Apt answered quickly. “No, although Reverend Singletary, for a man caught up in questions of poverty—among other things—was not what you’d call the most frugal of men.” Apt’s expression said clearly to Smith that this phase of the conversation was over.
“It’s my understanding that Reverend Singletary had intended to return to Washington two days after his meeting with you,” Smith said. “Obviously, he returned a day earlier than planned. Do you have any idea why?”
Apt formed a tent with his fingertips and said over it, “No idea whatsoever. In fact, I asked how long he was staying, and he told me he was visiting the countryside. Yes, what he said exactly was ‘your limpid countryside.’ I remember it well. I hadn’t heard anyone describe our countryside as limpid before.”
“I’d say it’s an apt description.” Smith decided not to add the usual “no pun intended.” “Do you know where in the country he intended to visit?”
“No, I really don’t.”
Smith didn’t believe him. “I remember from conversations with Reverend Singletary that he was especially fond of the Cotswolds. Did he ever talk about his love of that area with you?”
Apt shook his head.
“Did Reverend Singletary say anything to you that would give me an idea of what he might have done after his meeting with you, whom he might have seen, had dinner or tea with, perhaps gone to the theater with?”
Another flat negative.
Smith leaned back on the couch and shook his head. “I’m afraid this may have been a wasted meeting, Reverend Apt. Of course, I enjoyed meeting you, but I was hoping to gain some insight into Reverend Singletary’s movements while he was here. I’m sure you can understand how that could be helpful in solving his murder.”
“You are an investigator, Mr. Smith?”
“As Bishop St. James’s letter indicates, I am a professor of law at George Washington University. My wife and I have been attending services at the National Cathedral for some time, and I am a personal friend of Bishop St. James, and was a friendly acquaintance of Paul Singletary. In fact, Reverend Singletary officiated at my wedding.” Smith stood. “You’ve been very gracious with your time, Reverend Apt. I appreciate that.”
“Please call on me at any time, Mr. Smith. Would you like a tour of the palace? I could arrange to have someone take you right now.”
“Tempting, but I have other commitments. Thank you for offering.”
Smith’s driver returned him to the hotel. As he got out, he said, “Thank you very much. By the way, my name is Mackensie Smith.” He extended his hand through the open driver’s window.
The driver smiled and shook Smith’s hand. “Pleasure to serve you, Mr. Smith. Name’s Bob.”
There was a message at Reception from Annabel: Taking tea with Mr. Quarle at the Ritz at four. Please join us if you can. Love, Annabel.
Smith went to the suite and called the Buckland Manor in Broadway. “My name is Mackensie Smith. My wife and I are staying in London but thought it would be nice to go to the Cotswolds for a few days. Jeffrey Woodcock, a law associate, recommended you highly. Would you have a room for two nights beginning tomorrow?”
“Yes, sir, we do.”
“Look, this is sort of a honeymoon for us. I’d appreciate the best room you have.”
“The Vaulted Room is available. It’s our finest.”
“Sounds perfect.” He gave his credit-card number and hung up.
His next call was to the number for Clarissa Morgan given him by Jeffrey Woodcock. “Miss Morgan, my name is Mackensie Smith. I’m an American attorney representing the National Cathedral in Washington, D.C. I was also a friend of Reverend Paul Singletary.”
“Yes?”
“I’ve been asked to call regarding certain claims made by you to Reverend Malcolm Apt at Lambeth Palace.”
There was a pause. “Why would you call me about this?”
“Because of my close involvement with the Washington Cathedral and Reverend Singletary. One of my purposes in London is to try to trace his movements just prior to his return to Washington and his murder. I understand you were with him the night before.”
“Mr. Smith, I find this most distressing. I don’t know who the hell you are. You make certain claims, but as far as I know, you’re nothing more than a very glib obscene caller.”
Smith had to laugh. “Miss Morgan, I may be many things, but certainly not that. Would you be willing to spend half an hour with me? I think this might work a lot better in person.”
She sighed.
“I assure you I am what I represent myself to be, and that I might be able to resolve your claim. But only if we talk.”
“I’m busy tonight.”
“Fine.” He thought to try softening her up. And maybe open her up. “My wife and I are going to the country tomorrow, to the Cotswolds. Are you familiar with a hotel there called Buckland Manor?”
“No.”
“It was highly recommended to us by a mutual friend. If you’re available tomorrow, however, I’ll be glad to postpone our trip.”
Another sigh. “I am engaged for the next two days.”
I’ll bet you are. “Then our schedules coincide nicely. Can we arrange a time to meet the day after I’m back?”
“Why don’t you call me then.”
“All right. I look forward to seeing you.”
Smith shaved before walking the few blocks to the Ritz. As he entered the lavish lobby, London’s most famous gathering place for tea, he had two thoughts. One was that he would have to finesse Annabel into accepting his sudden decision to leave the city for two days in the country. He hoped she hadn’t made too many unbreakable plans in London.
His second thought was that he wouldn’t bother waiting for Tony if this Pierre Quarle character kissed his hand. He’d take care of the Frenchman’s knees himself.
12
The Next Day, Tuesday—Warm Sunshine. Perfect Weather for a Drive on the “Wrong” Side
“I don’t know the man I married,” Annabel said as Smith deftly navigated a series of roundabouts outside Oxford and found the road marked RING ROAD WEST.
“Why do you say that?”
“Because if I had to come up with a list of adjectives to describe Mackensie Smith, ‘impetuous’ would not be on it. I can’t believe you simply decided to spend a few days in the Cotswolds, picked up the phone, and did it.”
“I thought it would be a nice change for us on our honeymoon. After all, there is more to the United Kingdom than London, and this Buckland Manor is supposed to be superb.”
She sighed contentedly and watched the rolling emerald-green hills, hills dotted with picturesquely placed sheep, slide by. She knew this was more than an impulsive fling in the country. Mac had told her of his conversations with Jeffrey Woodcock, Malcolm Apt, and Clarissa Morgan, and that he wanted to poke around a little at Buckland Manor about Paul Singletary’s weekend there, apparently with Clarissa Morgan, no matter how much Miss Morgan might deny knowing the place. He had promised Annabel, however, that his poking would consume a minimal amount of their time. The fact was—something Annabel hadn’t told him—she’d begun to enjoy the “business” aspect of their trip. It added a certain element of extra excitement and purpose.
She looked at her husband. His expression was intense—no, concentrated was more like it—as he shifted gears with his left hand and met the challenge of driving on the left. There had been a few harrowing moments in London as they tried to find the A40 out of the city, but she’d read the map well, leaving him free to deal with the mechanics of avoiding double-decker buses and other city traffic, all having wandered into the wrong lane.
They stopped in the quaint village of Broadway and strolled its main shopping street. Annabel went into a woolen-goods outlet while Mac stood outside and watched people pass by. He leaned against the building, turned his face to the sun, and closed his eyes. Annabel interrupted his reverie. “I can’t make up my mind between two sweaters,” she sai
d. “Come help me choose.”
Her purchases in the trunk of their rented automobile—he’d recommended both sweaters—they left Broadway on the road Mac had been instructed to take when he’d made the reservation. Ten minutes later they were on a long, graceful access road leading to the magnificent thirteenth-century manor house called Buckland Manor. Before they could open the car doors, a young man and woman came down the steps. “We’ve been on the lookout for you,” said Nigel, the hotel’s manager.
“Your directions were excellent,” Smith said. “This is Mrs. Smith.”
“Welcome to Buckland Manor, Mrs. Smith,” said Nigel’s pretty assistant, Tracy. “Someone will be out to take your bags. Please, come inside.”
Annabel started up the steps but paused. “How beautiful,” she said, referring to a stone church next to the hotel. Its rectory was part of the main building.
“Yes, a splendid example of twelfth-century Norman architecture,” Tracy said proudly. “You must visit it while you’re here.”
They were escorted to the Vaulted Room, accurately named because of the way the white ceiling arched up high above. When they were alone, Annabel said, “Mac, it’s absolutely magnificent.” She hugged him. “I’m so glad you did this.” She explored the expansive, tastefully decorated room. The walls were covered in a pale blue paper with a tiny white design. Curtains defining a series of bay windows were the color of cream; a pattern of small roses gave them a nice touch of blush. The large four-poster bed was covered in the same cream-and-rose fabric, as were skirt tables on either side of it. On a table in front of a love seat was a vase of pink gloxinia, a large basket of fruit, and two bottles of Cotswold spring water.
“You make me a very happy bride,” Annabel said as they stood at a window and looked out over pastures belonging to the hotel. Rare Jacob sheep stood like clusters of mushrooms in one; two huge Highland steer leaned against each other in another. “I’m happy we came here,” she said. “I knew you were smart, but this was a stroke of brilliance.”
“Shucks,” Smith said, executing a perfect toe-in-sand. “Thank Jeffrey. Jeffrey, that is.”
After unpacking, they sat on the love seat and discussed what they would do during their stay.
“I just want to hang around,” Mac said. “I want to ask people in the hotel and the village about Paul.”
“Why do you think anyone would remember him?” she asked. “As far as you know, he was only here once, the weekend Woodcock and his wife bumped into him.”
“Yes, I know, but I have this feeling that he had more of a connection to this place than that. It’s my understanding that he always incorporated a trip to the country when he was in London on business. He’d told Reverend Apt that he intended to spend the next day in, as Apt recalls, the ‘limpid countryside.’ And then there’s Clarissa Morgan denying she knows of this hotel. Of course, that could just be embarrassment at having spent a clandestine weekend with a priest. I don’t know, Annabel, I just wouldn’t feel right not following up on it.”
“Well, I am very glad you feel that way, because I am beginning to feel utterly relaxed for the first time in ages.”
“Good. If there’s one thing a honeymoon should provide it’s relaxation.” He smiled. “Part of the time anyway.”
Nigel, the manager, joined them briefly at dinner that night in the hotel’s dining room. Smith asked him about the adjoining St. Michael’s Church and was told that it served the villages of Buckland and Laverton. Services were conducted by a traveling Anglican priest. “A nice enough chap with an appropriate name.”
“What is it?” Smith asked.
“The Reverend Robert Priestly.”
Smith smiled. “A classic case of preordination.”
“Yes, quite,” Nigel said.
“We have a friend back in Washington who’s also an Anglican priest,” Annabel said. “He’s been a guest here.”
“What’s his name?” Nigel asked.
“Paul Singletary,” Smith said.
Nigel smiled. “Of course. Reverend Singletary has been here on more than one occasion. He and Reverend Priestly are chums.”
“I see,” Smith said. “I hope we get a chance to meet Reverend Priestly.”
“You undoubtedly will,” Nigel said. He asked about their plans for the next day.
“I’ve been reading the guidebooks,” Annabel said. “I know there’s wonderful shopping, but I hate to waste the precious two days we have doing that. I’m a bit of an amateur bird-watcher. I brought my binoculars and a new camera, and picked up a guide to birds of the United Kingdom. Maybe I’ll just spend tomorrow walking and looking.”
“Sounds like a splendid idea,” said Nigel. “We have a special map for walkers. I’ll see that you have it straight away.”
“Wonderful!” Annabel looked at Smith. “Feel like joining me, Mac?”
“Do you mind if I don’t?”
“Not at all. You do your snooping around, and I’ll spend the day with nature.”
It was over dessert that Mac mentioned a man eating alone at a table at the opposite end of the room. “He checked in right after us,” he said.
“Are you especially interested in him?”
“Not at all, although we probably should introduce ourselves. It’s like we made the trip from London together. His car followed us pretty much all the way, and he stopped in Broadway when we did.”
“Unusual to see a single man in a hotel like this.”
“A salesman, maybe, or waiting for someone. Maybe waiting for us.”
“Let’s invite him to join us for dinner tomorrow night,” Annabel said.
“Let’s not. This is our honeymoon. The two of us are the right company. Oh, I get it—you jest.”
The next morning they enjoyed a sumptuous full English breakfast. Annabel wore a navy-blue sweat suit and sneakers, and carried a warm jacket. It had turned colder overnight, and fog now veiled the verdant countryside.
“Sure you want to walk in this soup?” Smith asked.
“It enhances the charm,” she said. “Besides, it will add drama to the pictures I take.” The small automatic camera Smith had bought her for her last birthday joined the binoculars around her neck. In her hand was the simple map provided by Nigel, and the bird book.
“Sure you know where you’re going?” Smith asked.
Annabel opened the folded map, and they looked at it together. According to Nigel, much of the route was marked with small yellow arrows posted on trees, although it wouldn’t be necessary to look for them until she reached Laverton by paved road. From there, it would be mostly open fields on her way to Stanton Village and up to the old quarry on Cotswold Ridge. It would be downhill from there, Nigel had assured her. He’d also discreetly pointed out that the only public house she would pass on the hike was called the Mount Inn, just outside Stanton. His final suggestion was that since she’d be walking through many pastures, it would be wise to look before she stepped.
Smith looked up at the somber, leaden sky. A gentle breeze swirled the fog around them like steam. They couldn’t see the road from the front steps of the hotel. “Why don’t you wait until tomorrow for your walk?” he suggested.
“No, this weather really inspires me, Mac. Please don’t worry. I’ll be fine. Have you ever seen a more tranquil place in your life? The fog even adds a sense of comfort, like being wrapped in a blanket.”
Smith grunted. Her romantic interpretation of the day’s weather didn’t jibe with his. “Well,” he said, “if you’re not back in the two hours Nigel says it takes for the walk, I’m sending out the Mounties.”
“How exciting. But wrong country. I’ll be sure to take my time.”
Charlie, Buckland Manor’s resident bearded collie, came bounding up to them. “Go inside,” Annabel said. “You can’t come with me.” A note in each room asked guests not to take Charlie for a walk without a leash. Some local sheep farmers didn’t appreciate Charlie’s penchant for chasing their flocks and had threat
ened to shoot him if he came on their property again. Annabel opened the front door and the dog slunk inside.
Mac and Annabel kissed lightly, and she started up the long drive leading to the road, turning twice to wave. Smith missed the second one because the fog had obliterated her from view.
He went back inside and warmed his hands in front of one of three fires kept going day and night in the public rooms.
“Tea, Mr. Smith?” Tracy asked.
“Yes, I’d love some.” When he was served, he asked her, “How can I make contact with Reverend Priestly today?”
“I really don’t know, but I’ll find out.”
She returned a few minutes later. “I called the cathedral in Gloucester,” she said. “You are in luck. Father Priestly is scheduled to be here today for a parish meeting. He’s due to arrive about eleven.”
It was eight-thirty. “Good,” Smith said. “I think I’ll take a ride to some of the neighboring villages. I’ll be back by eleven. If you happen to see Father Priestly, please mention I’d like a word with him.”
“Certainly. Enjoy your tea and sightseeing, Mr. Smith, but drive carefully. This fog is the worst I’ve seen in a long time, and I’ve seen plenty of it.”
Annabel walked slowly along the narrow paved road into Laverton. The ancient row houses lining the road were all constructed of the yellow brick characteristic of the Cotswolds. She reached a red telephone booth that was indicated on the map, crossed the road, and climbed over a low gate, using a crude wooden step that had been provided for walkers. A yellow arrow on the fence post pointed in a direction that would take her across a large grazing wold. The fog seemed to have thickened, if that were possible; she could see vague forms of animals in the distance. Sheep, small cattle? It was hard to determine most of the time. The silence and tranquillity were palpable as she hugged the side of a low stone wall that bordered the field. She heard the call of a bird, stopped, and trained her binoculars on trees immediately to her right. A swallow of some kind. She considered looking it up in her book, but decided not to bother. If she did that every time she spotted a bird, she’d get back to the hotel at midnight.
Murder at the National Cathedral Page 12