Murder at the National Cathedral Read Online Free PDF Page B

was thinking. “Yes,” the bishop said. “How many agents will be here?”
    Porter, who was always a little disgruntled when his domain was intruded upon by other officials, answered with curt, controlled precision: “A dozen from the Secret Service uniformed force, four plainclothes, nine MPD officers. FBI is supposed to have six men assigned, too.”
    “Well, it looks like with you all, including the Metropolitan Police, we’re all safe for another day,” the bishop said,a chuckle in his voice. “Glad you’re here.” He bounded up the steps and entered the cathedral’s south transept. To his immediate right was the War Memorial Chapel, dedicated to the men and women who’d lost their lives in defense of the country. St. James entered it, looked for a moment at a huge needlepoint tapestry called “Tree of Life” on which the seals of the fifty states were done in petit point, then continued through another door leading into the Children’s Chapel, his favorite of the cathedral’s nine chapels.
    “Suffer the little children to come unto me,” he said softly, looking at a reredos of carved wood overlaid with gold portraying Jesus when he’d spoken those words. Children and small four-legged animals, the most vulnerable and dependent of all creatures. Everything in the Children’s Chapel was child-size—a small organ, scaled-down seats and low altar, miniature needlepoint kneeling pads featuring family pets and wild beasts, including those that had boarded Noah’s Ark. A statue of the Christ Child stood near the entrance, its arms open wide in welcome. St. James did what he almost always did upon entering the chapel. He took the Christ Child’s extended bronze fingers in his own and squeezed, as thousands of visiting children did each year. The statue itself had burnished with age, but the rubbing of so many tiny hands kept the fingers bright and shiny, a glow from children to Child. The bishop went to the altar, genuflected, gave thanks for the glory of another day of service, and crossed the cathedral to the narrow, winding stone steps just inside the north entrance and across from the Good Shepherd Chapel. A sign at the foot of the steps said CLERGY ; an arrow pointed up. Good direction, he thought once again, and took the steps two at a time.
    He’d no sooner entered the bishop’s dressing room and closed the door behind him when there was a knock. He opened the door to admit one of his canons, Jonathon Merle. “Good morning, Jonathon.”
    “Good morning, Bishop,” Merle said dourly, in a tonewhich mirrored his general personality. The canon was considerably taller than the bishop, his body lean and angular. His face matched his body; hawklike, eyes sunken and ringed with puttylike flesh, nose a bit of a beak. His face had an overall grayness to it that went perfectly with the rest of him. A sincere man but, sadly, a somewhat sour one.
    “Everything in order?” St. James asked, referring to preparations that would be taking place downstairs for the funeral.
    “Yes, I think so.” The Bishop would be present during the ceremony, but Father Merle would conduct the service.
    “Is Father Singletary back?” St. James asked absently.
    “He’s due tonight, I think,” Merle said.
    “I wonder how his meeting with the archbishop went.” St. James said it not so much because he wondered what the answer would be but because he knew any mention of Paul Singletary nettled Jonathon. That these two canons disliked each other was no secret, and while St. James did what he could to keep their mutual animosity from getting in the way of cathedral business, there were times when he took a certain private delight in the conflict. The truth was that he, too, disliked Father Merle, a failing for which he often asked forgiveness during his prayers. He was confident that Merle had no inkling of his feelings, thank the Lord. The canon’s devotion to God and to his priestly duties at the cathedral were