Shadow of Death

LONDON

The two friends were seated at a small table just inside the entrance to Beoty’s, a Greek restaurant on St. Martin’s Lane adjacent to the theater district. They were about half an hour early for their 8:00 p.m. dinner date with Inspector Koznicki.

After landing at Heathrow earlier that day, Father Koesler had gone directly to the Hotel Carburton, grateful that the British, unlike the Italians, did not conduct prolonged sightseeing tours of the countryside while the hotel rooms were being prepared. After a most welcome shower—he had been without running water for something more than twenty-four hours—he had napped and now felt refreshed.

Ramon Toussaint, on the other hand, after arriving at the hotel had left immediately to establish his mysterious contacts.

By prearrangement, they had met in the hotel lobby a little after seven and taken a taxi to Beoty’s, Inspector Koznicki’s suggested meeting ground.

“The Catholic Church of the future will be interesting. But I don’t have the slightest clue what it will be like.” Koesler rattled the ice in his bourbon manhattan.

“You mean the priesthood, whatever it will be, will have changed?” Toussaint sipped from his Myers’s dark rum and soda.

“Yes, exactly. There are so very, very few seminarians! Somewhere down the line, it’s got to show. The median age of active priests keeps going up. I just don’t know where it’s going to end!”

“The exodus from the priesthood seems to have decreased. Is that not a hopeful sign?”

“In a way, I suppose. But that decreasing number will be more than made up for by a recent phenomenon that hasn’t drawn sufficient interest so far.”

“Let me guess, Bob. You must be referring to the retired priests.”

“Exactly. When I was ordained in 1954, a retired priest was most rare. And if and when retirement did take place, it was almost always caused by some sort of terminal or at least debilitating illness. Why, the pastor of my first parish had such poor blood circulation that one of his legs had been amputated. Of course, he used to claim that he had one foot in the grave. But what he most feared was that the bishop might put him on the shelf.

“No, the image then, and, as far as I know, for centuries, perhaps right back to the beginning of Christianity, was that the priest went on doing his sacerdotal work as best he could until death. Every older priest I knew, from the time I was ordained, feared most being forced to retire. The ideal was that you were to die in harness—with stole around your neck in midabsolution.

“Nowadays, retirement is taken for granted as much for priests as it is for those in secular jobs. In Detroit, they become ‘senior priest’ and move out to a rest home, or a private home—or, as pastor emeritus, they continue to live in a parish rectory and do what little they wish.

“The contrast is provocative: If, after twenty years of active priesthood, a priest opts for laicization—and possibly marriage— a certain stratum of the fraternity looks down on him; but if, after twenty years of active priesthood, he retires to Florida—with or without his housekeeper—that same stratum considers him a good ole boy.”

“To what do you attribute this phenomenon?”

“I don’t really know. I suppose one of these days the sociologists will get hold of it, spread out the statistics and enlighten us. In the meantime, I don’t blame it on Vatican II, but I think it must be attributable to the Council.

“The after-effects of the Council appeared to change much of what many of us considered to be the heart of the religion we had been preaching and teaching. Some of us grew to understand that these reforms—and many more—were needed, indeed overdue. But others never made the adjustment. Their whole attitude changed and congealed. The green pups, as they saw the younger clergy, had managed to mutate the genuine Church and create an organization without rules and regulations, without all the convenient blacks and whites of the past. Very well, then; let them have it! Some of the older guys decided to mark time until they could fully bequeath this bastard Church to what they considered its progenitors.

“So now, even before clerical retirement, some priests resign the position of pastor—an office many of them spent fifteen or twenty years longingly preparing for. They voluntarily demote themselves to assistant pastors. Why should they take the heat of being in charge? The monetary income remains the same, while the responsibility diminishes.”

“All of the bonus and none of the onus,” Toussaint commented.

“Beg pardon,” the waitress appeared beside the table, “would you like to order another drink?”

Toussaint glanced at Koesler and noted their accord. “No, thank you, miss. We will just wait for our companion, if you please.”

“It’s a good thing she stepped in,” said Koesler, “I was getting carried away on a topic that not enough people are concerned about.”

“Not at all, Bob; please go on.”

“Well, priestly retirement is just a manifestation of our times.

“I know that may be too broad a statement, but consider how assignments—at least in Detroit—are made. In the good old days, whenever the chancery bureaucrats wanted to move a priest from one parish to another, you simply got a letter—not unlike the one the government used to send to military inductees—saying, ‘For the care of souls, I have it in mind to send you to . . .’ and then you’d be told at which parish you would spend the next several years of your life.

“No wonder that back then the Church was considered second in efficiency only to General Motors.

“By contrast, now, parish openings are listed in the priests’ newsletter, and, in effect, parishes advertise for a pastor, an associate, a chaplain, or whatever. There’s no doubt about it: it used to be a buyers’ market and now it’s a sellers’ market.

“But, you see, that is pretty much the way it always was in the secular business world. Employees would apply for the jobs they wanted. And they went where they wanted to. Of course, their employers might transfer them elsewhere, in which case the employees had no choice—other than to quit and try to find another job.

“Actually,” he paused for a moment, “it’s ironic. With the current recession in the U.S., the priestly employee has met and passed the secular employee on the bridge. Now it is a buyers’ market in the business world and their employees are hard put to find an alternate job—while the priest, whose services are very much in demand, can have his pick of clerical jobs.

“But back in the good old days, for us there was no practical recourse, no alternative. Quitting the priesthood was unthinkable.

“It is no longer unthinkable. And, in addition, there is a drastic shortage of priests. So, today’s priest is free to apply or not for the parish or position of his choice. There is precious little pressure. There can’t be; it is, as I said, a sellers’ market.

“And, just as priests now apply for jobs as our secular counterparts do, so priests retire just as our secular counterparts do.

“Whatever, there is no doubt that retirement is a drain on the priesthood that hardly anyone considers. It’s just, ‘Father deserves his well-earned retirement.’ Everyone takes it as a matter of course. But it remains a contemporary phenomenon that very definitely and substantially cuts down the number of active priests that are available.

“So, where do we go from here?”

Toussaint’s fingers drummed the table top. “It would seem that an alert organization in a situation like this would take some drastic steps at recruiting. Otherwise it would be forced to face the very real possibility of self-destruction.”

“Ah, yes, Ramon. But you see, the bishops fall back on Biblical passages such as, ‘You have not called me but I have called you.’ And, ‘Behold, I will be with you unto the consummation of the world.’ So, they tend to look at this as God’s problem. They will pray about it and God will solve it.” Koesler spread his hands, palms up, as if indicating the solution had been miraculously found.

“But,” said Toussaint, “perhaps God’s solution is not theirs. Perhaps God’s solution is that others be called to the ministry. Women. Laicized priests. Married men.”

“Aha! You see, Ramon,” Koesler playfully nudged his friend’s arm, “you thought I was joking when I said you would be the first married Latin rite priest in centuries.”

Toussaint laughed. He was joined in the laughter by Koesler. Then the two became conscious of another presence. They looked up to see Inspector Koznicki, bigger than life, smiling down at them.

“May I join the conclave?”

“Inspector!” Koesler exclaimed, “we were just solving one of the major problems of the Church. On second thought,” he added ruefully, “as a matter of fact, we weren’t solving it, after all.”

“I hope you have some strength left in your fertile minds for the solution of an annoying residual problem of an attempt at murder,” Koznicki said good-naturedly.

“I thought you had that fairly well under control.”

“Thanks to the Reverend Toussaint here, we have a leg up on it, at least. But please: take your glasses and let us go in to our dinner.” The two had been so occupied with their discussion that they had not finished their drinks.

The maître d’ led them to the rear of the relatively small, reasonably illuminated restaurant. Once again, they found themselves in a secluded booth. Koesler wondered how Koznicki could arrange such consistent seclusion in country after country.

“How do you do it, Inspector? How do you find these out-of-the-way places? And how do you get these secluded booths?”

“Experience. Asking advice. This was—would have been,” he glumly corrected himself, “our fourth trip to Europe.”

“I miss Wanda too,” said Koesler, who knew that Mrs. Koznicki, sensing the Inspector’s increasing interest and involvement in this affair, had returned to Detroit in order that her presence would not take time from or interfere with his professional plans.

“Well, in any case,” Koznicki brightened; he was involved in an investigation and that helped fill the void, “we have our own list—of favorite eating places. And this happens to be one of them.”

The waiter appeared. Koznicki ordered a glass of sherry. His companions declined another drink.

“I should tell you the specialties of the house,” said Koznicki, as he opened his menu. “There’s Taramosalata, Arnaki Melitzanes, and Moussaka a Khirokitia.”

“Order what you will, Inspector. Ramon and I have decided to stick as close to all-American food as possible.”

“Then let me suggest the tiropetes as an appetizer—they’re just cheese puffs. Then the soupa avgolemeno; the salata Athenas; as an entree, either the keftedakia—meatballs—or kotopoulo riganato tis skaras—chicken. Perhaps green beans oregano or tomato pilaf for a side dish. And maybe just baklava for dessert.”

“The meatballs and green beans sound good,” said Koesler, “but no tomato pilaf, please—and I’ll pass on the dessert.”

“I’ll have the chicken and the pilaf—but, like Bob, I shall forgo dessert,” said Toussaint.

When the waiter arrived with Koznicki’s sherry, the Inspector ordered for the three and requested a bottle of Marvo Naoussis.

Once the waiter left the table, Toussaint leaned forward. “My sources tell me it is to be tomorrow evening at the ecumenical service in Westminster Abbey. They say both the British Cardinal and Cardinal Boyle are to be the targets. So we can anticipate more than one assailant.”

Koznicki smiled broadly. “Very good! Excellent! That will work out magnificently. We have been able to persuade both Cardinals Boyle and Whealan to remain in seclusion today and tomorrow until the service. And believe me, that was not easy.”

Koesler shook his head. “And all you’re trying to do is save their lives.”

“Well, they are strong-minded men,” Koznicki stated. “After talking with the Cardinals, I spent the rest of the afternoon with two of my friends from Scotland Yard going over a scale model of Westminster Abbey to check security arrangements.”

“Your friends, Inspector . . .?” Toussaint made bold to inquire.

“Assistant Commissioner Henry Beauchamp of the Central Criminal Investigation Department, and his subordinate, Charlie Somerset, Detective Chief Superintendent of the Murder Squad.”

“Is that S-o-m-e-r-s-e-t and B-e-e-c-h-a-m?” Koesler was writing the names on a small piece of paper.

“You have Somerset correct, Father. But the Commissioner’s name is spelled B-e-a-u-c-h-a-m-p.”

Koesler smiled. “He must have a problem like mine with people mispronouncing his surname.”

“I’m afraid the Commissioner does not share your problem, Father. Beauchamp is a rather common name over here. The British are at home with its pronunciation, which is, to our ears at least, how shall I put it . . . compressed. Something akin to the treatment they give to Worcestershire . . . or Cholomondely.” The Inspector gave the names their English due, which, to Koesler’s ear resembled something akin to “Woustershirr” and “Chumley.”

The priest almost blushed. “Uh . . . I thought that perhaps somewhere down the line I might be introduced to them, and I wanted to be familiar with their names.”

“Quite so, Father. I would be most appreciative if both you and the Reverend Toussaint would join me and the London police tomorrow evening.” Koznicki had sought Koesler’s help in previous investigations, especially when a Catholic element was inextricably involved.

Koesler glanced at Toussaint and caught his look of concurrence.

“We’d be eager to be of any help possible, of course, Inspector. Would you like us to . . . uh, rehearse, or something, tomorrow? We were going to catch some of the sights of London. But that certainly can easily be put off—”

“No, no; that will not be necessary, Father. We will want the two of you at hand tomorrow evening, though. There are places reserved for you. We have planned more than adequate police protection. But it is quite possible that your eyes might pick up something ours might miss. Or pick it up more quickly. As, indeed, did occur in St. John’s just last evening.” Koznicki nodded appreciatively at Toussaint. “Meanwhile, do take in the sights of London. There is much to see and you have but one day. Make the most of it, by all means.”

“Then, Inspector, you are satisfied with the security precautions?” Toussaint persevered.

Koznicki hesitated before replying.

“Of course one can never take too many precautions, nor have too much security, Reverend. If I had my preferences, I would prefer that the Cardinals not appear publicly, particularly not together. We will apprehend these conspirators, I am sure of it. In the meantime, it would be helpful if the targeted Cardinals could be persuaded not to expose themselves to danger.”

“Is it not true, though, Inspector,” said Toussaint, “that you might apprehend the conspirators more quickly if the Cardinals do turn out and are accessible to the general public?”

“Oh, much more quickly. But in that path lies the definite possibility, however slight, that the assailants might be successful and that their prospective victims may be injured . . . or worse.”

“I suppose,” Toussaint concluded, “it is a risk that one is either willing or not to take.”

“Quite correct, Reverend. And the Cardinals, in this instance, have decided to take the risk. Which puts us on notice to do our very best to ensure that the assailants are unsuccessful.”

Koesler looked from one to the other of his friends. He liked and respected each man so very much that he wished there were some magic by which he could render them friends with each other. There was no way, of course. Relatives one inherited. Friends were freely chosen.

At least, Koznicki now accorded Toussaint the title of Reverend. Until lately, the Inspector had not called the deacon anything. Not even, “hey, you.” Koesler reckoned that as progress. He hoped that, little by little, Koznicki was beginning to invest a growing measure of trust in Toussaint. That, Koesler knew, was progress. Initially, when asked if he would collaborate with Toussaint, Koznicki’s only comment was that he would be willing to take a lead even from the devil to solve a case.

So, perhaps it was possible that the relationship between Koznicki and Toussaint might evolve from uneasy collaboration to friendship. Koesler knew only that each of them was a good and dear friend of his and that there was nothing he could do to accelerate this friendship into three-sidedness.

“I even find it strangely encouraging,” Koznicki commented, “that we ourselves are in the very place where it all began.”

“Where what began?” Koesler asked.

“The modern approach to crime prevention and detection,” Koznicki replied.

Good, thought Koesler, as he chewed on his salad contentedly, the Inspector was about to launch into a lesson. Something he did very well and with self-satisfaction.

Koesler knew Koznicki to be not merely a police officer but also a most well-informed, well-read, and shrewd student of his profession.

Koesler had learned much about police work from Koznicki. He recalled particularly the Inspector’s impromptu lecture on evidence at the scene of a crime. Koznicki had waxed near-reverential about the silent sign that would never lie or deceive. The sign that would be present only once, from the time the crime was committed until someone disturbed it. It could be a shell casing, a fingerprint, fibers from a coat or blanket, a strand of hair, a drop of blood. Investigators might fail to discern the message of the evidence at the scene of a crime. But the evidence would never mislead the alert investigator.

“As is the case with everything else in civilization,” Koznicki continued, “police procedures developed very slowly. But it is interesting how many of these procedures, especially as we in the western world have adopted them, developed right here in England. Take, for example, the field of forensic science.”

“Like Dr. Quincy on television?” Koesler interrupted.

Koznicki smiled. “No, more as in our own Dr. Wilhelm Moellmann, Chief Medical Examiner of Wayne County and one of the world’s best forensic scientists. But, very good, Father, that you draw our attention from the abstract to the concrete.

“Think of the expertise of a Dr. Moellmann and the exquisite tools of science he has to work with, and reflect that just little more than a century ago, the average physician’s participation in police work consisted of advising the authorities as to how much torture the accused could absorb, and, ultimately, when the accused or convicted person was dead.

“With that in mind, consider that in just one year in the late 1970s, the seven British regional forensic science laboratories dealt with more than 50,000 major criminal cases, the majority of them successfully.

“Why, it was just at the turn of this century that one Professor Locord formed the principle behind all forensic science. That is, that ‘every contact leaves a trace.’ Which means that a criminal always leaves something at the scene of the crime and, on the other hand, always takes something away. He may, for instance, leave a dead body, but take away some of his victim’s blood. Or leave a body and a hammer while taking away some tissue and hair.

“A hit-and-run driver may leave a scraping of paint at the scene of his crime while taking away a broken headlight or a peculiar type of soil or gravel in his tire tread. Do you see?” Koznicki clearly enjoyed lecturing even if the class size was, as in this case, minuscule.

“Something like what you once told me about evidence at the scene of a crime, isn’t it, Inspector?” Koesler commented.

“Yes,” said Koznicki brightly. He remembered well the lecture and was pleased his pupil had too. “The scene of a crime is a never-to-be-repeated prime clue. The silent evidence that does not deceive. Locord’s formula adds a dimension in that in forensic science, one looks not only for what is present at the scene of the crime but also for what is missing. That which the criminal has taken with him. Once you find both what was left behind and what was taken, you have found the perpetrator of the crime.” Koznicki concluded with a tone of finality.

“Now,” he proceeded, “when you come to the field of crime in England, one finds that, much the same as in the field of forensic medicine, dramatic changes come about as the result of simple but radical ideas.

“In the fourteenth century, about the time of the Black Death, there was a veritable war going on between crime and civilization. You may think we have a problem with organized crime today. But back then, gangs of criminals would band together and descend on towns where festivals were being held. The people gathering to celebrate would be lulled into believing they had achieved safety in numbers, never suspecting that great hordes of criminals would fall upon them and commit almost every outrage imaginable.

“And there was not much going on in the way of detection. The conventional way the authorities would process an accused person—when they were fortunate enough to catch one—would be to torture him until he confessed—and, as we have seen, the ‘physicians’ were there to tell the officials how much torture the accused might be able to bear. Or the accused was bound and thrown in a lake; if he floated, he was innocent. Or he was brought into the presence of the corpse and if the deceased’s eyes opened or wounds bled, the man was guilty.

“In the middle of the eighteenth century, Henry Fielding, the novelist—and author of Tom Jones—became a magistrate. The question in his mind was: Why not drop the emphasis on bizarre and barbaric punishments—gibbets, torture chambers, the rack, the iron maiden, and so forth—and attempt to prevent crime before it happened by creating an efficient police force?

“A simple concept like that of Professor Locord, but one whose time was long overdue.

“Fielding’s idea led to the formation of the Bow Street Runners, the forerunners of the ‘bobbies’ of the nineteenth century.”

Koznicki looked across at his two companions with a self-reproachful expression, as if suddenly realizing that he had talked throughout almost their entire dinner. Although, somehow, he had managed to finish his dinner while lecturing between bites.

“Oh, I do beg your pardon,” he said, “I am afraid I have gone on far too long.”

“Not at all, Inspector,” said Toussaint, whose expression throughout had been, as usual, inscrutable. “Please continue.”

“Well, there is little more to tell. Sir Robert Peel, after whom the bobbies are named, organized the first professional police force for London, after trying out his theories in Dublin. He selected the building, which backed into an ancient court known as Scotland Yard, thus the name. The first commissioners laid down some guidelines that today, 150 years later, are still as significant and relevant to police work as they were then.

“I secured a copy of those guidelines this afternoon from my friend. Superintendent Charlie Somerset.” He took a sheet of paper from his inside jacket pocket. “Let me just read them to you: ‘The primary object of an efficient Police is the prevention of crime: the next that of detection and punishment of offenders if crime is committed. To these ends all the efforts of Police must be directed. The protection of life and property, the preservation of public tranquility, and the absence of crime will alone prove whether these efforts have been successful, and whether the objects for which the Police were appointed have been attained.’

“And now,” Koznicki summed up, “we find ourselves in London, determined to prevent a crime, in the very city where the notion of crime prevention came to full flower.

“But,” he shrugged apologetically, “I have made a short story too, too long.”

“Not at all, Inspector,” reiterated Toussaint. “It was a very informative explanation. And interesting. One does not often think of the police in terms of crime prevention. The more popular image is that they are the ones who come to pick up the pieces and to catch the criminal.”

“Now that you have brought it up,” Koesler said, “I can think of many instances when the presence of the police can prevent crime: speeders on the highways, shoplifters in the stores, muggers in the streets—they all have to watch out for the police. And with the police around, the potential criminal undoubtedly is deterred from acting.”

“Let us hope that the presence of the police in Westminster Abbey tomorrow evening will deter a couple of assailants,” said Toussaint.

“From every indication we have so far,” said Koznicki, “I fear that killers such as the ones we are dealing with are not the type to restrain themselves from acting even if they know the police are present. These give every evidence of being such fanatics. We will simply have to anticipate them and move faster than they do.”

“Let us pray you are able to,” said Toussaint.

“Say,” said Koesler, “maybe that’s an answer to our vocation crisis: Maybe we should train seminarians to prevent heresies instead of reacting to them.”

Toussaint laughed. “I do not think that approach will fill the seminaries, Bob.”

“Well,” said Koesler, “back to the drawing board.”

“Oh, by the way. Inspector,” said Toussaint, “our tour tomorrow will include Westminster Abbey. We can do a little reconnoitering ourselves.”

“Very good,” said Koznicki, “it is impossible to have too much security.”

2.

“I’m sure you’ve all seen blokes like these before,” the guide said loudly. He was referring to the men dressed in the ancient livery of the English Yeomen of the Guard. “At least I’m sure you’ve seen outfits like these if you’re a fancier of good gin.”

The group tittered appreciatively.

Father Koesler regarded the yeomen more carefully than he first had. They looked ridiculous. Further, he thought, some of them seemed conscious of looking ridiculous, especially as the guide, like a circus barker, was calling the group’s attention to them. But, Koesler concluded, if you could buy the uniform of the Swiss Guard, why not the Yeomen of the Guard? Besides, these men would get done with their day’s work, change into modern-day civvies, and drop in at the neighborhood pub on the way home. Swiss Guards, on the other hand, he thought, quite possibly slept in their pantaloons.

“Well, now, folks,” the guide continued in his semi-shout, “there’s a bit of a story behind the moniker these chaps carry. They’re called beefeaters, as you all very well know. There’s them as says they’re called beefeaters simply because they were given a lot of beef to eat. Now that’s hardly a very romantic reason.

“No, I prefer the explanation that goes like this:

“Now, the king, God save him, has not always been the most popular personage in town.”

Appreciative titter.

“So, when the king would go out among the people—rare as that was—he would be surrounded by his guard, attired in precisely the same manner as these blokes here who are wearing the authentic uniform of the time.

“And just in case there’d be an angry constituent or so as would try and smack His Royal Highness, who would take the blow but his ever-faithful guards, the ones who had surrounded him—the ones dressed exactly like these blokes here.

“Now the Norman French saw all this goin’ on and they up and called the guards, ‘buffetiers,’ or those which took the buffets or the blows that was intended for the king. Don’t ya see?”

The guide was a squat man whose face seemed to have been pushed in from a few too many fights and whose vein-discolored nose betrayed a habit of downing a few too many Beefeater gins. His accent was drifting in and out of very correct English, while angling into the vague fringes of cockney. Koesler assumed the man to be a born actor, if not an outright professional. He’d be willing to bet the guide could put on any accent that seemed appropriate.

“Now,” the guide continued, “people began callin’ these yeomen ‘buffetiers,’ according to this story. Except that the English simply didn’t fancy tryin’ to wrap their tongues around foreign soundin’ words. So they very simply changed the pronunciation to ‘beefeaters’. And that’s what they’ve been called to this very day.”

Oohs of comprehension and agreement.

“And a good thing, too, wouldn’t you say, ladies and gents? For wouldn’t it have been a God’s awful pity for that loverly London drink to be called Buffetier’s gin!”

More appreciative merriment.

“By the same token, the worl’ famous bridle path in Hyde Park where the king was apt to go ridin’ was known to the Normans as ‘Route de Roi’—the king’s road. So, a’course, our English tongues made their own sense of it, and converted it to . . .” He looked about. “Anyone have a guess?”

His audience was stumped.

“Believe it or not, we call it ‘Rotten Row.’”

“That’s what happened to that man’s name!” exclaimed Koesler.

“What man’s name?” Toussaint asked.

“That commissioner—Inspector Koznicki’s friend from Scotland Yard. What was it . . .?” Koesler removed from his coat pocket a small piece of paper and consulted it. “Beauchamp! Assistant Commissioner Henry Beauchamp of the C.I.D.

“It is, of course, a Norman French name. If I can trust my none-too-trustworthy French, ‘beauchamp’ means fine, or handsome, field. But the English, as our long-winded guide has just explained, are not only unwilling to admit that any other nation should have a mother tongue, they disdain even pronouncing words that seem foreign and therefore unpleasant to their ears. So, if circumstances force them into confronting a non-English word, they simply anglicize it.

“Thus, ‘buffetier’ becomes ‘beefeater,’ ‘Route de Roi’ becomes ‘Rotten Row,’ and ‘Beauchamp’ becomes ‘Beecham.’ It’s a lucky thing for the linguistic world that, finally, the sun can set on the British Empire!” He shook his head. “But what a sun and what an empire!”

“Eh?”

For the past several minutes, Toussaint had been immersed in his own thoughts. He had been paying little attention to the guide, who was doing his best to educate his covey of sightseers as he commenced to give them a capsulized history of the Tower of London, the first stop on their Frames Tour. Even Koesler’s enthusiasm had fallen on all but deaf ears. Toussaint had heard only Koesler’s last few words.

As if in apology, the deacon picked up his end of the discussion. “I know this strategic site goes back to Julius Caesar and the Roman Empire, and that it was at one time a fortress from which the city could be defended. And now, it houses, among other memorabilia, the crown jewels. But all I can think of it as is an infamous prison, a place of torture and execution.”

“Yes, I know what you mean.”

Koesler and Toussaint separated from the tour group and strolled to a nearby stark fence. A flight of steps led down to the moat, once filled with water from the Thames, but now dry. Several feet beyond the bottom step was an ancient portal. Above the portal was inscribed the words, “Traitor’s Gate.”

“Can you imagine the emotions of all those famous prisoners as they were ferried into this place through that?” Toussaint, in a sweeping gesture, indicated the gate.

Both were silent for a few moments.

“Yes,” said Koesler, “when they heard that gate grate shut behind them, they must have known they had left freedom and now faced imprisonment, possible torture, and probable death. It must have been a terrifying moment.”

“Anne Boleyn, Elizabeth I, Catherine Howard, and Sir Thomas More, among others.” Toussaint enumerated some of the better known personalities who had at different times in history docked at these steps and climbed them to this very spot.

“And poor old Bishop John Fisher,” said Koesler, consulting his Guide to the Tower of London.

“It says here, that both More and Bishop Fisher were imprisoned up there, in the Bell Tower. Of course, the skyline of London has completely changed. But just think: Basically, Fisher and More saw the same things we are now looking at. The same River Thames, the same shores, more or less, the same general land contours—and of course the same fortress prison.”

“And they were here,” Toussaint commented, “only because Henry VIII made himself head of the Church so he could marry the woman he would eventually have executed.”

“Such a waste.”

“You get the impression from reading the history of those times,” said Toussaint, “that the doomed were made to feel grateful to the king for his commuting the manner of execution.”

They began walking toward the site of the block where so many of the executions had taken place.

“Both More and Fisher,” Toussaint sounded almost reminiscent, “had been condemned to be hung, drawn, and quartered. Barbaric! Then the king in his infinite mercy ruled that they simply be beheaded.” He stopped and turned toward Koesler. “You know, the thought just occurred to me, Bob: I wonder how Thomas More would be regarded today if he had been successful in his strategy?”

Koesler thought for a moment. “You mean if he hadn’t been executed? I never thought of that. We do tend to think of him in the role of a martyr. And as a martyr, we picture him marching quite deliberately off to his death for the sake of his faith. Which, of course, he literally did eventually, didn’t he?”

“Yes,” Toussaint replied, “but not before he defended himself as the brilliant lawyer he was. He did not want to die. But he refused to publicly commit himself to agreeing that the king was the head of the Church in England. On the other hand, he did not state that the king was not what His Majesty claimed to be. More maintained that his silence should be legally interpreted as consent to the king, even though he would not so state. And it was only because of perjured testimony that he was convicted. Do you know, Bob, he could be my patron.”

“How’s that?”

“I find that the longer I live, the more I have to live for. I do not know what I would have done had I been in the shoes of Sir Thomas More—none of us does, I suppose—but I believe I would have done the same thing: I would have fought to stay alive.”

“But you brought up an interesting point, Ramon. How would he be regarded if he had succeeded in fighting off the death penalty? He probably would have remained imprisoned in one of these towers for the rest of his life. He would not have been a murdered martyr. I guess one could argue that he might never have been declared a saint. Yet, he would not have disappeared from history. He was too famous. Lord Chancellor of England, author of Utopia, and opponent, if not victim, of King Henry VIII.”

“I think I could have lived with that.” Toussaint smiled. In the distance they could see their guide gathering his group near the Bloody Tower. It was time to leave. Toussaint and Koesler hurried to join the others.

“We’re going to have to stick with the group,” said Koesler, “if we want to see everything on this tour. After all, we’ve got only the one day.”

“At least until we reach Westminster Abbey. I am so eager to get there and do our reconnoitering, I would almost be willing to skip lunch and the visit to St. Paul’s . . . but, all in good time,” concluded Toussaint.

“I should say; especially St. Paul’s. You wouldn’t want to pass up the place where the Marriage of the Century between Prince Charlie and Lady Di took place, would you? Besides, before Henry decided to split with Rome, it used to be one of ours.”

Koesler found that he was breathing heavily just from the rapid walking he’d been compelled to do to catch up with the group before it moved on. He was about to make a resolution to do some jogging when he returned to Detroit. However, he remembered that upon reaching his fortieth birthday he had resolved to stop making ridiculous resolutions.

“Hurry along, ladies and gents. Remember the motto of the Bloody Tower: If we don’t hang together, we’ll hang separately. Stay together now. Stay together. First, we’ll visit St. Paul’s, then we’ll have a lovely luncheon, then the great one—Westminster Abbey—and, finally, the famous Madame Tussaud’s, where, if we’re in any luck at all, we’ll see a likeness of yours truly.”

An appreciative titter from the tourists.

3.

“Now, ladies and gents, we’ve just come in the west entrance of Westminster Abbey. I’d like to call your attention to this plaque in the floor. It marks the grave of the unknown warrior. His body was brought over from France and laid to rest right here, in the presence of King George V himself, on 11 November 1920.

“And over there, you’ll be able to see the memorial to Sir Winston Churchill.”

“Do you get the impression,” said Joe Cox, “ that these places are more mausoleums than churches? I mean, those sarcophagi of Wellington and Lord Nelson in St. Paul’s were humongous. And look at the statues in this place; two to one there’s a body under damn near every one of them.”

“Well,” Pat Lennon responded, “if you go back to the beginning of Christianity, that’s the way it was. Take Rome, for instance: not only were there no Christian churches, but the early Christians were forced to gather and worship underground in the catacombs. And the catacombs were burial places. So, I guess they’ve got the right idea burying people in churches.”

“I don’t know why I let you talk me into this tour.” Cox was on the verge of pouting.

“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, somewhere 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 been 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.

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 admitted 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 . . .”

Right there, Koesler knew that for him this was going to be a useless prayer. His mind never stayed still. It raced constantly. Just as at age forty he had resolved not to make any more futile resolutions, he also knew he was doomed to make countless excursions in his stream of consciousness. He asked God to accept all his thoughts and deeds, even his distractions, as a prayer.

“. . . that with steadfast thoughts and kindled affections, we may worship thee in spirit and in truth; through Jesus Christ our Lord.”

From the congregation came a sturdy, “Amen.”

And then followed that peculiar rustling sound that is heard almost exclusively in church as everyone tries to find a comfortable position in which to sit or, if unlucky, to stand.

Archbishop Bell, who remained at the microphone, began to speak. He spoke movingly, if predictably, of the longing in Christian hearts for the reunion of all Christianity.

As he had feared, Koesler’s attention wandered, as past ecumenical experiences came to mind.

Archbishop Bell was speaking of the many recent attempts to tear down the barriers that still divided the various Christian sects.

At that point, Koesler recalled an Irish missionary priest, who had spent many years in Africa. Koesler could see him in memory: a large, white-haired, ruddy-faced man, who told countless stories about his years as a missionary! One of his stories he prefaced by explaining that he had received a rather liberal training in the seminary. Not, he stressed, like the training given priests just a generation older.

It was with just such an older priest he had been assigned to work in one of the more populous cities in what was now Tanzania. The older man, he explained, as a result of his uncompromising training, could not stand the sight of a Protestant missionary. “Why,” he said, “when Father O’Brien would even catch sight of a Protestant missionary, the very hairs on the back of his neck would stand on end.

“It was not that way with me. I was never thus affected by the sight of a Protestant minister. Of course,” he added, “I knew they were all goin’ to hell . . .”

Koesler had laughed. But, on reflection, he had wondered why, in a small Third World country, missionaries representing various Christian sects and working more or less the same territory never considered their work redundant.

Here was an entire world, most of which was considered heathen, or at best not Christian, and the various sects spent their lives criss-crossing each others’ paths, preaching roughly the same general doctrine with their peculiar sectarian shadings.

How much time, he thought, was wasted on sectarian idiosyncracies. He recalled a friend, a dedicated nun, who was returning to her mission in Japan in the company of a very elderly priest who was to become chaplain to her order.

The two had encountered a Japanese couple, who expressed surprise and sympathy to the nun, the only one of the two who understood Japanese. They assumed that the priest and nun were married—why else would a couple travel together?—and they also assumed the marriage had been “arranged”—why else would a pretty young lady marry an old man?

In the time it took for the nun to explain the concept of celibacy and virginity, she could have gotten in quite a few plugs for Christianity. As it was, the Japanese couple found the concept so incredible and mind-boggling that there was neither time to get into the matter of Christianity, nor any use in attempting to do so.

As Archbishop Bell continued to speak, he noted some of the differences between the Churches that realistically continued to delay the reunion that theoretically everyone desired.

Koesler’s attention returned to the Archbishop’s speech just long enough to note the topical turn he had taken. Then he was off again: Of course it was simplistic to overlook the significant differences that had accumulated over a 400-year separation between Protestantism and Catholicism. A thousand years, when one considered the separation between Catholicism and Orthodoxy. And when one considered the ultimate separation—for Christianity unquestionably flowed from Judaism—two thousand years.

Koesler recalled the night years before when he had gone to Mercy College to hear the rabbi who had been widely and wildly touted as “the rabbi who was only one step away from being Catholic.”

Two very satisfied and relevant nuns had shared the stage with the rabbi. One introduced him. In his address, he touched on certain elements in both the Old and New Testaments. His main objective that evening had been to demythologize all the miraculous events of the New Testament. If it happened in the Old Testament, it may have been by divine intervention, he opined. If it happened in the New Testament, God had nothing to do with it.

With each destroyed miracle, the two nuns appeared more smug and more relevant. Koesler recalled thinking at the time that if this was the rabbi who was only one step removed from Catholicism, it had to be a giant step indeed.

Archbishop Bell had concluded his speech. Once again, Henry Beauchamp held the open book to enable the Archbishop to read the prayer.

The congregation stood.

“O God, the Father of Our Lord Jesus Christ, our only Savior, the Prince of Peace; give us grace seriously to lay to heart the great dangers we are in by our unhappy divisions. Take away all hatred and prejudice, and whatsoever else may hinder us from goodly union and concord; that as there is but one Body and one Spirit, and one hope of our calling, one Lord, one Faith, one Baptism, one God and Father of us all, so we may be all of one heart and of one soul, united in one holy bond of truth and peace, of faith and charity, and may with one mind and one mouth glorify Thee; through Jesus Christ our Lord.”

Again, the congregation responded with a hearty “Amen.”

Both Cardinals Whealan and Boyle were scheduled to respond to the Archbishop’s remarks. Whealan was first.

By and large, Koesler thought, it was not the people in the pews who formed the barriers to reunion. It was the people at the top. It was as Pope John XXIII once noted: As much as he desired and prayed for Christian unity, he recognized that it was he and his position in the Catholic Church that was most responsible for the continued separation.

Koesler recalled ecumenical services he had attended. One, in particular, during a Lenten season in St. Anselm’s, his own parish.

A number of neighboring ministers had joined Koesler in the sanctuary; the congregation comprised a mixture of their parishioners as well as some from St. Anselm’s. All of those in the sanctuary were men, which in itself was a statement, while, as was usual during a weekday, the congregation was composed entirely of women.

In the sanctuary, there was an almost palpable feeling that everyone there was most conscious of the identity of each and every doctrine and principle that separated each from the other. In the congregation, on the other hand, was an equally palpable yearning for reunion.

And when, during that service, the time came to solicit prayers led by volunteering individuals from the congregation, the Catholics, if they did not already know it, learned that their Protestant counterparts were extremely skilled in informal public prayer.

One other, but one very pleasant thing Catholics would learn from their Protestant neighbors when unity became a reality—how to pray extemporaneously. As one Catholic lady had remarked after that service, when each Protestant lady launched in prayer, it seemed that she would never see shore again.

Both Whealan and Boyle had concluded their remarks and still Toussaint had not arrived. There was very little time now before the reception. Koesler was definitely and extremely worried. Only a meditation hymn was left to precede the reception. Hymn announced, the congregation stood.

And did those feet in ancient time,

Walk upon England’s mountains green?

And was the holy Lamb of God,

On England’s pleasant pastures seen?

Irene Casey raised her chin and vocalized very loudly. Joan Blackford Hayes stepped as far away as possible.

Bring me my bow of burning gold!

Bring me my arrows of desire!

Bring me my spear! O clouds, unfold!

Bring me my chariot of fire!

In the sanctuary, preparations were being made for the reception.

One of the ushers, in reality a police officer, or bobby, as were most of the plainclothes attendants and ushers, approached Henry Beauchamp. “There’s a bit of a run on coloureds out there,” he said directly into Beauchamp’s ear, though he had to almost shout rather than whisper. “But not a bloody one of ‘em is wearin’ dreadlocks.”

“Not going to make it easy for us then, are they?” Beauchamp passed the news to the other officers in the sanctuary.

The tableau began to be formed by the Master of Ceremony. Beginning at the pulpit and extending across the sanctuary just above the step leading to the chancel the lineup was as follows: a C.I.D. officer. Archbishop Bell, a C.I.D. officer, Commissioner Beauchamp, Cardinal Whealan, Superintendent Somerset, a C.I.D. officer. Cardinal Boyle, Inspector Koznicki, Father Koesler. All the police were disguised as acolytes.

The two images of black fists had been left where Koesler had discovered them so that whoever had put them there would not become leery.

Koesler looked again at the two impressions. They were imposed one directly in front of where Whealan now stood, the other before Boyle.

Some clue! Koesler thought. All they prove is that someone had advance knowledge of the ceremonial setup.

In retrospect, it had not been worth it; bringing the information to Inspector Koznicki had meant leaving Toussaint. If they had not gone their separate ways, he would at least know what had happened to Ramon as well as his whereabouts. Koesler glanced at the doorway leading to St. Faith Chapel. Not a sign of Toussaint. Koesler forced himself to pay attention to the proceedings. Events now could take on literally vital importance.

While the choir sang softly, most of the congregation, in turn, began forming lines leading to the three prelates. Once they arrived, each person paused a moment in silence before his or her bishop, who would trace a sign of the cross over the worshiper’s head. Then, each would either return to his or her place or exit the abbey.

“How about it,” said Joan Blackford Hayes, “want to go get an ecumenical blessing?”

“I think I’ll just pass this time,” said Irene Casey. “These feet are tired from having walked all over London.” Joan’s feet are probably in excellent shape, thought Irene.

“Well, I think I’ll get one,” said Joan. “You only go around once, you know.”

And few of us go around flawlessly, thought Irene.

Koesler carefully watched each person who approached each Cardinal for a blessing. It was not that he was uninterested in the Archbishop of Canterbury, only that he considered Archbishop Bell to be not in harm’s way.

The congregation certainly was a mixed bag. Wealthy, poor, black, white, British, American, African, Indian; Koesler thought he could even distinguish some Pakistanis. As they approached the prelates for a blessing, there was no uniformity whatever in the formula. Some stood, some knelt, some genuflected, some curtsied, some bowed, some stood upright.

It put Koesler in mind of his seminary days many years before. One of the Michigan bishops had come to St. John’s for an ordination ceremony. Back then, to receive communion, one was expected to kneel. When the priest arrived with the consecrated wafer, one tilted one’s head back and extended one’s tongue whereon the priest placed the wafer. Except when the priest happened to be a bishop. Which happened rarely if ever in the lifetime of most Catholics.

With a bishop as the minister of communion, one was to kneel, as usual, and when the bishop arrived, one was expected first to kiss the bishop’s ring, which he wore on the third finger, right hand. Only then did one extend one’s tongue for the wafer.

The bishop as minister then, occasioned a considerable change in the Catholic’s familiar communion routine. Seminarians would rehearse the variation the day before, be very conscious of it during the ceremony and, usually, carry it off quite well. Not so the lay relatives who were guests at the ordination. After long lines of seminarians had successfully consummated this altered form of communion, it was amusing to watch the laity, most of whom had no idea what was going on except for what they had witnessed the seminarians doing.

Having had no instruction or rehearsal, most of the laity did not do well. And so what usually resulted was a convoluted mishmash of bishop presenting ring to communicant who had tongue out, followed by bishop presenting wafer to communicant who now had lips pursed to kiss ring. And so on.

Koesler recalled with especial glee that day’s final lay communicant. It was a young girl, who, as was the case with almost all the laity, went through the mixed-up tongue/lips routine, until, in final frustration, she licked the bishop’s ring, then extended her tongue. The bishop gave her communion, then, in manifest disgust, spent several minutes wiping off his ring.

But enough of that. Koesler forced his ever wandering attention back to the business at hand.

“How about it, lover,” said Pat Lennon, “do you want to accompany me up there and get your agnostic self blessed?”

“Let me clarify this before I get into a situation I can’t get out of,” Joe Cox responded. “If I get in this line with you, there’s no way I can get out of being blessed, right?”

“Right.”

“Then I’ll just sit here and watch you. I could do worse . . . lots worse.”

“You may be making a mistake. It couldn’t hurt.”

But Cox maintained his seat while Joan Blackford Hayes stepped back to allow Lennon into the line.

Koesler was trying to be vigilant, but it was not easy. The combination of the soft choral singing, the endless shuffling of the crowds approaching and leaving the chancel, the soporific heat generated by all those bodies had a tendency to dull the senses. Still, he tried to pay close attention.

If only Toussaint were here! Ramon would have been single-minded in his concentration. And his reflexes were still fast and keen. He had proven that in the Rome confrontation.

Koesler’s preoccupations swept him back to the occasion when he had first become aware that he was slowing down, even if barely perceptibly. It had been during a make-up touch football game. Koesler had been an average to slightly-better-than-average athlete. At least he had loved to participate in almost all sports.

But the game he was now recalling had occurred almost five years after his ordination. It had been played on the football field at the seminary between some seminarians and some priests. Koesler had been in the priestly defensive backfield and, on a pass, his mind had told him where the play was heading—but his legs had refused to take him there.

It was a peculiar experience he had never forgotten: there he was, not yet thirty, on the verge of being forced to take golf more seriously.

“Death—!”

The assailant had been cut off in mid-shout.

Koesler looked over in time to see the flash of an upraised knife poised to strike Cardinal Boyle. Before the weapon could descend, Koznicki’s bulk lunged over the assailant, and the two men, as well as nearly everyone else in the vicinity, were tumbled into a pile of struggling, panicky humanity.

A fraction of a second after Koznicki’s lunge, Beauchamp and Somerset had tackled and overwhelmed the assailant who loomed up before Cardinal Whealan.

Cardinal Boyle had reeled backward unharmed. Cardinal Whealan had not been as fortunate. He was bleeding. Koesler could not tell where the blow had struck, but the Cardinal’s hand was covered with blood.

Koesler considered it vital that he somehow get involved, although by now the police had things pretty much under control. However, he could not see what was happening at the bottom of the pile for all the squirming humanity at the top of the pile. So he stepped down from the sanctuary and bent over to help sort out the mess. Instantly, his feet were swept out from under him and Koesler joined the pile.

The choir had stopped singing; many of its members were shouting and shrieking. The congregation was a mass of pandemonium. The organist, thinking that music might soothe the savage beast, opened up the sforzando and added to the din.

Irene Casey hopped onto her chair. She wanted to be able to report this for the Detroit Catholic, but there was no way she was going to get close to that pile.

Her first concern was Cardinal Boyle. She was greatly relieved to see that he appeared to be all right, albeit apparently dazed. His eyes were opened wide and his mouth agape as he regarded the tangled mass before him.

Then she saw her. Joan Blackford Hayes being assisted to her feet by one of the acolytes. Not a hair mussed. She didn’t even have to readjust her clothing; it hung perfectly. She looked about with only the slightest air of involvement, as if watching a movie.

Irene seldom used the word, but it seemed appropriate. “Damn!” she muttered. She wished Joan no harm. Only that for once in her life, just one hair might be out of place.

Joe Cox, reportorial senses aquiver, pushed to the edge of the pile. Like a hockey referee, he was determined to stay close to the action so he could assess it without becoming enmeshed in it.

He noted that Cardinal Boyle appeared unhurt. But Cardinal Whealan, obviously shaken, was ashen-faced. A clergyman was wrapping a cloth of some sort around the Cardinal’s hand. The cloth was already sodden with blood.

Then Cox heard a familiar voice. Even above the full organ and the tumult of the congregation, Cox clearly heard a most familiar voice.

“Let go of me, goddammit! You goddamn sonofabitch mother! Take your filthy rotten hands off me, you male chauvinist pig!”

Pat Lennon was struggling to get to her feet from roughly mid-pile. A hairy male hand was firmly grasping her bottom.

6.

“Didja telex your story?”

“Uh-huh. ‘you?”

“Yeah,” said Joe Cox, “I suppose you wrote it as an eyewitness.”

“Eyewitness, my rear! I wrote it as a victim.”

“Victim! Hell, you were just closer to the action than I was.”

“What do you mean ‘closer’? I was attacked!”

“So the News will award you the Medal of the Purple Butt.

“That English Cardinal was lucky,” Cox continued, returning to the point. “If those cops hadn’t been as fast as they were—”

“Not as fast as Koznicki,” Lennon said. “I didn’t think a man that big could move that fast. And he’s no spring chicken, either.”

“I guess I’d like to have him on my side in a fight. I’d sure as hell hate to see him among the opposition . . .

“By the way, did you tumble that all those altar servers were British cops?”

“Nope,” Lennon admitted. “It got by me completely. Turns out the place was crawling with constables.” She looked thoughtful. “Wouldn’t you say they were providing a little more than ordinary security tonight?”

“Yup!” Cox emphasized. “Tonight’s protection was just about maximum security. They couldn’t have provided better protection for their queen.” He paused. “What do you make of it?”

Lennon ran her index finger across her upper lip. “You want to know what I think? I think they know! Somehow they know who’s on this crazy Rastafarian hit list. That’s the only thing that could possibly explain all those cops in the abbey tonight.”

“But how? How could they know? They couldn’t have gotten it from the Rastafarians . . . could they?”

Lennon pondered. “What about that black deacon . . . what’s his name, Toussaint?”

It was as if a bulb lit above Cox’s head. “Yeah, Toussaint. Of course! Remember when he was in Detroit? He had connections all through the black community. I never saw anyone to beat him—not even Mayor Cobb.”

“Yes, and remember his contacts with fellow Haitians . . . and what I’ve always suspected was a voodoo network.”

“Voodoo!” Cox sounded incredulous. “Come on, Pat; this is the twentieth century and we’re smack in the middle of Western civilization. Voodoo’s part of the past.”

“Don’t kid yourself, Joe. You and I may not be invited to any voodoo rites; honkies seldom are. But the African slaves brought their religion, which happened to be voodoo, with them. And although it may have changed a bit and blended with some of our culture, it’s still alive and healthy. And I’ll just bet that you could find voodoo cults in any metropolitan area where there’s a large concentration of blacks.”

“Maybe so, but I doubt it. Anyway, for the sake of discussion, let’s say Toussaint did somehow come up with this hypothetical Rastafarian hit list. So if he is the police source, wouldn’t you think he’d have been there tonight? I didn’t see him . . . did you?”

“No . . . no, I didn’t. And that’s odd: Now that I think of it, Toussaint is the one who nailed the Rastafarian who tried to knife Boyle in Rome. Which just reinforces my feeling that he did latch onto that list.”

“All that proves is that he’s a little faster than the amazingly quick Koznicki. But, where was he tonight?”

“I haven’t a clue. Maybe we can look into that tomorrow.”

“You’re so right.” Cox reached up and turned off the light. He pulled up the covers and snuggled closer to Lennon.

“You know, you’re right about something else, too,” said Cox.

“And that is . . .?”

“That the News provides better accommodations than the Free Press. But isn’t it nice that the News reporters are so generous.”

“We are generous only to the deserving poor.”

“And am I deserving?”

“Joe, you always deserve everything you get.”

Cox raised himself up on one elbow and kissed her tenderly. It was not the end of the day, only the beginning of the night.

7.

It was almost impossible to see, the smoke was so thick in the small downstairs room of a tenement apartment in the Brixton district of London. It was a stark room, with no furniture but a small wooden desk with a straightback chair behind it.

On one wall hung a large, framed, color portrait of a swarthy, bushy-haired man in uniform with a chestful of ribbons and decorations. Haile Selassie I, late Emperor of Ethiopia, King of Kings, Lord of Lords, Conquering Lion of the Tribe of Judah, and unwitting patron of the Rastafarians, was so honored.

Eight men had crowded into the room; none was moving about. Some sat on the floor, others leaned against the wall. Heavy ganja smoke poured from their mouths and nostrils, filling the room.

An air of discouragement, dejection, depression, and gloom was almost tangible.

Occasionally, one or another would speak, though without enthusiasm or spirit.

“Damnation! Hellfire!”

“We and we has failed Selassie I!”

“Shame on our house!”

Finally, one man rose from the floor. In each hand, he bore an imposing, unsheathed knife.

He lurched to the desk, on which rested two effigies, each swathed in cardinal red. He raised both knives over his head and with manifest concentration, drove both into the effigies simultaneously.

“Dread Rasta no dread,” he called out with some air of ritual. “It be de end!”

8.

“Seems t’ me, Charlie, that you’re a fraction away from it, what with the years getting on,” said Commissioner Beauchamp, a bit impishly.

“Oh, I don’t know, guv’nor,” Superintendent Somerset shot back in a combative tone, “I believe I was on our man quick as anyone. Surely, as any man in this room.”

“Maybe, but then neither of us got to him with the speed of lightning like our Inspector friend here.”

“Now, now,” retorted Inspector Koznicki, waving a large paw reprovingly, “free me from the middle of this, if you will. We did our job. We protected our charges.”

Beefeater gin to the contrary notwithstanding, they were sipping Dewar’s White Label Blended Scotch.

Beauchamp, Somerset, Koznicki, and Father Koesler had gathered in Koznicki’s room at the Carburton to celebrate their victory earlier that evening over the Rasta forces. The two assailants had been taken into custody and were presently being interrogated by Scotland Yard specialists.

“Blimey,” Somerset commented, “but I’ve never seen anyone move any faster’n you did tonight. Inspector. Maybe as fast, but no faster. And none of us is of the spring chicken variety, I’d say!”

Koznicki shrugged. “The circumstances were just different. My man raised his knife above his head, and, of course, he was the one who shouted. It was enough of an invitation to act as any I have ever experienced. Your man, on the other hand, brought his knife up from his side directly. You both acted as quickly as could be expected. As it is, it was fortunate that Cardinal Whealan received only a hand wound. It could easily have been much worse.”

“Well, in any case,” said Beauchamp, “we’ve wrapped it up, I’d say, really. And your party will be movin’ on tomorrow then?” It was a statement, but expressed as a question.

“Yes,” said Koznicki, “our next stop is Dublin. But do you really think it is ‘wrapped up,’ as you say? According to our list, Cardinal Whealan is one of the targets of this conspiracy. Will that not remain so?”

“For the time being, it will be very true, indeed,” Somerset replied. “But we’ve got two of ’em, and like as not we’ll find the rest. Should push come to shove, I’ll wager one or another of ’em will tell us anything we’ll want to know just for a puff on their precious ganja weed.”

“Oh, yes,” Beauchamp agreed, “we’ll round ’em up. And in the meantime, we’ll take special care of His Eminence, indeed.”

The two British detectives moved to the table for a dash more of Scotch.

As they did so, Koznicki turned to Koesler. “Speaking of that list, Father, have you heard yet from the Reverend Toussaint?”

“Not a word—and I told the hotel operator I’d be in your room in case there were any calls.” Koesler had been silent partly because he was hesitant to join in a conversation between police professionals and partly because there was something about this entire case that he found puzzling.

“Is that what is troubling you?” Koznicki was sensitive to his friend’s moods and to him it was evident that something was bothering Koesler.

“Partly. It’s been too long since I’ve heard from Ramon. I just feel that even if he’d been occupied with something that came up suddenly, he would have phoned. After all, he was supposed to be at that service this evening.”

Koznicki turned up his palms in a gesture of helplessness. “All I can say to reassure you is what I said before: Your friend can take care of himself.” After a pause, he asked, “Is there something else?”

“Well, as a matter of fact, yes . . . but I find it difficult to express. It’s as if something else is missing, but I can’t quite get a handle on it or identify it.” He looked from Koznicki to the two officers as if hopeful they might identify his problem.

“Well, sir,” Beauchamp fielded the lead, “I think your trouble might just be that you think everything is too simple to be true.”

“Yes, that’s it all right,” said Somerset with even more assurance than Beauchamp. “’ere we know ’oo we’re lookin’ for, so to speak. And we even know where the bally blighters are gonna be standin’ so we can ’ave a go at ’em. It’s just too cut and dried to be real. Isn’t that it, sir?” He didn’t pause for a reply. “You assume, from all your readin’ and the films and the telly, that police procedure, even a murder case, God save us all, is a complex puzzle requirin’ the fine detective work of a Mr. ’olmes! Well, in all truth, many of ’em are. But every once in a while, you come across a case that is, as the crime writers would ’ave it, open and shut. Such a case, I do believe, we ’ave on our ’ands this very minute.”

“Yes,” Beauchamp continued, “as the Superintendent has very rightly put it, some cases are simpler than others. It is all up to the perpetrator. Some criminals are deucedly clever, while others are incredibly stupid: Reminds me of one we had not long ago. Remember, Charlie,” he directed at Somerset, “remember Alfred Kirkus?”

“Dummy Alfie? ’oo could forget ’im?”

“Was a clot,” Beauchamp continued, “who was a contract killer. What is it you call such a fellow in the States?”

“A hit man,” Koznicki supplied.

“The very thing,” Beauchamp confirmed. “Now, Alfie was given a contract to kill one Arthur F. Knoff, an industrialist makes one of his homes in London.

“Well, the first time ol’ Dummy Alfie tried was in Mr. Knoff’s parking garage.”

“Right,” said Somerset, eager to get in on the storytelling, “’e ’id in the garage, and when Mr. Knoff arrived at ’is Bentley, the car ’e was goin’ to use that particular day, they start to scuffle. Alfie’s gun falls to the floor and Mr. Knoff kicks it under a vehicle several cars removed. So Alfie beats an ’asty retreat.”

“The second time he had a go,” Beauchamp resumed possession of the verbal ball, “Alfie very carefully reconnoitered Mr. Knoff’s private club, learned the whole layout, where the gentleman took his lunch, the usual time—a very thorough job, if I may say—”

“And then,” Somerset interrupted, “Alfie goes and shows up to shoot Mr. Knoff on the very day ’is backgammon group meets.”

“The third time he tried to fulfill his contract was in Harrods— crowded Harrods, God save us all. Well, this time, Alfìe does get off a shot and wings Mr. Knoff pretty good.”

“But then,” said Somerset, continuing the antiphony, “Alfie tries to make ’is escape in the tube!”

Koesler looked puzzled.

“The subway,” Koznicki translated.

“Not only did ’e try to get away in the tube,” Somerset continued, “but Dummy Alfie tells everyone on board ’oo’ll listen what ’e just did. One of the passengers gets off, tells a constable, ’oo gets back on board and takes Dummy Alfie into custody.”

Everyone laughed. As the laughter subsided, the phone rang. Koznicki answered it. “Yes, he is here.” He beckoned Koesler to the phone.

“This a Mr. Robert Koesler?”

“Yes.” He decided to overlook the absence of title.

“Would you know a Mr. Ramon Toussaint?”

“Yes, why do you ask?” Koesler felt a foreboding.

“We found your name and your hotel on a piece of paper in his pocket. And since we did not know who to notify, we thought we should tell you—”

“Tell me what?” Koesler’s knees were turning to jelly.

“Mr. Toussaint is dead.”

9.

“If you would prefer, Father,” Koznicki said, “you can remain here in the car. I can go in and make the identification and the arrangements. I knew Ramon Toussaint well enough to do that and I am used to the procedure. It is really not very pleasant—and he was your good friend.”

“No, thank you very much. Inspector. I think I can do it. But,” he added, looking in turn at each of his companions, “I would be grateful for your presence.”

None of the four had said much since the phone call. The others had expressed their sympathy briefly to Koesler. Then Somerset had driven them to the hospital.

Now, all four exited the car and entered the hospital. Locating a nurse in the casualty department, Koznicki explained why they were there. She asked them to wait, then went for the doctor. When he entered the waiting area, the doctor seemed a bit surprised. Apparently, he had not expected four people.

“Which of you is Koesler?”

“I am.”

Again the doctor exhibited mild surprise. “You’re a priest?”

Koesler nodded, as the others identified themselves.

“Sorry, Father. I wasn’t expecting a member of the clergy. The attendant failed to mention that.”

“The attendant?”

“Yes. The one who phoned you. He was only doing his job, of course, but . . .” He shook his head, then looked at Koesler with an odd expression. “You see, Mr. Toussaint is not dead.”

“Not dead!” Koesler felt a sudden exuberance, then a weakness brought on by relief.

“No. Though I must say that for all intents and purposes, he might as well have been. He certainly appeared so when he was brought in. If our attendant hadn’t rung you so soon . . .”

The other three offered congratulations to Koesler. Beauchamp and Somerset each took out a notepad. Obviously, they felt this could become a matter for police investigation.

“What happened?” Koesler asked.

“Well, Mr. Toussaint’s body was discovered in Regent’s Park. It was most fortunate he was found so soon, really. A romantic young couple strolling by the lake almost literally stumbled upon him. Otherwise, I fear he wouldn’t have been found till daylight . . . and I very much doubt he would have been alive at that point.

“In any case, he was brought in here at,” the doctor consulted his chart, “2230 . . . no, 2235, to be precise. At first blush he was thought to be dead.” He looked up. “That’s when our attendant called you. But then, one of our people thought she heard a sigh escape from Mr. Toussaint. She checked and got a pupil reaction and then we all began to work very quickly indeed.”

“Is he conscious?” Beauchamp inquired.

The doctor shook his head. “He was comatose when we first examined him and that condition has remained unchanged.”

“Then what exactly is ’is condition?” Somerset asked.

“Critical. Extremely critical.”

“And you can’t tell yet what happened to him?” Koznicki asked.

“A beating, I should think. A beating the likes of which, I’m glad to say, we don’t see often.” Again, the doctor referred to his chart. “So far, we’ve found the following fractures: frontal,” he looked up from the chart, “that’s his forehead.” Then, “right and left zygomatic.” Again he looked up. “That’s both cheekbones. Right mandible . . . that’s the lower jaw; nose; clavicle . . . that’s the collarbone; right and left humerus, radius, and ulna . . . that’s both upper and lower arms; all ten fingers; ribs—seven fractures to the ribs . . .”

As the doctor proceeded through his medical litany, Koesler first flinched, then felt his stomach turn. He feared he was going to be physically ill. His companions were taking notes very professionally.

“. . . right femur . . . that’s the thigh; and tibia . . . that’s the lower leg; both patellae . . . that’s the kneecaps, several metatarsi in each foot. Then dislocations: one hip and one shoulder.”

“That it?” asked Somerset.

“That’s all we have found so far.” He stopped, suddenly aware of Koesler’s wanness, and looked at the priest with professional concern. “Are you all right, Father?”

Koesler half-nodded in a peremptory manner, while his right hand made an impatient I’m-all-right-please-go-on gesture.

The doctor looked at him doubtfully, but resumed. “The good side of it is that, as far as we can tell, incredibly—miraculously—there’s been no internal bleeding, and no collapsed lung. With all those fractured ribs, you fear a thing like that.”

“Well, then,” said Beauchamp, “it’s a professional job, no doubt of that. But tell us: What is the prognosis?”

“Too soon to say, actually. I’d guess his age to be in the late forties, early fifties—”

“He’s fifty-six,” Koesler said quietly.

“Really! He does appear younger. But even at fifty-six . . . now that’s a fairly young age when one speaks of recovery from a thing like this. And, outside of the massive multiple injuries, he seems in excellent physical condition. All in all, I would guess there to be something like a 40 percent chance of survival.”

“That’s all?” Koesler, newfound hope ebbing, seemed stunned.

“Father,” the doctor replied, “let me assure you: for the severity of the beating your friend received, he is very, very fortunate merely to be alive. From the extent of his injuries, I do not believe his assailant or assailants meant for him to survive. And now, we are faced with, in effect, trying to put Humpty Dumpty together again.

“And even if he survives, we cannot be sure he will suffer no permanent physical or neurological after-effects.”

Koesler fought waves of nausea. “Then I’ll stay here.”

“What? Here at the hospital?” asked the doctor.

“No, here in London.”

“You’re on holiday then?”

“A charter,” said Koznicki. “We were scheduled to leave tomorrow for Ireland.”

“Then, by all means, go. Believe me. Father,” said the doctor earnestly, “your staying in London can serve no useful purpose whatever. There is nothing you can do for Mr. Toussaint. He will, believe me, not be at all conscious of your presence . . . or your absence. I do not even expect that he will regain consciousness for several days—if at all. And when and if he does, we will then have to ascertain to what extent, if any, he has sustained brain damage. Although, it is odd . . .” His brow furrowed and his voice trailed off in puzzlement.

“What is odd?” pressed Koznicki.

“Oh, only that with what seems to have been a brutally methodical shattering of most of the bones in this man’s body, there is no damage to the cranial bones—as if whoever did this deliberately left that part of his skull uninjured.

“Well, in any event,” he looked again at Koesler, “after we get done patching him as best we can now, he’ll be in an intensive care unit, with virtually all visitors barred. After that—IF he survives to that point—it will be a long period of bed rest while we hope and pray no blood clots form.

“So, truly, Father, there is absolutely nothing you can accomplish for your friend by remaining in London.”

“But—”

“The doctor is correct, Father,” said Koznicki. “You should go on with us. Don’t forget: We still have Cardinal Boyle to protect. If there is any dramatic change in Reverend Toussaint’s condition—for better or worse—we’ll be only an hour away by plane in Ireland.”

“I suppose you’re right,” said Koesler, without a great deal of conviction.

“Meanwhile, we’ll notify Mrs. Toussaint, and make arrangements for her to come and be with her husband,” Koznicki added.

“That very thought was just crossing my mind.” Koesler sounded slightly heartened.

“Oh, and by the by, doctor,” said Somerset, “the blackguards who did this aren’t likely to be delighted when they discover he’s still alive. So we’ll be keepin’ security on him around the clock.”

The doctor nodded.

Koznicki smiled. “That is very good of you, Superintendent.”

“Not at all. That’s perfectly all right, Inspector. And not to worry: we’ll get ’em. We’ll get ’em as have done this to your friend. And you can put your bottom dollar on that!”

10.

“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen, this is Captain Kamego. Welcome aboard for this little hop over the Irish Sea. Our flying time will be approximately fifty minutes. I’m afraid our altitude will not be sufficient to climb out of these clouds. So, while it was raining in London as we departed, it will be raining in Dublin when we arrive. But, as they say in Ireland, it is a soft day. If you’ve never experienced it, take my word, you’re in for a treat. I just want to assure you, there is a sun up above these clouds. Take it on faith.”

“And you must take what I am saying on faith also, your Eminence,” said Inspector Koznicki. “You still need every bit as much protection and security as you have needed since we uncovered this plot.”

Boyle loosened his safety belt and turned partly toward Koznicki. “You don’t believe the danger is over . . . or at least diminished?”

“No, I know it is not, your Eminence. With all due reverence, you are still alive.”

Boyle thoughtfully ran an index finger across his lips.

“Their plan is to do away with you,” Koznicki continued. “They have attempted twice to do just that. They failed the first time and tried again. They failed the second time. We have every reason to believe they will try again.”

“I suppose you are correct.”

“I know these precautions we urge on you are irritating and that they restrict your movements on what was planned as your vacation, but you must understand their necessity.”

Boyle gestured broadly, indicating his numerous relatives aboard the chartered plane. “Neither are they amused.”

For Boyle’s brothers, sisters, nieces, nephews, and cousins, this trip had been planned as an unalloyed vacation. The reality of being involved in a murder plot, even superficially, had dampened their enthusiasm appreciably.

“It cannot be helped,” said Koznicki. “We can be sure that for Reverend Toussaint there is also little amusement.”

“Poor man.” Boyle shook his head slowly. “That poor, poor man! When I heard what happened to him, as you know, I would have canceled the tour at that point if you had not convinced me that we must continue on as scheduled.”

“As I said last night, Eminence, this is turning out to be like an unpleasant but unfortunately necessary operation. We will expose those who are responsible for this plot by luring them to the surface and flushing them out, as was done in Rome and is being done in London.”

“And I am the bait.”

“Unfortunately, Eminence. But we are closing in; we’re getting to the root of it.

“And now, if you will excuse me, I must go speak with Father Koesler.”

As Koznicki rose and left him, Boyle picked up his breviary. Many priests, particularly the younger ones, had discarded this collection of daily prayers which was, technically, obligatory. And though most of those who read it did so from an English translation, Boyle continued to read it in Latin. He turned to his favorite psalm and prayed it: “Etsi incedam in valle tenebrosa, non timebo mala, quia tu mecum es. Virga tua et baculus tuus: haec me consolantur.”

“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.”

“Ladies and gentlemen, we’re going to experience a bit of turbulence for a little while. So, as much as possible, please stay in your seats. And buckle up.” The seat belt sign lit up.

“Do you think he’ll recover?” Pat Lennon asked.

“Geez, I don’t know,” Joe Cox replied. “The list of his injuries reads like an anatomy lesson. Just about every bone in his body is broken and the ones that aren’t broken are dislocated. And on top of that, he’s an old geezer—somewhere in his fifties.”

Lennon laughed aloud. “I’ll have to remind you of that when you reach your fifties, lover.”

Cox reddened. He seldom blushed. But his statement had been foolish and he, to his credit, immediately realized that. “I’ll never be fifty. Peter Pan and I, we’re never going to grow up.”

Privately, Lennon would have agreed that in some ways Cox probably would never grow up. She was willing to live with that, though not marry it.

“This trip hasn’t turned out at all the way we planned it,” Cox observed.

“If it had,” Lennon responded, “we’d be back in Detroit now. I’d be pounding my CRT and you’d be laboring over your VDT. Our story would have concluded in Rome.”

“Yeah. I must admit I thought this was just going to be a few predictable, dusty ceremonies that you could just as well cover by Italian TV from a friendly bar. It’s lucky I didn’t try that.”

“You’re damn right it’s lucky. Pull a stunt like that and can you imagine what Nelson Kane would have done to you?”

“Yeah . . . but I’d rather not.”

“Speaking of how our tour has expanded, did you get a handout on the Irish itinerary?”

“Yeah, Boyle’s secretary was giving them out as we boarded. You didn’t get one? Here, take mine. There’s only one major public appearance—at a cathedral in Dublin. The rest of the time, Boyle and his relatives will be sightseeing and visiting other relatives.”

“Which cathedral? Are you sure it’s a cathedral?” Lennon quickly scanned the sheet.

“What difference does it make?”

“You’re not paying very close attention, Joe. There are two cathedrals in Dublin; but neither is Catholic—they’re both Church of Ireland. Then there’s what they call the procathedral—St. Mary’s. That’s Catholic.”

“I thought everything in Ireland was Catholic.”

“It was until a Pope gave Ireland to England.”

“Huh?”

“Nicholas Breakspear, the one and only English Pope, in effect gave Ireland to England.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“You will also be surprised to know that after the Republic of Ireland freed itself from English rule, it didn’t repossess all the churches that had been taken from them by their English conquerors. So,” she located on the information sheet the site for the public ceremony, “the cathedral in question will be St. Patrick’s. Now you would think that would have to be a Catholic church, wouldn’t you?”

Cox nodded. “But I’d be wrong, right?”

“Right. It’s Church of Ireland and the resting place of one Jonathan Swift. But there isn’t much more by way of public appearances on the agenda. Looks like we can do some sightseeing ourselves.”

“Great.”

“They’ve got a nifty series of nice, cozy bed-and-breakfast places over here.”

“Sounds exactly like the kind of vacation that was planned for me. Bed and breakfast. We just get out of bed for breakfast and then hop right back in.”

Lennon smiled. “What about the sightseeing?”

“I would be seeing a lot of my favorite sight.”

“Joe, you have put an entirely new light on the maxim that travel is broadening.”

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is the Captain. We’ll be touching down at Dublin International Airport in approximately twenty minutes. The temperature is fifty-seven degrees Fahrenheit. It is overcast and, of course, raining. But it is a soft rain.”

“So you think it was the Rastafarians who abducted and beat Ramon?” Koesler asked.

“I do indeed,” said Koznicki. “Who else? Besides, Father, they left their calling card.”

“That’s right; they did.” Koesler reflected for a moment. “What do you make of the fact that the symbol was an open hand instead of a fist?”

“At this juncture, Father, we can only speculate. Either could be symbolic of the black power movement. Perhaps our Rastafarian splinter party uses the symbols interchangeably.

“As a matter of fact, the Rastafarians being held by Scotland Yard in connection with the attack on Cardinals Boyle and Whealan deny any knowledge of the attack on Toussaint and also of any symbols. However, it is quite common for accused persons, just arrested, to deny everything. And, it is helpful to realize that we are not dealing here with a rational or well-coordinated group. Don’t forget, these are largely unlettered men whose incense is marijuana! And who may be lucky if they can remember anything they’ve done, much less why they’ve done it.”

“But why would they attack Ramon? He is, by no stretch of the imagination, in the running for the Papacy.”

“No, of course not.” Koznicki was letting out his seat belt, giving himself plenty of room prior to buckling it. “But he has proved very successful in frustrating their efforts to do away with Cardinal Boyle. It was the Reverend Toussaint, you will recall, who prevented the assailant in Rome from harming the Cardinal. I would suggest the Rastafarians simply decided to eliminate their antagonist.”

“You think, then, that they meant to kill him?”

“Oh, yes. That beating was certainly intended to be fatal. The only reason it was not, I believe, was because they underestimated the Reverend’s strong constitution. Even the doctor at Hammersmith was amazed at the Reverend’s stamina.”

“But why the beating?” Koesler almost instinctively gripped the armrests as the plane began its gradual descent. “If they wanted to kill him, why didn’t they just do it and get it over? Their attacks on Cardinals Claret and Gattari—on Cardinal Boyle, for that matter—show they are not strangers to good-sized knives. And they seem to have no hesitancy in using them. Why not just kill Ramon outright?”

“That,” Koznicki responded, “must remain another matter for speculation until such time as those responsible are apprehended or until, perhaps, the Reverend recovers.”

“Any theories?”

“Oh, I would imagine they were trying to make an example of him. Their raison d’etre, as blacks in exile, is to return to their homeland, which they recognize, for reasons of their own, as Ethiopia. Some few of them, again for reasons of their own, believe the figure of the Pope to be the ‘Satan of Babylon,’ and as such, much responsible for their enslaved condition.

“Now in their campaign to eliminate candidates for the Papacy, to be effectively stopped by another black man perhaps is just too great an affront. They wish to make an example of this black ‘renegade,’ so they decide not only to kill him, but (a) to beat him to death, and (b) to leave his body where it will be found and thus, in effect, send a message—a warning—to others who might have thoughts of getting in their way.”

Koesler shuddered. “I guess I just don’t understand how anyone could do that to another human. I find such violence simply incredible.”

“It is a violent world, Father. In police work, especially in homicide, one unfortunately becomes quite accustomed to this sort of thing. For some it is not enough to commit the ultimate act of violence—the taking of a human life; for such types, total satisfaction comes only through inflicting preliminary agony as well.”

The plane touched down smoothly and taxied toward the terminal.

“So,” said Koesler, relaxing his grip on the armrest, “what’s on your agenda for Ireland?”

“Actually,” Koznicki replied, “I believe I will have the opportunity to enjoy a few days of recreation before the religious ceremony on Saturday evening at St. Patrick’s.”

“Really? I didn’t think you would be able to relax until we get back to Detroit.”

“There is very little else to do for the next few days. There are no public ceremonies scheduled until Saturday evening. The Boyle clan will be traveling around the various counties sightseeing and visiting relatives.”

“Won’t there be danger even in that?”

“A minimal amount at most. There are no publicized itineraries or agendas. Even if an assailant wanted to attack the Cardinal, there would be no way of figuring out where he was going to be in time to plan an attack. And since many of the Cardinal’s relatives live in villages where everyone knows everyone else, the unexplained presence of a stranger would be immediately taken note of. Plus the fact that if one wanted an accessible target, the Cardinal will be at his most vulnerable at the ecumenical ceremony in St. Patrick’s.

“However, I have been in touch with Liam O’Connor, who is Commissioner of Police for the Republic of Ireland. He fully understands the situation and will take every precaution to provide security for the Cardinal, not only at the public ceremony but also throughout his stay in Ireland.

“All in all, I feel reasonably confident about the Cardinal’s safety, at least until the Saturday evening at St. Patrick’s.”

The plane rolled to a stop at the terminal gate.

“Well, then,” Koesler unfastened his seat belt, “do you have any plans between now and Saturday evening?”

“None to speak of.” Koznicki snapped open his seat belt but did not rise. He was in no hurry to deplane. Or rather he was in no hurry to stand crouched over while a motionless line of passengers blocked the aisle.

“What would you think of joining me?”

“Of course. If it is not troublesome, I would be pleased to join you.” After a pause, “What did you have in mind?”

“Well, this afternoon I plan to visit Trinity College Library, mostly to see the Book of Kells, and then I was going to see about tickets for a play this evening.”

“That sounds excellent.”

“You may not think the rest of my plans are as enjoyable.”

“Oh?”

“Tomorrow, I plan to rent a car and drive up to Boyle to see the town, the river, and the old abbey. My maternal grandfather came from there. A friend of mine is part owner of a pub in the neighboring village of Gurteen. Before we left Detroit, he urged me to spend the night there if I got as far as Boyle. How does that sound to you?”

“Just different enough to be very interesting. Are you sure there will be room for two at the pub?”

“Reasonably. But I’ll reconfirm that before we leave Dublin.”

“Strange,” the aisle cleared, Koznicki stood, “I have known you so long and so well. Yet I did not know of your Irish ancestry. Irish and German, are you?”

“Afraid so.”

“And not a drop of Polish?”

“No.”

“A pity. You might have had a bright future in the Church.”