Murder at the National Cathedral by Margaret Truman Read Free Book Online Page A

revelation. “He wasn’t due back in Washington until today.”
    “Looks like he cut his stay short. George, you do know that we must advise the authorities and do it now.”
    “Can’t we wait a few hours, at least until the Vickery funeral is over?”
    “Why do that? What would that accomplish?”
    St. James let out an exasperated sigh and turned away, took a few steps, then turned again. “I don’t know, Mac,” he said, “it just seems to me that a few hours wouldn’t matter. A funeral is about to be held here of a man who has been important to this cathedral. Does it have to be interrupted by police sirens and television crews?”
    Smith jammed his hands in his pockets and looked at the ground before saying, “One, there is always disruption when someone is murdered, whether it’s in this cathedral or elsewhere. Two, it is illegal to withhold from the police the fact that a murder has been committed. Three, to postponenotification not only puts you and the cathedral in a bad light, it could have an adverse influence on the eventual investigation. No, George, the time to tell them is now.”
    St. James’s mind seemed to wander into a less tangible realm. He spoke not to Smith but to an unseen person: “ ‘Puts the cathedral in a bad light.’ That’s what I want so desperately to avoid.”
    Smith said brusquely, “The light is going to shine here whether you want it to or not, George, and it’s going to be a lot hotter if you don’t do the right thing and do it now.”
    Smith’s hard words snapped the bishop back to the garden. He nodded. “Yes, of course you’re right, Mac. That’s why I called you. I knew you would know the right thing to do, and would see to it that I did it. Is it possible … well, I also wondered: would
you
call the police and ask them if they could be as discreet as possible while the funeral is going on?”
    St. James’s concern for the funeral irritated Smith, but he didn’t vent it. He simply said, “Yes, I’ll call them now.”
    Smith followed the bishop across the gardens, through the Norman Arch and into the cathedral and the hallway outside the door of the Good Shepherd Chapel. A large armoire had been pushed against it. A scribbled sign hung from it: CLOSED FOR REPAIRS . Smith stifled a wry smile. What could possibly have been running through the bishop’s head to go to this trouble? Confusion, obviously, and some well-meaning fear—more likely
hope
—that the reality of it could be postponed indefinitely. But sealing off the chapel would help the investigation.
    “He’s in there, exactly as you found him?” Smith asked, his eyes fixed upon the armoire.
    “Yes. Maybe you should take a look before you make your call, Mac.”
    Mac silently debated it, then decided to do it quickly. “You said the woman screamed. Didn’t anyone else hear her?”
    “Yes, a parishioner looking for a bathroom, but I said someone had fallen, twisted her ankle.”
    “And with security people within earshot, no reaction?”
    “Not that I know of. They were all outside, at some distance. Sound sometimes travels here; sometimes it’s, well, buried.”
    Smith looked left and right, pushed the armoire, and slid it far enough so that he could squeeze through into the tiny chapel. St. James stayed outside as Smith took the few steps to the pink granite altar. A window was open; Smith looked out onto the garth and its flowing fountain before turning and looking down on the body of Paul Singletary. “Jesus,” he muttered, glancing up quickly at the sculpture above the altar of the Good Shepherd holding the baby lamb. Feeling sickened and saddened, Smith forced himself to do what he perceived at that moment to be his duty. He looked once again at Singletary, leaned forward to more closely examine the wound on the side of the slain priest’s head. It hadn’t been a flat object that killed him. The murder weapon obviously had a sharp and heavy edge to it, judging from the way the