Murder at the National Cathedral (2 page)

Singletary read the verse beginning “Love is patient; love is kind” from I Corinthians, and the four boys got through “Wilderness” rather quickly; the usual tempo seemed to have been accelerated by a third. Mac Smith approved. He was also impressed, as was everyone else in the chapel, with the strong, bell-like voice of one of the boy sopranos, whose tones rang out above the others.

Soon, it was time to exchange rings. Annabel had virtually no family. She had friends, of course, but her hectic schedule as an attorney-turned-art-gallery-owner and almost constant companion to Mac Smith had severely limited time to cultivate and nurture friendships. She was being given “away” as a wife by his mother, Josephine Smith, as spry and sparkling as a split of champagne, a tiny woman who lived in the Sevier Home for the Aged in Georgetown, a facility operated by the Episcopal church, and who often said that she considered Annabel as much a daughter as she did Mac a son, and sometimes more. Smith’s best man was the new dean of GW’s law school, Daniel Jaffe. Josephine Smith and Jaffe handed the rings to their respective charges.

Mac and Annabel Smith slipped the gold bands on their ring fingers, and Singletary blessed them, concluding with the familiar “Those whom God has joined together let no one put asunder.”

“Amen,” said their friends.

As Mac and Annabel knelt (It’s always the knees that go first, Smith thought), Singletary intoned the final blessing of their union. They stood. They kissed. Eyes met eyes.

“The peace of the Lord be always with you,” said the priest.

“And also with you,” came the reply.

After the ceremony everyone went outside, where friends took quick point-and-shoot photographs, delivered quick point-and-kiss greetings to Annabel, and grasped the
groom’s hand, with an occasional teary kiss for him, too. Properly, they congratulated Mac, who said in mock modesty, “It was nothing,” and added, “just a four-year chase.”

“Going on a honeymoon?” one of Smith’s colleagues at the university asked him.

“London, but not right away. Somehow it seems you don’t take an instant honeymoon at this stage in your life.”

Another professor laughed. “You two have been on a honeymoon for years.”

“I suppose we have,” Smith said, not precisely caring for the innuendo in the comment.

Tony Buffolino came up and extended his hand. He was accompanied by his third wife, Alicia, a waitress he’d met at the Top of the Mark in San Francisco, where he, Smith, and Annabel had gathered while solving one phase in the murder of a presidential aide at the Kennedy Center. Afterward, Smith had got Buffolino a job as a security guard at the university. But Alicia came along with grander ideas. They now owned what Buffolino fondly referred to as the only Vegas-type cabaret in Washington, minus slot machines, of course.

“You did good, Mac,” Buffolino said, in his best congratulatory style. Alicia kissed them on their cheeks. “Such a beautiful couple,” she said.

“Frankly, I’m glad it’s over,” Smith said. He looked at Annabel. “You?”

“Frankly, I’m glad we’ve begun. Besides, I love weddings,” Annabel said. “Maybe we could do this every couple of months. Don’t forget, Mac, I’ve never been a bride before.”

Father Singletary joined them. It was said that many women in the parish were in love with him. He was a tall, fine-looking man with a shrewd gentleness to his eyes and a wide, smiling mouth that women naturally responded to, a man self-assured without much—though with just a touch of—vanity. Singletary seemed, as Ralph Waldo Emerson
had written, created of “God’s handwriting.” He took Smith’s and Annabel’s hands and grinned. “I was certain somebody would protest this marriage,” he said.

“Who would protest it?” Smith asked.

“Me. I’ve been mad about this woman ever since I met her.” Singletary smiled down at Annabel. “I suppose the fact that you’ve chosen a lawyer rather than a man of God says something about you.”

“In God we trust, all others pay cash,” Annabel said.

“If this distinguished legal beagle doesn’t work out, Annabel, call me,” the priest said.

“Don’t wait by the phone, Paul,” said Annabel, laughing. “And thank you for making us one.”

“My pleasure. Well, excuse me. I have a funeral to prepare for. The cycle of life.”

“Birth and death,” Tony Buffolino said, pleased that he was able to contribute to the conversation. He always felt awkward around clergymen.

“Yes,” said Singletary. “And marriage and …”

“Divorce?” said Smith.

“Fortunately, the church doesn’t have a ceremony for divorce,” Reverend Singletary said. “Maybe someday. Or the rite of blessed separation.” He laughed.

“Not for us, thank you,” Annabel put in.

“Better not be,” said Singletary. “If you do, find another priest.”

“No divorce,” Smith said. “No separations. Just ordinary, routine bliss.” He hugged his wife.

“All best,” Singletary said. “I’m off to do the funeral. Then London tonight. I have to go there often.”

As the man who had married them walked away, Smith’s thoughts returned to where they’d been at the beginning of the ceremony. Odd. He looked up at the graceful portal above the flight of broad steps leading to the cathedral’s south entrance. The carved, dominant figure of Christ stood
with His disciples at the Last Supper. Death? Resurrection? Fact or fiction? No matter, not if one believed—or didn’t.

A black cloud crossed the sun.

Mac was glad they’d eschewed any suggestions of a party following the ceremony. He wanted them to be, as the song says, alone together.

“Come on, Mrs. Smith,” he said, “let’s go home.”

Lambeth Palace, London— Two Months Later. A Windy, Cold, and Wet October Tuesday. “Decent Day,” the Locals Said.

The Reverend Canon Paul Singletary looked up at the library’s hammerbeam ceiling, then to a faded, coarse beige-and-red tapestry that covered much of one wall. On the tapestry was the inwoven cross of the archbishop of Canterbury—
primus inter pares
, first among equals—whose seat of power as head of the worldwide Anglican Communion was the medieval Lambeth Palace, to which Singletary had come this late October afternoon.

A window on the west wall afforded a view across the Thames to Westminster and its Abbey, and to the Houses of Parliament. A twelfth-century primate had bought the land on which Lambeth Palace sat in order to be close—but not too close, God forbid—to the Crown.

Towering fuscous cumulonimbus clouds over Westminster
unleashed a brief, brilliant shaft of white lightning as the door to the library opened and the Reverend Canon Malcolm Apt entered. Nice timing, Singletary thought. He sat in the chair and scrutinized Apt as he approached, not because he didn’t know him, but because he always found Apt’s face to be interesting. It was as though Apt’s features had been pasted on the flat plane of his face slightly off-center, which created the effect of eyes, nose, and mouth out of alignment, pointing in a slightly different direction than the face itself. He wore a white surplice over a purple cassock; the cassock reached the floor. Apt was a short block of a man whose salt-and-pepper hair was the consistency of wire; he’d lost few wires in his fifty years.

Singletary stood without energy. “I didn’t expect to be kept waiting this long,” he said.

Apt ignored the comment and the tone in which it was delivered. “Come,” he said, “we’ll talk in the archbishop’s study.” He led Singletary along the Great Corridor, where portraits of all the archbishops from Victorian times hung, then into a large, comfortably furnished room. Apt went to the windows, looked out over the river as though to assure himself it was still there, and drew on a cord that caused heavy drapes to slide closed with a soft whoosh.

“Well?” Singletary said.

“He won’t be able to see you, I’m afraid.”

“Are you serious?”

“Some people think I’m too serious.”

Singletary looked at his watch; it was seven o’clock. Seven peals of a church bell confirmed it. “I’ve wasted my time then.”

“If you choose to view it that way, Paul,” Apt said. “Sit down. The archbishop asked me to discuss certain aspects of this with you.”

Singletary was not interested in discussing anything with Malcolm Apt. He’d wanted to see the archbishop of Canterbury
himself. Apt was the archbishop’s suffragan bishop, or VP in charge of … well, public relations. At least that’s what his title would be in the secular, business world. His official title was director of church information.

Apt sat behind a highly polished cherrywood table. Singletary sat across from him. Although dusk was starting to fall outside, the open drapes had permitted some light to enter. With them closed, the efficacy of the study’s interior lighting seemed to have been diminished by half.

“Paul, the archbishop is growing increasingly concerned about this Word of Peace thing.”

Singletary laughed crisply enough to make his point, but not enough to indicate disrespect to the archbishop of Canterbury. Apt continued, and Singletary knew that he was speaking words that had been carefully considered, perhaps even written prior to his arrival at the library. “You must understand that when the archbishop gave his support to Word of Peace, not a great deal was known about it. Frankly, I tried my best to dissuade him from involving us in it.” Apt smiled—not much of a smile, but because it tended to stretch his mouth slightly, it enhanced the feeling that the paste-up job had been hasty. “I must admit that you were very effective when you presented the Word of Peace program to the archbishop. How long ago was that, Paul, a year?”

Singletary shrugged.

“Of course, there was the weight of the others with you, especially the African bishop. What’s his name?” Apt asked it with seeming sincerity, but Singletary knew that Apt was well aware of the African bishop’s name. He’d seen Apt do this before, degrade someone by pretending to have forgotten the name.

“Bishop Eastland.”

“Ah, yes, Bishop Eastland. Certainly one of our high-visibility
bishops. Nasty mess, that apartheid. We’ll all be happy when that’s resolved. How is Bishop Eastland?”

“Fine, and still fighting apartheid, according to what I read in the press.”

“A most impressive man. As I was saying, the archbishop’s enthusiasm for Word of Peace has waned, although he has not withdrawn his support. Has your Bishop St. James’s enthusiasm back in Washington been sustained, or has it waned, too?”

“Heightened might be a more accurate way to describe it,” Singletary said flatly.

Apt sat back and clasped his hands on his belly. “Heightened. Interesting.”

“Malcolm, you said the archbishop wanted you to discuss something with me about Word of Peace. Is this it, that his enthusiasm has waned?”

“In a sense, yes, although there is more behind it. He is, of course, not only charged with the administration of the church; he is equally responsible for how we are viewed by others. That is also my particular responsibility, one I take very seriously. You will admit that some of those who have become involved with Word of Peace seem self-seeking, or political, and many are controversial at best, including yourself.”

Singletary laughed again; this time it was more genuine, and with less concern for the archbishop. “Controversial? We pray each night to a highly controversial figure.”

“Prayers are our leveling factor, Paul. What we do between prayers is another matter.”

“You mean, of course, to what extent we become involved in …” He thought before finishing. “To what extent we become involved in things not very
churchy.
”

“I’d rather not be told what I mean, Paul, although that is your prerogative … and bent.” Apt smiled.

They’d had this conversation before, especially since Singletary
had become a conspicuous leader of the worldwide and nondenominational Word of Peace movement, in which the world’s clergy were to use their collective weight and individual pulpits to spread the word of peace. Apt, and the archbishop of Canterbury, whose religious philosophy Apt shared (genuinely or because it was good for tenure? Singletary often wondered) were advocates of the Anglo-Catholic division of the church—the “Oxford movement”—archconservative (he was not called “
arch
bishop” for nothing, Singletary thought in a whimsical moment), rigid, authoritarian, puritanical, and intolerant of the more liberal wing that did not, in Anglo-Catholic eyes, adhere strictly enough to
Catholic
doctrine, of all things. They were
for
peace, to be sure, but not for disturbing it.

Singletary, on the other hand, was very much part of what was called the Broad Church (in political jargon, the Episcopal “liberal party”). There was also the so-called Evangelical movement, claiming to represent a middle ground of philosophy but firmly sin-based, Luther- and Calvin-influenced, and without much respect from either the conservative or the liberal wing of the church.

Word of Peace was a distinctly liberal movement, aggressively intermixed with Singletary’s widely publicized work with drug addicts, runaway teens, the homeless, and a score of other social causes back in D.C. And nationally. Truth was, it was not those social causes but politics that prompted criticism of the Word of Peace movement. The movement stood for boycotting South Africa until it rid itself of apartheid, and for getting out of Ollie North’s Central America and dissociating from its so-called freedom fighters. The olive branch in place of the B-1. Politics!

Singletary looked at his watch again. He said, “You know, Malcolm, you and I are both canons because we serve bishops and cathedrals. I will give you that your boss holds higher rank, but mine, George St. James, is not exactly, as
some of my friends would say, ‘chopped liver.’ I would also remind you that in both Luke and Matthew Our Lord calls for the church to feed the hungry, clothe the naked, heal the sick, be the harbinger of comfort and caring and hope.”

“I am familiar with Matthew and Luke.”

“Wasn’t it from the gate I entered this afternoon that the Lambeth dole was practiced?” Singletary frowned as he pulled from his memory the words “ ‘Every Friday and Sunday, unto every beggar that came to the door, a loaf of bread of a farthing price.’ ”