by Anne Emery
“You were the father of a child, who was given up for adoption. You said ‘he or she.’ Where was your child put up for adoption?” she challenged Burke. His face gave nothing away.
“You don’t know, is that it?” she persisted. “Is your child here in Nova Scotia, Father Burke?” His face was white and he stared at her, speechless. I felt lost. What was going on? I knew of Sandra’s connections with this province, her summers in Chester, her friendship with the Strattons. Was it possible the child had been placed here?
“Because if it was a baby girl, and she was here, that changes everything, doesn’t it?” Eileen said, nodding in accord with her own internal logic. Her face was streaked with tears, her voice a mere whisper. “I knew I could not bear it. I would not be able to go on, if Natalie, the little girl placed with the Kernaghans, was your daughter.”
Things had taken a turn I had not anticipated, and it was clear from Brennan’s expression that his reaction was the same. Eileen continued: “Because if little Natalie was your child, then... then what you did was perfectly right, and it was not a betrayal of me. You would naturally have to take care of your own child first. What father would not? And if that was the case, then I had been wrong about you all my life. And I had committed two murders in your name when you were blameless.” Tears streamed down her face. “I was ready to take my own life that night.”
Brennan sat, pale and motionless, gazing at Eileen in silence. My mind went back to the night we had come upon her in the youth centre, when she wept so despondently. Of all the ways I might have interpreted the scene, I could not have come up with this.
Eileen dragged the sleeve of her sweater across her eyes, and spoke in a brisk, no-nonsense voice. “I told myself it couldn’t be true. The age was right, but there was no way his child would be in such dire straits that she’d wind up at St. Bernadette’s, with or without him on the scene. No doubt she, or he, would have been a beautiful, bright, talented little child. Not St. Bernadette’s material. So I was determined to put the idea out of my head. Natalie Kernaghan has done very well for herself, by the way. She has her medical degree, is married and expecting her first child.” Eileen made a point of looking around at her sordid surroundings, the frat boys hooting and stomping above our heads.
“Meanwhile I have to fear for my life, with all these drunken louts in the building. One night I woke up and found two of them in my kitchen, looking through the cupboards. I had to get a deadbolt after that. At my own expense.”
A thought occurred to me then. “Did you break in to the arch-diocesan office?”
“I didn’t break in! But I did spend part of New Year’s Day there.”
“Reading files.”
“Reading his file, and scattering others to cover my tracks. Not because I expected to find anything useful for my plan. I already had everything I needed. It sounds so stupid now, but I wanted to see if he had written any letters, or if there was anything about his time here before.” If there was any reference to her, is what she meant. “I knew where the secretary kept her keys and I copied one. I got in but somebody came so I had to run.”
“Why did you remove Father O’Flaherty’s file?”
“I didn’t even see Mike’s file. I don’t think it was there.”
He had removed it himself, I realized. He didn’t want anyone reading about the exorcism or his exile afterwards. I wondered when he had spirited it away.
Brennan looked at me, and Eileen caught the glance. Her head swivelled from one of us to the other. “You’re my lawyer!” It was nearly a scream. “He’s my priest, my confessor! This conversation is secret. You can’t use it!”
“It doesn’t work that way, Eileen. You know what has to happen.” I got up. “I’m going to the phone. Stay where you are and don’t make things any worse.” Brennan leaned forward, tense, ready to subdue her. But she didn’t move. I dialed the number of duty counsel for Legal Aid. “You’re going to have a lawyer and the police are going to be here. Talk to the lawyer, not the cops.” She did not even glance at me as I spoke.
V
After the arrest, Brennan and I drove away.
“Where to?” I asked him.
“I’m too wound up to go home. Drive to the park.”
We sat in the car, in the lot between Point Pleasant Park and the container terminal. We watched a heavy surf crash in from the ocean against the breakwater. Lights winked at us across the dark water. Uncharacteristically, Brennan talked at length about his reaction to Eileen’s revelations, how his careless introduction of Natalie, almost offhand and quickly forgotten by him, was so unforgivable, in Eileen’s eyes and now in his. I tried to offer comfort by reminding him that the decision was made by the Kernaghans, not by him, and that he could not be held responsible for the way Eileen lashed out at two young women twenty-two years later. But he wasn’t listening. I knew it was a rare occasion when he gave voice to his innermost thoughts, and we would be back to the old self-contained Brennan before long. If it could do him some good, I would let him talk.
Eventually, he wound down and was quiet for a few minutes. All we heard was the sound of the breakers. Then he tried to laugh. “What wouldn’t I give to see the face on Marguerite Dunne when she hears this.”
“No reason you shouldn’t see her. I had not considered anything beyond this moment, to tell you the truth. Isn’t it better if Marguerite hears from us, rather than from the police or the news media, that the assistant director of St. Bernadette’s Youth Centre is a double murderer?”
The choir school was in darkness when we went in. We found Marguerite’s number and Brennan dialed. “Marguerite. Brennan Burke here. No, I’m not stocious drunk. And if I were, what makes you think it would be you I’d be calling? Yes, I do know it’s after midnight.” He looked at me and rolled his eyes. “Yes, my mother did bring me up right. Well, I’ve been accused of worse, as you know. Marguerite, shut the fuck up. This is urgent. Meet me at the centre. You won’t want this to wait till morning.” Click.
Brennan went into the hall when Marguerite arrived, combed, coifed and dressed for the day. Was that a flicker of fear in her eyes? If so, it was quickly masked. She stopped and stared.
“Brennan. You have blood on your hands.”
“No,” he said, shaking his head.
“Whose is it?”
Then he remembered and touched his head. The cut at his hair line was bleeding again. “It’s just my own.”
“Ah.”
“I’ll go clean up.”
Burke disappeared into the nearest washroom and I heard water splashing. It was only then that I realized I was in the shadows, and that Marguerite thought she and Brennan were alone. “Sister,” I said, stepping into the lighted hallway.
If she was startled, she didn’t show it. “Are you catering this event, whatever it is?”
“I guess that will depend on how your appetite is later on.”
“I see.”
Brennan returned unbloodied and motioned with his head towards Marguerite’s office. We followed her in and sat. She looked from one to the other of us from behind her desk.
“Well?”
Brennan leaned towards her. “The IBR carved into the victims’ bodies. It stands for One, Two, Eighteen. Matthew.”
She thought for a few moments, then: “Rachel, weeping for her children. Of course. Of course.” She closed her eyes and seemed to be going over all the evidence she could recall. “It was a woman then.” But she did not, or could not, make the connection between the killer and her own devoted deputy. “Weeping for her children, and striking out at you. A casualty of your Black Irish charms, I suppose, Brennan, coming back to haunt you?”
“A casualty of my black-hearte
d thoughtlessness. And it’s very close to home. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have called you here.” Marguerite was very still. Her eyes locked on to Brennan’s face. He finally said: “Eileen.”
Neither of us took any pleasure in seeing Marguerite’s face as the shock hit her full force.
Chapter 22
... there’s someone who’ll stand beside you.
Turn around, look at me.
And there’s someone who’ll love and guide you.
Turn around, look at me.
— Jerry Capehart, “Turn Around, Look at Me”
I
My client and I stood in the parking lot of St. Bernadette’s, looking at the church. “I wonder if Marguerite had a moment of doubt about coming here tonight,” Brennan mused. “Do you suppose it entered her head that I was the killer and she was next?”
“If she was afraid of you, she covered it well.”
“She would. Well, everyone will know soon enough. I’m not a scary guy.”
The words came to me then, from Moody Walker: “A real scary Irish guy.” That encounter still haunted me. I grasped Burke’s arm and spoke quietly: “Brennan, what was going on with that young girl up at Mount A, the one whose boyfriend you beat up?”
He sighed and looked into my eyes. “That was my daughter, Monty. That creature had hurt my little girl.”
“Your daughter!? ”
“My child, mine and my girlfriend in New York. My girlfriend Sandra.” There was no point in telling him I knew Sandra. And hadn’t I heard something else just recently about the birth of the child? It would come to me. Burke continued: “I nearly passed out when Eileen asked if my child was here in Nova Scotia. This killer knows my little girl? Fortunately, for all of us, she does not.”
“So it wasn’t this little Natalie...”
“No. I don’t even remember Natalie.” He was silent for a few moments, then took up his story again: “I wasn’t supposed to know where our baby had been placed for adoption. It was confidential. But I found out. The Catholic Church has a long reach! I’m sure Sandra has no idea where the child is or who the adoptive parents are; she didn’t want to know. It was her decision to place the baby here. Maybe she thought it was a safer place to grow up. People aren’t running around carrying guns here. I don’t know. We weren’t on speaking terms. But I had to know the baby was going to be all right. And she was. A beautiful family, the most loving parents you could ask for. I never went near them, or her. Just heard from time to time that the little one was doing fine. Till I was told that she had gone to Mount Allison on a music scholarship — of course! — and had fallen in with this ne’er-do-well of a boyfriend. I heard he had hit her and knocked her down a set of stairs. Then apologized, as they all do: ‘It will never happen again.’ Fuck that. It always happens again. I decided to make sure it didn’t. Her parents probably knew nothing about it. You know what kids are like when they go off to college. They sure as hell don’t fill the parents in on what they’re up to. So I took it upon myself to do her father’s dirty work for him, and leave the family in blissful ignorance. Problem solved. And I’d do it again.”
I stood there, nodding. I knew the question was inane and probably inappropriate, but curiosity won out. “So, who does she look like?”
Far from being offended, Brennan seemed tickled to be asked. “I’d say Sandra’s face, my colouring. Not as tall as Sandra. And too thin when I saw her. I did stop in to hear her play the violin here in Halifax before I went on my mission. And I had seen her perform once before. I was an anonymous smiling face in the audience. I’m sure her parents are very proud.”
I smiled at him. “I’m sure they are.”
“So you can see why I was so desperate to know whether that incident was going to come out in court. If it had turned out that this Myers was involved in the killings, or if the fight was going to surface in court, I’d have pleaded guilty to the murders rather than drag her name into this. Nobody must ever know I’ve been watching out for her. She’s the only one in this world I would protect by giving up my life.” I stood staring at him. I knew he meant it.
It occurred to me then that the police might have unearthed this information, and that might explain why Karl Schenk had not used it on rebuttal. It would have corroborated the Crown’s theory on motive, but it might also have engendered sympathy among the jurors. I would never know.
“Monty, I’m more grateful than I can ever say, for all you’ve done.” He put his hand out and we shook. Then he pulled me towards him for a quick embrace. “Poker night Wednesday. Mass in the ancient tongue Saturday morning. Be there. I’m thinking of conscripting you as an altar boy. God knows, you look the part. So start brushing up on your Latin.” Unfazed by what must have been a look of astonishment on my face, he continued: “You’ve done your job, for me. Now I’ll do mine, for you.” He started away, then turned. “Oh, and you’d better start bringing your own little daughter to Mass, so she can put a name to what she already knows.”
II
Over the next few days a frenzy of publicity erupted. My client was exonerated, and the entire legal apparatus went into gear again, this time for somebody else. Brennan and I turned down requests for interviews and, as we had from the beginning, we referred all reporters’ calls to Rowan Stratton.
Brennan had missed his chance to be guest conductor of the Halifax Symphony and the Recordare Chorus in Mozart’s Coronation Mass; there was not enough time for him to prepare. But Rowan stopped by my office one day to tell me Brennan would have a spot in the program after all. The symphony’s conductor had graciously offered to put the Kyrie in D Minor back in the program and have Brennan conduct that little segment. He was happy to accept, and he had embarked on a hectic rehearsal schedule with the performers.
I was pleased to hear it. “That should do him the world of good, take his mind off what he’s been through.”
“Most certainly. He is talking about scheduling a choir school concert as well, a few months down the road. So he is on the mend.” Rowan got up to leave, then paused. “I was speaking last night to an old, old friend of Brennan’s, and more recently of yours, I dare say.”
“Oh?”
“Sandra Worthington called to express her relief at the way things had turned out. Said she had never doubted him. Good of her, I thought. But of course she knew him well enough to know he wasn’t a killer. I had no doubts myself, it goes without saying. How about you, Montague?” Rowan gave me a cynical look.
“I doubt everybody, Rowan. I’d be no good to you otherwise.”
“Sandra tells me she’s flying up here in a few weeks’ time. Not here exactly. She’s renting a car and going to the old place in Chester. I got the impression the property may be about to change hands. When her grandparents died, it passed to their son, Sandra’s uncle. Not sure what the story is now. Sylvia and I will drive out there to see her. Sandra asked me to pass along her congratulations, by the way, for the work you did on the case. So, there you have it.”
Chester is only forty minutes from Halifax. I would make a point of getting the dates of her visit from Rowan. I thought about Sandra. I had taken a shine to her in New York, when she had filled me in on her history with Burke, and we had shared some laughs over a bottle of wine. Just then I recalled what I had been trying to remember when Brennan spoke of protecting his daughter. With all the drama that had unfolded in the murder case, I had never followed up on the information Sister Dunne had given me, about the maternity nurse who was present when Sandra and Brennan’s child was born.
I called Marguerite, who still sounded shell-shocked over the unmasking of Eileen Darragh as the murderer, and I got the nurse’s telephone number. It took a couple of tries, but later that afternoon I was on the phone with Mary Be
th McConnell in Connecticut. I explained who I was and how I had obtained her number. I told her a bit about Brennan and the case, and how it had all turned out.
“Yes, I remember that poor girl. She came down with eclampsia. Hypertension, convulsions. She was so sick, and so unhappy. It was heartbreaking. I was the nurse in charge. We were keeping a close eye on her.”
“Did anyone come to see her at all?”
“Her parents, of course, and her grandparents, I believe. So concerned. They spent as much time with her as they could during visiting hours. The poor little thing was so ill, I don’t think she even knew they were there. And the young lad, the priest.” I could tell from the nurse’s voice that she was smiling. “He was new to his job, like me. Very nervous. He wasn’t supposed to be there.” That’s putting it mildly, I thought. He was a seminarian.
“He asked me if he could come in and sit with her quietly in the nighttime. I didn’t know what his connection was. At first I thought he was her brother or something. But why be so hush-hush? I had my suspicions, but I kept them to myself. What’s the difference? He was so kind to her, even though she had no awareness of his presence. I remember looking in and he was wiping her face with a cool cloth, talking to her all the while. He was with her for... I think it was the two nights of her illness... always the same, there in his soutane, black hair falling over his forehead, holding her hand, talking quietly.
“And when the baby was born. Well! It was all I could do to keep him out of the delivery room. I mean men, fathers, go into the delivery room all the time now. As you probably know. But then? Fathers waited outside, and paced. Not that anyone ever said he was the... Well anyway, he was a nervous wreck, and the delivery was a long one. She was, of course, in bad shape afterwards. She had made arrangements beforehand about the adoption, and never wavered about that. I don’t know whether she would even remember holding her baby. But he would.”