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As he was heading for the outside door, Swithins fell into step beside him.

“What's his name?”

“Ask the doctor.”

“I'm coming with you.”

“You're not under arrest.”

“Ho ho. I know he was brought here from Notre Dame.”

“I hope you can account for your whereabouts.”

He slid into his car, and Swithins grabbed the top of the door and held it.

“You can't ignore the press.”

“I wouldn't dream of it. Are you thinking of becoming a reporter?”

“I'm with the
Chicago Tribune
.”

“I never read it.”

Stewart pulled the door shut and Swithins let go before his fingers were crushed. He drove away as Swithins ran to his car. When he reached the first intersection, Stewart could see in his rearview mirror that the reporter was following him. He really didn't give a damn. It was ridiculous to think a thing like this could be kept a secret.

The boy was the nephew of Mortimer Sadler, who had died of poisoning four days ago, but what that meant Stewart could not guess. If they could discover why Mortimer Sadler had been poisoned, some explanation might be found. The best theory they had now was that an undergraduate grudge lay behind the death of Mortimer Sadler. That pointed to Maureen O'Kelly. But what reason could she have for poisoning the nephew as well as the uncle? If she had poisoned either. But at the moment, it was the only lead he had. He hoped Phil Knight had found Mrs. O'Kelly in the Morris Inn.

Dr. O'Kelly had come from Minneapolis but had registered in a separate room from his wife. Samuel Sadler was also in the Morris Inn, as were the daughters of Mortimer; Vivian stayed with the mother, the other girls in another room. Anger rose in Jimmy Stewart as he reviewed the events of the past days. But if he was angry to have poisonings going on in his jurisdiction, the most recent one seeming an almost personal affront, he could imagine what Phil Knight must be thinking. After all, his task was to protect the reputation of the university. Well, there was no way Notre Dame could avoid bad publicity now.

When he pulled into the parking lot of the Morris Inn, Swithins was riding his bumper.

35

The normally sedate air of the Morris Inn was again disturbed as Jimmy Stewart, with Phil Knight beside him, began once more to question those of the class of 1977 who had taken part in the reunion organized by Mortimer Sadler. They were joined now by family members who had come for the obsequies of the fallen alumnus. As news spread of the near-death experience of Mortimer's nephew, Paul, disquiet pervaded the lobby.

Roger Knight had decided to come to the inn after Phil received the call from Jimmy Stewart and dashed off. His thoughts were of Francie and Vivian as he directed his golf cart across the campus. The two girls had returned to what would normally have been the idyllic peace of summer only to be swept up in events that affected them poignantly. Vivian had lost her father, and Francie's mother was now the principal interest of the investigation.

When Roger waddled into the lobby, he created the usual stir with his massive presence. Mrs. Sadler with her older daughters occupied the couch and chair before the fireplace, but it was the man in the corner, frowning over a book, that drew Roger. Samuel was a spare man with a goatee and wispy mustache, his eyes blinking behind thick glasses.

“I am Roger Knight,” he said, coming to a puffing halt before the seated man.

“Ah.” The man rose and put out his hand. “Samuel Sadler. My niece has told me of you.”

“Such sad events,” Roger said, easing himself carefully into an inadequate chair.

“I am about to leave for the hospital to see my son.” He lifted the book he held. “I found this on that shelf.”

The book was an outdated textbook in electrical engineering.

“Why on earth is this on display?” Samuel said.

“How will you get to the hospital?”

“I suppose I will call a cab.”

“In South Bend? Nonsense.”

In a far corner, Jimmy Stewart and Phil were talking to a composed Mrs. O'Kelly. Roger told Samuel Sadler to wait and lumbered over to his brother.

“Phil, I must use the car.”

Mrs. O'Kelly gave him a radiant smile. “You're Professor Knight.”

Roger took her hand and she rose as if he had tugged at it. “Francie goes on and on about you,” she said.

“She is a wonderful young lady.”

“Thank you.”

“Is your husband here?”

“He just checked in. He's in his room.” Mrs. O'Kelly nodded her head at Jimmy and Phil. “I am being grilled by these two.”

“Do you intend to drive?” Phil asked, with something like terror in his tone.

“Perhaps Samuel Sadler will take the wheel. We are going to the hospital to see his son.”

Samuel joined them. Roger was surprised that he and Mrs. O'Kelly did not know one another. He bowed in a courtly manner to Mrs. O'Kelly when she identified herself.

“How dreadful about Paul,” she said, touching his arm.

“More dreadful about Mortimer.”

“Yes.”

“It was an impressive service. There must have been a dozen priests in the sanctuary.”

“A Notre Dame farewell,” Roger said.

“What was that they sang at the end?”

“The ‘Salve Regina'?”

“No, the English hymn.”

“Ah. ‘Notre Dame Our Mother.'”

“Beautiful.”

“It brought tears to my eyes,” Maureen O'Kelly said. “I don't know when I last heard it.”

Phil said, “It is sung after every basketball game.”

“Really?”

Phil asked Samuel if he would do the driving, and Samuel suggested that then there was no need for Roger to come to the hospital.

“But I want to talk with you.”

Phil gave the keys to Samuel. “Be sure you drive.”

“How will I know the car?”

“Roger can identify it.” Phil told Roger where he had parked.

*   *   *

The hospital was ten minutes away, and Roger and Samuel exchanged small talk on the way. For the first time, Roger realized how tense Samuel was. Of course. He was going to visit his son in Intensive Care. But it was Mortimer he mentioned.

“It was the kind of funeral he would have wanted.”

“Perhaps not so soon.”

“Was Mrs. O'Kelly serious when she said she was being grilled?”

“Let's see Paul first.”

The patient lay on his back, awake, staring at the ceiling. His face lit up at the sight of his father.

“Dad!”

“I thought you were boycotting your uncle's funeral.” He leaned over the bed and kissed his son. “And to think it was this.”

“I'm all right. So they tell me.”

“You must come back to Minneapolis with me.”

“Dad, I'm working here.”

“They can release you. You must take it easy for the rest of the summer.”

Roger Knight came forward, and Samuel explained his presence. “The police are talking with Mrs. O'Kelly.”

Paul glanced at Roger. “I'm sure it's just routine.”

*   *   *

“It is a strange feeling to outlive one's younger brother,” Samuel Sadler said an hour later.

Roger had directed him to the apartment just east of campus when they left the hospital, suggesting that the Morris Inn would continue to be disrupted by the investigation into the poisonings, stirred to new heights by what had happened to Paul.

When Roger showed him his workroom, his guest moved reverently along the shelves. He looked at Roger. “No old textbooks here.”

“There you're wrong. I still have the books that introduced me to the classics.”

“Latin and Greek?”

“Latin and Greek.”

“That's different. You have quite a collection of philosophy, too.”

“My degree was in philosophy.”

“So was mine.”

“I've heard a bit about you, of course. I'm sorry we meet in such tragic circumstances, but I could not forego the chance to talk with you. Could I get you something to drink?”

“What are you having?”

“Don't be guided by me. I am a teetotaler.”

“A matter of principle?”

“No, of conclusion. Alcohol doesn't agree with me.”

“I have a long and deep understanding with it.”

Roger poured his guest a generous measure of single malt scotch, opened a root beer for himself, and they settled down to talk. As will happen when kindred spirits meet for the first time, theirs was a wide-ranging and excited exchange during which they found they had many interests in common. But then came a lull and, inevitably, the death of Samuel's brother came up again.

“Roger, I can tell you now I was almost relieved that Paul, too, had become a target. I scarcely dared think this while he was in danger, but now I feel free to say it.”

“It does look as if one and the same person is responsible for what has been happening.”

“You don't sound completely convinced of that.”

“I have learned to withhold judgment as long as possible in such matters.”

Samuel sipped his scotch. “Maureen O'Kelly?”

“Does that seem possible to you?”

“Mortimer had a genius for both lasting friendships and lasting enmities. He certainly gave her reason enough to resent him. On the flight down, he went on and on about the speech she gave when they graduated.”

“The flight down?”

“I flew down with Mortimer in his private plane the other day.”

“You did?”

“I wanted to spend a few days in the bookstores around the University of Chicago.” Samuel looked at his drink. “We would have flown back together.”

“So you were in Chicago when all these events took place?”

“Yes, I was in Chicago.”

36

Dr. Jack O'Kelly had taken his own room in the Morris Inn, but the fact that his daughter was rooming with his wife could have been explanation enough of that. Couples of an age can bear a little separation. But the separation of the O'Kellys was the effect of will and not merely of time. When Maureen went to her husband's room those who knew her well would have been surprised at her trepidation and the timidity with which she tapped upon his door.

“It's open,” cried a muffled voice, and Maureen entered.

The doctor was on the phone and made the usual gestures to explain, excuse, yet to continue attending to someone elsewhere. He turned away from Maureen as he ended the call a minute later.

“Well,” he said, facing her.

“You missed the funeral.”

“I came down to offer you my moral support, at Francie's request. A detective named Stewart phoned me several times.”

“They think I killed Mortimer Sadler.”

“What nonsense! I want to talk with Stewart. I'll put the fear of God into him.”

“You're being very gallant.”

“Would you rather I hadn't come?”

“Jack…” She moved toward him and he gripped her upper arms, more in defense than in an embrace. She stepped back. “Well, it gives you a chance to see your alma mater.”

He looked at the windows. “I scarcely recognized a thing.”

“Let's go for a walk.”

“A walk?”

“About the campus. Don't you advise patients to exercise? Heal thyself.”

His smile dimmed at this scriptural note. Despite Maureen's wandering being the original cause of their estrangement, it was now understood, at least by her, that the separation was his doing. His chin lifted.

“Okay. I'll change shoes.”

As they went through the lobby they ran into Francie and Vivian, and the girls showed too obvious a delight at seeing the O'Kellys together.

“Where have you been?”

“Out. Everywhere. We stopped at the Grotto.”

“There's our destination,” Maureen said brightly to her husband, putting her arm through his. Francie glowed as if recent prayers of hers were being answered.

Outside, they turned north and strolled toward the Main Building and at once the campus of their youth seemed all around them. When he stopped at a bench to retie his sneakers, Maureen sat beside him and put a hand on his shoulder.

“It was all so long ago.”

He glanced at her, looked in her eyes and nodded. “A very long time ago. Did you attend Sadler's funeral?”

“Of course I did.”

“Of course.”

“Oh, Jack.” Her hand slid down his arm but he took it and pulled her to her feet. “We're out for a walk, remember.”

And so they walked in silence around the basilica and did go down the steps to the Grotto. Many alumni entertain the pleasantly false memory that they often visited this replica of the grotto at Lourdes, a sign of the fierce Marian devotion of Father Edward Sorin, the university's founder. It was not the frequency of visits that imprinted the place on one's memory but its open-air unapologetic tribute to the Mother of God, Notre Dame. Maureen was almost surprised when Jack went directly to one of the prie-dieux and knelt. She stood beside him. He seemed to be praying. But for what did he pray? The thought was not reassuring. She knelt beside him.

They had been married in the basilica and afterward had come here, Jack in his wedding suit, she in her bridal dress, and knelt like this. Maureen's eyes swam with tears as she remembered the hope and excitement of that day. And the feeling of triumph. She had won Jack away from Laura Kennedy, the woman to whom he had been informally engaged. Now she had the terrible suspicion that it was Laura he prayed for, Laura and freedom from her and a new life before him, at his age! It was ridiculous. She stood and waited until he stood, too. He turned and looked toward the lake.

“Shall we?”

“Yes!”

And so around St. Mary's Lake they went, side by side, talk unnecessary because of the constant distraction of ducks and the sweet aroma of flowers. The path was not the makeshift one of long ago, but a firm and tended route that kept close to the shore.