“Quiet! It will broaden you. And besides, we don’t have a story to file until after tonight’s ceremony.”
“Now, ladies and gents, you’re lookin’ at the old abbey in her best get-up. The nave roof, for instance, has just been cleaned extensively and is in its pristine splendor.
“Now, we’re comin’ to the south transept, where we’ll find, among many other memorable relics, the Poets’ Corner.
“You can just imagine, ladies and gents, a little more than a century ago, when the abbey was black with grime, and heavier stained glass windows obscured the light much more than now, it was Washington Irving who referred to this great abbey as ‘the empire of Death; his great shadowy palace, where he sits in state, mocking at the relics of human glory, and spreading dust and forgetfulness on the monuments of princes.’”
“Have you noticed,” Joan Blackford Hayes remarked, “how much more reverential our guide’s tone gets as soon as he finds himself in church?”
“Oh, yes, absolutely,” Irene Casey replied. “He definitely is a man for a couple of seasons.”
“Personally,” said Joan, as the guide’s rote recitation ran on, “I prefer St. Paul’s; it is so much brighter and festive—”
“And bigger,” Irene added.
“And bigger,” Joan agreed. “But one cannot overlook the fact that the abbey is used for coronations. I suppose that’s a factor in evaluating the two churches. One mustn’t sneeze at a coronation.”
“Speaking of coronations,” said Irene, “I meant to tell you what happened at lunch. Four of us were seated at a table set for five. When the waitress came to our table, it was ever so obvious that she had just come over from Ireland; you could cut her brogue with a knife.”
“We must’ve had the same waitress. Didn’t she have a beautiful complexion? And those rosy cheeks!”
“Yes, gorgeous. Well, anyway, when she noticed the extra plate, she said, ‘There’ll be just the four of you, then? I’ll just clean away this extra serving.’ And one of the other diners remarked, ‘Yes, we invited the Queen, but she couldn’t make it.’ And the waitress retorted. ‘Well then, and aren’t you the lucky ones!’”
The two women laughed.
“Now this, ladies and gents, is one of the two shrines within this magnificent church. Here, at the very heart of Westminster Abbey is a shrine that contains the body of its founder, Edward the Confessor. Henry III in his spankin’ new abbey provided for Edward a much more gigantic and bejeweled tomb than the one you see before you. That tomb became a place of pilgrimage. The sick were often left at the tomb during the night hours, with all prayin’ for a miracle. This shrine was despoiled at the time of the Reformation, as were so many other priceless treasures. So that which you now see is but a shadow of its former grandeur. But it does hold the remains of the saintly and revered King Edward the Confessor.
“Now, ladies and gents, if you’ll follow me to the west of this shrine, we’ll come to the next point of interest.”
“Have you seen anything out of the ordinary or suspicious?” Father Koesler, unofficially commissioned to reconnoiter Westminster Abbey, and not at all sure what he should be looking for, was sticking close to the Reverend Toussaint. When Toussaint’s attention was drawn to something in the abbey, so was Koesler’s. What Toussaint overlooked, so did Koesler. As far as the priest was concerned, it was a foolproof little system.
“No, not really,” Toussaint responded. “Just that the abbey is very beautiful and very rich in tradition. Even more so than I had expected.”
“Well, let me ask you this,” Koesler persisted, “do you have any idea what we’re looking for?”
“I think we are looking for nothing in particular, nor do I anticipate that we will find anything untoward. As I see it, the Inspector wants us to familiarize ourselves with the abbey so that we might be alert to anything out of the ordinary tonight.”
That sounded straightforward enough.
Koesler looked about as they moved to the west side of the shrine. “Everything seems so tranquil, so settled, so lost in history, that it’s hard to think there could be violence here.”
“But,” said Toussaint, “even as we talk, I am certain there are at least a couple of men who are preparing themselves to commit murder.”
A tremor ran through Koesler.
Toussaint glanced about several times. “Bob, do you have the feeling we are being followed? That someone is watching us?”
Koesler reflected. “No, I don’t. But that may be because, to my knowledge, I’ve never been followed. I don’t think anyone ever thought I was worth following. I’m not sure I’d recognize the feeling if I were.”
“Do not be concerned, Bob. I may very well be mistaken.”
The guide cleared his throat, preliminary to continuing his spiel.
“Now this, ladies and gents, very ornate and obviously ancient wooden chair is the very throne used for the coronation of King Edward the First. And it has been used in the coronation of all subsequent English monarchs with the two exceptions of Edward V and Edward VIII. The coronation ritual has developed and changed over the centuries. But the coronation chair has remained the same over all.
“Now, you’ll note the obvious presence of a large gray rock set right within the confines of the chair. That, ladies and gents, is the famed Stone of Scone. In 1296, Edward ‘malleus Scotorum’ captured the stone from the Scots, who had crowned most of their kings on their ‘stone of destiny,’ brought it to London and, at a cost of one hundred shillings, had this special oak chair made to contain it. Both the chair and the stone have been used at English coronations ever since.
“And now, ladies and gents, we’ll just be movin’ along.” He checked his watch. “Time’s gettin’ short and we don’t want you to miss Madame Tussaud’s.”
“What’s this ceremony tonight supposed to be, anyway, another Mass?” Joe Cox asked.
“Not hardly,” Pat Lennon replied. “It’s some sort of ecumenical or intersectarian service. They can’t hold a Mass. The Catholics and Anglicans don’t agree with each other enough to hold a Mass. And the ceremony is going to have a couple of Catholic Cardinals along with the Anglican Archbishop of Canterbury.”
“Well, don’t the Anglicans hold Masses in here?” Cox persisted.
“They call them something like communion services.”
“Don’t the Catholics have communion services?”
“Well, yes; but they’re not the same.”
“What’s the difference?”
Lennon sighed. It was all so complicated. And, in the final analysis, she wasn’t all that interested in all this ecclesiastical red tape.
“Maybe it would help, Joe, if you thought of it in terms of an Australian tag wrestling match.”
“Now you’re cooking.”
“The way Catholics view their Church is that Jesus Christ established it. He chose the Apostles to, in effect, be the first bishops, and gave the primacy—or ‘the power of the keys’—to Peter. They, in turn, selected others to succeed them; those others selected others, who selected others, and so on. For instance, Peter became the first bishop of Rome. And he was succeeded by Linus, then Cletus, then Clement, and so on, down to the present Pope, Leo XIV.
“But, as far as Catholics are concerned, today’s bishops of Christian sects are real bishops only if they can trace themselves in a direct line from the Apostles.”
“And that means that only Catholic bishops qualify,” Cox supplied.
“Not necessarily. The Orthodox bishops—Greek, Russian, and so forth—are also direct descendants of the Apostles, but they don’t recognize the Pope as the supreme leader of Christianity, so they’re not Catholic. But the Catholics recognize them as real bishops.”
“Then what’s the matter with the Anglicans?”
“In the beginning, nothing. At the time of Henry VIII, all England was Catholic. When Henry decided to do it his way, the bishops were still kosher, to mix a metaphor. But then, somewher
e along the line, the Catholics decided that the Anglicans had broken the chain. The rest, as they say, is history.”
“To return to your original metaphor,” Cox was trying to clarify her explanation for his own comprehension, “just as in an Australian tag match, the partner in the ring has to touch his partner on the apron of the ring before the inactive one can take his place . . . so each prospective bishop has to be touched by a valid predecessor in order to be an authentic successor bishop. Right?”
“I think he’s got it . . . by George, he’s got it!”
“I have only one further question: What makes you so smart?”
“There are two kinds of people who go through a complete primary, secondary, and college Catholic education: those who pay attention, and those who don’t. I belong to the former group.”
They had to hurry. Lost in conversation, Cox and Lennon had fallen behind the group who had exited St. Edward’s Chapel and reentered the main section of the abbey.
“Now, ladies and gents, I’ll just call your attention to the high altar here. Isn’t it a beauty! The high altar and that very ornate wooden screen behind it that runs along the whole wall were designed by Sir Gilbert Scott in 1867. The mosaic just above the altar, as you can well see, represents the Last Supper. It is at the high altar that the truly great services take place. The ecumenical service tonight, in fact, will take place right here. And that large golden cross you see over there on the left is the very processional cross that will be used in tonight’s service.
“And now, ladies and gents, we’ll just go on through the north transept here. And I’ll just point out a few things to you as we continue on out through the north entrance and board our coach for the final leg of our tour.”
As the group began moving out, Toussaint noticed that Koesler had remained behind just outside the sanctuary directly in front of the high altar. He was standing stock-still, looking intently at the floor.
Toussaint crossed to him. “What is it, my friend?”
“Ramon, I know we weren’t supposed to be looking for anything in particular, but I think I found something anyway.”
Toussaint followed Koesler’s gaze to a spot on the floor. There, almost blending in with the Persian carpet, were two images of black fists, side by side.
The two stood motionless for a moment.
“My friend,” said Toussaint, “I believe you have stumbled upon the very spot where the assault is planned to take place. Congratulations.”
“We have to get word of this to Inspector Koznicki!” It was Koesler’s first thought.
“Yes. But we cannot alarm or alert any of the others, especially those two reporters. It will be important that the police alone know about this.” He thought for a moment. “You go now and inform the Inspector about what you have discovered. I will continue on with the group and conclude the tour. If anyone asks about you, I will make some excuse for your absence. Now go, my friend.”
Koesler hurried for the west entrance while Toussaint caught up with the tour group just as it was exiting the abbey.
As Toussaint boarded the bus he seemed lost in thought. Gradually, his thoughts were transformed into prayers; prayers of gratitude for the success they had so far enjoyed in protecting Cardinal Boyle, and prayers of petition for continued success.
4.
“Now, ladies and gents, here we are at our last stop today, the very famous and, if I may say so, infamous, Madame Tussaud’s Wax Museum.
“Be careful now, each of you, to take one of these passes as you leave the coach. With the pass, you won’t be needin’ to buy a ticket at the door.
“Now, ladies and gents, the exhibition takes up four floors of the museum. On the ground floor is the Battle of Trafalgar. On the first floor, you’ll find the Grand Hall containin’ kings and queens as well as the present royal family. On the upper floor will be the tableaux, the conservatory, and some of yer popular heroes. And, ladies and gents, below ground, and appropriately enough, I might add, is the Chamber of Horrors.
“We’ve only an hour, so step lively now. The next time I see you folks I won’t be able to recognize you ‘cause your hair’ll be standin’ on end after goin’ through the Chamber of Horrors.”
An appreciative titter from the group.
To Toussaint, the building resembled an old theater slightly gone to seed. There was no one waiting to enter. This must be a slow time at Madame Tussaud’s, he thought.
As he entered the museum, Toussaint became conscious that, even though he was a member of a tour group, he was quite alone; now that Koesler was no longer with him, he was with no one. The only person with whom he might have conversed was Irene Casey. And she was busy talking with Joan Blackford Hayes. Just as well, he concluded; his mind was busy with what they had just found in Westminster Abbey.
Thus distracted, Toussaint found himself staring at a pale, unblinking head. It was the wax image of Admiral Nelson as he lay dying aboard his ship at the climax of the Battle of Trafalgar. Toussaint read the description posted nearby. It stated that Nelson had signaled the beginning of that mighty sea battle by announcing, “England expects that every man will do his duty.” And as he lay dying, he uttered the immortal words, “Thank God I have done my duty.”
A smile crossed Toussaint’s face as he contrasted the related statement of the late General George Patton: “Don’t be a fool and die for your country. Let the other sonofabitch die for his.”
Time certainly seemed to change the philosophy of war; Toussaint agreed wholeheartedly with Patton.
He climbed one flight and found himself among the kings and queens of history. Henry VIII and his wives! The last one, Catherine Parr—the only one of his wives with any luck at all—had been lucky enough to outlive Henry. Toussaint moved on and found himself passing American presidents, French, Russian, and Chinese leaders. Even a lifesize figure of Pope Leo XIV. Very realistically, the Pope looked tired. So tired he appeared ready to fall down and die.
Toussaint continued to stroll by the exhibits, but his final thought about the Pope triggered musings over the recent assaults against probable papal candidates. What a wild, rash plot! But a plot that had already produced two murders and one attempted murder. And, in all likelihood, another attempt at murder this evening.
Even with all their preparations, the police would have to be on their toes tonight. They simply couldn’t disrupt a public religious service by detaining and interrogating each seemingly suspicious-looking person who entered the abbey. Besides, if they were to be totally and ultimately successful, it would be counterproductive to frighten away the perpetrators or alert them to the fact that they were walking into a trap.
No; tonight’s operation must appear to be an ordinary ecumenical service. And this would immediately put the police at a disadvantage. It takes only a second for an assassin to strike. The police had only a fraction of a second to counterattack.
The police would need a lot of luck this evening.
No, not just luck; God’s providential care.
Without quite being conscious of it, Toussaint had climbed another flight. He was now on the top floor amid the tableaux, the conservatory, and the heroes. Apparently, even with all his distractions, he was making better time than the others. He could, faintly, hear some of their voices from the floor below, but none of them was in sight.
In front of him was a mean-looking little wax man holding a sword and standing near a barrel of what appeared to be a keg of gunpowder. Toussaint checked the descriptive note. His guess was correct: it was Guy Fawkes, one of the leaders of the unsuccessful plot by a group of Catholics to blow up the Houses of Parliament.
How history might have been altered had Fawkes and his coconspirators succeeded, Toussaint thought. Then again, how history, in all probability, had already been altered by this weird plot of the Rastafarians. What if the aged and fragile Leo XIV were to die now? Two very promising candidates for the office had already been murdered. What would the Papacy have be
en under the reign of Cardinal Claret? Or Cardinal Gattari? The world would never know.
Toussaint strolled through the conservatory. The figures were so lifelike. Alfred Hitchcock, Agatha Christie, Jean Paul Getty; Telly Savalas in sunglasses, holding a cherry sucker in his role as Kojak; Larry Hagman in ten-gallon hat as JR in Dallas.
Now he was among the heroes. As he walked among the wax figures, Toussaint reflected that the choosing of a hero depended a great deal on who was doing the selecting. He, for one, would never have looked upon tennis player John McEnroe as a hero. More a very spoiled but very wealthy brat.
Toussaint was quite sure—and his hunch was confirmed— that he would not find the Rastafarians’ hero-god here. There was, however, one black man: Muhammad Ali. Strange that with all the achievements of blacks—Paul Robeson, Jackie Robinson, George Washington Carver, Ralph Bunche, Martin Luther King, Jr.—the only black hero was a prizefighter. Well, Ali had claimed to be the greatest. Perhaps he was right.
He had seen it all now except what many considered Madame Tussaud’s piece de resistance, the Chamber of Horrors. Appropriately, this was in the basement.
As Toussaint descended the stairs, he was unaware of the man who furtively removed a sign blocking the ground floor entrance to the chamber stairway. Nor, after Toussaint disappeared into the basement, did he see the man replace the sign in front of the stairway.
The sign read: Temporarily Closed.
The Chamber of Horrors was, quite deliberately, very dimly lit—one of those places wherein it requires several minutes for one’s eyes to adjust to the near-darkness. Toussaint stood motionless at the landing until he could see more clearly. He was then able to discern the general design of the chamber.
It was laid out in a serpentine manner occasionally opening into larger compartments. Many of the exhibits had been set in large alcoves in the walls, the twisting nature of which tended to shield the displays, thus intensifying the viewer’s shock.
He was greeted by the wax image of five human heads that had been severed by the guillotine during the French Revolution: Louis XVI, Marie Antoinette, Hebert, Carrier, and Fouquier-Tinville.
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