Cecilian Vespers

by Anne Emery

  “Surely some of the other six schola people have an alibi!” Brennan insisted.

  “All but one of the others, anyway!” Michael said. “Well, I shouldn’t assume. Perhaps there was more than one of them in on the killing.”

  “Kurt Bleier is here with his wife,” I remarked. “Where was she that day?”

  “On the bus trip.”

  “But he didn’t go.”

  “No.”

  “Where is everybody staying, Mike? I know you have people spread out around the city.”

  “If Mike ever gets tired of being pastor to the flock at St. Bernadette’s,” Brennan said, “he can get a job as a logistics expert with the military. He’s got people billeted in rectories, convents, college dormitories, private homes, and maybe cathouses for all I know. Need to find housing for an army of thousands? Call Michael O’Flaherty.”

  “Now, Brennan, it’s only sixty people. Fifty-six.”

  “Well, you found places for them. I didn’t even know where to begin.”

  “All right,” I said. “Reinhold Schellenberg was staying here at the rec-tory.” Mike nodded. “What about the other seven people you named?”

  “Father Sferrazza-Melchiorre, Father Mills, and Brother Robin Gadkin-Falkes are also staying here. Jan Ford has a room at Mount Saint Vincent University. Colonel Bleier is at a bed and breakfast on Gottingen Street, and Mr. Petrucci is staying with his nephew in one of the south-end apartment buildings. William Logan has an arrangement out in the suburbs somewhere. House-sitting, perhaps. He and his wife set it up themselves.”

  “A key point,” I said, “is that Stella Maris is not within walking distance of any other place in the city where people would normally be. There are a few businesses nearby, and the container pier. So Schellenberg had to have been driven there, either by the killer or by cab. The police will obviously be checking the taxi companies.”

  “Oh, yes, they’re doing that.”

  “If he took a cab, he may have said something to the driver about why he was going there. Or, if not, there’s always the hope the cab driver saw somebody, or something, of interest when he got to the church.”

  “Let us hope so, Monty.”

  “Now, about Father Schellenberg, Mike. What was his role in the Second Vatican Council?”

  “He was a peritus, a theological adviser to one of the bishops from Germany. Many of the bishops leaned quite heavily on their theological experts when it came to formulating their positions. So these periti — some of them anyway — wielded a great deal of influence behind the scenes.”

  “Who was Schellenberg advising?”

  “Bishop Rodl.”

  “What do you know about him?”

  “He’s dead now. Died probably fifteen, twenty years ago. He was among the group of Germans, Dutchmen, and Austrians who wanted significant changes in the church, in the Mass, and so on. They wanted a more ecumenical Mass. Less Catholic, is what they meant!”

  “And Schellenberg provided the theological underpinnings?”

  “To an extent, yes.”

  “So traditionalists might tend to blame him for what they see as the falling away, or the chaos, of the church after Vatican II.”

  “They might. But don’t forget: he had a change of heart. Once he saw what was happening — much of which, to be fair to the Council, was neither foreseen nor intended — he started to backpedal and take up much more conservative positions on matters relating to the church and liturgy.”

  “Opening him up to an attack from the left.”

  “Afraid so, Monty.” O’Flaherty nodded. “Did you know this, now, lads? There was a Saint Reinhold.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Yes. I thought there was, so I looked him up.”

  “What did you find out?”

  “He lived in the tenth century. Until they fished his body out of the Rhine River.”

  “He drowned?”

  “No.” O’Flaherty leaned forward. “He was murdered!”

  “Jesus the Christ and Son of God!” Brennan exclaimed. “What do we have here? History repeating itself? Who killed him?”

  “Construction workers.”

  “Construction workers. Why would they do that?”

  “A dispute over a building project, I believe it was.”

  “Some things never change,” I said. “Our firm has storage rooms filled with files on construction disputes. Was the saint in the building trades himself?”

  “No. He was a Benedictine monk.”

  “Another Reinhold, another monk. This gets more bizarre by the day.”

  “The history of the church, Monty, is littered with people who died in the most macabre ways imaginable! Anyway, I’ll take my leave of you gentlemen. I’m due for my rounds at the infirmary.” He went on his way.

  Brennan said: “We have to find out, obviously, who was seen with Schellenberg, who engaged him in conversation. Where do we begin?”

  “We talk to everyone. We may get some useful information from the innocent, and some telling behaviour on the part of the guilty.”

  “Kurt Bleier strikes me as a very observant sort of a fellow. Perhaps we should start with him.”

  “Keeping in mind, of course —”

  “That he may be the killer himself. But if he is, he’s carrying around some religious baggage that is not evident to the senses. He was a police officer in East Berlin, part of an officially atheist state. If Bleier’s the one, why do it here, where he sticks out like a square pri— like a sore thumb? And, a man like that, if he wanted someone out of the way, wouldn’t he be cognizant of all sorts of lethal manoeuvres that would be much quicker and more — I don’t know if discreet is the proper word but —”

  “Discretion is not what this killer was after, Brennan. He was making a statement. A religious statement. That doesn’t necessarily rule out an enforcer of an officially atheist regime in Schellenberg’s native land.”

  “Don’t you look distinguished today, Collins!” It was Burke, who had just caught me coming out of a criminal trial in the Nova Scotia Supreme Court at the end of the day on Wednesday, decked out in my barrister’s gown and tabs.

  “Black and white becomes you as well, Father.”

  He shrugged as if to say I’m always well turned out.

  “What brings you to the law courts?”

  “There’s been an arrest.”

  “Really! Who?”

  “Brother Robin. You never met him.”

  “What does he look like?”

  “Tall beaky fellow. Robin Gadkin-Falkes. As if you couldn’t tell from the name, he’s a Brit.”

  “How did the arrest come about?”

  “Apparently, he was the last person anyone could remember talking to Father Schellenberg, shortly before Schellenberg went off on his own. The police questioned Brother Robin and obviously were not satisfied with what he had to say for himself. There’s some physical evidence as well. I don’t know what. He was arraigned this morning, and sent to the Nova Scotia Hospital for a thirty-day psychiatric assessment.”

  “No surprise there. When was he arrested?”

  “Middle of the night.”

  “Good. So what do you know about this monk?”

  “Not a thing. I can put a face to the name. That’s it.”

  “No outbursts from him in the classroom?”

  “No.”

  “Did you see him with Schellenberg?”

  “Can’t remember one way or the other. But somebody did.”

  As soon as they heard the news, Father Burke and Monsignor O’Flaherty had informed the schola that Brother Robin GadkinFalkes had been arrested and charged with the murder of Reinhold Schellenberg. The announcement was greeted with relief mixed with consternation that there had been a killer in their midst for the first week of the course. They rallied, though, and reassured Father Burke that they were willing and able to return to their work. Classes got underway again; Masses and prayers were said for the victim and the
accused man. The international news media descended on the place and they were a nuisance, but everybody seemed to cope.

  Brennan and I conceived the idea of inviting the schola people to a gathering later that week, in the hope that a social event might help ease the stress. It would be much more convenient for everyone if the locus were within walking distance of the school. At my old house, for instance, which was a short walk up Morris Street from St. Bernadette’s. This meant negotiating with the mistress of the house, my estranged wife, Maura MacNeil.

  I pulled up in front of her — formerly our — grey nineteenth-century house on Dresden Row. She met me at the door with a scowl on her face and a yellowish-brown stain all over the front of her white shirt.

  “Did I come at a bad time?”

  “Stuff it, Collins. I’ve had a long day. The baby has been fussing —”

  I walked past her into the house. I did not want to hear about the baby. Not today, not ever. But I would have no choice. There he was now, a squalling bundle in the arms of my little girl, Normie.

  “Hello, Normie sweetheart. Got your hands full, I see.”

  “Daddy! I got a hundred on my math, and Mrs. Vickers is giving me extra work! A grade ahead!”

  “Well done, angel. I always knew you’d be a math whiz.”

  “Just like my grandpa, right?”

  “Right.”

  “If Dominic ever stops crying I’m going to try to teach him some arithmetic. It’s never too early for them to learn, you know.”

  “Well, three months is a little young, probably.”

  “Not when your own grandfather was boss of the whole math department at Saint Mary’s University!”

  “The university was Dalhousie, but you’re right. My dad was chairman of the math department.” You’re confused, though, about young Dominic’s lineage. I was not the baby’s father. “Is Tommy around, sweetheart?”

  “He’s in the kitchen. Lexie was here.” Normie lowered her voice and imparted some news. “She has new glasses. She says she doesn’t think these frames suit my face.”

  “Is that right?” My son’s girlfriend would no more criticize my daughter’s glasses than my wife would welcome me at the door with a big wet kiss.

  “Well, she agreed with me that even if they look nice there are lots of other kinds of frames that would go with my face.”

  Tom came in then. “Hey, Dad.”

  “Hi, Tommy. How’s the lad?”

  “Great.”

  While our daughter, Normie, didn’t look like either parent, with her auburn curls and big, near-sighted hazel eyes, our son Tommy Douglas was a shorter, younger version of me, with dark blond hair, blue eyes, and a deceptively mild-looking boyish face. He was seventeen; she was eight. Normie’s real name was Norma, after the Bellini opera; never make crucial decisions while you’re still intoxicated — by music, or anything else. We never called her anything but Normie, though her big brother sometimes called her …

  “Klumpf, if you want one of Lexie’s brownies, you’d better come get one. There’s only two left.”

  “Don’t call me Klumpf. And can’t you see I’m busy with the baby? Save both brownies for me because you guys pigged out on all the rest. Go put my name on the tin!”

  Klumpenkopf, so-called because of the clumps of tangles commonly found in her hair, glared at her brother until he went into the kitchen, presumably to identify the remaining brownies as the property of his sister.

  My wife left the room, then returned, dabbing at her shirt with a wet towel. Maura was well above a size twelve and looked good that way, with dusky brown hair that fell to her shoulders and grey eyes that turned up at the outer corners. Laugh lines were visible by her eyes but she wasn’t laughing now. An unexpected pregnancy at the age of forty-two would throw anyone off stride, even the formidable Professor MacNeil.

  “Should you be wearing white?”

  I asked her. “Is that a dig about my character, Collins?”

  “I meant: shouldn’t you put your white shirts away for the duration of your maternity leave? They’re all going to be stained. You should remember that. I do.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know.”

  “Mummy, can I put the baby down?” Normie pleaded. “He won’t settle. Even for me. He usually calms right down when I hold him, Daddy, not like Tommy Douglas. Tommy’s not much good with babies, I’m sorry to say.” She didn’t look sorry.

  “I’ll take him,” Maura said, and carried him from the room.

  Normie took something out of her jeans pocket then. “Daddy! Look at the pictures I took! You have to sit down to see them.”

  “Sure.”

  We sat side by side on the chesterfield, and she produced her snapshots. They showed Normie and the baby; Normie and her friend, Kim, dressed in devil costumes for Halloween; Tommy looking cool, wearing black-framed sunglasses and playing his guitar; and … what was this? A man holding the baby against his shoulder. Both were facing the same way, caught in profile, with the baby’s little head nestled under the man’s chin. They were both unaware of the camera. The baby’s hair was almost as dark as the man’s, which was shot through with silver on the sides. The man was Brennan Burke.

  That brought back memories that were as embarrassing as they were agonizing. Memories of me in a tense, drunken moment following the announcement that my wife was pregnant by another man, me striking out at Burke, punching him in the eye. Up till then, I had never struck another human being in my life, except in self-defence. But those days and weeks after the announcement, which brought to a screeching halt my efforts to reconcile with Maura, were times of drinking, brooding, and recrimination. I was ninety-five percent certain the father of her child was her sometime paramour, Giacomo. So why had I lashed out at Burke? Well, it hardly mattered now. Except that whenever I looked at him I could see the damage to his left eye. I hoped he didn’t think of it every time he saw himself in the shaving mirror. The eyelid turned down a bit at the outer corner. It gave him a certain tortured-artist look, which I suspected would not be unattractive to women — if he were looking for a woman — but I would go to my grave before I’d be fool enough to say so.

  I shook myself out of it and returned to the present, and the reason for my visit: a social evening for the Schola Cantorum Sancta Bernadetta, in the wake of the brutal murder of its most illustrious guest. As it turned out, it wasn’t difficult to talk Maura into hosting the party. She had heard enough from me and Brennan about the cast of characters to be convinced they warranted a close examination. What cinched the deal was that I would come over beforehand and fill the freezer with party snacks, so no cooking would be required on her part. Tom had already promised to take Normie to a movie that night, so they would miss the festivities, but otherwise it all clicked into place.

  I stopped in at the rectory to finalize the plan with Brennan. When I got to his room he was on the telephone, and he waved me inside. “What?” he said to the person on the phone. “I don’t know now, Bill. It’s not often I’m called upon to supply the women for a party. Things didn’t lighten up that much after Vatican II. I’ll see what I can do.”

  “What was that about?” I asked when he had hung up.

  “Billy Logan, here from Cleveland in the U.S. Have you met him?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “A former colleague. We taught together at Sacred Heart Seminary in upstate New York. I began teaching there in 1979.”

  “Logan’s the priest who left to get married?”

  “Right. He has been ‘laicized,’ as they say.”

  “An ex-priest.”

  “Thou art a priest forever; the sacrament of Holy Orders imprints an indelible spiritual character on the soul. But, informally speaking, you’re right. He left the priesthood a couple of years after I met him. He and his wife are here, staying in the house of a friend in the suburbs somewhere. So. Did you approach MacNeil about having the party at her place?”

  “Systems are go-all-go. What
were you saying on the phone about women?”

  “Logan thought it would be nice if the schola people got to meet a few locals while they’re here. I guess it didn’t escape his notice that the students of the schola are predominantly male. That must be why he stressed women, to even things up. Not a bad idea. I’ll pass the word around to some of the women at the church.”

  “MacNeil and I could invite a few of the people we know.”

  So that Saturday night, the last day of November, I was answering the door of my old house as if I were still in residence. I admitted Brennan, who was in his clerical suit and collar. He arrived bearing several bottles of wine. Maura joined me in relieving him of the burden.

  “Sacramental wine, I presume, Father?”

  “All of nature is a sacrament, Professor MacNeil, and the vineyards of Tuscany are particularly rich in God’s grace.”

  “Not in civvies tonight?”

  “Had to meet a troubled parishioner and didn’t have time to change.”

  “We’ll have that collar off you before the night is done. Excuse me. I have to go down and get the finger food out of the freezer. I forgot to thaw it out.”

  She headed down to the basement. Her baby chose that moment to start whimpering and, within seconds, he was crying as if his little heart had been broken. After a few minutes of this, and a glance in my direction, Brennan went to the corner of the dining room where Dominic lay in his crib, reached in, and picked up the squalling baby. The child’s dark hair was damp and his face red from crying. I could almost feel his frustration: an early lesson in “nobody understands me.”

  I wanted to go to him myself. It’s hard not to fall in love with a baby, especially if you’ve been through the baby stage as a parent yourself. But the circumstances of his birth were, to put it mildly, a sore point. The pregnancy wasn’t planned; that much I knew. But that did not make it any less painful for me. My wife now had three children, the last of whom was just as precious to her as my own. Try as I might, I could not see myself getting past this. Not that little Dominic was to blame, obviously. He was a sweet baby, and I often felt the urge to pick him up, play with him, get to know him. But so far, I had not been able to make the move.