by Anne Emery
“So, other than the times you saw her at Mass, you hadn’t known her well?”
“No, not well, God rest her, the poor soul.” She made a sign of the cross. “Should never have happened.”
That was stating the obvious.
“Now, on the night of February sixth, she came to the rectory?”
The woman’s face was animated as she leaned forward and said, “Oh, yes! She came up to the door and I answered, and I invited her in. And she said it was very important that she talk to him.”
“Him?”
“Father.”
“Burke.”
“Yes.” Again, the lips clamped down with churchy disapproval.
“So those were her words? Very important to talk to Father Burke?”
“Well, I’m not sure of her exact words.”
“Try to remember.” Try to be a witness I can use.
“I think it was ‘Excuse me. Is Father Burke in? I’d like to speak with him.’”
“All right. And what time was this, do you remember?”
She said then, excitement once again creeping into her voice, “This is just like being on the witness stand in court!”
You have no idea. Monty kept that to himself. “The time?”
“It was ten o’clock exactly. We have a grandfather clock in the parlour, and it chimes the hours.”
“And what did you say when she asked for Father Burke?”
“I hated to tell her —” In Monty’s experience, when someone says “I hate to tell you this,” it means they are bubbling over, can’t wait to tell you whatever it is “— ‘No, I’m sorry, I don’t think he’s in his room, but I’ll check for you.’ Of course, I knew he’d gone out as usual and hadn’t come back. Anyway, I told her to have a seat in the parlour and I’d go up and check. And sure enough, knock, knock, anybody home? No! Not there. Again.”
Monty couldn’t help himself. Things were strained between himself and Burke following the events that had unfolded in Belfast, and there was no question that Monty hoped to use Burke’s truancy to his own advantage in this case. But he couldn’t help coming to his old friend’s defence. “Is Father Burke on duty that late at night, generally? I mean, his schedule begins with Mass two or three mornings a week at seven thirty, and he serves other Masses, and has the lunch program for the poor and the homeless, and he works at the choir school, and the Schola Cantorum, and . . .”
“A priest is never off duty, Mr. Collins,” she scolded him.
“Very well. So, he wasn’t in, and you returned to Ms. Keller in the parlour.”
Without being conscious of it, Monty assumed, she put a we are sorry to announce expression on her face and said, “I told her, ‘I’m sorry, but Father went out for the evening and never came back.’ Naturally, I didn’t say to her that he was probably out drinking again with a bunch of his non-priest cronies at the Midtown Tavern or at O’Carroll’s.”
Monty was one of Burke’s non-priest cronies at the Midtown, and good for him if he had pals at O’Carroll’s as well. God knows, he needed a break from this woman and those like her, who thought priests had to be in their collars, rosary beads at hand, twenty-four hours a day.
Just for the sake of mischief, Monty said, “Sorry, did you say you did tell her he was out drinking or did not tell her?”
“I certainly did not! Somebody has to preserve the dignity of Saint Bernadette’s church and rectory.”
“What did Ms. Keller say when you told her Father Burke was not available?”
“Oh, it was awful! She looked heartbroken. She said, ‘But he told me he would see me here at ten o’clock.’”
“Then what happened?”
“She said she would wait for a few minutes, but then she gave up and ran out of the building.”
“Ran?”
“Well, she didn’t run exactly, but she didn’t waste time hanging around. She went off out the door.”
Monty knew he’d be leading the witness into temptation here. “What was her expression like? Her mood?”
“She was upset! It was obvious that something was bothering her, and for some reason, she thought he was going to help her. But of course he stood her up. Didn’t even bother to come home.”
“And you could tell she was upset how?”
“The expression on her face. Disappointed, let down. Worried.”
“Anything else you can tell me about that night?”
“That night was like so many other nights, I’m sorry to say, Mr. Collins. Especially since he got back from Ireland. We all know what he got himself into there! With his relatives. A bunch of terrorists, and him in the middle of it all!”
“He is not a terrorist, by any stretch of the imagination, Mrs. Kelly. The Court of Appeal overturned the wrongful conviction against him and released him.”
“Yeah, right, he got off.” She tried to affect the tone of someone who has seen it all, heard it all. “It’s gotten to the point where I’m scared to go to sleep at night.”
“What’s got to the point? What do you mean?”
“Well, if he did that stuff over there, what might he do here? Especially after a night of guzzling beer and whiskey!”
“Now, Mrs. Kelly, I just explained to you. He was acquitted, after the Court of Appeal reviewed the trial judge’s decision.”
But she just sat there with a smug look on her face. If there was one thing more gratifying than Father Burke fucking up while on the booze, it was Father Burke being thrown into prison on charges relating to terrorism. Monty had his doubts about whether, in the event of a trial, he should call this person to the stand. He wanted her testimony of a distraught Meika Keller leaving the church with her problems unresolved, a Meika Keller in the frame of mind to take her own life. But he did not want a witness who would be dismissed as an embittered, vengeful person, the classic disgruntled employee, with an all-too-apparent grudge against Father Burke and his lifestyle, a witness whose credibility would be compromised for precisely that reason.
Chapter VIII
Brennan
From what Brennan had been able to discern, the evidence against Lieutenant-Colonel Alban MacNair was sketchy. Brennan felt that he himself was in a state of sin, hoping the man was guilty. Hoping the man could be facing a life sentence in prison, just so Brennan could absolve himself of responsibility for his failure to meet Meika Keller on the night of the crisis that ended her life. Of course, this was despicable on Brennan’s part. And even if her death was not a suicide, he still might have prevented it if he had done his duty as a priest and a man, and not gone out on a rip and forgotten all about her. If she had been afraid of someone and had a history with that person, that may have been what she wanted to discuss with him. Brennan understood all this. But whatever the case, he wanted to know. He felt an obligation to know. If MacNair had killed her, that would, presumably at least, be determined at his trial. A trial, however, was a long way off. If the lieutenant-colonel was innocent, someone else was out there. Getting away with it.
One conclusion was inescapable: something had set Meika off. And this led Brennan to wonder what had prompted her to take an unscheduled trip to Europe. Fried Habler at the opera students’ reception had implied that her interest in opera had been rekindled by their reunion, making her long for the opera houses of Milan and Vienna. But maybe there was some other explanation for her sudden departure. At the reception where Brennan had seen Habler, the singer had mentioned that the press back home had reported on Edelgard’s renewed acquaintance with Habler, and her new incarnation as Meika Keller. Could this connection have given rise to some other link with her German past? Brennan knew it was a stretch — not to mention a desperate hope — but if there was something else that accounted for her death, and if it wasn’t MacNair, Brennan wanted to understand it.
He decided to talk to Fried Habler. The newspape
r stories might be a good hook to hang the conversation on. He called the Dalhousie Arts Centre on Monday morning and asked for Habler, only to be told that he was in Toronto and could be reached either at the University of Toronto or the Canadian Opera Company. He left messages at both places and heard back from Habler just after noon.
Brennan introduced himself, told Habler he had heard him sing in Halifax, and congratulated him on a magnificent performance. There was nothing phony about his enthusiasm; Habler was as good as any operatic tenor Brennan had ever heard. They talked about opera for a minute or two before Brennan got to the point.
“I knew Meika Keller. She was a member of my parish here in Halifax. In fact, as painful as it is for me to confess this, she had asked to talk to me about something the night she died, and I was unable to meet with her.” Brennan could not bring himself to confess the reason he had missed the rendezvous, though he knew Habler might eventually hear the sordid tale. “So, I let her down when she needed me most, and I feel compelled to try to understand what led to her death.”
“Perhaps you are punishing yourself too severely, Father Burke. You could not have known. The chances were that you would have had another opportunity to speak with Edelgard. With Meika. She herself would say it was mathematically unlikely that you would never see her again!”
Unless, Brennan reflected, she was planning to take her life, in which case there was a one hundred percent certainty that he would never see her again.
“Thank you, Mr. Habler.”
“We could dispense with formalities, if you wish. Please call me Fried.”
“And I’m Brennan. I was wondering about that news story you mentioned, in the Leipzig paper.”
“And not only in the Leipzig paper.”
“Oh, is that right? I realize that it may not shine a light on what happened, but I’d like to see it if possible. Do you still have it?”
“Of course. It is in German, naturally.”
“That’s all right. I can read German.” Brennan had learned German along with Italian while studying in Rome twenty years ago.
“Oh! I will be returning to Halifax this week. Perhaps some time we can get together and have a little session of German conversation!”
“I’d like that.”
“But, for now, I can fax the news article to you.”
Brennan gave him the fax number for Saint Bernadette’s. Then he asked, “So what role are you singing now?”
“I am very pleased to say I shall be singing Tristan.”
“Congratulations! I know you’ll be up to the challenge.”
“I hope to be equal to it. It is the opportunity of a lifetime.”
“Who will be the ‘wild Irish maid’?”
“Do you have anyone in mind, Brennan?”
“Oh, either of my two sisters would make Tristan earn his Tristan chord.”
“Perhaps I shall meet them someday! But in the C.O.C. performance, I shall be singing to Silke Frandsen’s Isolde. She is excellent.”
“She is indeed. I would love to see a performance. You never know.”
“If you are in Toronto and are able to come, I will be happy to secure you the best seat in the house!”
“Thank you, Fried. I’ll let you get back to the helm. And thank you for the fax.”
The fax came through, a short piece in the Leipziger Volkszeitung. There was nothing about Edelgard’s life in Germany apart from the fact that she had attended the same school as Habler and that they had both stood out as talented students, he in music, she in science and sport. The Dalhousie University music department would be pleased with the prominent play given to the department in the write-up of Habler’s stint in Canada. Symphony Nova Scotia was mentioned as well, and Edelgard Vogt-Becker’s generous support of it.
Later that day, after listening to his grade six students sing parts of Antonio Vivaldi’s Gloria, Brennan thought again about the piece in the Leipzig paper, specifically the references to music and the friendship with Fried Habler. The article mentioned Edelgard’s position as a professor of physics in Halifax, but it did not specify her place of employment. Perhaps the writer thought she and Habler were both associated with Dalhousie; it was not clear one way or the other. It occurred to Brennan that if anyone back home in Germany wanted to contact her, the person might call or write to her at Dal or, if unsure, might get in touch with Habler and ask for her address or number. Or might try to reach her through Symphony Nova Scotia. It wouldn’t hurt to check.
He was acquainted with some of the members of the symphony orchestra, so he made a call to one of them, and she said she would ask around. It wasn’t long before he heard back; there had been no phone calls or letters for Meika Keller. So, he would try Dal. It was a fine, sunny day, so he left the parish house and walked to the campus of Dalhousie University, where the architecture ranged from Georgian-style elegance to brutalist modern. A stark example of the latter group was the Arts Centre, a massive structure dominated by precast concrete with local stones embedded in it. Fortunately, he found the interior warmer and more inviting, with open spaces and several auditoriums. And, dear to Brennan’s heart, great acoustics in the Rebecca Cohn Auditorium. He had attended a good many concerts here over the years, and he was familiar as well with the offices of the music department. He was on his way to see one of the music profs he knew, when he saw a man washing the windows of the box office. Good, this would save him from having to cobble together a story for the prof.
“Excuse me.” The man gave his window a final swipe and turned to Brennan. “Could you tell me who distributes the mail here? I have a —”
“That would be Dorothy. Wilson. That’s one of her duties here. Little lady with big hair. She’s upstairs. Try the fourth floor.” He pointed a finger upwards and returned to his work.
“Thanks.”
Brennan headed up the stairs. He wasn’t long in finding her, a short woman with masses of long, curly grey hair tied back in a ponytail.
“Excuse me. Mrs. Wilson?”
“Yes?”
“I’m sorry to be bothering you like this. I’ll only keep you a minute. I’m Father Brennan Burke. Meika Keller was one of my parishioners.”
“Oh, yes. Mrs. Keller. That was a terrible thing.”
“Yes, it certainly was. Of course, we know the police have a man charged in connection with her death.”
“A colonel in the Army! I don’t think he did it!”
“Hard to know. Now, as I say, she was a member of my parish, and her death has hit me hard.”
“Oh, I’m sure it has!”
“And she left me with some questions, some things we never had a chance to talk about.” He wasn’t about to say why they never had a chance to talk. “One of the things I’ve been wondering about, in light of the arrival of Fried Habler on the music scene here at Dal, is whether someone might have heard about her connection with him — there was a little story in the newspaper in her hometown — I was wondering whether someone might have taken note of that and tried to contact her here. The news article didn’t mention Saint Mary’s, so . . .”
“You’re wondering if anything suspicious came in the mail for her, from Germany!”
“Well . . .”
“Of course, if anyone sent her a mysterious letter, she would be the only one who would have opened it. We don’t open other people’s mail here!”
“No, no, I didn’t mean to suggest that.”
“The only thing that I remember coming for her was —”
“Yes?” Brennan’s hopes had got the better of him, the better of his manners. He apologized for interrupting and said, “Please go on.”
“A postcard, that’s all it was; not a letter in an envelope. And it was ‘care of Herr Habler.’ So maybe somebody did follow up on the news story, but, whatever it was, there was nothing secret about it, beca
use it was just a postcard and the message was there for all to see. All who speak German, anyway, including Professor Habler. I never thought of it again until I heard about her death.”
Christ. Brennan’s hunch had been sound enough; something had come for her here. But it was only a postcard, not a secret missive in a plain brown envelope. Even so, it could turn out to be evidence, a matter for the police.
“Did the police come by and ask about messages?”
“No! Maybe they didn’t think of us here since she worked at Saint Mary’s. Oh, God, should I have reported it? But there was nothing to it anyway.”
“A postcard from where? Leipzig?”
“No, it was from Berlin. I would not have known because it just showed a great big building. But the postmark was Berlin. You know, it’s fascinating some of the places we get letters or postcards from here. Well, they don’t come for me! But the music professors, they seem to know people all over the world.”
“What did it say, or . . .”
She laughed. “I don’t speak German. It was just a few lines, written to ‘Frau Keller.’”
“Did you notice the name of the sender by any chance?”
“Professor Habler might know. He was in Toronto when it arrived, so I waited till he came back, and I gave it to him to pass along to her.”
Wunderbar. Habler would know what it said.
“Thank you very much for your help.”
“You’re welcome, Father.”
“Professor Habler is in Toronto again, I know.”
“Yes. He’s due back on Wednesday and has his master class from two to four in the afternoon. You know, I never had a clue about opera at all, even though they teach it here. But Professor Habler is such a nice guy, a real character, that I started peeking in at some of the rehearsals here. I think I’m becoming an opera fan!”
“Good. I imagine he’d be pleased to hear that. I’ll come by and ask him about the postcard on Wednesday.”