Last Things (28 page)

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Authors: Ralph McInerny

Tags: #Mystery

BOOK: Last Things
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Eleanor Wygant had come to Amos Cadbury's office to see if Zwingli really was the best lawyer the firm could provide for the defense of her nephew Andrew.
“He's an excellent young man, Eleanor. I would not have suggested him otherwise. How has he displeased you?”
“It's Andrew who lacks confidence in him. And Raymond too seems puzzled by his evenhandedness.”
Were the brothers judges of the way of the world, let alone legal strategy? Of course it was essential that a client have confidence in his attorney, particularly one in Andrew's position.
“I'll talk to him.”
“That would give him such a boost, Amos.”
He had meant he would talk to Zwingli, but Eleanor's assumption that he had meant Andrew would have been cruel to correct.
Criminal law was foreign to Amos's personal legal experience, and the firm had no reputation in the area, something Amos did not lament. If Zwingli was good, and he would not have been hired if his law school standing had not been astronomically high, he would not stay long with Amos Cadbury, that is, if criminal law
should remain his predilection. If Andrew were still in custody, Amos would have taken his young associate along with him. But a call at the Bernardo house was ambiguous enough not to look like second-guessing Zwingli. His associate had arranged bail for Andrew, who had gone to his parents' home.
“I'll meet you there,” Eleanor said, when he had declined to ride with her to the house. It was not simply that he preferred to be in command of his own comings and goings but that Eleanor's marital record and continued good looks suggested caution. Was he wrong to detect a speculative look in her eye? What was it like to imagine oneself at square one at her age? Amos's beloved wife had preceded him in death, but her passing had seemed to strengthen their marriage bond rather than end it.
Settling into the backseat of his car, having told George their destination, Amos was beset by thoughts of his long life. He had begun his career in the conviction that the law was the codification of fundamental morality, a set of rules grounded in human nature rather than religious beliefs, but it was his faith that seemed the only bulwark of morality now. The law had become a game practiced by charlatans in catchy costumes who had a knack for misleading juries by pleading their cases to the television cameras. He sighed. What could he say to Andrew? If the young man was guilty, punishment was called for. Amos trusted that Zwingli would use only honest means to defend their client. The firm of Amos Cadbury would continue, as it always had, trusting in the rule of law, no matter the horde of unruly lawyers.
Eleanor was already at the house when he arrived, but then he had instructed George to take a circuitous route. Walking up to the door, he thought of Fulvio Bernardo. The man had made a good end, by all reports, and Amos was glad for that. But the thought of all the money he had purloined from Alfred Wygant was a bitter one. Of course, technically, Eleanor had the right to
waive the debt. Now both the one who owed and the one to whom the money was originally owed had gone into that bourne from which no traveler returns. If Eleanor had no wish to reclaim what her late husband had given Fulvio Bernardo that was the end of it, legally.
The two Bernardo sons were in the house, and Amos spoke briefly to Andrew, assuring him that the firm would do everything possible to defend him.
“I did not kill that man, Mr. Cadbury. I did a stupid thing in getting the body off my doorstep, but he was already dead.”
Amos nodded. He was inclined to believe Andrew, but he wondered if a jury would.
Raymond was in his father's home office, and Amos joined him there. They spoke inconsequentially of the college, Amos telling the one-time hope of the Order what St. Edmund's had become.
“It broke Father Bourke's heart,” Raymond said.
“You spoke with him.”
“Several times.”
“How long will you be in town?”
“I'm not sure.”
Had the prodigal son returned? Raymond in lay clothes bore little resemblance to the young priest Amos remembered. For almost a decade he had been away, longer than he had been active as a priest. Was it possible to step out of the character one had formed over so many years? Of course it was. Raymond had done it. If Father Bourke's heart had been broken it was Raymond's defection that had done it. Whose heart would he break if he came back?
Before Amos left, having condoled with Margaret Bernardo, Father Dowling arrived. Amos spoke with him in the hallway as he was going.
“You must come for dinner soon, Amos.”
“Thank you, Father. I would like that very much.” He stepped closer to the priest. “You will find this a house of mourning.”
“I want to speak to Andrew.”
“I hope you don't regret my advice that you tell the police what you had done,” Father Dowling said to Andrew.
Eleanor was talking with Mrs. Bernardo, and Raymond had gone upstairs to put through a call to California.
“It was better that they hear it from me.”
“I have spoken with Foster. He is certain that Lily St. Clair took the palm top from your desk. I suppose she dropped it outside your building.”
Andrew tried to smile. “Even if they believe her, it would make her no more guilty than I am.”
“But you will look less guilty.”
“If Foster is believed.”
“I believe him.”
Andrew was absurdly grateful for this assurance.
“There was a memorial service for Horst Cassirer at McDivitt's. Lily arranged it.”
“I wonder who was there.”
“I was, just outside the room. It was quite moving. A lovely ode by Catullus. Lily cast herself in the role of quasi widow.”
“That's nonsense.”
“There was no great love between her and Cassirer?”
Andrew shook his head. “If there were it would have been known.” He added ruefully, “Such things always are known.”
“There was only one student at the memorial.”
“I am surprised there was one.”
“A girl named Mabel Gorman.”
“Mabel! But she hated Cassirer.”
“Hated?”
“You have no idea how he treated students. Mabel is a student of mine as well, a very gifted young woman. She has great talent as a writer.”
“And she didn't hate you?”
“Oh, I'm pretty good with students.”
 
 
That night Father Dowling sat late in his study, smoking his pipe, his mind drifting like the smoke. He had not mentioned to anyone his guess that Lily St. Clair had staged the attack that had gained so much publicity. But why would she do such a thing? It could only have the effect of helping Andrew Bernardo, however equivocally. If there had been an attacker it might have been someone who did want to help Andrew. And then the thought formed like the smoke ring that he sent sailing across the room. He watched it go, and it held its shape until it dissolved. Where do thoughts come from and where do they go?
There was one undeniable fact, and that was that a man whom few had loved was dead. Horst Cassirer. Lily St. Clair, and perhaps Zalinski, had been exceptions. The pathetic memorial service for the fallen scholar induced long thoughts. Gloria Monday had seized the occasion to make ideological points, but there was a certain nobility in Lily St. Clair's effort to save her fallen colleague
from oblivion. Andrew seemed to think that her claim to a closer relation with Cassirer had been largely a thing of her imagination. But in dreams begin responsibilities. The more he thought of it, the less plausible it seemed to him that Lily St. Clair had staged the attack that had gained her some minutes of notoriety if not fame. The attack had been too reminiscent of that on Cassirer to be incidental. And the attacker most likely had counted on the similarity being noticed, and serving to exonerate Andrew.
Only one candidate for that role suggested herself. Father Dowling went to bed wondering how he should proceed. Asking Phil Keegan or Cy to pursue his suspicion would entail explanations that, when spoken, might seem far-fetched. He must pursue the matter himself.
 
 
The campus was familiar to him after his visit some days before, and once more he was waved through the gate by a deferential guard. But he stopped.
“Is there a list of students?”
“Well, there's the campus phone book.”
“Where could I get one?”
For answer, the guard handed him a little booklet. “Better go on through, Father. You can drop it off when you leave.”
He parked and walked to the campus church, where he sat in a back pew and opened the directory in the dim light. Mabel Gorman did not live on campus. He jotted down her address and phone number, then closed the directory and got on his knees. The sanctuary was slightly more brightly lit than the nave, and the golden tabernacle glowed. After some minutes of. prayer in which he scarcely knew what to ask for, he rose and went out to his car.
Everyone used cell phones now, and not for the first time he
wished he had overcome his dislike of them and gotten one of his own. Marie pooh-poohed the idea, perhaps not liking the thought of parish business being conducted out of earshot. At the guard shack he handed back the telephone directory.
“Find what you're looking for, Father?”
He nodded. But what was he looking for?
The address was a huge house a block away. He parked in front of it. As he approached the door, a boy came out and hurried toward him.
“Do you know if Mabel Gorman is in?”
The boy shrugged and kept going. The front door was not locked and he went inside. The house had once been a family residence, but now it bore the marks of a house providing rooms for students. He went through the dining room and heard sounds in the kitchen. When he went in, Mabel Gorman turned and looked at him.
“My name is Father Dowling. I saw you at Professor Cassirer's memorial service.”
She said nothing.
“You seemed to be the only student there.”
She had been making a sandwich. Now she opened the refrigerator and put a package of cold meat in it.
“Andrew Bernardo tells me you are a student of his. And that you have great talent.”
“What will happen to him?”
“Could we sit?”
She led him into the living room, where he sat on a couch that sank ominously beneath him. The furniture all looked the worse for wear. Mabel sat on the edge of a chair and bit into her sandwich.
“His lawyer is not optimistic.”
“He is innocent.”
“You're wearing tennis shoes.”
She looked at her feet as if to verify this.
“Everybody does.”
“Are they the same ones you wore that night?”
This was the moment of truth. Or of denial. She chewed her sandwich, looking at him. There seemed no reason to think that she would confirm his suspicions. He half hoped she would not.
“I hate him,” she said. “He was the most hateful man I have ever known.”
“But you didn't hate Andrew Bernardo.”
“Oh no.”
“You have put him in a very difficult spot.”
“Why did he have to do what he did?”
“Because he knew what everyone would think.” He paused. “What a jury will think.”
“I don't know what to do.”
“I think you do.”
Silence.
“What will they do to me?”
“God only knows. But you have to talk to the police.”
“No!”
“It would be far worse if Andrew Bernardo is found guilty of what you did.”
She stared at him, a pathetic girl on a straight-back chair, her tennis shoes flat on the worn carpet. She looked at her sandwich and then at Father Dowling.
“I'm not sorry for what I did.”
“That will come with time, I think. Would you like me to come with you?”
“Where?”
“To the police.”
All she had to tell him was to go, to leave her alone. But he could not really hope that she would refuse him.
“Or I could have them come to you. We could go to my rectory, and they could come talk to you there.”
How passive she seemed. Perhaps she had used up all her strength in attacking Horst Cassirer. But twenty minutes passed before they left for St. Hilary's, minutes during which he insisted gently that there was only one thing she could do. It was the thought that she had put Andrew in jeopardy that proved decisive. When she went upstairs for her coat, Father Dowling had the fear that she would flee, but she did not. She came slowly down the stairs, and they went out to the car. Outside, she pulled the hood of her coat over her head.

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