William Bernhardt - Criminal intent

"I think we have valid reasons," said Ernestine.

"As you did before," Beale replied. "If you'll recall, the matter was subjected to a full-blown trial. And you lost. And after the trial, you were instructed to give it up. Except apparently none of you were listening, because now, here it is again."

Ruth, the vestry secretary, talked while simultaneously taking notes. "That is not precisely what Father Holbrook said." She would be the one who knew, Ben realized. Probably had the man's every word scribbled down somewhere. "Moreover, he specifically said that he would revisit the matter in six months and that his ruling was contingent upon Father Beale's compliance with the conditions laid down by the adjudicative panel."

"There have been some rather extenuating circumstances since the trial," Ernestine replied. Her bearing and manner were, as always, upper-crust and domineering. She had not put her name forward for senior warden, but Ben suspected she considered herself the true leader of the vestry regardless of who sat in the end chair. "When tragedy mounts upon tragedy, it's only natural for people to want… change."

"What are you saying?" Beale asked.

Ernestine pressed her hand against her bosom. "I'm only saying that given the circumstances-"

"You're saying I killed Kate, aren't you? And Helen?"

A deathly silence fell over the parish hall. No one spoke. No one even moved.

"Well, listen up, people. I did not kill Kate. I did not kill Helen. Or anyone else. And I will not be railroaded out of this church based on these false-and damned convenient-accusations."

Ben cleared his throat, even though at heart the last thing on earth he wanted to do was to attract attention at this little get-together. "Father Beale, as your legal representative, I must caution you again not to comment in any way on the murders."

"I am an innocent man," Beale insisted. "Why shouldn't I say so?"

"Believe me-it's for the best. Don't refer to the murders at all."

After another moment of silence, Susan reasserted herself. "Let's approach this matter from a different direction." Ben had learned Susan was a divorced mother of two who worked full-time as an accountant for WorldCom. A stressful situation, but possibly good training for conducting this meeting. "St. Benedict's has always supported the Episcopal doctrine of lay leadership. As a member of the vestry, and now acting senior warden, I also support lay leadership." Her eyes rose. "Do you, Father?"

"With all my heart and soul."

"Then how can you… persist in this refusal to step down, when it is perfectly apparent that the majority of the vestry believe you should resign?"

"I believe in lay leadership as to administrative matters of the church. You decide when services start and who teaches Sunday school. You can hire and fire janitors and select the menu for Lenten dinners. You can do basically anything-except oppose the will of God."

"Are you suggesting that you are the embodiment of the will of God?"

"Don't be absurd. What I'm saying is simply that God called me to this church and his representative in this diocese, the bishop, installed me here. The vestry does not have the authority, legal or moral, to undermine those appointments. You've tried everything possible, and it has all been unavailing."

Another member spoke, a slender young woman Ben had seen teaching Sunday school classes. Carol Mason. "Father, all we're trying to do is find some peace and harmony for this church."

"No, what you're trying to do is use rumor and false witness to accomplish a political goal-getting rid of me."

"Speaking for myself, Father, I would never accuse you of anything." Despite her agitation, Carol was quite lovely, with delicate features and gorgeous blond hair. Ben felt his heart beating faster just watching her. "But I do think it might be best for the church if you resigned. Best for everyone. Including you."

"Do you believe in the doctrine of divine commission?"

Carol stuttered. "W-well-of course."

"Then you believe God calls people into service?"

"Ye-es…"

"As do I. I believe God called me to be a priest, and I believe he called me to St. Benedict's. Come to think of it, Ruth, I recall you saying the same thing when you were on the search committee that first issued my invitation to come to St. Benedict's. Do you recall that?"

Ruth nodded, not looking up.

"Then please answer this question for me: If God has called me to this church, what right do we have to thwart His desire?"

"Father…"

"It's a serious question. Either you believe God has a plan or you don't. And if He does, if I was brought to this church for a reason, how can we unravel His design?"

"We can't," said Masterson, the organist, who Ben knew had been at St. Benedict's much longer than Father Beale. "At the same time, we don't always know His design. We thought God called you to this parish. But obviously we were wrong. We made a mistake."

"You're still sulking about All Saints' Day."

"Does this relate to the murders?" Ben asked. An embarrassing question, but he didn't even know when All Saints' Day was, much less to what incident Father Beale was referring.

"No," Father Beale answered. "This relates to our choirmaster pouting like a five-year-old because I instructed him to play 'I Sing a Song of the Saints of God' on All Saints' Day."

"It's a children's song," Masterson said, "trite and imbecilic, and it may be appropriate for Sunday school or Children's Chapel, but it has no place in the worship service."

"It's a lovely little tune," Beale rejoined, "and while it may be simplistic, it is liturgically correct and many parishioners, including me, look forward to hearing it during the All Saints' service."

Masterson made a sniffing noise. "Music should be left to those who know something about it."

"Excuse me, but that's exactly wrong. The Book of Common Prayer says the rector is in charge of the service and the other members of the staff take instruction from him. End of story." Beale turned back toward Ben. "Could there be a clearer proof of what's going on at this meeting than this? This dispute has nothing to do with murders. The deaths are just an excuse for excising a rector who has become inconvenient."

Beale paused, and all at once the air seemed to go out of him, like a punctured balloon. He fell back into his chair, looking tired and unsure. "I know I've made mistakes. I know I haven't handled myself… appropriately in all instances. I've done some things that-that I shouldn't have done. I know that. And I know I have a foul temper. I'm working to get it under control. Everyone makes mistakes. I've learned from mine. I'm confident that if we can just get past all this-this-hate, this unkindness, I can make a success of this. St. Benedict's has some wonderful people. We could be an outstanding church, the best in the diocese, leaders in outreach. But we can't do that when we're still trying to hurt one another. We can't do that until we're willing to let the past be the past and join hands to work together."

The parish hall fell silent. Ben couldn't tell whether Father Beale's speech had hit home with any of them or whether they were just too tired to argue.

"Look," Ben said, his voice almost inaudibly quiet. "I'm a lawyer. I don't know much about this church stuff, I admit. No one ever comes to a lawyer for moral guidance."

"You can say that again," Masterson grumbled.

"But I did grow up in an Episcopal church," Ben continued. "And I have known Father Beale for a long time-longer than any of you, I think. And I can tell you this. He's a good man. A very good man. Sure, he's flawed, just like the rest of us. But he tries to do the right thing. Isn't that what it's all about?"

Susan turned her head away. "He may have tried, but he made grave errors. Some of which you… know nothing about."