“Was that what they said?”

Beale pursed his lips. “They said I had engaged in conduct unbecoming a priest.”

“But you declined to resign.”

“Of course I did.”

Which is why we’re all here now, Ben thought. He had counseled Father Beale that the simplest thing would be to simply resign and start fresh somewhere else. But Father Beale wouldn’t hear of it. He had been sent here by the bishop, and he wouldn’t give up-especially not now, when his resignation would be seen as a tacit admission of his complicity in a murder. When he refused to submit to the wishes of the vestry, however, they convened an ecclesiastical trial to resolve the conflict.

“That’s all,” Fleming said. Ben waived cross. “You may step down.”

Father Beale did as he was bid, his legs considerably more wobbly than they had been before.

Father Holbrook addressed the gallery. “I think we’ve heard everything we need. I want to thank everyone who took time to present evidence to this tribunal.” He glanced across the room. “Mr. Kincaid, do you have anything you would like to say before we recess?”

“Yes, sir, I do.” Ben had no idea whether he could do any good here, but he certainly hadn’t been much use so far, so he felt honor-bound to try. The evidence connecting Father Beale to the murder was tenuous and circumstantial, but as had been made clear to him repeatedly, the criminal court rules-including the standard of reasonable doubt-did not apply here. All they had to do was find him guilty of conduct unbecoming a priest, and if they suspected he had anything to do with the murder, they surely would.

Throughout this trial, Ben reasoned as he approached the judge’s station, he’d come up second-best-because this was a court of God, not a court of law. But maybe now he could use that to his advantage.

“Perhaps it’s just because I’m used to being in the criminal courts,” Ben began, “but I can’t help but believe that all these theological and doctrinal issues are a blind. The only reason this proceeding exists is that a tragic murder occurred. And some people believe-or want to believe-that Father Beale did it.”

“The charge against him,” Payne said, interrupting, “is conduct unbecoming a priest.”

“I know. But I still think this court would never have been convened and none of us would be here but for the murder. True, Father Beale has some unorthodox beliefs. Is that news to anyone? He’s an independent thinker, and has been his entire career. People who don’t like it go somewhere else. Similarly, his temper flare-ups at the vestry meetings are regrettable, but who among us has never lost his temper? Would we even consider removing a priest from his parish for that? No, the reason we’re here today is that a murder happened, and there is some superficial, circumstantial evidence that suggests Father Beale could be a suspect.”

Ben paused, turning slightly toward the gallery. “And that scares people. People want to love their priest-it’s only natural. They want to place their faith in him. But how can they do that when a little voice in the back of their heads is whispering that he might be a murderer?”

“Are you speaking on Father Beale’s behalf, Mr. Kincaid?” Holbrook asked. “Because it certainly doesn’t sound like it.”

“I am, sir, and here’s my point. If you remove this man from his office now, for whatever reason, everyone will assume it was because you believe he is guilty of the most heinous of crimes. No one will remember the theological debates, the temper spats. You will have convicted him more surely than a jury of twelve could have done-and on considerably less evidence.”

Holbrook’s hands parted. “We must do what’s best for the parish.”

“That’s right, sir. And that includes the leader of the parish. Father Beale. Remember, there is a reason he was not charged by the police. There was no evidence against him. Rumor, yes. Gossip, certainly. But they won’t condemn a man based on gossip alone. Will you?” He looked sharply at each member of the adjudicative panel. “Will you remove a man from his parish based upon that? Will you taint the rest of his life, his entire career, past and present, based on… innuendo? Is this a proper fate for a man of God?”

Ben held their attention a few more moments, forcing them to consider his words. “His future now rests in your hands, ladies and gentlemen. Will you be the one to cast the first stone?”

While the panel deliberated, Ben situated himself in the narthex, the connecting foyer between the church sanctuary and the parish hall. It was a crowded area; no one wanted to go home until they’d heard what the panel was going to do.

Ben kept mostly to himself, avoiding eye contact. He knew this was as stressful for the other parishioners as it was for him. They undoubtedly felt some obligation to be cordial to a fellow church member. At the same time, he was defending the priest many of them were trying to oust, a priest who had become extremely unpopular.

How had he gotten into this mess? It was Christina’s fault, of course. Wasn’t it always? She was the one who kept urging him to get out, to be more social, to join civic organizations. When he learned that his childhood priest had transferred to St. Benedict’s in Tulsa, only a few miles from the boarding house where he lived, it seemed only natural to check it out. In no time at all, Father Beale had Ben singing tenor in the adult choir, and Ben was actually enjoying it-until a corpse turned up in the prayer garden.

On the other side of the narthex, Ben spotted a group of women huddled together chatting. They were all in their thirties or forties. One of them he recognized as Kate McGuire-the woman who had been mentioned during the trial as one of Father Beale’s opponents. If he wasn’t mistaken, the blond woman beside Kate was Susan Marino. They were both on the vestry; Kate was senior warden. He couldn’t tell what they were discussing, but given their extreme agitation, he could guess. Father Beale.

“Excuse me. You’re Ben Kincaid, aren’t you?”

Ben looked down and saw two teenage girls-about fourteen or fifteen, he judged-standing before him. The one speaking was tall and thin with short black hair. Her companion, who stood a half-step behind her, was somewhat shorter and heavier and had long curly brown hair.

“I mean, I know you are. I should know, shouldn’t I? I used to see you all the time. I just wanted to introduce myself. I mean, I’m sorry if I seem brash, but I think if you want to meet someone, you should just walk up and meet them. Why stand around until someone introduces you? I mean, it’s not like we’re in the eighteenth century or anything, you know what I mean?” She thrust her hand forward. “My name is Judy. Judy Jacobson.” Ben took her hand and shook. “My friend here’s name is Maura. Maura Hubbard. She doesn’t talk much. That’s why we’re such a good pair. She’s shy. I’m not.”

Ben smiled. “Nice to meet you, Judy. And Maura.”

“Am I turning you off? Because if I am, you can tell me. I know some men don’t like women who are too aggressive.”

“Not at all. You remind me of a very good friend of mine.”

“Really? Cool.” She jabbed her friend Maura. “Did you hear that? I remind him of a very good friend of his!”

Maura giggled.

“Have we met before?” Ben asked. “Because you said you used to see me all the time.”

Judy laughed. “Oh, I meant on television. When you were trying the Wallace Barrett case.”

Ben restrained himself from rolling his eyes. That again.

“I was home that summer, and I thought your trial was a lot more interesting than soap operas.”

“Quite a compliment.” Ben’s defense of Wallace Barrett, then Tulsa ’s mayor, who was accused of murdering his wife and two daughters, was his highest-profile case to date. The media coverage had been extensive.

“I used to watch you every day on Court TV. Man, you were so good. I couldn’t believe everything you got people to admit on cross-examination. And your closing statement-it sent chills down my spine. Watching you made me want to be a lawyer.”