by Anne Emery
I made a quick trip to my office and pulled out the notes of my interview with Clara MacIntyre. All I had was that she nearly got hit by a car with its wipers going in the bright sunshine. The car was nice and clean and did not appear to need its windshield wiped. Nothing about the kind of car or the driver. I hadn’t pressed it, I remembered, because I hadn’t been interested in the car. The near-collision was incidental to what I had questioned her about: voices she might have heard coming from the church. It was time to pay another call on Mrs. MacIntyre. I gathered up my photos of our suspects and called her number. “Come right over,” she said.
But she put a damper on things right away when I told her what I was after.
“I don’t know one car from another, Mr. Collins,” she said, stroking Dewey’s tawny head as he slept beside her on the chesterfield. “Last car I had was a Plymouth Valiant.”
“They haven’t made those in a while.”
“No.”
“Do you know what an Aston Martin looks like?”
“That’s an English car. My husband didn’t hold with English cars.”
“One more thing and I’ll leave you in peace, Mrs. MacIntyre.”
“Oh, I don’t mind at all, Mr. Collins. Dewey and I enjoy company.”
“Can you remember anything about the driver?”
“I couldn’t see a face at all. Not that I really looked. I just wanted to avoid getting hit. But the sun was blinding on the windshield. The driver could have been King Kong for all I know.”
“That’s fine. I understand. Here are the photos anyway, in case you saw one of these people lurking around the church.”
She peered at the pictures, reached for a pair of reading glasses, and tried again. “No, no. Oh, I did see this fellow, I think.”
My heart missed a beat. “Which one?”
She pointed to the photograph. Fred Mills. “It was either him or someone who looked a heck of a lot like him. But he wasn’t as bright-eyed and bushy-tailed that day as he looks in this picture.”
“You saw this man when you were walking Dewey on Friday, November 22?”
“I think so. No. No, it was the day before.”
“He was at Stella Maris Church the day before the — on the Thursday?”
“No, not at the church.”
I took a deep breath and willed myself to stay patient and calm.
“Just tell me in your own words, Mrs. MacIntyre.”
“Dewey and I had a walk at Seaview Park, which as you know is right there on the water, some distance east of Stella Maris, but you can see the church plain as day from the park. We walked around the park on Thursday until that man with the unruly Rottweilers showed up. The same rough owner and his dogs were there again on Friday, which is why Dewey and I decided to go to Stella Maris instead that day. But it was on the Thursday that we saw the young man in the picture. He was sitting on a bench looking at the church. Then he just sat there staring down at his feet. He was pale and shaky, looked as if he were about to be sick. In a way I wanted to ask if he needed help. But you never know — he could have been on drugs or something. Dewey ran up to him and sniffed his legs. He reached down and patted Dewey’s ears but it was obvious his heart wasn’t in it. He was unwell or upset, or had other things on his mind. Dewey left him alone. Then the fellow got up from the bench and headed for the parking lot. I never gave him another thought until now.”
Monday morning it was minus twelve outside, with a wind chill of minus thirty. Every muscle in my body contracted in protest when I sat in my frozen car. The heater finally afforded some relief just before I got to the choir school. I went inside and found Fred Mills, but he wasn’t alone. He and Kurt Bleier were deep in conversation outside one of the classrooms.
“Achtung, Kolonel!” I turned just in time to see William Logan click his heels together and stand at attention facing Bleier. “Herr general wants to see you. Schnell! He says zere iss a large wall crumbling behind the compound and comrades are escaping to the West! Zere iss no discipline in the Fatherland anymore!”
Bleier looked up at Logan and replied in a deadpan voice: “Yes, many are scrambling to the West today. In America they are giving away free assault rifles to the first million people over the age of ten who eat the most wieners and answer a skill-testing question. The question is: ‘Who is the guy who is not on TV?’”
“You’ve got some nerve laughing at American society!”
“It was you who started the conversation, on a decidedly offensive note, Mr. Logan. Until you burst upon us, I was having a courteous conversation with a very dedicated American priest, Father Mills here. But you gave all that up, didn’t you? Couldn’t bear the discipline of such a life, perhaps.”
“How can you sit here and listen to this guy, Freddy?”
“Oh, give it a rest, Bill!” “Father Mills is very well-informed about world history, unlike many of your fellow citizens, Mr. Logan. I think I have him persuaded to visit my country when I return.”
“Maybe that should be if you return to your country. You could end up spending the rest of your life in jail here. Don’t sit there and lap up all his propaganda, Freddy. German history of some kind probably accounts for the murder of Reinhold Schellenberg. You’re probably thinking how spiffy Colonel Bleier would look in a tight-fitting leather trench coat with shiny boots and a great big stick but —”
“Bill? Go fuck yourself.”
“There’s the proof of what a bad influence this guy is, or maybe it’s the influence of your other hero, Burke. When you start using the F-word, Fred, civilization as we know it is over.”
Bleier gave him a level look. “If you knew the first thing about civilization, or civility, Mr. Logan, this regrettable conversation would not be taking place. And your efforts to portray me as the killer, while it is you who are incapable of controlling your resentments and your emotions —”
“Screw you, Bleier. You too, Freddy!” He stalked away.
“Hi there, Monty,” Fred said to me. “Just another outburst of post-murder tension among the suspects. Do you think if we all accuse each other that means we’re all innocent?”
“All are innocent except one, Fred. And you’re right. It would serve that person very well to occupy the high ground and level accusations at one or more of the others.”
“Well, I hope nobody seriously suspects me.” He turned back to Bleier. “Monty and I both have kind of a boyish, not-guilty look, wouldn’t you say, Kurt?” He put his hands together as if to pray. “I’ll bet he gets away with all kinds of mischief on account of it.”
“I don’t get away with much. My ex-wife catches me out every time.”
“Yeah, with me it’s the church hierarchy!”
“But that doesn’t get you really, really angry, does it, Fred?”
“No!”
“I shall let you get on with your interrogation, Mr. Collins,” Bleier said. “It is obvious that you have not been taken in by this man’s appearance of innocence. I look forward to speaking with you again, Fred. Auf Wiedersehen.” He left us, and I waited until I had Fred’s full attention.
“Fred, were you up in the area of Stella Maris Church the day before the murder?”
He stared at me with unblinking grey eyes. “Why on earth would you think that? I was never in that church until we processed in for vespers, and found Father Schellenberg’s body!”
“I didn’t say you were in the church. Were you in Seaview Park, at the top of the Halifax peninsula, on Thursday, November 21?”
“No, I was not! What would I be doing there?”
“I have no idea, Fred. But we have a witness who said she saw you looking shaky and —”
“Your witness is wrong, and so are your accusations! I’m not going to listen to any more of this. Goodbye!”
Somebody else was having a bad day, I saw when I returned to the parking lot. Michael O’Flaherty was sitting at the wheel of his car, trying in vain to get it started. Even through the driver’s si
de window I could see his agitation. Anguish, even. Then I saw why. Sister Kitty Curran was in the passenger seat. Right. This was Monday the twentieth, the day she was flying back to Rome. And Mike couldn’t get his car going in the cold. I walked over and knocked on his window. He scowled in my direction and rolled down his window.
“Mike, you’re going to flood the engine.”
“Sure, I can get a cab to the airport, Michael,” Kitty said. “Save yourself the trouble here. Cars weren’t meant to operate in these temperatures, I’m thinking.”
“This car’s been working for a decade, Kitty. I’ll get it going.”
The scene took me back to my teen years. A date with a girl I liked and wanted to impress, and everything going wrong. Often with a vehicle. That’s what Mike was going through now, with Kitty.
“Take my car, Mike. It’s all warmed up. Here are the keys.”
“Oh, now, Monty. There’s no need of that.”
But he let himself be persuaded, and his customary good cheer was restored. He transferred Kitty’s bags to my trunk, got her settled in the passenger seat, even tucked my old plaid car robe around her. I said my goodbyes and promised to see her again in Rome if Mike wasn’t over there monopolizing her time. He blushed, but said: “The three of us will go. You, me, and Brennan.”
“All right!” I exclaimed.
Something in my tone called forth a clarification from Monsignor O’Flaherty. “My trip won’t be like the trip you boys just had! I’m sure Kitty wouldn’t want to know what you might have been up to!”
Kitty knew damn well what we’d been up to but wasn’t about to say so, to me or to Mike.
They started out of the parking lot, then Mike stopped and rolled down the window again. “Monty! Where are my manners? Hop in, and let me drive you to your office!”
“No, a brisk walk will do me good. You kids get going. Take her straight to the airport now, Michael!”
Mike grinned, and Kitty gave me a wink as they pulled away.
We were having our regular Tuesday night choir practice, and this was probably our seventh take on the Saint-Saëns “Ave Verum Corpus.”
“No, gentlemen. Somebody is still saying ‘Mur-ee-ah’ for Maria. The Virgin Mary was not a twin sister to Murray. It is ‘Mah,’ and the R is not like the R in Murray. You have to frap the R, make it almost — almost but not exactly — like a D. The way we do with ‘Kyrie.’ So. Maria.”
“But you still want us to roll the R in perforatum, right, Father?”
“That’s right, Rrrichard. Rrroll the second R. R is probably the worst sound in English singing. I could say more on this subject but I’m sure we’d all rather get it right this time and go home. Once more. And come down to pianissimo when you get to ‘Esto nobis praegustatum in mortis examine.’ It means: ‘Be for us a foretaste in the trials of death.’ Saint-Saëns has written it low and quiet, and it’s all the more moving when it’s done that way. So let’s hear you one more time.”
We sang it again, and he pronounced himself satisfied. Books were slapped shut and chairs rocked as the young boys made their escape from the choir loft. “Boys! You’re in church! Take it easy.”
I waited for Brennan and we descended the stairs together. Gino Savo emerged from the shadows as we entered the nave.
“Beautiful singing, Brennan. Of course it was beautiful the first time. Perhaps you expect too much of your choristers.”
“I run a choir school, Gino. That’s what they’re here for. Now, what can I do for you?”
“I understand you removed some materials from Father Schellenberg’s room at the abbey.”
“Mmm.”
“I would like to have a look at those materials.”
“The police have all that now, Gino. It’s out of our hands.”
“That was not Monsignor O’Flaherty’s understanding.”
Nor mine. The boxes were sitting in my office.
“We had them at the rectory initially but we could hardly leave them there. For reasons of security. I’m sure you understand. And they may be evidence. We are trying to assist the police in any way we can.”
“I see.”
“If and when we get the boxes back we’ll be happy to make them available to you.”
Savo didn’t believe a word Burke was saying. Burke didn’t care. Savo left us with a curt goodbye.
“I guess we’d better have a look in those boxes, Monty.”
“Before or after you go to confession for lying to a representative of the See of Peter?”
“Don’t concern yourself about the state of my soul. Or my standing with the Vatican. Let’s divide the workload.”
“I’ll sort it into three piles, Brennan. One for me, one for you, one for Michael O’Flaherty.”
“I don’t want the boxes over at the rectory. Obviously. If we let Michael at them, his keen forensic eye will find something ominous on every page. And who’s going to be hearing about it every five minutes? I’d as lief go through it all myself.”
“But you won’t. You haven’t the time. I don’t think we’ll find anything at all. We already know the reasons Schellenberg became unpopular in so many quarters. But there could be some correspondence in there. Who knows? I have an idea. I’ll speak to Mike on the QT, tell him we’d rather go through it ourselves before the Vatican does. Get him involved in a bit of intrigue. He’ll enjoy that. I’ll set Mike up in a conference room in the law office. You can come in and see the stuff when you have time. Meanwhile Mike and I will look it over.”
“Mike doesn’t know any German.”
“A good deal of the material is in English — translations of Schellenberg’s writings, or whatever. I’ll give those items to Michael. So, how are you doing? Recovering from … the trip?”
“Oh, I’m grand, grand entirely.”
I had other things I wanted to discuss with Michael O’Flaherty besides the Schellenberg papers. I wanted to check out the chessboard Colonel Bleier and Father Schellenberg had used. Then I hoped to do a little research into John XXIII and Paul VI, the two popes Brother Robin had lampooned in his drawings. I finally got away from the office in the middle of the afternoon on Wednesday. I made a trip to the choir school, found it open, and headed down the corridor to the little alcove where the chessboard was. Had been. It wasn’t there. I wondered whether Brennan had come by and taken it, knowing it was of interest in light of our conversation with Greta Schliemann. But Brennan was out when I crossed over to the rectory. Maybe Monsignor O’Flaherty would know where he was. I proceeded down the hall to his room.
“Good afternoon, Michael.”
“Good day to you, Monty! Is there anything I can help you with?”
“I was looking for the chessboard we used to see in the corridor at the choir school.” Was that a blush I saw on O’Flaherty’s cheeks? “Where did the board come from? Was it here already, or did someone bring it to the schola?”
“Em, well, I’m embarrassed to tell you, Monty, I have it here. And no, it doesn’t belong to me or to anyone else here as far as I know. It appeared on that little table one day, and I used to see Father Schellenberg playing there, and, well, after what happened nobody seemed to use it anymore, so …” His cheeks flushed a deeper hue. “I took it. A little souvenir of the great man, you know. I thought maybe it was his.”
“It may have been. So it’s here?”
“There it is on my shelf, all set up. I didn’t try to hide it, but I probably shouldn’t have taken it.”
“Oh, I’m sure nobody’s going to rap your knuckles for that, Monsignor. Mind if I have a look?”
“Go ahead, Monty, please.”
I looked at the board, which appeared to be quite old and worn. It was in the form of a box about three inches deep, with the squares painted in cream and brown on the top. I removed the chess pieces and put them aside, then picked up the box. It made a rattling sound, and I turned it over. Half of the bottom was a panel that slid open, so that the pieces could be stored. An insc
ription on the bottom showed that it had been made in Germany in 1913. Was this the same board that had been used by Max Bleier and Johann Schellenberg in the Nazi prison camp? I opened the sliding panel, and a broken bishop fell out. I saw something else inside as well. Papers.
“What have you got there, Monty?”
“There are papers stashed in here. Let’s have a look. First, though, Mike, would there be a pair of rubber gloves anywhere in the building?”
The elderly priest’s eyes lit up. “Evidence, is it?”
“Could be.”
“You hold on. Don’t touch a thing. I’ll go down to the kitchen and get Mrs. Kelly’s gloves.”
He was back in sixty seconds, out of puff. “Here, Monty. You do it. I’m a bundle of nerves here!”
I snapped the gloves on and drew the papers out of the box.
The first was a message in English. “Reinhold Schellenberg. Stay in the monastery and say your prayers. I repeat, do not leave the monastery. You have destroyed the church. Do not tempt me to destroy you.”
The second was in German. My rough translation was: “Father Schellenberg. You have failed your homeland, you have failed your church, and you have failed yourself. You have caused others to fail in their faith. God damn you. If I am provided with the opportunity, I will kill you. Know that, and govern yourself accordingly.”
There were no envelopes and no dates.
Michael O’Flaherty’s face was white. “There were threats against him before! Someone must have been waiting for him to leave the monastery, to travel somewhere. If only we had known, we would have done something to try to protect him!”