Chapter 95

CHAPTER 95

“ WE COMMEND THIS child into the hands of God. Now let us take him to his place of rest.”

The bishop’s final commendation rang out as sunlight speared through the stained glass of St. Patrick’s Cathedral. Marple stood next to Holmes in a back pew, her shoulder brushing his.

Across the aisle, Poe stood close to Helene Grey, a small mourning veil hiding her injuries. Virginia was in the pew just behind them, her streaked hair covered by a sheer black scarf.

Near the main altar, the exit procession was forming. From the loft above, a children’s choir sang “Kyrie Eleison,” their piercing voices resounding through the massive marble nave.

The service had been magnificent and heartbreaking—the Mass of the Angels, a Catholic ritual reserved only for the young and innocent. Now the procession was moving slowly down the center aisle, led by the bishop and a contingent of priests and deacons. The coffin was tiny and gleaming white, draped with delicate flowers.

Marple looked directly at Sterling Cade and his wife, Christine, walking a few paces behind their lost child. They stared straight ahead. Marple could see Christine’s mascara streaking under her sheer black veil.

After the coffin passed, the congregants stepped out of the pews and followed the procession onto the steps.

The morning air was crisp and the sky was bright blue. The pallbearers carried baby Edwin Cade carefully down steps lined with New York City police officers. Marple spotted Officer Amy Polacco at the far end of the row, standing at attention in her dress blues, her white-gloved hand rigid in salute.

Captain Graham Duff waited alongside the police escort at the bottom of the steps. Dr. Revell Schulte was there too, with a team of nurses from St. Michael’s. Across the street, TV crews aimed cameras from a respectful distance.

As the pallbearers slid the tiny coffin into the white Mercedes hearse, Holmes leaned in toward Marple’s ear. “This is why,” he whispered.

“Why what ?” Marple whispered back.

“Why I can’t do this anymore.”

Marple nodded. “I understand.” At least she tried to. But as she heard the sharp echo of the hearse doors closing, she felt more determined than ever. She could not— would not—let this death defeat her.

She felt a vibration from the phone in her bag. It was Dodgett, calling from London. Marple thought about letting it go to message, but then she eased her way past the police honor guard and stepped behind a column next to one of the cathedral’s massive side doors.

“Hello? Ben?”

“Margaret, I have fantastic news.”

Marple closed her eyes and exhaled slowly. “You found them.”

“We did indeed. All four babies. They were in a medical supply warehouse in Southampton, drugged and ready for transport, just like the ones on your side. They’re all fine, heading home today.”

“I’m so glad,” said Marple. “Glad for you. Glad for the parents.” She took a small pause and cleared her throat. “Glad for Rebecca.”

“Same here,” said Dodgett softly. “Her service is this afternoon.”

“I’m sorry I’m not there,” said Marple.

“I am too.”

An awkward pause.

Marple could sense that Dodgett had more to say but didn’t know quite how to say it. She glanced over at Holmes, standing alone at the top of the steps.

“I have to go,” said Marple. “Take care, Constable.”

“Right,” said Dodgett. “Be well, Miss Marple.”

Marple put her phone away and glanced up at the spires rising twenty-four stories into the sky. Four more children saved. That was something. She touched the thick wall of the cathedral and whispered her final prayer of the day.

A prayer of thanks.