Irish Alibi (13 page)

“Hey, whose side are you on?”

“The blindfolded lady's.”

11

The university archives are located on the sixth floor of the Hesburgh Library awaiting the day when a building appropriate to the treasures they contain is erected. Meanwhile, it is there that scholars working on some aspect or another of the history of Notre Dame spend happy hours in congenial if crowded surroundings. And it was there that Greg Walsh, assistant archivist, greeted Roger Knight when he had managed to squeeze through the doorway and, once inside, expanded to his usual girth.

“John Bannister Tabb never visited Notre Dame, Roger.”

Several scholars turned in surprise to hear the fluency with which Walsh spoke. A debilitating stammer had been the bane of Walsh's existence. He had obtained a doctorate that did not prove to be a ticket to the classroom; at interviews he had been rendered mute. Undaunted, he went on to law school, but once more the stellar grades he had gained in his courses proved to be no entrée to a forensic career. Finally, he had gone into library science and been hired in the archives, where he lived a mute but satisfying existence, arguably more knowledgeable than anyone who came to the archives to do research. Only with Roger Knight did Greg's stammer disappear. It may have been that the enormous weight of the Huneker Professor of Catholic Studies canceled out Greg's impediment. Whatever the reason, Greg spoke with mellifluous ease with Roger.

“I was afraid of that.”

“We have a few interesting things, however.”

They repaired to Greg's office, where Roger examined the photocopies Greg had prepared for him: some interesting data on the Bull-Pen, at Point Lookout, Maryland, where Tabb had been held prisoner for seven months in 1864–65. It was there that he had met his fellow prisoner Sidney Lanier.

Greg pushed a book toward Roger. “This is Lanier's novel,
Tiger-Lilies
. Do you know it?”

“Not exactly a rousing defense of the Confederacy.”

“I wonder if Southerners realize that.”

“Oh, I doubt that anyone would have come to the defense of slavery. After the war, I mean.”

“Perhaps you're right.”

“Did you find anything about the Kincade who attended Notre Dame?”

“There are several in the student body now.”

“I mean their father.”

“There isn't much.”

What there was was a story from the
Scholastic
telling of the cloaking of the statue of Father Corby with a white sheet as a protest against celebrating Notre Dame's connection with the Union cause during the Civil War.

“Did he think Corby was a combatant?” Greg wondered.

“Perhaps he is taking General Polk as the measure.” Polk, an Episcopalian bishop, had been a Confederate general who sometimes conducted services when he wasn't leading troops in battle.

“What will they do to Malcolm Kincade?”

“Father Carmody is intervening on his behalf. As he did his father's. I hope he succeeds in squashing it.”

Roger was thinking of Sarah Kincade's confidence as to how her brothers would handle an accusation. Who would be able to say for certain which of the identical twins had been the culprit?

Roger put the photocopies in his shoulder bag, and he and Greg settled into a forty-five-minute conversation. Roger was reluctant to leave, knowing how bracing it was for Greg to be able to speak without a stammer. When he had finally squeezed himself through the entrance, he waited for an elevator. One came, its door slid open, and five occupants looked with dismay at Roger. He waved them on, waiting for an empty car.

Outside, behind the wheel of his golf cart, he set off for Brownson but on the way decided to continue on to Holy Cross House on the other side of the lake to get an update from Father Carmody.

Having seen Roger bumping over the lawn that separated the house from Moreau Seminary, Father Carmody was waiting for him under the portico when he arrived. The old priest got into the passenger seat.

“I assume we're going to take a little spin.”

“
Sed tantum dic verbo
.”

Father Carmody pointed westward like a wagonmaster getting under way. No need to say that he wished to visit the community cemetery.

He spent several minutes at the grave of Father Sorin, then paid courtesy visits to other early members of the Congregation. Then he turned and looked to the north over row upon row of identical stone crosses bearing the names and dates of his departed brethren.

“From about the third row after Father Sorin, all the way to the road, are graves of men who died since I joined the Congregation.” He glanced at Roger. “I am not suggesting they died
because
I joined. Sometimes I wonder if there will be room here for me when my time comes.”

The phrase “the democracy of the dead” came to Roger's mind as he looked over the cemetery and its crosses, all of the same height, no one singled out posthumously as more important than anyone else. The only judgment that counted would be made by one who neither deceives nor can be deceived. The laity are wont to grumble at flaws in the clergy, demanding they meet the higher standard to which they are vowed. But all those rows commemorated the same fidelity to youthful promises, however differently manifested. It was grace and forgiveness, not merit, that this place evoked.

“Young Kincade will get a reprieve,” Father Carmody said when they were settled in the cart again. He lit a cigarette and drew on it with relish. “Smoking out here among the trees reminds me of when I was a seminarian.” He smiled. “Against the rules, you know. Of course, there was no talk of a smoke-free campus then. Or if there was, it expressed a fear of fire.”

Roger directed the cart down the road to the Grotto, where they said the Angelus, Roger making the responses. Devotion to Mary plays a prominent role in the life of celibates, a fact about which pop psychologists would say many irrelevant things. Roger knew better. Father Carmody was not an unctuous man, nor was he given to pietistic statements, but as they sat there he said, “I love this place.”

He meant the Grotto. He meant Notre Dame. He meant the locale of his whole long life.

“What argument did you use?” Roger asked him.

“About the Kincade boy? I said he had a point. I persuaded them there should be a balancing memorial.”

“Another statue?”

“John Bannister Tabb. He fought for the Confederacy, you know. He converted later and was ordained. I never liked his poetry.”

“Critics have given it very high marks. He loved Edgar Allan Poe.”

Father Carmody's news was a relief to Roger. What a farce it would have been if Jackson had been forced to select which of the twins had stolen his truck. It seemed all right to tell Father Carmody of the planned alibi.

The old priest laughed. “I wish now that I had kept out of it.”

*   *   *

That night, when Jimmy Stewart came by and he and Phil discussed the investigation into the death of Madeline O'Toole, Roger listened while he looked over the printed list of items taken from the motel suite.

“Hairpins?” he asked.

“They were found on the bed.”

The review of what had been learned from questioning Kelly and O'Toole was the focus of the conversation. Working out a timeline of events left gaps.

Saturday. Magnus O'Toole had flown in early that morning, driven to the condo to leave his things there, and then gone on to the bookstore to sign copies of
Irish Icons
.

Quintin Kelly and Madeline had flown in from Atlanta together. In Madeline's purse was her itinerary, indicating she had come from Memphis to Atlanta. Their flight out of Hartsfield had been delayed, so they had not checked into the motel until after noon.

“How did they manage to get reservations on a football weekend?” Roger asked.

The manager had sent Jimmy to the bookkeeper when he asked that question.

“Kitty,” Jimmy said. A wry smile. “You should see her, Roger.”

“How so?”

The description dwelt on her dated hairdo.

Roger said, “Sounds like Aunt Agatha's, Phil.”

Kitty had reluctantly pulled up the records. It seemed the reservation had been made the previous summer.

“So it wasn't a spur-of-the-moment decision?”

Still on Saturday, Quintin Kelly had taken a motel shuttle to the campus, where he found Magnus O'Toole in the bookstore. He bought a copy of
Irish Icons
and arranged to meet O'Toole outside the bookstore when he had finished his signing. They met and went on to the game, watching it from the press box.

“They had a couple drinks during the game,” Jimmy added.

After the game, they had gone on to Legends, where they ran into Caleb and Sarah, who had brought them on to the Knights' apartment.

“When did they leave here?” Jimmy asked the brothers.

Neither Roger nor Phil could say. In any case, the two had gone on to the Morris Inn, where Leahy's Bar was still open. More drinks.

“Did they drink while they were here?”

Drinks had been served; presumably the two men had had their share. When they left the Morris Inn, they would have been well on the way to drunkenness. They made it to the condo, where the point of Kelly's looking up O'Toole was further discussed. The two men agreed that O'Toole's first reaction was what one might have expected, but then, eased by alcohol, they achieved a state of camaraderie. O'Toole fell asleep where he sat. Kelly found a bedroom and collapsed.

Meanwhile, back at the Tranquil Motel, Madeline went to the bar-cum-restaurant, where the game was being shown on several screens. There she was joined by a bearded man and later by a student.

“A student?”

“A kid named Kincade. He recognized Madeline because they were both from Memphis,” Jimmy said.

“Phyllis saw her leave the bar with the bearded man, apparently to get away from the kid.”

“Phyllis?” Roger said.

“A bartender. Phyllis Brickhouse.”

“Brickhouse!” Roger cried. “What a remarkable name.”

“It's only hers by marriage. She was born Phyllis Llewellyn. I think I'm pronouncing that right.”

Later—but how much later?—the student, apparently noticing that he had been deserted, went looking for his older friend from Memphis. He got the number of her suite at the desk and began pounding on her door. It was late enough to anger nearby guests, and calls were made to the desk. The guests, according to Michael Beatty, had described the scenes outside the door of 302 as like something you'd see in a brothel—the fetching lady looking out, a bearded man beside her, a demanding boy in the hallway wanting in.

“I hope you can keep his name out of this,” Roger said.

“The bearded man then came out of the suite and led the boy away.”

“Does the bearded man have a name?” Roger asked.

“Kelly says he was Rufus James.”

“How does he know?”

“That takes us to Sunday.”

Sunday. Quintin Kelly awakened from drunken sleep and realized that he had left Madeline alone in their suite all night. He took the keys of O'Toole's rental car and drove to the motel.

“He expected an angry reception. He found Madeline indifferent to his absence. With evident pleasure, she told him how she had spent her time alone. Not alone. That was when she mentioned Rufus James.”

“Rufus James!” Roger cried.

“You know the name?”

“He's a writer with a small but secure reputation. Just one book—” He stopped, sensing that he was stretching the interest of Jimmy and Phil.

“Maybe that's what they had in common.”

“I don't understand.”

“Madeline is a novelist. A successful novelist. It ruined her marriage, according to Magnus.”

This was the first Roger had heard of the literary achievements of Madeline Butler.

“That's her pen name,” Jimmy explained.

“I would like to see her novels.”

“Are you sure?”

“In the line of duty.”

Quintin Kelly had described his reaction to Madeline's account of what she had been up to in his absence as an epiphany. Suddenly he saw her for what she was. It was Madeline's calmness, even contempt, that had proved to be the end of their affair.

“In the midst of the argument, young Kincade showed up to take Madeline to the noon Mass at Sacred Heart. That enables us to place these events.”

“Kincade,” Roger groaned. “Did he take her to Mass?”

“Yes.”

“Her last Mass.”

Jimmy and Phil looked at Roger but decided that silence was the best response.

“What then?”

“After they left, Quintin Kelly packed up his things and moved out of the suite.”

“Going back to the condo,” Phil added. “He wanted to return the rental car.”

The two men, rejected husband and disillusioned lover, had discussed Madeline's character at some length, agreeing that she was what she was. That done, Kelly went into one of the bedrooms and went to sleep. Magnus fell asleep watching professional football on television.

“And?”

“This is where things become fuzzy. Both men speak of Sunday as a lost day, devoted to a sleep that lasted until Monday morning.”

“Has the time of death been established?” Roger asked.

“Sunday afternoon. Late. The body was not found, as you know, until about noon on Monday. Feeney figured she had been dead maybe eighteen to twenty hours.”

That represented the results of questioning Quintin Kelly and Magnus O'Toole.

“What do you think, Roger?”

“It couldn't have been either of them.”

Jimmy looked at Phil. They hadn't mentioned that no one at the motel had seen Kelly on Sunday. But Phyllis insisted that she had seen the bearded man around.

“Ah. Rufus James.”

“O'Toole has a beard.”