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
“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
“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.
“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.”
