman was running towards them, out of breath. She slowed down as she approached.
“I’m Grace Everett. I’m Father Sieger’s administrative assistant. Could I talk to you for a few minutes? It’s extremely important.”
“Of course,” Pat said and gestured for her to precede them through the gate.
She looked up at the rectory windows and shook her head. “Not in there,” she said. “Let’s go someplace else, if you don’t mind. What I have to say to you I would prefer to keep confidential. I would rather Father Sieger not know that we spoke this evening.”
CHAPTER XV
The w
oman who had accosted them on the sidewalk was sitting across from them in a booth in Big Ben’s. She had slipped off a worn brown cloth jacket before sitting down. She now seemed agitated, her fingers playing with the laces of her blouse. She was wearing no make-up, giving her large-boned, Nordic face a grayness in the uncomplimentary lighting Ben shone on both his customers and his food. Her sandy hair was streaked with gray and was pulled back and tied with a scarf. Her brown eyes seemed a bit red, as though she had been crying. Her voice trembled.
“I want to thank you for seeing me like this,” she began, still out of breath. She asked if they minded if she smoked. Pat noticed her hand was shaking as she tried to light the cigarette at the match he was holding for her. “I didn’t quite know how to go about meeting you. I waited a long time and was about to give up when I saw you approaching. Hello, Mitzi,” she said to their waitress.
Mitzi plopped glasses of water in front of them and handed them menus.
“We won’t need menus, thank you,” Pat said. “Unless, of course, you’d like something to eat, Miss Everett?”
“Grace, please. No thank you. Just coffee, Mitzi.”
Mitzi walked away stoically, without recognition of their order for three coffees. She returned almost immediately with their beverages, much of which was in the saucers.
“Father Sieger asked you to come here, didn’t he?” Grace asked. “I know he did. I overheard Leslie saying as much to him this morning on the telephone. In a parish like Saint Alban’s, there are precious few secrets, I’m afraid. We really are one big family. Most of the time. And, like most families, we have our spats, our jealousies, our petty squabbles, but I like to think that when the surface is scraped away, we really do love one another. Oh, I know that must sound naive, simple to urbane individuals like yourselves, but there is at least some truth in it. That’s why I felt I simply had to talk to you. If anything affects Father Sieger, it affects us all. We do sincerely love him. He’s been much more than just a priest to us. I suppose that’s being redundant, isn’t it? I mean, how can one be more than a priest, since being a priest means being all things to everyone, as the Bible tells us to be. Anyway, we all feel very protective of our rector. If anything is….”
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