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
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.
