Murder at the National Cathedral

by Margaret Truman

  When Annabel finished reading that story, she asked Mac, who’d slipped into sweats in preparation for a brisk morning walk, what he thought of it.

  “Hard to tell at this juncture,” he said, “but I have this nagging feeling about one thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “That whoever put the holder on that altar and called the police is intimately connected with the cathedral, really knows it.”

  “You mean the murderer? No, it wouldn’t have been the murderer who put the holder in that chapel and then called the police.”

  “I wouldn’t think so. Why would a murderer successfully hide the weapon for this amount of time, then put it out in the open for the police to find?”

  “Unless it served the person’s purpose. If Paul’s murder was not connected with the cathedral but the killer wants to have the investigation focus more intensely on cathedral people, it isn’t a bad move.”

  Smith immediately thought of Brian Waters, the son of the woman who’d discovered Singletary’s body, and who, according to Tony Buffolino, had become a prime suspect. He’d told Annabel about his conversation with Buffolino.

  “Could be Waters,” she said, as if reading his mind.

  “Could be a lot of people, Annabel. I’ll call Finnerty later and see if I can learn anything else. In the meantime, I’m ready for some air. I’ll be back in forty-five minutes. Will you be here?”

  “Probably. I’m not opening until ten.”

  They kissed, and Smith started for the kitchen, where Rufus’s leash hung by the back door. He stopped in the doorway and turned to look upon this beautiful female creature who was his wife. He’d shared almost everything with her—should he tell her about Bowes’s warning? He had to. “Annabel, I filled you in on what Cameron Bowes had to say last night, but I left something out.”

  She raised an eyebrow questioningly.

  “Cam said he thought Word of Peace was a dangerous organization. He told me it’s been infiltrated by many intelligence organizations, including people like Jin Tse, who, according to Cam, is not only linked to Korean intelligence, but is a political assassin. He also told me that the CIA has built quite a file on Word of Peace, and that you and I have prominent space in it. Even our honeymoon was tracked.”

  “That’s horrible,” she said. “What the hell did they do, put cameras in our hotel suites?”

  “Probably not, but they certainly knew our movements in London. The reason I’m telling you this is that if there is some threat to us by virtue of my being involved with the cathedral and Paul’s murder, I want to keep you as far away from it as possible.” As he said it, he thought of his mother in Sevier House. Could she also be in danger because of him? No rational person would think so, but a reporter had tracked her down—or was it a reporter?—and there was a well-documented lack of rationality when it came to zealots and cause groups, to say nothing of intelligence organizations, including the CIA and MI5—and not forgetting Cosa Nostra and Colombian drug czars. None of them played by the same rules as the rest of the mostly rational folks. When groups like those decided the chips were down and the stakes were high enough, it was women and children first—forget about lifeboats.

  Smith shoved his hands in the pockets of his blue nylon windbreaker. “I don’t know how much credence to give what Cameron said, but he’s always played it straight with me. I think he told me those things because he truly considers me a friend, and I can’t ignore what he said.”

  “How much danger are we in?” she asked.

  “I have no idea, Annabel, but we do know someone tried to run you down, trample you to death, in that sheep field. I know we’ve been watched. And now this bunch from Word of Peace has been arrested and charged with a laundry list including subversive activities, misuse of funds, money laundering, and God knows what else. Maybe you ought to go away for a while.”

  Annabel laughed. “Mac, that’s grade-B black-and-white-movie stuff. We’re not on late-night TV. Go away? Where would I go? Why would I go?”

  Her response nettled him, and he responded angrily, “Sorry if I come off as grade-B material, Annabel. I suggested it because I love you.”

  Oooops, she thought. She crossed the room, wrapped her arms around him, and gave him a long and intense hug. “Mac,” she said into his ear, “you are anything but grade B. To me, you are the all-time leading man. I didn’t mean anything by it. Still, I’m not leaving you.”

  “Please,” he said, “don’t ever leave me.”

  “Have a good walk. I love you.”

  “And I love you, Annabel Smith.” He turned to Rufus, who was sitting at attention. “Come on, beast, let’s go sniff up the neighborhood.” He looked back at Annabel. “One thing’s for sure, Annabel, nobody would mess with us with Rufus around.”

  “Sure,” Annabel answered. “Any stranger with a gun and a dog biscuit wins. Go.”

  Smith’s brisk walk with Rufus always gave him time to think, something he did better with legs moving and fresh air pumping into his lungs and circulating to his brain.

  The first fifteen minutes were characterized by exuberance for dog and master. The middle quarter-hour found dog still charging ahead while master grappled with a damnable set of conflicting thoughts—questions, really—about recent weeks in his life. By the time the two were on the last leg of their morning circuit of Foggy Bottom, dog had slowed down and was panting, and master had come to the conclusion that everything, including the walk, had gone on long enough. His only commitment to Bishop St. James had been to give his friend unofficial legal advice, and to perhaps serve as counsel should the accused murderer come out of cathedral ranks. That should have been it. Instead, he’d found himself playing investigator again, discovering the body of a priest in the idyllic Cotswolds, almost losing his bride in a sheep pasture, and now being warned by a friend who was up on things in the nation’s leading spookery that his involvement might cause harm to him and to those he loved. “For what?” he asked himself aloud as he opened the front door. “Enough!”

  “Enough what?” Annabel yelled from the living room.

  “Enough of this life. I’m a college professor, damn it, not a gumshoe! Let the police find out who killed Paul, and if it’s somebody I care to represent, I will.”

  She appeared in the doorway. “What brought this on?”

  “A walk with the beast and time to think. I’m sorry about all this, Annie. It’s my fault, getting us into something like murder. You and I are esteemed members of the academic and artistic communities of Washington.” He proclaimed it with exaggerated pomp, his hand on his heart. She started to giggle. “Therefore, the dirty business of murder and murderers shall henceforth be left to those of lesser stature and baser instincts.”

  “Bravo!” She applauded. “But what about Reverend Merle?”

  “I did him a favor. He’s not my client.” He bowed. “Time for this sage to shower, which I understand places me closer to God, and to bestow my infinite wisdom upon my class of misguided achievers. Gimme a hug and a kiss, baby.” He wrestled her into the living room and fell on top of her on the couch.

  “You’ve gone mad,” she said, gasping.

  “I have, and I love every minute of it.”

  She rammed the heels of her hands against his chest and slid out from under. “Do you think you can sustain this burst of affection until tonight?”

  “Do I have to?”

  “Yes, and I look forward to the evening.” She stood. “Now, learned professor, go get clean and teach. We need the money.”

  Smith didn’t wait for his students to raise questions about what they’d read in the papers and seen on television. He announced, the minute he stepped to the podium, “Let us take what has become our daily fifteen minutes to discuss murder at the National Cathedral. You know what I know via the free press. Any comments? Any suggestions? Brilliant insights?”

  Everyone in the room offered at least two of the above in the next ten minutes or so, but none of the
ir speculations caused Smith’s mind to turn down a new alley with a light of revelation at its end. He shared with them one small bit of information he’d received as he was leaving the house. Jeffrey Woodcock called from London to say that the slain priest, Robert Priestly, had indeed been robbed. His wallet had been taken, and it had been found in a public trash can in the picturesque village of Chipping Campden. Whatever cash had been in it was missing; everything else seemed to be intact.

  “So?” April Montgomery asked.

  “So, it means that the murder of Priestly now differs in two ways from the murder of Singletary. Not only was the same type of murder weapon, which could have been coincidental, left at the scene in Priestly’s case, and not in Singletary’s, but robbery might have been the motive. It certainly wasn’t where Reverend Singletary was concerned. His wallet hadn’t been touched.”

  “Meaning that two different killers were involved,” Joy Collins offered.

  “Meaning only that such a possibility exists.” Smith asked what their reaction was to MPD’s announcement the night before that the possible murder weapon in the Singletary case had been found. Their collective reaction pretty much paralleled his and Annabel’s—namely, that the circumstances under which the weapon had been found were more interesting than the weapon itself. Bob Rogers, who tended to be the most reticent of Smith’s students, suggested that whoever placed the candlestick in the Children’s Chapel and called the police obviously knew who the murderer was and had been hiding the weapon in order to protect his or her accomplice.

  “Then why would this person come forward now and lead the police to the weapon?” Smith asked.

  “Maybe they had a falling-out,” Joe Petrella said.

  “Possibly, but why just lead the police to the weapon? Why not place an anonymous call and inform the police of the murderer’s identity?”

  “Maybe they didn’t have that much of a falling-out,” April Montgomery said, the hint of a rare laugh in her voice.

  Smith smiled and changed the subject to the FBI sweep of Word of Peace.

  April said, “I knew you’d bring that up. If you hadn’t, Professor Smith, I would have. Reverend Singletary was involved with that organization. It seems to me that any one of those lowlifes arrested last night could have killed him.”

  Smith raised his hands into the air. “Wait a minute,” he said sternly. “Simply because a movement dedicated to something worthwhile is tainted by certain individuals is not cause to paint that organization with a broad black brush.”

  “I agree,” said Joyce Clemow. “But do you think Reverend Singletary might have been doing something … well, dishonest, or destructive, or even disloyal?”

  “No, I do not think that is much of a possibility. I think Reverend Paul Singletary was a good man whose goodness led him, at times, into situations he would have been better served by avoiding.” Smith looked at his watch. “All right, on now to the subject of effective plea bargaining.”

  As Smith was about to leave the building, Dean Jaffe’s secretary handed him a three-page fax that had arrived from Jeffrey Woodcock in London. It was a column in a British tabloid. Woodcock had scribbled on top of the first page, “Thought you’d be interested in this, Mac.”

  The article began:

  The brutal, grisly, bloody murder almost two weeks ago of an Anglican parish priest named Priestly in the peaceful Cotswolds raised little interest outside of local authorities there. But this reporter and this newspaper have recently learned that the deadly blow to Priestly’s head might not have come from some lob looking to empty the priest’s pockets of his meagre belongings, despite the fact that the slain clergyman’s wallet was found days later in a neighbouring village. To the contrary, the wielder of the life-taking candlestick could well have represented an intelligence organization, even our own esteemed MI5, whose service to the Crown has not been without incidents of snuffing out life for the “greater good.”

  Highly-placed sources who have agreed to speak with this reporter only on the condition that their names not be revealed claim that the Reverend Priestly lived a life far more exciting than administering last rites to dying sheep farmers. In fact, according to these highly-placed sources, Reverend Priestly had been asked to leave the military service under questionable circumstances early in his career. A copy of Priestly’s military discharge papers obtained by this reporter lists the reason for his severance from the service as “official,” a term often used by military authorities to get rid of a troublesome person without saying anything good or bad about him.

  Seems Priestly’s dirty deed had to do with a joint naval exercise between British and U.S. troops. According to our highly-placed sources, the Reverend Priestly, a decidedly left-of-center chap, walked away with some extremely sensitive videotapes on which the latest military technology was demonstrated in living colour. Our sources tell us that he passed those tapes on to a friend who shared his bleeding-heart tendencies. The identity of that friend is unknown, although this reporter is in the process of tracking him down.

  The article went on to outline in sketchy terms more of Priestly’s background. Then it got to Word of Peace.

  The Reverend Priestly was involved in a number of causes, local and international, most notably Word of Peace, a group whose professed purpose is to bring about peace on earth, but whose members evidently had less spiritual things on their agenda. A number of leaders of the movement were recently arrested in Washington, D.C., and charged not only with using funds raised for peace to line their own pockets, but with harboring a sizable nest of political operations. An Anglican priest named Paul Singletary, who was murdered in Washington’s National Cathedral, was a leading voice in the organization. Whether he would have been arrested, too, must remain conjecture, but our highly-placed sources assure us that he was a close friend of the slain Cotswolds priest, and we have further learned that he served with Reverend Priestly during that joint naval exercise. Whether Singletary was, indeed, the friend to whom Priestly passed the classified videotapes is unknown at this time. It is known, however, that Priestly had recently indicated to a close friend—perhaps Singletary, who visited with him in the Cotswolds only days before his own murder—that he was about to make public what he knew about the flim-flam going on within Word of Peace. That, of course, would be sufficient reason for that organization, or at least someone from it, to silence him forever.

  But there is more. Other highly-placed sources have informed this reporter that Reverend Priestly had been recruited by our own intelligence organization, MI5, and that he did its bidding to avoid having his unsavoury military indiscretions exposed. Was the Reverend Priestly about to blow the proverbial whistle on MI5?

  Stay tuned.

  Smith finished reading the fax, shoved it into his briefcase, and headed home. He and Annabel had discussed how little they really knew about Paul Singletary. But if there were even a modicum of truth to the suggestion that he’d passed classified tapes, he’d been a total stranger.

  Clarissa Morgan watered plants in the villa on Virgin Gorda that had been rented for her. She then left the low white house carrying a small yellow carry-on bag, which she placed on the passenger seat of a white Toyota Corolla that had been leased for her. She opened the driver’s door, paused to look out over the shimmering azure waters that surrounded the British Virgin Islands, got into the car, and drove slowly around the island until arriving at Beef Island Airport, where she parked and entered the terminal. She knew she’d been followed by the same man in the Toyota minivan who’d been her shadow since her arrival in the BVI. She didn’t care, had never bothered to find out who he was. It didn’t matter. She knew why he followed her, and who had told him to. That was enough. It was all enough. “Enough!” she’d said to herself two days ago after returning home from dinner at a local restaurant. “Enough!”

  “Your flight is delayed, Miss Morgan,” the petite, pretty native ticket agent said.

  “How long a delay?”

>   The agent looked at her computer terminal. “Probably only a half hour.”

  “Not so bad,” Morgan said, thinking that for Air BVI it represented being ahead of schedule. “Thank you. I think I’ll have some tea.”

  The ticket agent watched the woman cross the small lobby and thought, Nice to deal with a visitor who doesn’t take a delay as a personal affront.

  The man who’d been standing near the door approached the agent. “I overheard you telling that woman that her flight was delayed. Is that the flight to New York?”

  “No, it’s to San Juan.”

  “But it connects to flights to New York.”

  “It can. It connects with many flights.”

  “Thank you.”

  The man, whose cheeks bore the spidery red lines of a heavy drinker, looked around the lobby as though in a state of confusion.

  “Is there something else I can help you with, sir?” the agent asked.

  He was startled at her voice. “No, no, thank you very much.” He walked in the direction of the small concession stand that sold coffee, tea, and sweets. He stopped a dozen feet away and watched Clarissa Morgan as she was handed a Styrofoam cup, paid the attendant, and went to a bench against the wall. Once seated, she looked at him and smiled. He turned away, glanced back, then went outside.