Liturgical Mysteries 02 The Baritone Wore Chiffon

by Mark Schweizer

  "Guess what?" she said.

  "I'm all a-quiver with anticipation."

  "Your dwarf flew in on Saturday night. He got back into town at about midnight."

  "He's not my…oh, never mind. Saturday night, you say?"

  "Yep," said Nancy. "You want me to bring him over for a chat?"

  "Not yet. I'll talk to him when I get back on Thursday. Keep an eye on him though."

  "Will do. Have a good trip."

  Chapter 11

  "You're either pro-clown or anti-clown," said Mr. Pickles, "and since you're working for the bishop, we know where you stand," which, at the moment, was in the middle of the center ring, surrounded by a nightmare of Ringlingian proportions.

  They moved in like Yuppies into renovated Brownstones--or maybe loft apartments on the upper West side; not those cheap, rent-controlled lofts converted from old run-down warehouses, but the nice ones designed by radical feminist architects with hyphenated last names--their clownish teeth mimicking the sounds of a Portuguese castanet band in an all night Flamenco parlor. Suddenly, a shot rang out.

  "Freeze, you mugs, or I'll fit you for wooden kimonos!" yelled Kit, Girl-Friday. "Now blow before I burn powder."

  "Huh?" said Tonk-Tonk.

  "You heard me. Breeze, ya bunch of daisies, or I squirt metal. Go climb up your thumb before I show you the Harlem sunset."

  The clowns looked confused.

  "I think she'd prefer you leave," I said, translating. "You too, Lilith."

  Lilith took her snake and spun on her heel, or what was left of it.

  "This ain't over, shamus. We'll be back."

  •••

  The flight to England was uneventful, although tiring. I took the opportunity to work on my literary masterpiece, knowing that Lent was coming to an end and I had to finish up. But writing on the laptop didn't give me the same feeling as typing on the old man's typewriter. When using his typewriter, I felt an affinity with Chandler that the iBook didn't communicate. I'd re-type it all when I got home, of course, but the experience was incomplete – cheapened by technology. I closed the computer and thought hard about the case at hand.

  Kris Toth, a songman at York Minster, had been killed; strangled after having been knocked unconscious. Kris had been studying on a fellowship and a position as a baritone in the Minster choir. Slender, with medium length black hair and a good-looking beard, Kris was by all accounts a pretty good baritone despite the interesting fact that he was a she. She was strangled with her own pair of black pantyhose.

  The autopsy revealed that Kris Toth suffered from hirsutism, a condition described to me, a layman, as one in which too much hair grows on a woman's face or body. Hirsutism, which runs in families, can be caused by hair follicles that are overly sensitive to male hormones (called androgens) or it can be caused by abnormally high levels of these hormones. These levels may also be caused by tumors, but this wasn't the case with Kris, her pathology being termed "idiopathic hirsutism." She was apparently very healthy when she was killed. There are treatments or, at least, cosmetic remedies for the condition, but Kris chose to remain bearded.

  She was found, dead, wearing a Victoria's Secret outfit underneath her choir robe and clutching a pectoral cross, in the middle of the Roman ruins. The case that had contained the cross also contained a chalice containing a flawless, 32-carat diamond. Presumably, an accomplice killed her. The fourth finger of her right hand was Superglued to her thumb.

  The provenance of the cross was interesting. It was thought to have been worn by Czar Nicholas II when he was assassinated in 1918. Valuable, of course, but nothing compared to the diamond set in the chalice, which was subsequently discovered to be missing and replaced with a CZ that had been super-glued into place. The missing diamond was insured for 1.3 million pounds, but the insurance company didn't want to pay.

  The video surveillance had been turned off by persons unknown sometime during the forty minutes in which the Evensong took place. Kris Toth had left the service about halfway through and didn't return. Other choir members thought she was feeling ill. The reason that the Minster Police hadn't noticed the problem with the cameras was that the policeman on duty had a daughter singing in the choir, and he had stepped into the church to hear her solo.

  There were a couple of problems. Why, if Kris was simply trying to steal the diamond, would she take the cross as well? The diamond had been replaced, and if she had left the cross and walked out, no one would have been the wiser. Replacing the diamond with a cubic zirconium might not have been discovered for years, but taking the cross almost guaranteed that she'd have been caught. She'd left the service in an obvious fashion. The cameras were turned off. She'd be the prime suspect in the theft. It appeared to me that the murderer placed the cross in Kris' hand after she was dead, locked the case and then left. One question remained. Did the murderer also get away with the diamond? I thought not.

  If the murderer had taken the diamond, the logical thing for him to do would be to kill Kris and escape, leaving all the cases intact and locked; not drawing attention to any single one in particular. A murder in the Minster would be horrible, but would be forgotten soon enough. As it was, I suspected the murderer used the cross as a method of drawing attention not away from the chalice, but toward it, intending that we would indeed discover the substitution. If this was his intent, then the murderer was still expecting to be able to recover the diamond and was counting on someone to lead him to it. That someone was me, and this made it all very personal.

  •••

  The train pulled into York twenty hours after I left St. Germaine, and I was still groggy despite having caught a few winks off and on during the journey. I made my way through town, then stopped at the Minster School to say hello to the headmaster, Geoffrey Chester. Geoffrey had helped me in my last murder case and I always stopped in to say hello.

  "Need any help on this one?" he asked.

  "Absolutely," I said. "What do you know?"

  "Not a thing. It's mystery to everyone."

  We chatted for a few moments before he rushed off to class. I made my way to Hugh's house, set my alarm for 4:30 and fell asleep in the guest room. Two hours later, I took a shower and, feeling refreshed, headed over to the Minster for Evensong.

  The men and boys were singing. As I sat there in a church where the worship of God had taken place continuously for over eight hundred years, I closed my eyes and listened to the prayers, the psalms, the Thomas Tallis short service and the anthem – Turn Thou us, O Good Lord by William Child – and thought to myself, "You know, this place could really use a Clown Eucharist."

  After the service, I met Hugh at the door to the sacristy.

  "Good trip?"

  "Fine," I answered. "Now, how about some dinner?"

  "I know just the thing. We'll go and have a curry. Janet's still teaching. She said to meet her over at the school."

  "That sounds great."

  We made our way across the street to the Minster School.

  "So," he said, lowering his voice. "Do you know where the diamond is?"

  "I think so. When does the treasury open?"

  "Tomorrow morning. Nine a.m."

  "We'll be there at 7:30. We'll need a couple of Minster Policemen."

  "You think the diamond is still in the treasury?"

  "I do."

  "7:30 it is then. I'll make a couple of calls."

  •••

  Early the next morning, Hugh and I met Frank Worthington and George Ross by the side door. They were both off duty and clad in their civies rather than in their Minster Police uniforms. Although there were a few folks milling about the Minster when we entered, the hustle and bustle of cathedral business had not yet started. Frank had the key to the treasury and led us down the stairs.

  "This is it." I said, stopping by the Roman well.

  "What? Here?" asked George. "How do you figure?"

  "I don't think the diamond ever made it out of the treasury. I might be wrong, b
ut I'll bet that it's right here. People throw coins in the well all the time, but a diamond could be dropped in and never found unless you knew where to look. It would be invisible in the water. My theory is that Kris either dropped the diamond in before the murderer knew it, or it fell in and the murderer didn't have time to find it before he had to leave."

  "Of course!" said Frank. "We never thought to look. We clean out the coins every couple of months, but unless we stepped on it, we'd never notice the diamond. We all presumed that it was taken by the murderer."

  "It could've been, but I don't think so. I don't think it ever made it out. Let's check the well."

  •••

  The Roman well is quite shallow and was easy to search. We were very thorough, first removing the coins, then submerging a one-foot square piece of stainless steel mesh cloth I had brought and laying it flat on the floor of the well. The well was only three feet across, and we all strained to see any anomalies in the surface of the metal cloth as it rested on the bottom. We looked for about thirty minutes, going over each section several times before finally abandoning the cloth and running our hands over the bottom of the well. We then turned our attention to the shallow stone drainage channel close at hand, also built by the legionnaires, which had a stream of water running through it from an outside source. We checked the drain, making sure that the diamond could not have been flushed through, then conducted our examination again, going over the sunken stones with the mesh first and then with our hands. The only thing I found was a broken piece of glass that I inadvertently dragged my hand over.

  "Jeez!" I said, pulling the jagged shard of clear glass from channel and inspecting the palm of my hand. There was a pretty good-sized cut across the palm. It wasn't deep and it looked to be clean.

  "Go on up to the station," said Frank. "They have a first aid kit. It doesn't look too bad. They can probably fix you up."

  "Thanks."

  I went upstairs and got bandaged. We searched for another hour, but in the end we were all convinced that the diamond was not there.

  •••

  "Rats."

  "Too bad it wasn't there," said Janet. "Finding it would have paid for your trip."

  "Yeah, I guess." I was in a foul temper, and my tone was none too cordial.

  "We're eating tonight at Falconthorpe," said Hugh, trying to cheer me up.

  Immediately my mood lightened. "That's great. Then the trip will have been worth it."

  "It's just you two," said Janet. " I hate to miss it, but I have a parents' meeting."

  Janet and I spent the rest of the day shopping. I had promised several people that I'd make an effort to return with some goodies, and to that end Meg had made me a list. This list included various teas and a scone mix for Anne Cooke, souvenirs for the gang at The Slab, and the mention of "a very nice gift for 'someone special.'" We finished late in the afternoon and made it back to the Minster for Evensong. I wasn't familiar with the Whitlock fauxbourdon settings of the Evening Service, but I'd seen them on the schedule and, although I wouldn't have missed the service, it was an extra treat to hear something new. After the service, Janet said goodbye and headed back to the school. I met Hugh at his Porsche.

  "Do you mind if I drive?" I asked, climbing into the driver's side before he could object too strongly. "You're insured, right?"

  The sun was low in the sky when we left York, our drive taking us away from the city, winding through small townships connected by roads no wider than an average American driveway. I noticed Hugh's fingers digging into the armrests as I dodged some, but not all, of the unwary pheasants that crossed our path heedless of oncoming traffic. He got mildly upset when I ran a couple of on-coming tractors off the road and he made some mention of my speed – albeit, through gritted teeth – as I took the last stone bridge doing seventy. Forty minutes later we pulled into the lane leading to Falconthorpe, a beautiful medieval manor house. It was almost dark when we crossed the moat and pulled through the gates.

  "Did you notice that I didn't hit any of the black swans?" I said proudly, turning off the car.

  "I'm very grateful," said Hugh, the tension of the trip evident in his voice. "I'm sure the swans are grateful as well. I trust that you will allow me to drive us home."

  "If you insist."

  We rang the bell and were greeted at the door by Martin Bensworth-Crowly and his wife, Lady Allyson.

  "Ah, Hugh and Hayden. It's so good of you to come," said Martin graciously.

  "Our pleasure, of course," replied Hugh, shaking hands. "How are you Martin? Allyson?"

  "We're very well," said Martin, resplendent in his velvet smoking jacket. "And we trust you are the same?" Hugh nodded.

  "We are so sorry that Janet couldn't come. But we're glad to have you with us again," said Lady Allyson, taking my hand in both of hers and clasping it warmly. It was all part of a graceful dance and one I enjoyed immensely.

  "Thank you for your thoughtful invitation," I said. "By the way," I continued with a straight face, "Hugh wanted you to know that I didn't run over any of your swans."

  Hugh blanched and rolled his eyes.

  "You are most kind," said Lady Allyson elegantly, not missing a beat. "We hadn't planned to have swan on the menu until next week." She laughed and stepped back from the door, gesturing us inside. "Now come in out of the cold."

  "Cretin!" hissed Hugh.

  The door opened into the oldest part of the house, the undercroft of the Great Hall. Martin hung up our coats and we followed our hosts into the drawing room, a welcoming fire playing on the ancient stones adorned with ancestral portraits. The other four dinner guests had arrived earlier. I recognized one of them.

  "Do you remember this old, retired bishop?" said Martin with a grin. "His Grace, Lord Horatio Biggerstaff."

  "Of course," I said and shook his outstretched hand. "Your Grace."

  "Call me 'Wiggles'. Everyone does."

  "Wiggles, then. It's delightful to see you again."

  "And you."

  With introductions and refreshments offered all around, I hinted toward the possibility of a quick tour of the house. Martin, always proud to show off the manor, quickly agreed.

  "You must tell me what you're working on," said Lady Allyson as we climbed the stairs to the Great Hall. "I find detective work just fascinating. Hugh has told us about the diamond."

  "It will be my pleasure. I confess that I'm stuck. Perhaps you'd lend an ear."

  "How marvelous," she said, her eyes sparkling. "I'd love to."

  The party wandered through the Great Hall, Martin leading the way and pointing out details to the guests. Lady Allyson and I brought up the rear. We paused by the entrance and I explained my analysis of the Kris Toth case. I covered my theory of the missing diamond and ended with the account of our fruitless search. This concise explanation was for my own benefit as well as hers. I wanted to get all my facts in order.

  "I'm sure you're right about the diamond," she said. "And it wasn't in the Roman well?"

  "No, it wasn't."

  "And that's where you cut your hand?"

  I looked at my palm with the bandage around it and nodded. " I dragged it over a piece of a broken jar. It was transparent in the water. The Minster Police station had a first aid kit, so they bandaged it up for me."

  "Was it a bad cut?"

  "Not really. It wasn't very deep. They cleaned it, put some Dermabond on it and stuck it together. Then wrapped it up all nice and neat."

  "Well, I'm very glad it wasn't worse."

  We followed the group into the Chapel. Seeing that we were on holy ground, I told Lady Allyson about the Clown Eucharist.

  "You're not serious?" she asked with a laugh.

  "Those were Hugh's exact words, if I remember correctly. And if that weren't enough," I chuckled, "a clown named Peppermint choked to death on a balloon animal during the service. I'm sorry, I shouldn't be laughing. I know it isn't funny."

  "Choked to death?"

  "We thin
k so. He was back in the sacristy. The offending balloon was a wiener-dog. And did I forget to mention our new verger?" I asked, continuing my litany of recent absurdities. "He's a dwarf named Wenceslas Kaszas. Our interim priest, Emil Barna, is an ex-lawyer who believes he's God's Voice in Appalachia and his wife, Jelly, has created the Feng Shui Altar Guild."

  Lady Allyson laughed, then stopped abruptly, tilted her head slightly to the side and didn't speak for a long moment. "I think supper's ready," she finally said, taking my arm and leading me back to the stairs.

  "What was the clown's real name?" she asked as we descended.

  "Joseph Meyer."

  She nodded and smiled as we came down the remaining stairs.

  "Here's something you might find intriguing," she said when we returned to the drawing room. "All of the interesting people in your story are Hungarian."

  I'm sure my face registered my astonishment. "Really?"

  "Wenceslas Kaszas, Kris Toth, Emil Barna, Joseph Meyer; all Hungarian surnames. Forenames too, for that matter."

  "I thought 'Meyer' was Jewish."

  "It could be. There are several spellings. He could be Jewish as well as Hungarian. I'm just telling you that Meyer is a common Hungarian name. I don't know about 'Jelly.' It could be a nickname."

  "Wow," I said, impressed. "How do you know all this?"

  "My mother was Hungarian. Do you think it's a coincidence?"

  "If it is, I'll eat my hat."

  "Ah," she said smiling and ushering me into the dining room. "But we're having roast beef."

  Chapter 12

  I was as tired as a Streisand arrangement when I got back to the office. It was late--maybe too late. I unlocked the door, turned on the light and saw Rocki Pilates sitting in the chair behind my desk wearing only a smile and nibbling a watercress sandwich.

  "Where do you get watercress this time of night?" I asked, wondering if she'd stick to the leather when she got up.

  "Down at the all night condiment market," she said with a wiggle and a seductive smile. I hadn't seen that much wiggle since I invested all my retirement income in Jenny Craig's version of Martin Luther's "Diet of Worms." She peeled herself from the seat with the sound of a giant kiss. "How 'bout a taste?"