Cecilian Vespers

by Anne Emery

  “Yes, I see what you’re saying.”

  “So, em, Moody is coming over this morning to have a look around. To ‘eyeball some of the suspects,’ as he put it. Could you, perhaps, accompany him for awhile today?”

  “Sure I will, Mike. I’ll be free in an hour or so.”

  Chapter 4

  … Ergo in infinitum remanet quaerere de impedimentis tollendis.

  Further, the inquiry of counsel has to consider not only

  what is to be done, but how to avoid obstacles….

  the inquiry about removing obstacles can go on indefinitely.

  (Saint Thomas assures us this is not so.)

  — Saint Thomas Aquinas, Summa Theologiae

  Emerson “Moody” Walker, our retired sergeant, was a compact man in his late fifties, with cropped greying hair and seen-it-all brown eyes. Early that afternoon I escorted him to Stella Maris Church, the murder scene, which was no longer cordoned off. The demolition had been postponed because of the investigation.

  “You were doing what over here, Collins, when the body was discovered?”

  “It was a prayer service. Chanting, candles, incense. The usual.”

  “Usual. Right. Why can’t the RCs just have someone bawling at them from the pulpit on Sunday and leave it at that, like everybody else? He was found here?”

  “Yes.” I described the scene, and what I recalled about the various participants. When Moody had seen enough, we departed for the schola.

  “What’s the name of this place again? The schola? Couldn’t they just call it a school?”

  “It’s Latin, Moody. You know, like ‘Nova Scotia.’ This might be a good time to see some of the suspects for yourself. They’ve all signed up for a series of seminars. We can sit in and observe.”

  “Yeah, I might learn something. Like whether putting a statue of the Virgin Mary in a bathtub on your lawn is a mortal sin or a ticket to heaven.”

  We seated ourselves in the back row of the classroom and tuned in to the debate.

  “I know we’ll never agree, Father Burke, on the knowability or unknowability of the Ding-an-sich,” an intense-looking young priest was saying, “but —”

  “You can’t just say ‘but’ and move on,” Burke interrupted. “You have to stop and grapple with what you’re implying here. If we follow Kant in saying that the ultimate reality is the Ding-an-sich, the thing-in-itself, and that the Kantian categories of the mind apply only to the phenomenal world — the world as it appears to us — then we can have no knowledge of reality. It leads to what Jacques Maritain called the abdication of the mind. The philosophy of common sense, on the other hand, was synthesized in the thirteenth century, and we’d do well to heed what Thomas Aquinas had to say. Aristotle and Thomas teach us that the thing-in-itself is knowable. Being is intelligible to the human intellect; in fact, being is the formal object of the intellect.”

  “But the ideas of Kant pertaining to —”

  “Be careful with that word ‘ideas,’ now, or we’ll be back to Plato,” a middle-aged woman admonished with a wide smile.

  “By ideas, do you mean ideas id quo or id quod?” Burke asked.

  “I don’t know what you’re saying,” the young priest protested.

  “Another reason to restore the teaching of Latin in the seminaries.

  I just meant that ideas are that by means of which — id quo — we know, and not that which — id quod — we know directly. But back to the propositions you raised …”

  I turned to Moody Walker and raised an eyebrow.

  “What the hell are they talking about?” he rasped, the picture of bewilderment. We were a long way from the Virgin in the bathtub.

  I smiled, then took out a notebook and wrote down the names of the students who had not been on the bus to Peggy’s Cove at the time of the murder. I pointed to those on the list who were in the room: Sferrazza-Melchiorre, Logan, Mills, Ford. No Bleier. Maybe he had an intuition that Immanuel Kant would be given short shrift in the seminar. Next to Petrucci I wrote “alibi of some kind.”

  The discussion wrapped up a few minutes later, and I waited to introduce Brennan to our investigator. As far as I knew, the men had never met, either before or after Burke was cleared of the murder charges.

  “Brennan, this is Moody Walker. Sergeant, retired, and now working as a private investigator. Moody, meet Father Burke.”

  Burke gave him a terse nod. “Sergeant.”

  “Father Burke. This time I’m working for you, not against you.”

  “Glad to hear it.”

  “One thing Moody is going to handle is the international component of the investigation. He has police contacts in Europe and the U.S. We can’t get that information ourselves and we don’t know what the Halifax police will do in that respect.”

  “Right.”

  “I’ve given him a list of our possible suspects, and he’s going to see what he can learn about their backgrounds.”

  “All right,” Walker said. “I’ll go and make some calls. See what I can dig up.” We said goodbye to Walker, and he went on his way.

  “There’s somebody I’d like to interview myself while I’m here, Brennan. Mike O’Flaherty tells me the police have spoken to all the priests and staff except Mrs. Kelly.”

  “True. She took the janglers so bad they couldn’t get a sensible word out of her. So they’re coming back for her.”

  “They’re takin’ her in?” I asked.

  He didn’t speak but brought his hands together in prayer and looked up at the heavens. Poor old Mrs. Kelly. She hadn’t done herself any favours when her meddling delayed the inauguration of the schola cantorum. She had always been nervous around the formidable Father Burke, and it was clear he did not fit her image of the ideal priest of the church. This was as obvious to Burke as it was to everyone else, but he had let it all run off his back. Till now.

  “Let’s go see her.”

  He sighed and jerked his head in the general direction of the rec-tory. I followed him across the street and into the kitchen.

  “Mrs. Kelly.”

  The woman leapt away from the dishwasher as if Burke might have rigged it with explosives. “Merciful hour! I didn’t hear you come in, Father!”

  “We’d like a word with you.”

  Her eyes darted from him to me. “What about?”

  “What Father Burke means, Mrs. Kelly, is we’re hoping you’ll be able to help us out. Perhaps you could tell us how some of the people at the schola acted with Father Schellenberg. You haven’t yet had a chance to offer your impressions, and we were wondering if we could sit down with you and hear what you have to say.”

  “Well, I …” Her hand went up and fussed with her faded blonde hair. “I don’t know anything.”

  “People always know more than they realize. You must have noticed that sometimes.”

  “Yes, I suppose I have. Like the time when my sister was taking spells. I thought back over the years and suddenly it clicked. Whenever she took a turn, it was when she had a little sweet. And I said: ‘Sure, she has diabetes!’ And she went to the doctor’s and, sure enough, that was it. Now they’ve got her on —”

  “Exactly. People suddenly remember that they did notice something. So if we could just have a seat, and you could think back to the time when Father Schellenberg arrived at the schola —”

  “Tea, Mr. Collins?”

  “That would be lovely.”

  “Father?”

  “N — yes, sure. Thank you.”

  She bustled about and then led us to the Victorian parlour of the rec-tory. After she got us all settled with tea, Burke began: “So. Who —”

  I interrupted: “Now, Mrs. Kelly, you must have had a great deal of work to do getting ready for all these people to arrive. Some are staying here at the rectory, I understand.”

  “Oh, yes. Some of the priests are staying here.”

  “A lot of work, are they? Priests? Pretty high-maintenance group?” Her eyes shot over to Father B
urke. “Well, they —”

  “I mean, you have rooms to make up, all kinds of new people at mealtime.”

  “Oh, yes. A lot of work. I thought I wouldn’t be able to get it all done by myself. But I persevered. I think I have things organized pretty well.”

  It was my turn to shoot Brennan a look. He caught on. “Very well organized. Couldn’t have been better, Mrs. Kelly.”

  “Thank you, Father,” she said with prim satisfaction.

  “Now, who was here when Father Schellenberg arrived, do you recall?”

  “Well, Monsignor brought him in and introduced him to me. There was nobody else here. I knew some of the others were gathered over at the school, so after I showed him his room and offered him tea, I took him over there. I introduced him around.”

  “Who all was there, do you remember?”

  “Well, now, there was Father Serr — Sver — the Italian. And Brother Robin. Father Mills. And the German and his wife.”

  “How did those people react to his arrival?”

  “Let me think now.”

  “Were the greetings friendly?”

  “Oh yes. At least those that greeted him at all.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, most of them said hello, they were pleased to meet him. Some said they were honoured. He was a famous man, in his day. So they seemed excited. Except, uh …”

  “What is it?”

  “Nothing, probably.”

  “You said a moment ago ‘those that greeted him.’ Were there some who didn’t speak to him?”

  “Just the German. And he never says much anyway, far as I ever heard.”

  “What did the German do? Mr. Bleier.” “He looked at Father Schellenberg with hardly any expression on his face. But that’s what he looks like every time I see him. He made kind of a slow nod of his head, and that was it.”

  “Did you happen to see the expression on Father Schellenberg’s face when he saw Mr. Bleier?”

  “I thought he kind of did a double take. As if he found it queer. That the German was here. Or he may just have been surprised to see another German in the crowd.”

  “But Bleier didn’t speak.”

  “That’s true. Maybe it was just that the man had a German name.”

  “Speaking of Colonel Bleier, why exactly is he here, Brennan?”

  “He’s here with his wife, Jadwiga. She’s signed up for the program.”

  “What about him? Did he sign up?”

  “No, but —”

  “So what does he do all day? Does he hang around the choir school? Go sightseeing? What?”

  “He’s here a good bit of the time. Sits in on some of the sessions.”

  “For free.”

  Brennan shrugged. Money was not the driving force in his life, or in his music program apparently. “What sessions has he sat in on?”

  “I don’t know, Monty. I haven’t kept track of him.”

  The phone rang then, and Mrs. Kelly jumped as if she had never heard the sound before. She grabbed the receiver.

  “St. Bernadette’s. Oh! Your Grace!” She turned partly away from us to shield the important call. “No! I’m sorry, Your Grace. Monsignor’s not here, but I’ll see if I can find him. Oh.” She turned back reluctantly until her eyes found Burke. No doubt about it; he was here. “Well, yes, he is, if you’re sure you don’t want me to look for Mons — Certainly, Your Grace.” She pressed the receiver against her thigh. “Father! His Grace on the phone. He wants to speak to Monsignor but he says he’ll speak to you.”

  Burke took the phone. “Dennis!” Mrs. Kelly’s lips contracted into a thin line of disapproval.

  “Dia is Muire duit! You don’t say! O’Flaherty? Transferred where?” The colour drained from the housekeeper’s face. “Oh, pardon me, Dennis. I thought you said — My hearing must be going. Not enough vitamin A in my diet. Or is it vitamin B? What’s that? I know, I know. And I will confess it. Now, you were saying, Bishop. I know he’d be happy to. And if he can’t, I will. Though you know my Irish is not as good as Michael’s. Ah. Yes. Well, we’re not much further ahead. I —” He interrupted himself to ask Mrs. Kelly to fetch him a notepad and pencil; then, when she had departed, he said rapidly to the bishop: “Michael went out to see Gadkin-Falkes. I think he made a confession. Naturally Michael didn’t say. But my feeling is the man didn’t do it at all.” Mrs. Kelly bustled back into the room with pencil and paper, and handed it to Burke. He nodded his thanks, put the items down and returned to his conversation with a higher power. “I will. Yes, we’ve been fortunate in one respect, anyway. Our school is still in operation, despite the catastrophe of Father Schellenberg’s death. Several of the students have told me they want to persevere with the program precisely because Reinhold Schellenberg supported it.” He paused to listen. “Tomorrow? Enrico Sferrazza-Melchiorre is giving a brief history of the music of the Vatican itself, St. Peter’s, the Sistine Chapel. My own topic will be ‘The International Style: Architecture, Liturgy, and Music, the War on Decoration.’ Well, arguably, it’s all of a piece. Bare ruined choirs and all of that. Oh? That would be grand, Dennis; drop in any time.” Mrs. Kelly tensed in her chair. “No, no need to call ahead. Stop in at the parochial house here, or at the school. We’ll be happy to see you. Bye.”

  He hung up and turned to me. “Are we off then, Monty?”

  “Father,” Mrs. Kelly began, “is His Grace planning a visit here?”

  “What’s that, Mrs. Kelly? Ah. Yes, he may be dropping by.”

  “When would that be now, Father?”

  “Oh, he’s not sure. We’ll see him when we see him.”

  “But, did he narrow it down at all?” “No — well, he may attend one or two of our sessions tomorrow. Anyway, we won’t take up any more of your time, Mrs. Kelly. Thank you for your help.”

  He left the room. I repeated our thanks, assuring the housekeeper that her information was helpful, before following him out.

  “You’re a real prick, Brennan, the way you were needling that poor woman.”

  “First the bishop, now you.”

  “The bishop gave you hell?”

  “Well, he suggested her lot would be inheriting the earth some day, and I might not want to rack up any sins against her.”

  “She’s terrified of you.”

  “A woman who nearly jumps out of her hide whenever a man appears shouldn’t be a housekeeper in a rectory full of priests.”

  “She’s not terrified of men; she’s terrified of you.”

  “No need to be. Amn’t I the most harmless of God’s creatures? When I first arrived I was the soul of patience with her. But everything I do is not the way my predecessor, Father Shea, would have done it. Then she didn’t send out my notices of the opening of the schola because of some half-cracked idea that the bishop had to approve them. I thought I had her sorted after that. But no. There were a couple of times the woman pretended she didn’t know I was in the building when the bishop called; she thinks his voice is for O’Flaherty’s ears alone. And this affectation of being nervous around me —”

  “Do you suppose it could be your manner? Have I ever mentioned — I believe I have — that you can be a little brusque at times —”

  “Oh, yer bollocks.”

  I waved goodbye, and left for the office.

  Just before the close of the workday I had a visit from Moody Walker.

  “Come in, Moody. Don’t tell me you have something for us already!”

  “You’re not paying me to sit on my butt doing nothing. I did a criminal record check on all the people who didn’t go on the bus trip.”

  “Great. Did any names pop up?”

  “Petrucci. You told me he has an alibi? Too bad.”

  “Why too bad?”

  “Because he torched a church back in 1979.”

  “No!”

  “Yeah. Arson conviction. Set fire to Santa Chiara’s Church down in New Jersey. Served just over a year, then got out on good behaviour. Nothing el
se on his sheet.”

  “That’s enough, I’d say. I’ll have a word with him, alibi or no alibi. Anybody else?”

  “Janice Gwendolyn Ford.”

  “Jan Ford has a sheet?”

  “Disturbing the peace. A protest in Tallahassee, Florida. It was only two years ago so I called the local police to see what they remembered. Not much. Just that she caused a ruckus at a demonstration. Cop said she hit somebody with her sign but she must have pleaded to the lesser charge.”

  “What was she protesting, did the guy say?”

  “The death penalty. They were about to fry some death-row inmate. Big crowd gathered outside the prison. Ford must be one of those people who hate killing and violence, but doesn’t see any problem clobbering people who don’t agree with her!”

  “I’ll see what she has to say. Any more criminals in the choir school?”

  “No. Or nobody else who got caught anyway.”

  I found Jan Ford that evening in her room at the Mother House, the massive grey stone building that is home to the Sisters of Charity at Mount Saint Vincent University. The Mount has an enviable location, high over the waters of the Bedford Basin.

  Jan was doing her homework. Spread before her were a music dictation book, a pitch pipe, and a hymnbook. I recalled a time during choir rehearsal when Burke caught sight of a copy of that same hymn-book on a shelf in the loft. He stopped the music, marched over, picked it up by two fingers, gave it a look that should have rendered it a smoking ruin, and dropped it in the trash can. The choirboys were agog. Good thing I had left him behind when I set out for this interview.

  “Hello, Ms. Ford. We were never formally introduced but —” “Monty. The lawyer. Yes, I’ve seen you around. Have a seat.” She cleared a chair for me. “Give me something that rhymes with Jesus.”

  “Ephesus.”

  “No, that’s not how it’s pronounced.”

  “Oh. How about ‘pleases’? That would be damning with faint praise, though, wouldn’t it?”

  “No, it could work:

  Come to Jesus, He will please us.