Cecilian Vespers

by Anne Emery

  I was halfway up the stairs when I met him rushing down. He grabbed me by the arm.

  “Monty!”

  “Evening, Lou. I was just on my way up to see —”

  “I was at the back of the church. There’s an outlet I’m concerned about, so I was — Anyway, I overheard Father Sferrazza-Melchiorre and Father Savo!”

  “What did they say?”

  “They were sitting knee to knee, having a very intense conversation in Italian.”

  “Which you can understand.”

  “Yes. I heard Savo pleading with Sferrazza-Melchiorre. ‘You have responsibilities! Don’t let this agony go on any longer. Do your duty, Enrico, I beg you!’ All Enrico was saying was ‘I don’t know, I don’t know.’ He was really upset. Looked like he wanted to disappear. Father Savo told him: ‘I will make it as easy for you as I can. I promise you.’ It may be about something else, I know that. But I got the impression it was something big. They must have heard me or sensed my presence because they stopped talking and looked around. Startled, like they got caught at something. When they turned to each other again, I slipped out. I gotta get back to my wife and my sister. They’re waiting at the apartment and they’re gonna kill me if I’m any later.”

  I had to decide. I had one suspect casting suspicion on another. Should I try to detain Petrucci, or confront Sferrazza-Melchiorre? Either way, if something was going on, the answer was in the church. “Thanks, Lou. I’ll see what’s happening.”

  I headed upstairs. Was I going to find the church in flames, or Father Savo in danger of his life? I quietly pushed open the door to the church and went inside. There was nobody there. I stood for a couple of seconds, then walked on silent feet to the confession box on the left. Nobody inside. Crossed to the right. Nobody. I sprinted towards the altar and didn’t hear a sound. Had Lou Petrucci led me down the garden path? I took a quick walk around the church and saw nothing amiss. But would I know what to look for, if an electrician set something up to catch fire later on? I tried to think back to the arson cases I had worked, but I couldn’t focus.

  Lou may have been perfectly honest with me, but he could have misinterpreted the scene between the two priests. Enrico may have been falling apart about something else altogether, and had chosen his fellow Italian as a confidant. I left the nave and returned to the reception in the hope of finding Lou and asking him to describe the confrontation again. But Lou was gone. And there was no sign of the two Italian priests. I decided to go to the rectory; if Gino was in his room, I would attempt to pry some information out of him. Not that he would reveal anything said to him under the seal of confession.

  I heard an engine start up just as I reached the top of the basement stairs. There was a wrenching of gears, a screeching of tires, and the sounds of a car taking off. I launched myself out of the church. Just in time to see a pair of tail lights turning right onto Morris Street. I could make out two heads in the front seat.

  I ran to the rectory and pounded on the door. No response. I pounded again. Finally, a pale-looking Mrs. Kelly peered out the window, then opened the door.

  “Mrs. Kelly, did Father Savo or Father Sferrazza-Melchiorre just come in here?”

  “Oh, I don’t know, Mr. Collins. I’ve been in bed with a headache. I get them every once in a while, and I just take a pill and hit the sack. But I heard somebody making a racket. That must be what woke me up. Or maybe it was you knocking.”

  “A racket?”

  “Stomping up and down the stairs, it sounded like. But I was so groggy — Oh, it must have been Father Burke.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “His car keys are gone.” She pointed to the hooks where the keys were kept.

  “I have to go upstairs. Excuse me, Mrs. Kelly.”

  I brushed past her, took the stairs two at a time, and went straight for Enrico’s room. The door was wide open. Clothing was strewn across the bed, and his desk drawer had been pulled out. It was empty. It looked to me as if he had grabbed whatever he needed in clothing and had taken his papers from the desk. Papers and, I was willing to bet, his passport. I made a beeline for Gino’s room. His door was closed, but it opened when I pushed. He had been a bit more methodical. But there was no travel bag in sight, and a quick check of his desk showed that it was empty.

  What now? Drag Brennan from his reception? Call the police? And tell them what? That two priests had an argument, according to hearsay from one of my suspects? Should I report a stolen car? I thought I knew where Enrico was going, and I was not a believer in police chases. The last thing we needed was Father Sferrazza-Melchiorre, the Grand Prix fanatic, driving at breakneck speed to outrun the police, and driving himself and Father Savo off the road. I would call the police from the airport. Not for the first time, I wished I was more of a gadget man, the kind of guy who had a car phone. But I wasn’t and I didn’t. I jumped in my car, wasted a couple of precious seconds debating whether Barrington or Robie street would be quicker, decided on Barrington, and took off in delayed pursuit.

  I tried to reason like a killer desperate to flee the country. If I were Enrico, what would I do with Gino Savo? I was pretty sure Savo was in the car with him. Had he forced Savo into the car? My take on the situation was that Savo went along willingly, that he was going to try until the bitter end to keep the situation under control. Get Father Sferrazza-Melchiorre back to Italy. Back inside the walls of Vatican City. If Enrico could make it that far, he might be safe forever. Canada has no extradition treaty with the Vatican.

  I now knew the identity of the killer. I should not have been surprised, yet I was. I liked the flamboyant Roman-Sicilian priest. I had no idea what had driven him to murder. Was the killing of Father Schellenberg linked to the sex charges, the witness tampering, the extortion over the Vatican treasure? If so, where was the connection between all of that and the Philomena death scene? Imagination failed me when it came to the web of intrigue that marked the life of Don Enrico Sferrazza-Melchiorre.

  I stopped trying to reason it out and concentrated on getting to the airport. It’s twenty miles north of the city, and there are no shortcuts. The fugitives had a good head start, particularly if Enrico was at the wheel.

  I skidded to a halt when I got to the terminal, parked the car illegally, and ran inside.

  The monitors told me the next European flight was Air Canada 860, the regular night flight to London, set to depart in forty minutes. Had they begun boarding? I saw no sign of Enrico or Gino Savo. Had they gone through security already? There were queues of cranky-looking passengers at all the checkout counters. And I knew I’d have no luck asking Air Canada or airport personnel about the passenger lists. They would tell me to get lost, or they would call security. Did I know anybody out here? I tried to think. Wasn’t there someone I had spoken to recently? One of the baggage handlers, when Brennan and I met Gino Savo here. She might recognize Savo. Of course, everyone in the building would know if someone fitting the description of Enrico Sferrazza-Melchiorre had just gone through security. But the baggage handler sounded like my best chance. Especially when I remembered Brennan ribbing me, saying she had been giving me the eye.

  On my way to the baggage area, I ran the previous airport scene through my memory again. We had met Father Savo when he emerged from the arrival area. He was wearing a top coat and he had a garment bag, the kind used to carry suits, over his arm. A woman came by and greeted him. How did it go? “Hi, Father.” No, she just said “hi there” or “hey there.” Then she asked if everything was all right, or whether he had everything straightened out, or something like that. He had given her a pissed-off look, completely uncalled for, I was sure, and indicated with his arm that he had his bag with him. I had a clear picture of the woman in my mind.

  I went to the baggage carousels and looked around. No sign of the woman. I peeked into the office but there was only one person inside, a man. “Excuse me. I’m looking for one of your baggage handlers, a woman, about five foot two, a little, uh, on the
heavy side, hair in a ponytail.”

  “Oh, you mean Rhonda. She’ll be back in a second. I won’t tell her you said ‘heavy.’” He laughed, and I thanked him.

  Sure enough, she came in less than a minute later. “Hi, Rhonda. My name is Monty Collins. I’m hoping you can help me. You were here last month, the middle of January. I was meeting a passenger, and I’m wondering if you remember him. He flew in from Rome. He’s a priest, and he was wearing a black coat. Tonight I —”

  “Yeah, I remember you. And I remember him, because I was surprised. I didn’t know he was a priest.”

  “Oh, well, yes he is. I was just — What do you mean, you didn’t know he was a priest? You mean you didn’t notice his collar?”

  “Oh, yeah, I saw it that time.”

  “What time? That night, you mean?”

  “Yeah, I noticed it that night. But he wasn’t wearing it the first time.

  ”The first time? What on earth was she saying? “Are you all right, um, Monty?”

  “Are you saying you saw this man before mid-January?”

  “Yeah, first time he came through here. He just had on regular work clothes and a ball cap, so when I saw him in a priest’s outfit, I was a little surprised.”

  Gino Savo in a ball cap? In the Halifax airport? “When was this other time you saw the man, in work clothes?”

  “Couple of months before, I guess.”

  “He arrived in Halifax a couple of months before the night I saw you here.”

  “Right.”

  “Then he came again dressed in black.”

  I must have looked brain-dead, the way I was staring at her, but my mind was fully alive and scrambling to assimilate the new information. “So tell me what you said when you saw him arrive again, as a priest.”

  “I was probably asking if things went smoothly this time, with his luggage. Which was stupid of me because the second time around, the time I saw you here, he had a carry-on. He kind of lifted his arm that second time to show me. Like he was saying I’m carrying my bag because I can’t rely on you guys! The first time, he had checked his bag through, then it didn’t show up on the carousel. And was he pissed! He was so uptight you’d think he had the crown jewels in there. He hung around till the bag arrived — turns out it had just fallen off the cart — but he gave us a lot of grief until he got it! So when I saw him coming through again, I remembered him all too well. But we have to be friendly to our passengers, no matter what they’re like, so I asked him if everything was all right this time around.”

  “Rhonda, can you get me upstairs to the departure lounge?”

  “I —”

  “I know it’s irregular. I’ll take the blame. Here, I’ll show you some ID. You can pat me down if you like. This is urgent, and I’m going to call the police when I get up there.”

  “I can’t let you go by yourself, Monty.” She hesitated for a moment. “But I’ll take you up. Hold on a second.”

  She disappeared inside the baggage office for a moment, then reappeared with a walkie-talkie in her hand and some other gadget on her belt. She gestured for me to walk ahead of her.

  When I entered the departure lounge, I looked to my left and saw the gate where AC 860 would be boarding. No sign of Savo or Sferrazza-Melchiorre at the gate. I looked right. There they were, at the far end of the lounge. Enrico was staring straight at me. Gino was doubled over in his seat. I noticed as I walked towards them that they were the object of curious glances from the other passengers.

  A voice came over the PA announcing pre-boarding of Air Canada flight 860 to London. Enrico looked to the gate.

  “This isn’t going to end if he leaves the country tonight, Enrico.”

  “I cannot speak to you about this, Monty.”

  “I already know what happened. I know Gino was here in November.”

  Father Savo raised his tearstained face to his fellow priest. “It is too much of a burden for you, Enrico. I am sorry.”

  The burden of confession. That’s what Savo had wanted Enrico to do in the church, hear his confession of the murder. Enrico knew instantly what was going to happen and he did not want to hear it, to have to keep the secret. Lou Petrucci said Savo had offered to make things as easy for Enrico as he could. What did Savo mean? That he would turn himself over to the authorities and bring the investigation to a resolution, rather than leave Enrico to carry the burden alone? If so, Enrico was not going to let that happen here in Canada. His instinct was to get Savo out of the country, back to the Vatican. Never mind that they’d almost certainly be intercepted before they made it; desperation blots out logic every time.

  Savo spoke again. “Montague knows the truth. They all will know. As they should.”

  He looked me in the eye. “Reinhold Schellenberg was a mentor to me, ever since I first met him at the Vatican Council. Thanks to his influence, I was able to prosper in my career. But now, there is talk — everyone knows, in fact — that the archbishop of Genova will soon be made a cardinal, a prince of the church. Many of those who have gone to Genova as archbishop have returned to Rome as a cardinal. And my name is on many lips as a replacement for the archbishop.”

  I remembered Kitty Curran telling me this in Rome. So it all came down to ambition, after all.

  “As soon as I heard about my possible appointment, I called Schellenberg at the abbey. I asked if I could be assured of his patronage, his recommendation of me to the Holy Father. He said no! He knew of certain … difficulties I have had in my life. I have at times let my troubles interfere with my work; sometimes I have been unable to control my emotions and have lashed out at my colleagues, my staff. But I have tried to remedy this! I am under psychiatric care. I told this to Schellenberg. But he was unmoved. ‘If I am asked, I cannot in good conscience recommend you, Gino. I am sorry.’ This man, who had been like an older brother to me, was now going to deny me advancement in the hierarchy. I do not seek promotion only for myself, but for the good of the church. But no, he would not hear of it.” Savo stopped speaking and looked at the floor.

  “What do you mean by your ‘personal difficulties,’ Father Savo?” I asked quietly.

  He raised his head and stared at me intently. “You have children, Montague. I had a little daughter. Cristina. She was the light of my life. She died. And the loss was too much for my wife, who died of grief. I, too, was nearly destroyed by it. I buried my wife and entered the priesthood.”

  “Do you see some connection between your loss and Saint Philomena?”

  “Philomena is a wonder worker, as the Curé of Ars, John Vianney, well knew. When I was a child, one of seven in our family, my mother was dying. She was cured, miraculously, through the intercession of Philomena, to whom the whole family prayed night after night. There was no other explanation for her recovery. The doctors said such a reversal was impossible. My daughter, Cristina, contracted the same illness, a hereditary disease, that had beset my mother. We were told there was no hope for Cristina. But she survived and grew stronger. In the loving care of Philomena. Until Pope John XXIII struck Philomena from the calendar of saints. And here is where my guilt begins. I examined the so-called evidence of Philomena’s life. I found the gaps and errors others had found in her biography, in the archaeological findings. I too was filled with doubt. Could it be that my mother owed her life to one of the other saints? Should I research the saints to see who else may have interceded for her, if not Philomena? As a result of all this, I ceased praying to Philomena! By the time I came to my senses and resumed my prayers to her, it was too late. Within six months, my child was dead.”

  Gino Savo, a highly intelligent, capable man, had been unhinged by grief. He had never got over the death of his wife and child, and his personality had been shattered as a result. Little wonder Schellenberg had refused to lobby the pope on his behalf. I could not bear to think of losing a child, and I could not be sure I would recover if it happened to me.

  “Why did you stage the death scene of Reinhold Schellenberg to r
eflect Philomena’s death?”

  He looked at me in horror, as if seeing for the first time the bloody tableau of Schellenberg’s body in the church. He was silent for a few seconds, then shouted at me: “Because Schellenberg was one of the group who told Pope John that Philomena should be removed from the calendar! I found this out years ago. I brought it up to Schellenberg. He dismissed what I had to say. I sent him an anonymous letter about it, and he discerned that it was from me. He told me my concern with the saint was an unhealthy obsession. But no, there is nothing unhealthy about devotion to the saints! I know he would have used this against me in my campaign to be named archbishop of Genova. When word reached me that Schellenberg was coming here, I began to plot his death. At that moment I fell into mortal sin.” Savo began to tremble.

  I heard the call for regular boarding of the overseas flight. Passengers gathered their things and headed for the gate. Some straggled behind, apparently hoping to witness a little more of the drama.

  Savo did not seem to be aware of them. He took a deep breath, then spoke rapidly. “I was in France when I heard that Schellenberg was coming. That gave me only a few days, not sufficient time to obtain false documents or whatever else a professional assassin would do. I thought about staging the death scene of Saint Philomena. I found the axe I intended to use as the weapon. Naturally, I did not know where to locate a scourge, the whip she holds in her pictures. But I remembered something else. Children come to Ars from time to time, to pay homage to Saint John Vianney. They leave little gifts and cards. I recalled seeing valentine cards there. They stayed in my mind because they showed hearts pierced with arrows, and arrows are a symbol of the tortures that befell Philomena. There is an irony here as well: it was on February 14, Valentine’s Day, 1961, that her dignity was taken from her by the church. I stole some of the cards and packed them in a duffle bag with the axe. I flew here from Paris. The baggage people could not find the duffle bag when I landed here. I was upset, and drew attention to myself when in fact my goal was to slip in and out of the country unnoticed. We lose our ability to function intelligently when we are under extreme stress.”