The heads were spattered with varying amounts of blood. Toussaint recalled the custom of the executioner’s holding up a freshly severed head and exhibiting it to the crowd. There was no questioning this exhibit’s stark realism.
Toussaint moved along the corridor. There was the infamous Marat, murdered in his bath in 1793. And John Christie, his shirtsleeves rolled up as he busied himself in the kitchen of the house wherein he had concealed the bodies of his wife and five other women he had murdered. And there was Dr. Crippen in the dock with his paramour beside him. He had murdered his wife and attempted to flee England with his mistress disguised as a boy.
As he continued down the corridor, Toussaint heard noises intended to evoke a London street of the previous century. There was the sound of a horse-drawn carriage and the muffled speech of passersby. This was punctuated by the muted echo of a woman’s scream. There was even a bit of fog. Toussaint peered into the exhibit. It was one of Jack the Ripper’s disemboweled victims. Gruesomely graphic. He wondered if such depictions might not be nightmarish for impressionable children as well as for normally squeamish adults.
The thought of children and adults made him aware that he had seen no other living person in the Chamber of Horrors since he had entered. True, he had not encountered that many people on any of the floors above. But there had been some. And the chamber was supposed to be the most popular section in the museum. He thought it odd, but no more than odd, that he had encountered no one else down here. He shrugged; he would undoubtedly find someone else at the turn of one of these bends.
He recalled the story of the next exhibit clearly. It conjured up the interesting case of one George Joseph Smith. In 1915, Smith was arrested on a “holding charge” of suspected insurance fraud. The police strongly suspected he had murdered his wife, whose insurance he was trying to collect. One Inspector Neil was convinced that Smith, under three different aliases, had murdered three of his wives for their insurance.
Each woman had died in the same manner: by drowning in her bath. And in each case there were no marks of violence. Local doctors had listed the cause of death in each case as heart failure—in one case possibly due to epilepsy. One curious circumstance—again common to all—was that each was found lying with her head under the water at the sloping end of the tub with her legs sticking out the other end.
A pathologist later testified that an epileptic attack causes the body to first contract and then stretch out—which would have pushed the head out of the water. An ordinary faint would have allowed water to enter the mouth and nose and would have had a reviving effect. If the women had fallen forward and drowned, their bodies would have been found face downward, the pathologist concluded.
This same pathologist reexamined the bodies after evidence proved they were all connected to Smith. Still he could find no sign of foul play.
Neil solved the mystery. He experimented with a policewoman volunteer. After she got into a tub identical to those used by Smith, the inspector tried to force her under. Water splashed everywhere and, as she fought him off, it was obvious that if he were to be successful, her body would most certainly show signs of violence . . . which had not been the case with any of the wife-corpses.
Suddenly, he grabbed her feet and yanked upward. As her head went under water, she became unconscious almost immediately. Not until after half an hour’s resuscitation efforts was she able to tell the inspector that the water unexpectedly rushing up her nose had rendered her unconscious.
Smith was hanged.
And now, here was Smith, in waxen form, firmly clutching the ankles of his naked wife as her head disappeared beneath the water, a shocked and horrified expression on her face.
He heard a sound. It wasn’t much of a sound. But it was the first foreign sound, the first sound not suited to any of the exhibits. A clicking sound—like that made when a door is locked.
Toussaint was vividly aware of his solitude. He was alone—or worse, perhaps not alone. But he was isolated; no other tourist was down here, of that he was certain. And that was no longer merely odd, it was ominous.
Perspiration drew his shirt tightly to his back. He took out a clean white handkerchief and touched it to his brow. He sought to moisten his lips, but his mouth was very dry. Seldom had he felt so vulnerable, so impotent. He tried to see around the next bend but, seemingly, the already dim lights had been further turned down. He strained to see a mere few feet ahead of him.
One more step took him into a small, squarish room that seemed to contain five exhibits, though he could see none clearly.
He stepped closer to the nearest exhibit. It showed a man about to be guillotined. He was surrounded by guards. His arms were bound behind his body. His neck was on the block, his head turned slightly sideways. The blade was poised to fall. There was no mistaking it: The victim’s face was that of Toussaint.
A chill knifed through him. Quickly he moved to the next exhibit. Here several men stood atop a gallows. Two guards stood at either arm of the condemned. A priest stood off to one side. The hangman was fitting a noose over the head of . . . Toussaint.
His breathing as well as his heartbeat had become rapid.
He moved to the next exhibit. A dingy Spanish prison cell. A man tied to a stake. An executioner was garroting . . . Toussaint.
To the next. An electric chair. Strapped into the chair was . . . Toussaint.
The final exhibit. A man strapped in a straight-back wooden chair. Pinned to the man’s shirt was a target, the bull’s-eye directly over his heart. The sound of rifles being cocked, fired. The figure in the chair appeared to slump in death. The figure was . . . Toussaint.
He turned and ran back through the narrow and now all-but-lightless corridor. He reached the entrance, but it was closed—locked. He rattled the door several times. He was about to call for help when he heard a voice behind him.
“Don’t turn!” the voice ordered in an amused but mirthless tone. “We go.”
Toussaint felt something hard and round pressed into the small of his back. It had to be a gun barrel. He felt the panic of a man trapped and, perhaps, doomed.
Before leaving the Chamber of Horrors, the gunman’s companion affixed an image of a black hand to the floor just inside the exit door.
5.
It was so senseless. That’s what bothered him most.
Long ago, Boyle had come to grips with the inevitability of his own death. But he found himself thinking about it again as he vested with deliberation for the ecumenical prayer service in Westminster Abbey.
It was, as a friend had once observed, that everybody wanted to go to heaven but no one wanted to die. Boyle certainly was not eager to die but, at the same time, he did not inordinately fear death.
And, indeed, he was no stranger to the danger of death. As another of his friends had once remarked, if you stick your head up out of a crowd, someone is likely to want to use it as a golf ball.
Well, when the cause demanded it, he had been unafraid to stick his head up and take a public position on any number of controversial issues. And there had been no dearth of antagonists who had taken at least figurative swings at him. He had been picketed, jeered at, and even, as far as his annual arch-diocesan collection was concerned, boycotted.
There was always the possibility that some of his adversaries might escalate their verbal or economic assaults into physical attack. And he was on public exhibition so often. If it was not services at the cathedral, it was innumerable services at the various parishes; confirmation ceremonies, chairing or attending public meetings . . . or just his frequent walks up and down Washington Boulevard. Anyone who wanted to attack him physically did not lack for opportunity. Indeed, there were countless opportunities.
From time to time, he would become conscious of this possibility at some public function, especially when, as not infrequently happened, tempers became intemperate.
But, usually, in such a situation, he would console himself with the conviction that should he
have to suffer some physical abuse, even death, at least it would very probably be for a cause in which he believed.
Such was not the case now. Since being named a Cardinal, he had been attacked twice. The first time, as Inspector Koznicki had assured him, it was only a deranged man intent solely on gaining notoriety; the second time, as part of a bizarre plot to eliminate the more prominent papabili. In either instance, Boyle would have considered his death a waste.
And that was the reason he had consented to participate—no, insisted on participating—in tonight’s service. All the principal participants, including Cardinal Whealan and the Most Reverend and Right Honorable Arthur Bell, Archbishop of Canterbury—who was not considered to be in any danger—had been frankly warned, then thoroughly briefed by the authorities at Scotland Yard. All agreed the ceremony should go on.
As far as Cardinal Boyle was concerned, he wanted only to get it over with. He agreed entirely with Inspector Koznicki’s assessment of the situation. The police could and would smoke out the conspirators, this splinter branch of the Rastafarians. But the task would get done far more quickly if the perpetrators were caught in the act than if they were run to earth only after a long, drawn-out investigation.
Why, only a few minutes ago, Inspector Koznicki had informed Boyle that the Italian police had apprehended what they believed to be the entire group of Rome Rastafarians suspected of involvement in this conspiracy. And the Toronto police had had similar success.
Even though Boyle and Whealan would be given the maximum possible security during the service, there was always the possibility that even the maximum might prove insufficient. Boyle was trying to get his thoughts in order for that possibility. He was preparing his mind and soul for death. His body, in an excellent state of health, all things considered, was not prepared for death.
But it was so senseless. That’s what bothered him most.
“How do you get into one of these? Any idea?” Assistant Commissioner Henry Beauchamp asked as he struggled with a long, white alb.
“I would try to advise you, but first I must find one that fits.” Inspector Koznicki was searching through the press for a vestment large enough for him. In trying several, he had ripped the stitching of a couple while trying to pull them over his head and shoulders.
“‘ere, ‘enry,” said Detective Chief Superintendent Charles Somerset, who had slid into his alb easily, one might even say professionally, “you pull it over yer ‘ead. Did you never see yer wife pull over ‘er bloomin’ petticoat?”
“Oh, that’s the way, then.” Enlightened by Somerset’s metaphor, Beauchamp managed to tug the vestment over his head and slide it down till it fell just short of his shoe tops. “I wonder how those unmarried, celibate chaps learn how to do it?”
“That’s why they got their seminaries, ‘enry. So they can learn important things like this.”
“Oh, that’s why, then,” Beauchamp replied. “There must be better ways to learn, wouldn’t you think, Charlie?”
“Oh, I quite agree, ‘enry. And I allow as how we’ve found all of the better ways.”
Koznicki finally found an alb that fit. He wondered which gorilla it might have been made for.
“Should not the Reverend Toussaint be here by now?” Koznicki asked Father Koesler, whose familiarity with the vestments had helped him finish vesting several minutes earlier.
“He certainly should. We were supposed to meet in the chapter house at 7:30, and here it is ten to eight. It’s not like Ramon to be late.”
“You say the last place he was seen was at Madame Tussaud’s?” Koznicki slipped the alb on and fastened it tightly at the neck. Only the top portion of his white shirt collar showed.
“Yes; Irene Casey saw him enter the musuem, but she lost track of him inside. And when it was time to leave, he wasn’t on the bus, and the guide couldn’t locate him.”
Koznicki shook his head. “He may join us during the ceremony. I have instructed the sacristan to keep an eye out for him. If and when he arrives he will be shown to his place in the sanctuary.”
Koesler noticed the two British detectives bunching up their albs under the cincture to cover the pistols attached to their belts. For the first time, he became conscious of the fact that Inspector Koznicki was not carrying a gun.
Any number of times in Detroit, Koesler had seen his friend in shirtsleeves with his revolver in a shoulder holster. Now that the priest became conscious of it, he wondered that he had not sooner been aware that Koznicki had been without a gun during this trip.
“Inspector,” said Koesler, “what happened to your gun? I don’t think I’ve seen you wearing it on this trip.”
Koznicki smiled. “It is against the law. Father.”
“But you are the law.”
“Not here. It is against the law in both England and Ireland for anyone but a very few authorized police officers of these countries to carry firearms, except as they are issued in extreme situations.”
“Even you?”
“Even I.”
“Doesn’t it make you feel . . . different? I mean, back in Detroit you wear your gun, well, practically . . .”
“. . . in the shower. Yes, it does feel odd, when one is accustomed to the weight and cumbersomeness and significance of a weapon almost constantly, to be without it. But, after a while, one gets used to it. I, in fact, enjoy being without it.”
“You do?”
“Yes. This is the way life should be. Many law enforcement people in the States wish our laws regarding firearms were the same as those in England and Ireland. It is only because almost anyone in the States is entitled to carry guns—and those who are not so entitled can secure them easily—that the police are armed. Life would be much better without firearms. One does not have to be a police officer very long before learning that many maimed people would be uninjured and many dead people would be alive if there were no guns available.”
“That was always my feeling. But I didn’t think gun control was that popular with the police.”
“Oh, yes, indeed, Father. We are often called to the scene of disputes and violence of one sort or another. And all too often, one or more persons in those situations are armed. When the police arrive, those arms are turned on us. Or, at least, the probability of that happening is very high.
“So, I find it most pleasant to be unarmed for a couple of weeks. Although I must admit, in our present circumstances, dealing with probable assailants who are most likely armed, I do feel a bit underdressed.”
The signal was given for the procession to begin. Koznicki took the ceremonial cross, while Beauchamp and Somerset carried the large candlesticks.
All in all, thought Koesler, they did not look unlike adult acolytes at an important ecclesiastical event such as the one about to begin.
Before they began the processional, Koznicki turned to Koesler and murmured, “Don’t worry about the Reverend Toussaint. If there is one thing he has demonstrated, it is that he can take care of himself.”
Koesler found the thought reassuring as well as time-proven. Yes, Ramon could take care of himself.
Besides, he had a good forty-five minutes to an hour before the open reception in the abbey. And that was the critical part of this service—when all present could approach the Cardinals and the Archbishop for their blessings.
As the procession reached the Poets’ Corner in the south transept on its way to the high altar, the organ, which had been playing softly, boomed out the first majestic chords of “God of Our Fathers.”
“Let’s see if I’ve got it right,” said Joe Cox. “The guys in the red and black are the authentic tag team members. But the guy in the silver robes is a fake.”
“That’s a little strong,” Pat Lennon replied. “But, yes, that’s about the way the Catholics look at it.”
“Silly game.”
“You’re right.”
Cox and Lennon had tickets to this service. And they had been pleased to discover that their tickets a
dmitted them to excellent seats near the high altar.
Cox had concluded, correctly, that their good position in the abbey was the result of default. No royalty would be present.
Behind them, in front of the altar, as well as down the north and south aisles and in the rear of the nave were the great unwashed—those without tickets who had crowded into the abbey out of curiosity, devotion, general interest, or, perhaps, to commit murder.
“God of our fathers,” the congregation sang lustily, “Whose almighty hand,/Leads forth in beauty all the starry band,/Of shining worlds in splendor thro’ the skies,/Our grateful songs before Thy throne arise.”
“One thing we must all admit about our ‘separated brethren,’” said Irene Casey, “they do sing their hymns with vigor.”
“And well, too,” said Joan Blackford Hayes.
“Hey,” said Irene, turning toward her companion, “is that supposed to be a reflection on my singing?”
If it were, it could come as no surprise to Irene. All felt free to remind her she sang terribly.
“Well, if the shoe fits . . .”Joan allowed her mixed metaphor to trail off.
“I like that! May I remind you that it was no less than St. Augustine who said, ‘Who sings, prays twice.’” Irene could not hide her smile.
“That’s, ‘Who sings well, prays twice.’”
“Refresh Thy people on their toilsome way . . .” The congregation was on the final verse, singing with even more gusto than before. “Lead us from night to never-ending day;/Fill all our lives with love and grace divine,/And glory, laud, and praise be ever Thine.”
The Most Reverend Arthur Bell, Archbishop of Canterbury, approached the standing microphone. Henry Beauchamp, in the role of acolyte, exactly as he had rehearsed it earlier in the day, held an open copy of The Book of Common Prayer before the Archbishop.
“O Almighty God,” the Archbishop read, hands upraised in a prayerful gesture, “who pourest out on all who desire it, the spirit of grace and of supplication; Deliver us, when we draw nigh to thee, from coldness of heart and wanderings of mind . . .”
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