The Mass had finished. It had been an exquisite service, reminiscent of those that must have been held here by the likes of Gilderstone and Campion and Southwell three hundred and fifty years earlier. No ornamentation, no organ music, no choir. Just a simple telling of the Latin Mass by two priests – in this case, one Roman Catholic, one Anglican.
And then the Kennedys’ young friend, Lincoln, son of their friends and neighbours at Hyannis Port, had opened the door for the singer. Marcus Marfield had entered in his choral scholar’s ensemble of red cassock and white surplice. Using both hands, he held a small crucifix to his chest, and he started singing as soon as he entered.
The Kennedy family of eleven – nine children and the parents – along with Herschel Johnson from the embassy, the family’s nanny, Luella Hennessey, and Rosemary’s godfather, Eddie Moore, and his wife, Mary, were ranged on the ancient pews, facing the altar, a simple table which had been draped in pure white linen for the occasion and was decorated with the Mass things. There was no pulpit.
The power in Marcus’s voice was instantaneous, as befitted the Schubert masterwork. No quiet build-up to the Ave Maria. And yet it was so pure it seemed to soar to the very heavens, and sent a chill down the neck.
Ave Maria, gratia plena. Hail Mary, full of grace.
All eyes turned to the young man who had entered.
Joe Kennedy sat between his wife, Rose, and the birthday girl, Rosemary. He took her small hand and squeezed it and smiled at her through his round tortoiseshell glasses.
She leant into him. ‘Oh, Daddy,’ she whispered. ‘This is so beautiful.’
‘I know, honey.’ He put a finger to his lips.
Marcus had progressed to the front of the church now, so they were able to watch him without having to crane their necks. He stood tall, his chin slightly elevated, his fair hair, still short but less severe, glowing in the strange light. He might almost have had wings. Behind him was the altar. The space had been filled with candles, which guttered in the breeze that came through the gaps in the walls. Light streamed in through the windows and through a hole in the roof. The old stone font, worn with time, stood ghostly towards the rear of the church. The font in which Barnaby Gilderstone had been baptised almost four hundred years earlier. How many decades had passed since last a child was christened here?
Marcus was singing the second verse.
In hora mortis nostrae. At the hour of our death.
*
Wilde was thinking fast. Tripp and the guard were obviously on sentry duty, but they had no idea who they were guarding against, otherwise Marfield wouldn’t be in the church now. Somehow the message hadn’t got through properly to Tripp.
He had to act fast because he knew the song was short and he feared the ending.
No time to think. Wilde put the Walther in his trouser pocket, with the safety off. He thrust both hands in his pockets and stepped forward, whistling as though he had not a care in the world. He was twenty yards from the church porch when Lincoln Tripp looked up and saw him. He raised his hand, and Wilde strode towards him.
The bodyguard opened his jacket to reveal the pistol in his shoulder-holster. ‘Hold it right there, mister.’
Wilde stopped, hands in pockets. ‘Tell him who I am, Tripp.’
Lincoln Tripp looked bewildered. His glance swerved between Wilde and the bodyguard.
‘My name is Wilde. If you’re trying to protect Mr Kennedy, you’re on the wrong side of the door.’
The bodyguard turned to Tripp. ‘You know this man, Mr Tripp?’
‘Uh, yes, yes, I know him.’
‘Is he dangerous?’
‘I . . . I don’t think so.’
Wilde stepped forward. There was no more time for explanations. Ave Maria’s last notes were melting away. The bodyguard withdrew his pistol, but he was too slow. Wilde’s hands were already out of his pockets. He was a boxer and his punch bare-fisted could lay many men low. Now, with the added weight and unforgiving edges of his Walther, the blow to the side of the bodyguard’s head knocked him cold.
The bodyguard spun around and his knees gave way. He was falling to the ground, but a weathered sandstone headstone, the name long since worn away, broke his fall. The pistol flew from his hand as his body cracked into the stone memorial, knocking the wind from him. He crumpled to the ground, blood seeping from the head wound into the dry earth.
Tripp moved to stop Wilde, but the Walther was in his face and he backed away. Wilde elbowed him aside, then pulled open the church door and stepped inside.
*
The last plaintive syllables of Ave Maria had slipped effortlessly from Marcus Marfield’s vocal chords. He bowed graciously to his audience, then turned and genuflected to the altar. But instead of rising to his feet, he reached down beneath the altar cloth.
A gust of air and the sound of the porch door opening stopped him, and he turned.
His eyes met Wilde’s and then flashed back towards the altar as he scrabbled beneath the white linen covering.
*
Wilde saw the dark metal of the gun and its shape as Marfield pulled it clear: a sub-machine gun, complete with stick magazine. He registered all this in the split second that it took for him to dive across the aisle and throw himself at Marfield.
The force of Wilde’s attack pushed the Thompson out of Marfield’s grip, and it slid away from him, under the altar, clattering as it hit the stone wall.
The Walther fell from Wilde’s grasp. Marfield saw it and tried to reach out for it, but Wilde was on top of him, grappling for control and managed to kick the pistol out of reach. Marfield punched wildly and caught him in the abdomen, taking the wind out of Wilde. He hit back, connecting with Marfield’s jaw.
Even with his injured arm, Marfield was strong – much stronger than Wilde had anticipated – and he had the advantage of youth and speed. But Wilde was the more seasoned fighter and as they wrestled and punched, sliding across the worn stone floor, he seemed to be gaining the upper hand. Marfield’s elbow smashed into Wilde’s face. Then the younger man was up on his knees, scrabbling to get his cassock up. Wilde rode the blow and realised instantly that Marfield must have a pistol under the robe. He brought his knee up into Marfield’s balls, but didn’t connect cleanly.
‘Hold it right there, mister.’
There was a gun at Wilde’s head. The bodyguard, blood streaming from a wound to his temple, was standing over him, arms outstretched, pistol gripped in both hands.
The momentary lapse gave Marfield the chance he needed. He slid from Wilde’s grasp and stumbled towards the door and disappeared out into the graveyard. Wilde rose to follow him, but the bodyguard pushed him back down.
‘Don’t move an inch, or I’ll blow your brains out.’
‘Get him!’ Wilde rasped, pointing urgently at the gaping doorway. ‘That’s the killer – get him.’
For a moment the bodyguard wavered.
‘Look,’ Wilde said, pointing to the altar. ‘There’s a Thompson under there – Marfield was about to kill everyone in this church. He may have other weapons outside.’
There were gasps and wails from the banks of worshippers. All were now standing, backing away to the far reaches of the little church. Wilde looked down. He had a scrap of white cotton in his left hand – torn from Marfield’s surplice as he had pulled away.
Jack Kennedy moved forward and placed a restraining hand on the bodyguard’s gun arm. ‘I think this man’s telling the truth. I saw the Tommy gun.’ He met Wilde’s eyes. ‘What’s this about?’
‘Can we talk later? We need to catch that man. He would have killed you all.’
Wilde pushed past the bodyguard and almost fell out of the church door. Twenty yards away, Marfield had hitched up the skirts of his blood-red cassock, and was pulling out a concealed pistol from his belt. Wilde shouted after him. ‘No, Marcus! It’s finished. OK?’
Marfield fired two shots, but the bullets whistled helplessly past Wilde. Behind him, the bodyguard emerged from the church and fired back. He missed. Marfield laughed, and shook his head at Wilde. ‘I should have shot you before,’ he called as he disappeared into the dense undergrowth, and was swallowed up by the enveloping forest.