Eminently Respectable Capers

by Tony Brennan

  For further information about this book, please visit:

  www.vividpublishing.com.au/capers

  Copyright © 2017 Tony Brennan

  ISBN: 978-1-925681-00-0 (ebook edition)

  Published by Vivid Publishing

  P.O. Box 948, Fremantle

  Western Australia 6959

  www.vividpublishing.com.au

  eBook conversion and distribution by Fontaine Publishing Group, Australia

  www.fontaine.com.au

  Cataloguing-in-Publication data is available from the National Library of Australia

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents, apart from events of historical fact, are the product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying,recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the copyright holder.

  Dedication

  This work is dedicated to Dr PSB sibling, inspiration and friend

  Contents

  Eight Cardinal York & Fr Spotels stories in a timeline.

  1. Sammy to the Rescue

  2. Rex Versus York

  3. The Class Reunion

  4. The Great Santa Bank Heist – Cardinal York & Fr Spotels

  5. Déjà Vu – Cardinal York & Fr Spotels Promotion

  6. Love through a Glass Darkly – Cardinal York and Bishop Spotels

  7. Episcopal Flutters in the Old Dart – The Massacre on Mulberry St.

  8. Arabian Frights –Final story: Cardinal York & Bishop Spotels

  SAMMY TO THE RESCUE

  Charles Cardinal York flexed his shoulders irritably to make the long, scarlet cloak fall down in folds, as it should.

  He strove to hold his frustration in check; it wasn’t wise to let it run amok today …not with all this in front of him. But, all the same … what’s wrong with the idiot?

  The MC’s supposed to be doing all this! I’ll give him a blast – the lazy, young, bloke – this Father …? Father …? What the hell was his name, anyway? He did tell me.

  It was …um … as the old man closed his eyes, searching his mind trying to remember who his new MC was, his clothes were suddenly quickly arranged – with exceptionable speed and efficiency.

  He found himself properly dressed – in record time – standing beside the vesting table, just waiting for his scarlet biretta; ready for the procession to begin. He was actually gasping with surprise. The operation had been silent, slick and tension free!

  Startled by the unexpected competence of the new secretary-cum-MC, Charles wisely deciding to postpone his complaints, meekly accepting his biretta. As he bowed to the crucifix, then put the biretta on his head, he sneaked a quick side-ways look at this remarkable youngster.

  He’s a tough-looking character this one! Was he really a priest? He looks like a young, unsuccessful, drop-out from the local boxing academy; or, a thug – he’s got a broken nose. Yes … that’s more like it; possibly a thug. How interesting!

  Could be after the gold and silver chalices. Have to keep an eye on him!

  Well, whatever he was, it didn’t matter; this one wasn’t a sloppy, anaemic, willowy, weepy type, thank God – he’d had enough of those!

  “What?” he snapped; suddenly realizing the MC was addressing him.

  “Eminence, the photographer has just asked if he may take a shot of you before you begin the procession – just as you are now. What do you think?” Father Samuel Spotels asked quietly.

  Charles was surprised at the cultured voice coming from that bruised face.

  “Umph!” The cardinal nodded, his lips a thin line. He hated the press even more than he hated …but, he warned himself, don’t start worrying about that … it’s too dangerous. Instead, he stood up straight, holding his biretta across the front of his surplice, automatically adopting his usual pose – as he had done for the last twenty-four years.

  There were a couple of flashes, and the cardinal heard the photographer say, sotto voce, to the MC: “I’ll get a shot later on, when the old goat’s actually doing something; mightn’t look so poisonous then.”

  The cardinal smiled grimly. They thought because he was old, he was deaf as well; as a matter of fact, his hearing was perfect. Would to God that everything else was … … but … No, stop it! Don’t go there…

  The secretary touched his arm briefly, the procession started. The cardinal watched the procession lead outside: the row of acolytes in their white snowy garments billowing in the gentle air from the open door; the Deacon – he noted, irritably, it was the nervous, fluttery one – a wretched fellow – he’ll get everything wrong, as usual; the assisting ministers, his new MC, and then he took his place, alone, at the end of the line.

  They came out of the shadows of the huge cathedral into the bright sunshine and the cardinal squinted in the bright light. There were people out here as well, so he automatically raised his right arm in a series of little blessings.

  They stopped at the front door of the Church. What on earth was he supposed to do now, he asked himself querulously? Oh, yes, that’s right … the Asperges!

  Thank heavens he didn’t have to remember all this now; he couldn’t do it. He stood perfectly still: this was the MC’s job; he had no intention of helping him. He’d see this morning just how good Father …? Father (whatever his name) is!

  Oh, good! He’s got it organized. We’re off! That’s a start anyhow.

  The procession passed into the church, and the cardinal noted that it was full to capacity. His heart soared with delight. How wonderful; how good, people are! So many people! No, no … it wasn’t wonderful! – It just meant there would be more people to see the disgrace if something went wrong! And, it could so easily.

  He sharply ordered his mind to think of something else.

  He made the decision to listen to the singing from the massed choir in the gallery. Hold on! There’s something wrong with it? What were they singing?... Good God!

  They’re churning out the ‘Ecce Sacerdos Magnus’ Behold the Great Priest – that’s the second time they’ve sung it this morning. Why can’t they be imaginative and think up something different for a change? He was so tired of hearing that every time he officiated at something important.

  His mind flew off at a tangent. He wondered if she, the poor good woman, ever wanted to throw something every time she had to stand, rock still, while they played that dreadful dirge every time she did anything – she most probably heard it in her sleep and had night-mares; the poor woman.

  The MC was nattering about something again; what was it? Oh, they’ve reached the sanctuary; well, I can see that; silly fellow – I’m not blind. Right … up the three little steps, kneel at the kneeler, stay a few minutes …Oh, dear! Dear God, help me! This is not a good idea. Quick, think of something else! The Choir! That’ll do.

  He concentrated on the very strange sound coming from the choir gallery which he had noted earlier; what was it? The cardinal suddenly recognized the sound as coming from a counter tenor.

  He rather liked the unearthly sound of the counter-tenor voice, but today, it certainly was unearthly; it was terrible – he was shockingly off-key. It sounded as if the poor chap was being garrotted. The cardinal deliberately closed his mind from the strangling, gurgling sounds from the choir, and seriously pondered his own personal problem.

  Yes, he decided, it had to be faced squarely as it definitely was a theological problem. It was concerned with the question of a lack of trust … of faith; therefore it wa
s his theology – that was now questionable.

  Where had he gone wrong? He hadn’t been like this in the beginning, had it? No, he hadn’t! With the ease of the elderly, his mind flew back more than forty years to the day he lay stretched out on the floor, with the other ordinands, being made a priest of the order of Melchisedech forever.

  He had firmly believed then, there was no obstacle that he could not overcome with his boundless faith; no spiritual mountain, he couldn’t climb, but … …now? Now, it was all a disaster; he would stumble at a slight incline on the path.

  But, what could he actually do? The press hated him; he knew what they’d write about him if he just walked out. He could see the headlines of the popular papers: ‘Roman Catholic Cardinal stalked out of cathedral in a towering rage; it was said he was frothing at the mouth.’ While the sophisticated papers, that pretended to be more intellectual, would write: ‘While the actions, and comments of the Cardinal of this city, have given us reasons to be concerned for some years now, it was to be regretted that he left his Cathedral, in such a vulgar manner; leaving nearly one thousand people stranded, half way through a service...’

  No, he couldn’t do that. He’d… …

  “What? Oh! Of course, I was just about to stand up.” That was not true. He hadn’t! He had completely forgotten for a moment where he even was. He took hold of the kneeler, and pushed himself up ram-rod straight, turned and followed the procession back to the place where he had been at the beginning.

  He would then be dressed for the High Mass itself – which, he grumbled – together with the sermon – would take at least another two hours! He knew, with a terrible, fearful certainty … today, he would never make it!

  As he was given the vestments to put on, the cardinal used the old-fashioned prayers for donning each and every, garment. He loved the old Latin, and still used the Latin formula for the prayers – the Deacon holding the book in front of him, just in case he forgot any of the words.

  Not that he ever did; he used these prayers every single day; the book was simply a kind of security blanket – he liked to know it was there.

  As they were preparing to dress him, for some reason he thought of his mother, now dead for decades. How thrilled she had been on the day of his ordination as a priest, then the more subdued pleasure when he had become a bishop.

  He had been disappointed at her reaction, but thought she would be thrilled when he received word from Rome that he was to be made a cardinal. However he was surprised, again, to hear her say when he phoned her:

  “Oh, Charlie! You thoughtless boy! How could you? You were always so headstrong. This will mean more praying for you than I have to do already! I’m an old woman, now; I don’t have the time for more. However,” he heard her sigh.

  “Never mind, what’s done is done. I’ll do my best.”

  It must have been her prayers that had kept him going for so long; but what has happened now? Had she, too, abandoned him?

  With his mind elsewhere, he took up the amice, saying the prayers automatically, then tying the ends of the tapes together across his chest, he held his arms out to receive the alb, which slipped neatly over his head, his hands going straight into the sleeves. As he muttered the prayers for the maniple. “Merear me Domine……fletus et doloris …” the words suddenly leapt out at him. Well, that’s one thing that’s correct anyhow: fletus et doloris: ‘weeping and sorrow’ – that’s all that’s left now – weeping and sorrow.

  The cardinal winced suddenly; the situation was intensifying: something had to give. He was reaching for the heavy gold Chasuble, when the new secretary suddenly whipped the book from the Deacon’s hand and wrote swiftly in it. He then held it before the cardinal, pushing in front of the Deacon, who looked furious – as well as bewildered.

  The cardinal, from habit, kept reading softly: “Domine qui dixists… …DO YOU WANT TO RELIEVE YOUR BLADDER? …” What on earth? Had he misread it? He raised his head and stared into the gentle, understanding eyes of his new secretary. He nodded, humbly, and whispered: “Yes.” The secretary nodded, whispering back: “Leave it to me.”

  The young man turned to face the rest of the servers and ministers, and clapped his hands quietly. Everyone looked at him.

  “The cardinal has just remembered a little theological reference he wishes to check in the wonderful sermon he has written. We will need to check it immediately; it will only take five minutes. Someone inform the choir.” He took the cardinal’s arm and said quietly: “Come with me, Eminence.” They went quickly out the door; the secretary making sure he closed it securely behind them.

  “Now, off you go, Eminence,” the young man smiled. The cardinal lingered.

  “But, how did you know, Father?” he gasped.

  The young man laughed. “Bless your innocence, Eminence! It’s a common problem for men; my old dad has it.”

  The cardinal still hesitated: “But, Father, you have been so kind, and I don’t even remember your name. Please tell me …I’m very sorry …”

  “Not to worry, Eminence. It’s Samuel Spotels; easy to remember, rhymes with bottles; just think of the SS. My friends all call me Sammy.” He looked at his watch. “Eminence, I don’t want to rush you, but you’d better get your skates on. So, off you go, and …er … solve your Theological problem.”

  The cardinal laughed happily. This one, thug or not, was going to be all right; we’re going to get on fine; he has a sense of humour!

  ***

  In the silence of the Gents, the cardinal made his thanksgiving.

  REX VERSUS YORK

  It was 1.30 in the morning. The secretary to His Eminence, Charles Cardinal York, Father Sammy Spotels, was sound asleep when the bedside phone shattered the silence with its strident sound.

  He woke with a start, grabbed for the phone, dropped the receiver, said a mild swear word, and finally managed to answer.

  “Hmmmm … ummpt … hel … hello? Oh … SO …you’re now the police, are you? Now listen carefully Father Black, aka Pongo. I’ve had enough of you and your false calls. Can’t you get it into your thick skull, Pongo, they’re not funny.

  “Last week was bad enough: phoning the fire brigade, telling them the Cathedral was on fire and getting us all out of bed in the early hours of the morning … …

  “No! You listen to me, you immature, retarded, muscle-head – how you ever became a secretary to a bishop is beyond me – I didn’t know you could even read let alone write …

  “What! You still insist it is the police, is it? Good try, Pongo, but, let me tell you, if you ever try this ‘impersonating others trick’ again, at the next Clergy Conference, I’ll take you outside, and you’ll have to explain the two black eyes and a broken nose to your boss! I might even tell your bishop about these calls.

  “You might remember I was the boxing champ at university – you lump head … you …

  “WHAT did you say? What do you mean? Assault and Battery, Blackmail with menaces? What are you talking about? … You mean to say you really ARE the police? Good grief! … Well, how was I supposed to know when I’ve got an idiot priest ringing me up at all hours of the night, thinking it’s funny? … I suppose so; yes … well I’m sorry, Officer, I didn’t mean to imply that the police were immature, retarded or muscle-heads. … …Well, what do you want? … Of course, I’m the cardinal’s secretary … My name? Father Sammy Spotels … Well, I didn’t choose it; my mother chose the ‘Sammy’ bit... Yes, believe me, I do know – to my cost – the old joke – the ‘SS’ Hitler, et al.

  “As a matter of fact, Officer, my mother named me after the SS … No, it’s true; she did! She thought it meant ‘Silly Sausage’; she said that’s what I looked like when I was born.

  “But, I’ve had to tell you my name, what, may I ask, is yours? … Oh, Inspector David! Do I call you David? … Oh, it’s a last name? What is your first name? … REX? It isn’t? … It is! … Well, who are you to talk about my mother’s choice of names? Your mother must have had de
lusions of grandeur, hadn’t she?

  “You don’t know what I’m talking about? Never mind, let’s forget that, we can’t help our names … …

  “Excuse me interrupting, Inspector, but what is that loud shouting in the background, it sounds familiar? Would you hold the mobile out so I can hear it better? Thank you … Good God! … It’s the Cardinal! Where in the name of heaven are you?

  “WHERE? … Behind the big supermarket and he’s … WHERE? … In the dumpster behind the store, up to his waist in garbage?

  “My head is reeling – this is worse than Pongo! No, of course, the cardinal shouldn’t be there! What’s he doing in a dumpster for the love of God? … Would you repeat that please, Inspector? You’re not having me on? … He’s standing over a dead policeman who’s been murdered, you think? Dear God, can this all be true? …Yes, of course I’ll be there as quickly as I can; I’ll take my motorbike...

  “Inspector, I sincerely beg of you: be gentle with the old man; he wouldn’t hurt a fly and he’s as innocent as a lamb … Well, that’s the truth … despite the fact that I don’t know what the hell he’s doing at this hour of the night, in such a dreadful place, and – in a dumpster! I’ll be as quick as I can.”

  Father Sammy Spotels jumped out of bed, pulled on his shoes and then grabbed his cassock – that would hide his pyjamas – his black leather jacket, his helmet and was ready in a few minutes.

  He ran to the garage under the Bishop’s House, leapt on his motorbike, and roared away into the darkness.

  When he arrived at the big supermarket store, he thought the dumpster would most likely be in the alley behind the store, so he rode there.

  Sammy found a number of police standing about, but his eyes became riveted on the biggest dumpster. There was a police spotlight shining on the cardinal who was standing up in the middle of the garbage, with a coil of what looked like wilted celery hanging from that wretched Roman hat which he persisted in wearing.