by Anne Emery
“I did not see this note. What kind of a note was it?”
“It was a piece of paper torn from a larger sheet of writing paper, and it said: “Fac me tecum plangere.”
“Perhaps this was writing paper that I had touched. But how can I know if I have never seen it?”
“I can tell you it was beautiful marbled paper. Probably quite costly.”
Sferrazza-Melchiorre leaned over and opened a drawer in his desk. “This paper?”
It was a pad of marbled paper matching the one on which the note had been written.
“Exactly like that.”
He shrugged again. “My paper. My fingerprints.”
“Now we’re getting somewhere. Did anyone borrow this, or take a sheet from it?”
“I do not know. Perhaps someone did.”
“Who was in your room?”
“Many of the people here at the schola. I cannot say who. Or, to be more correct, I cannot say who was not in here.”
Great.
I retrieved my pictures from the one-hour photo place on Tuesday and headed straight to the T-shirt shop in Scotia Square, where I handed over the ANGELICVM picture and ordered a shirt for Normie. Then I sifted through the other snapshots. There was St. Philomena’s Oratorio. The plaque containing the lengthy write-up of the building’s history was perfectly legible in the photo, so I drove to the rectory. Burke was in, and he took out a pair of half-glasses, perched them on his nose, and swiftly translated the Italian text.
“In 1908, the parish priest of St. Bona, Don Natale Reginato, decided to create a tangible sign of his devotion to the holy virgin and martyr Filomena, whose cult had become popular around the middle of the nineteenth century, following the wondrous recovery of the Curé d’Ars, San Giovanni Maria Vianney, thanks also to —”
“Vianney!” I interrupted. He looked at me over his reading glasses and waited. “A connection between Saint John Vianney and Philomena. We have the Philomena chaplet placed in Brother Robin’s room with the note attached. Which one of your students is devoted to Saint John? Fred Mills. A connection between Fred and Robin?”
Burke did not reply.
“What else did you just read there? Let me see it. The ‘guarigione prodigiosa.’ What’s that again?”
“The wondrous recovery. Saint John must have been cured of something dire, and attributed the cure to Saint Philomena.”
“So. Sickness and cure. Robin’s sister died of illness. No cure there. Would someone maintain a devotion to a saint who fell down on the job? ‘My saint came through for me,’ or ‘my saint let me down.’ Would any rational person think in such crass terms, haggling with the supernatural?”
“People do it every day, Monty. ‘Dear God, if you cure me of this liver ailment, I promise I’ll never let a drop of whiskey touch my lips again.’”
“I know, I know. But I can’t figure out what point the sender of the chaplet was trying to make with Robin. I’m way out of my league here, Brennan.”
“We all are, Monty. You saw the butchery visited upon Reinhold Schellenberg. Don’t expect the killer’s motivations to make sense to you.”
“True. Well, I’d like to find out where the chaplet came from. I know of only one religious supply shop in town.”
F.X. McMurtry Ecclesiastical Supplies was an obscure little place tucked in between two antiques shops on Agricola Street in the north end of Halifax. Red and blue votive candles flickered in the left-hand window; a plaster statue of the Virgin Mary oversaw a collection of rosaries on the right. There was an elderly man presiding at the counter.
“Good afternoon, sir. Major day out there.”
“Beautiful,” I agreed. “I’m wondering whether you might have any medals of Saint Philomena.”
“Not likely, but I’ll check.”
He pulled out a drawer and rummaged in it. “What do you know? We’ve still got one.” He held it out to me in shaking fingers; before I could grab it, the medal fell out of his hand.
“Poor old Philly. Dropped again. Sorry, my hands are a little shaky. Doctor says there’s not much to be done except I shouldn’t fill my teacup to the top.” He bent down behind the counter and retrieved the medal. “Here you go.”
“Thanks.” I looked it over but didn’t gain any insight from the tiny piece of metal. “Have you had anyone else asking about Philomena in recent weeks? I’m thinking of a chaplet I saw, with red and white beads. Did you sell one of those?”
“I don’t remember selling one, but we had a table of leftover items. If someone purchased a chaplet along with some other things from the table, I would not have noticed.”
“I’m going to show you some pictures, if you wouldn’t mind, and I’d like to know whether you remember any of these people coming into the shop.”
“Okay.”
I brought out photos of Sferrazza-Melchiorre, Logan, Ford, Petrucci, Mills, and Bleier, although I didn’t seriously imagine the East German cop had given the British monk a chaplet of an ancient Roman saint. It was all for nought anyway; the proprietor didn’t recognize any of them.
“Sorry I can’t help you. This must be about the murdered theologian.”
“Yes, it is. My name is Monty Collins. I’m the lawyer for the schola cantorum, and I’m doing a bit of detective work.”
“Good luck!”
“I’m going to need it. You may be able to tell me something about this: apparently, Saint John Vianney was devoted to Philomena, something about a miraculous recovery?”
“The way I heard it, it was his friend, not John himself, who was cured of a hopeless disease. But John had a well-known devotion to Philomena. He called her the ‘new light of the church militant.’ Pope Pius X, himself canonized as a saint, named Saint John Vianney the patron of something called the Universal Archconfraternity of Saint Philomena. I won’t define that for you, but you get the picture. John and Philomena were an item. Never mind that they were separated by fifteen centuries of history! Though I suppose they’re together now.”
I wondered then about something he had said. “What did you mean a minute ago, ‘dropped again’? Did something happen to her medal, or a statue?”
“Don’t you know?” I shook my head. “She got dumped from the calendar of saints.”
“So that means what? She’s no longer a saint?”
“No, it’s not quite that bad. But she’s no longer publicly commemorated in the liturgy of the church. She doesn’t have a feast day anymore. She hasn’t been decanonized, and people can still maintain their devotions to her. But she took a hit, no question.”
“Fans of Philomena and John Vianney must have been upset.”
“I suppose so, yes.”
“Why was this action taken against her?”
“Not enough known about her, and some of the evidence they had didn’t stand up. They just couldn’t come up with sufficient historical information to keep her on the official calendar.”
“I never heard that. Of course, I can’t claim to know much about the saints. I saw a write-up about her in a book, though, and a holy card. There was nothing about her demotion.”
“There wouldn’t be, if it was a holy card. And there would be nothing in the book about it if the book was old enough.”
“It was a fairly old book. Butler’s Lives, I think it was called.”
“Right. Probably the 1956 edition.”
“When was she delisted?”
“Early sixties, during the time of Pope John. Just before the Vatican Council.”
Chapter 15
Cessent iurgia maligna, cessent lites.
Et in medio nostri sit Christus Deus.
Simul quoque cum beatis videamus,
Glorianter vultum tuum, Christe Deus:
Gaudium quod est immensum, atque probum,
Saecula per infinita saeculorum. Amen.
Let evil impulses stop, let litigation cease,
And may Christ our God be in our midst.
And may we with the sa
ints also,
See Thy face in glory, O Christ our God:
The joy that is immense and good,
Unto the ages through infinite ages. Amen.
— “Ubi Caritas”
Just when the Philomena revelations promised a new avenue of inquiry, I had to suspend my investigation. Temporarily. My excursion to F.X. McMurtry Ecclesiastical Supplies took place on Tuesday, January 28. Two days later, my medical malpractice trial got underway in the Nova Scotia Supreme Court. I stayed in touch with the schola cantorum in the evenings, but not for forensic purposes; I was at St. Bernadette’s for choir practice. The premiere of Brennan Burke’s new Mass was scheduled for February 7, three weeks before the inaugural class of the schola was to complete its studies. Brennan was, by turns, excited and apprehensive. The Mass, the “Missa Doctoris Angelici,” meant the world to him as a priest and musician. Somehow, he managed to avoid infecting the choir with whatever tension he was feeling, and the rehearsals were joyful occasions. The boys were very much aware that they were breaking new ground, singing something nobody had ever sung before. I thought the Mass was exquisite. The polyphonic parts sounded as if they had been composed in the sixteenth century; the Gregorian-style “Credo” could have been over a thousand years old. The composer was still not satisfied with his “Agnus Dei,” but it sounded fine to me.
On Friday night, February 7, after a successful week in the law courts, I resumed my role as choirboy. The St. Bernadette’s Choir of Men and Boys was in place in the choir loft two hours before the premiere of the new Mass. Burke had insisted on our early arrival, on pain of eternal damnation. But now he himself was missing. The little fellows in the choir were getting restless and finding diversion in horseplay. The men were looking at their watches.
“I’ll see if I can scare him up,” I offered, and pounded down the stairs and across to the rectory.
Mrs. Kelly met me at the door, looking fretful. “He never came down for supper, so I finally trooped up there to get him and, well, he won’t come out. Didn’t even hear me enter the room, then he looked right through me. Seemed like he was looking at something over my shoulder. I turned around. But there was nothing there. Sometimes that man … I don’t know. When he isn’t scary, he’s spooky! I just gave up and left. He hasn’t eaten.”
“I’ll go up and see him.”
The door was unlocked so I gave a perfunctory knock and walked in. He made no sign he was aware of my presence. He was dressed in a soutane, and was hunched over his desk, writing furiously. He finished a page, gave it a shove, let it waft to the floor, and grabbed another. It wasn’t writing; it was musical notation. I asked him what he was doing; he didn’t hear. A moment later he stopped his pen, raised his left hand, and shook his head, almost if he were asking someone to slow down. Then both hands came up and he conducted an unseen choir. He returned to his page and wrote some more. Without breaking stride he issued a command: “Rehearse them.” He didn’t say another word. He wanted me to conduct the rehearsal? I’d never conducted in my life. But somehow I knew it would be a mistake to interrupt whatever was going on. I turned and left the room, closing the door gently behind me.
“Father Burke’s going to be delayed for a bit,” I announced to the choir when I returned to the loft. I ignored the questioning looks. “He’s asked me to handle the rehearsal, so please bear with me. Luckily we already know it so it should just sing itself.”
We went over the composition at half volume, because the church was already filling up below us. Once again, I marvelled at what a lovely and evocative setting of the Mass he had produced. Then it was time to get into our black cassocks and white surplices, and wait for showtime. Nervous glances were exchanged as we dressed.
Finally, we heard someone bounding up the steps two at a time, and Burke appeared before us in the loft. He gestured for us to sit, but didn’t speak. His eyes sought out certain members of the choir, guys I knew to be the best sight-readers and musicians in the group, including one superb boy soprano, and he handed them photocopied sheets of music. One had my name on it. It was music I’d never seen before. Nobody had. A new “Agnus Dei.” Why was he handing it out now, minutes before the performance? I stared at it in astonishment. It was legible, but just barely. Had he actually been composing this when I was in his room? He seemed unfocused, distracted. We usually opened our performances with a prayer but he must have forgotten, because all he did was signal to us that it was time for our procession to the altar.
The church was nearly full, and I saw many of the schola people sitting in the congregation. Enrico Sferrazza-Melchiorre was in the second row in his shoulder cape; the buttons of his soutane glittered like black diamonds. Next to him sat Gino Savo in sombre dignity. On the other side of the church were Kurt Bleier and Jadwiga Silkowski. A pissed-off William Logan clambered into a seat, late, and glared at his wife. My own spouse was there with Tommy Douglas and his girlfriend, Lexie. Normie sat on the aisle, dressed in her ANGELICVM T-shirt, and grinned at me as I went by.
We shuffled into place and faced the congregation. Burke gazed above our heads as if he’d forgotten why we were there. Then he brought his eyes down to us, raised his arms, and we began his dark, austere “Kyrie Eleison,” followed by the exultation of the “Gloria,” the conviction of the “Credo,” and the beauty of the young boys’ voices in the “Sanctus” and “Benedictus.” Without thinking I turned to the last part of the Mass in our binders. A quick half shake of Burke’s head brought me back to the strange situation that had presented itself earlier, when he arrived with a different “Agnus Dei.” He picked up his new composition and waited for the selected choristers to open their copies. He quietly sang us our notes and signalled the beginning of the piece we had never rehearsed, never seen. Father Burke — the task-master, the perfectionist, the man of endless nitpicking rehearsals — appeared unconcerned. And somehow, for the most part, we got it right. Like the Allegri “Miserere,” it was a mix of plainchant, polyphony, and a soaring soprano line that cried to heaven for the Lamb of God, who takes away the sin of the world, to have mercy on us, to grant us peace. Brennan Burke’s “Agnus Dei” was stunning, ethereal, out of this world. If any music was “the harmonious voice of creation; an echo of the invisible world,” this was it. The congregation rose to its feet as the last note floated up from the altar, and Burke turned to face the applause.
I saw Maura staring at him as if she were seeing him for the first time. Normie’s eyes were riveted to him; she left her seat and came forward as if in a dream, extending the forefinger of her right hand till it grazed his own. I almost expected a spark to fly between them. The applause went on and on. He just stood there. Finally, he gave a little bow. The people filed out of the church in silence; nobody chattered.
Afterwards, in the mundane world of a church basement reception, the effect had not worn off. Normie loaded a paper plate with chocolate squares and brownies but forgot to eat them. She drifted to a quiet corner and sat by herself, staring into space.
I made my way over to Enrico Sferrazza-Melchiorre who, I saw, was consoling a distraught Gino Savo. The Vatican’s man had tears in his eyes. “È come Montini, è come Montini,” he whispered, then walked away.
“What does he mean?” I asked Enrico.
“They used to say of Montini — Pope Paul VI — that he seemed to have shutters over his eyes to mask the light within. That sometimes you would catch him with the shutters open just for an instant. And you would see a light, a luminous, radiant brilliance behind his eyes. That is what Gino saw in Brennan tonight after his Mass. I do not think Gino is the only one who saw it. Your little one was very much affected. She seems like a person open to — what would we call it? — the mystical realm.”
“People say she has the sight.”
“Yes, I believe she does.” His eyes followed Savo as he left the gathering. “I think Gino has seen more in Father Burke than he ever thought was there, and regrets the way things have always been between them
. Perhaps he will make an overture to Brennan when he settles down.”
William Logan brushed by us then, Babs in tow with an apologetic look on her face.
“What did you think of that, Bill?” I asked him.
“God works His wonders through the damnedest people,” he muttered, and left the room.
When I finally saw a gap in the well-wishers around Brennan, I walked over and made to shake his hand. But the evening seemed to call for more, so I went way over the top in male-to-male intimacy, and clapped him on the shoulder.
“When did you start writing that ‘Agnus Dei,’ Brennan?”
“I don’t know,” he said in a quiet voice.
“When we got back from Rome?”
“No, not that long ago.”
“You didn’t just write it today.”
“Some time today, I think …” He wandered off, distracted. “Wasn’t that something, Monty?” It was Monsignor O’Flaherty, delight written all over his face.
“Yes, it was, Mike. Magnificent. And I’m glad there were so many here from the schola. A great inspiration for them, I’m sure.”
“Yes, indeed. And it isn’t just those in consecrated life who have been affected by Brennan’s masterpiece. I saw Mr. Petrucci sitting in a daze at the back of the church. Still there, as far as I know. He wasn’t moving when people were filing out. Maybe he’ll sign up for another session of the schola, to see how Brennan can top what he did tonight!”
“Perhaps he will.”
“Or we may hire Lou to do a bit of repair work, Monty. He was saying to me the other day we need some rewiring done; I walked into the church and saw him poking around the electrical outlets. We’re not up to code, he says. Well, I knew that.”
“True, but that’s a problem for another day. Excuse me, would you, Mike?”
“Surely. I’ll have Mrs. Driscoll pour me a nice cup of tea.”
Lou Petrucci poking around at the electrical system and now alone in the church? I could not imagine that this beautiful old building would activate his fire-starting impulses, but I decided to go and see what Petrucci was doing.