Murder Superior(85)

They found Gregor Demarkian in the foyer, lying flat on the floor with his ear to the tiles, squinting into the dust in that place where the wall and floor joined. Since Reverend Mother General was also squinting into that same joint—although she was still standing; Father Stephen didn’t think Reverend Mother would ever go crawling around on the floor—Father Stephen didn’t think the dust would be there very long. Father Stephen waited while Demarkian sighed, stood up, and brushed off his suit. Father Stephen got the distinct impression that Gregor Demarkian was the kind of man who put on a suit as soon as he got up in the morning, no matter what he expected to do with his day. Demarkian looked around, looked at Father Stephen and Frank, and sighed.

“I don’t suppose you two have come to tell me about how you lost a knife,” he said.

“A knife?” Father Stephen said.

“I don’t deal in knives,” Frank Moretti said. “I don’t deal in guns, either, and I’m not exactly fond of blunt instruments. People can get hurt.”

“I suppose they can,” Father Stephen said. Then he did his best to put this conversation back on track. “We heard you were here,” he said, “and you were asking about anything that might have gone on that day—it was yesterday, I can’t believe it was only yesterday—that was odd. And there was something odd. Frank can tell you.”

“It was odd but it wasn’t important,” Frank said.

“What was it?” Gregor Demarkian looked interested.

Father Stephen nudged Frank in the elbow. Somehow, this wasn’t working out the way he’d expected it to. He’d been all excited when he’d heard Demarkian was here, and the Archbishop, too. It had felt as if they were all finally beginning to get their own back, after the way that dreadful young man had behaved to everyone and then gone off and told the newspapers about it. Now they were standing in the middle of the foyer with nuns all around them and other people, too, and it was—well, disorganized.

Gregor Demarkian had gone to the doors that separated the foyer from the reception room and was muttering under his breath. Father Stephen marched up to him and touched him on the shoulder.

“It was only the theft of some plant food,” he said bravely, “but that’s very strange, isn’t it? Who would want to steal plant food?”

“Plant food,” Gregor Demarkian said. He looked straight at Frank Moretti. “Where was this plant food stolen from?”

“Right across the way there,” Frank said. “There’s a shed, a landscaping shed, out behind St. Patrick’s Hall. It’s not far.”

“What goes on in St. Patrick’s Hall?” Demarkian asked.

“Classes, mostly,” Father Stephen said. “But this was Sunday, Mr. Demarkian. No one was there.”

“Was the plant food stolen on Sunday?” Demarkian asked. “Could you be sure of that?”

“It could have been Saturday afternoon or Saturday night,” Frank Moretti said. “I saw the thing just after lunch Saturday and it was all right. But it’s like I told the Father, Mr. Demarkian. It was probably one of them nuns. I mean, they’re everywhere, aren’t they? And one of them probably has a plant that’s not doing too well because she overfeeds and overwaters it and overeverything elses it, too, if you see what I mean, and—”

“Does either one of you know anything at all about the new field house?”

Father Stephen looked at Frank Moretti. Frank Moretti looked at Father Stephen. It was one of those questions and neither of them knew what to do with it. Father Stephen looked helplessly around the foyer and his eyes came to rest on Reverend Mother General and Sister Scholastica and Mother Mary Bellarmine.

“Oh,” he said. “If you want to know about the field house, you should talk to Mother Mary Bellarmine. She’s some kind of expert.”

“All I know about the field house is that they’re digging a hole for it out on Sunset Hill, and it’s playing Hell with my grass,” Frank Moretti said.

“I don’t want an expert,” Gregor said. “I want your impressions. Has either of you ever heard of a man named Henry Hare?”

“Oh, dear, yes,” Father Stephen said.

“He’s a jerk,” Frank Moretti said.

“Frank,” Fattier Stephen said.

“He is a jerk,” Frank Moretti insisted. “I don’t think it matters so much if he cuts a few corners, if you know what I mean, everybody does these days or nothing would ever get built, but he kids himself about it. It’s like he’s got to con himself worse than he’s got to con everybody else.”