Cecilian Vespers (13 page)

“Well, then. He must have known we could find out.”

“I suspect this princeling doesn’t think the way you and I do, Collins!”

I drove to Kempt Road after work in my non-Jag and went into the showroom. It took a few minutes to get through to the salesman who had signed the car out. He was an Englishman in his early thirties; who better to market an upscale British car? I explained why I was there. Yes, Nigel Soames remembered Enrico. He had test-driven not a Jag
but an Aston Martin. And he had cut quite a figure in his obviously costly ensemble.

“Was he dressed as a priest, European-style?”

“A priest? No, he was in very pricey-looking Italian clothes. He wore a fawn cashmere topcoat with a yellow scarf wound round his neck, and he pulled on a pair of driving gloves when he took the wheel.”

“I see.” Enrico had lied to us about where he was, and what he was wearing. “Was he alone?”

“Yes. At least he was when he took the car out and when he brought it back.”

“He had the car out for quite a while, I understand.”

“Yes, he was gone for a good three hours.”

“Were you concerned?”

“Normally, I would be if a car was out that long. But he had told me he wanted to drive on the highway and on some twisty roads. That too would have concerned me but we had quite a chat about cars and driving. He’s something of an expert. Chaplain to the Grand Prix set perhaps! We had some Jacques Villeneuve posters on hand, and he took one of those. Anyway, all in all, I expected him to be gone for awhile. And I had his credit card for a damage deposit.”

“Were you expecting a sale? After all, he was clearly not local.”

“Well, he was Italian of course, but his current address was somewhere in the United States. Missouri or something.”

“Mississippi.”

“Quite right, yes. So it didn’t seem too much of a stretch to think he might purchase it here and drive it home.”

“True. Was there anything out of line about the car when he brought it back? Any damage or soiling?”

“No, apart from a bit of dust and dirt from the roadway, it was in tip-top shape. The only thing was that he had moved the passenger seat back and couldn’t return it to its normal position. So I helped him with that. It was a bit stiff, actually; I don’t think it had been moved in a while.”

“Why did he move it?”

“He didn’t say. There was no sign anybody had been in the seat. But, then, there wouldn’t be, really.”

“Was there anything unusual about him when he returned?”

“Not that I can recall.”

“Can you remember him being calm or agitated?”

“A little excited perhaps. I was hoping that was about the car. He did say he might be in touch again.”

And that was that. Enrico may have been excited, but it may have been about the car. He may have had someone as a passenger, or he may have had some other reason to move the seat. I might ask him about the drive or I might not. If past experience was any indication, I would be no wiser by the end of the interview.

Chapter 5

Thou hast heard their reproach, O Lord,
and all their imaginations against me.
The lips of those that rose against me,
and their device against me all the day.
— Lamentations 3:61-63

It was Friday night, December 6, and a gentle snow was falling. I enjoyed the snow from the warmth of my old house on Dresden Row. Sitting by the fire with my feet up, watching the flakes float down outside the multi-paned windows, it was as if I’d never left home. But the cry of my wife’s new baby jerked me back to the present day. Maura had plans to go out and, since our son Tom was not around, I was going to look after our little girl for the evening.

“My homework’s all done!”

“Let me see it, Normie.”

“Aw, Daddy! You’re no fun. It’s as if it’s done ‘cause I know everything I have to do.”

“So do it already! Then we’ll play.”

“Okay, okay. We’ll play Scrabble and Clue and read stories.”

“Sounds good.”

Maura came into the room with the baby resting against her shoulder. His whimpering sounded like the prelude to a full battle cry. His mother looked exhausted, in desperate need of a break.

“Okay, Normie. Bedtime doesn’t change just because Daddy’s here.

Oh, sweetie, could you go get me the diaper bag? It’s in my room. I’ll change him just before we go, but I’ll still need a couple of spares.”

Normie left to get the bag.

“Where are you off to?” I asked MacNeil.

“Dinner at the Silver Spoon with Fanny and Liz.”

“Wouldn’t it be a bit more relaxing for you to have dinner with your two best friends without the baby?”

Did she take him with her every time she went out? Where was the father, I wondered for the thousandth time, thinking simultaneously that I’d like to punch his lights out if he did show up.

“No, it’s fine,” she said. “He’s used to going out on the town, aren’t you, Dominic?”

He let fly with a scream then, and I saw her eyes clamp shut. She was on the verge of tears.

“Leave him here with us,” I said.

“No, he’ll be good. He just lies in his basket and sleeps beside the table.”

“Leave him. In fact, why don’t you sleep over at Liz’s? You’ve got the baby on a bottle now, right?”

“Yeah, but nobody’s pretending this is your problem, Collins. God knows, we’ve been through that.”

“Whose problem is it?”

No answer.

“Where’s the baby’s father?”

A hesitation. Then: “He’s not around much.”

“Listen. Pack a bag and take a night off. We’ll handle things here, won’t we, Normie?” I said to my daughter when she came back with the baby’s gear. “We’re having a sleepover and Mum’s going to stay with Liz.”

“Really? Great! That means I can add to my list of things we’re going to do!”

“Go right ahead.”

MacNeil packed her bag and headed out for the night with a lighter step than I’d seen in months. She looked like a little teenager going to her first sock hop.

Normie played with the baby while I made pasta for supper. The minute she left him alone he started to wail. “Oh, Dominic!” she cried.

“Leave him for now, sweetheart. He’ll be all right. Eat your supper.”

The infant continued to bawl, and Normie invented an urgent errand upstairs. She’d obviously had enough for a while. I realized it was the first time I had been alone with my wife’s son. Red-faced and miserable, he cried at full throttle. Well, I couldn’t go forever without picking the little fellow up. And nobody was here to see how I did. I reached into his crib and gently lifted him out. I put him against my shoulder and patted his back. That used to work for Tom and Normie. Not for this one, though. He just screamed louder. I persisted for a good twenty minutes, checked his diaper, offered him a bottle, then gave it up and laid him down.

I popped open a beer, threw another log on the fire, and sat on the chesterfield. The doorbell rang, and the crying stopped. Before I could get to my feet, Normie was down the stairs and at the door.

“Hi, Father! Oh, good! My books on the saints. And, oh, right, angels too. Thank you!”

“You’re welcome, Stormie.”

“You’re the stormy one — you’ve got snow in your hair. You know, Father, I hate to say this but you remind me of the boys at my school.”

“Oh yeah? How’s that?”

“It’s snowing out. You’re wearing the same jacket you wear in the spring; it’s not buttoned up, and you don’t have any mittens on. Your mother would be mad if she saw you.”

“She would indeed. I’ll shape up. Is your own mother home, or are you the châtelaine now?”

“What’s the châtelaine?”

“The lady of the castle.”

“No. Daddy’s here.”

“Ah.”

I went to greet him. “Evening, Father. Are you here to bring Mass to the shut-ins?”

“Well, since it’s you and there’s no sign of herself, perhaps I should be hearing confessions.”

“Come in.”

“I just stopped by to bring Normie some books.”

Did he feel he needed to explain his presence at the house? That was not like him at all.

“Have a seat. I’ll get you a beer.” I went into the kitchen. Normie came in behind me and whispered: “I asked him for books about saints in Scotland and Ireland, so he wouldn’t know it’s the angels I’m after.”

“Good thinking.”

My daughter had got it into her head, for some reason, that Father Burke might be an angel. This had been going on for months now, ever since she first saw him celebrating Mass in his white vestments. She said there were spirits all around him on the altar. Normie had a touch of second sight, or so I’d been told by her maternal relatives in Cape Breton. She had not yet come to a conclusion about Burke; apparently there was still a great deal of research to do.

“Ah,” sighed the angelic one as the first sip of Keith’s India Pale Ale slid down his throat. “Nectar of the gods.”

The howling started up again. Burke looked over at the crib, then at me. “Don’t you think you should pick him up, Monty? You’re not without experience in that regard.”

“He won’t settle,” was all I said.

Finally, Burke put his beer on the table and went to the crib. “Evening, Dominic. How’s the little lad?” At the sound of Burke’s voice, the baby fell silent. Burke picked him up, cradled him in his arms, took the corner of his blanket and used it to wipe his face. The baby smiled and kicked his legs. “That’s more like it,” Burke muttered to him, and stood there, irresolute. We were saved by the arrival of Normie, who announced that she would take the now placid baby to his room.

My own son arrived then, his blond hair curling out from under a black fedora, a skinny tie askew against his white shirt; this signalled that he had just come from a jam session with his band, Dads in Suits. We chatted a bit about the blues-rock direction his group was going in, then I asked him: “How would you like to earn a few bucks, Tommy?”

“Wouldn’t say no. What do I have to do?” “Research. Go through some old newspapers on microfilm. I won’t pretend it’s exciting work.”

“Do you pay by the hour, so if it gets boring enough for me to fall asleep I get more?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“I’ll do it! I won’t fall asleep!” his sister exclaimed, when she came back into the living room.

“We’ll find a job for you, Normie, don’t worry. But this one’s for Tom. He has to go to the library and stare into a machine reading newspapers in German.”

“I can learn German!”

“First lesson,” Tom commanded. “When I say
‘Fraülein Klumpenkopf,’
you say
‘Jawohl, mein Herr!’
“

“You don’t know any real German. You only studied it in school.”

“Well, he knows more than I remember from my own studies, so he’s the man for the job. Get the reels showing
Die Welt
in the 1970s. Look for anything about Father Reinhold Schellenberg. I’m sorry I can’t be very specific. I heard something about him being detained or arrested during a political demonstration of some kind, so I’m especially interested in that.”

“You’re letting Tom investigate the murder! I don’t get to do anything.”

“We’ll get you out there in a trench coat yet, Normie, like the old-time detectives used to wear.”

“Good. Father, make sure he keeps his promise.”

“Don’t I always keep my promises, sweetheart?”

“Well, yeah, but maybe not this time.”

The four of us played cards for a while, then Burke went home. My kids and I hit the sack early. The baby woke up twice to be fed and changed. The first time, at two, was fine. I had forgotten how brutal that second awakening was just before seven o’clock.

Maura came home just as the kids and I were clearing up after breakfast. She looked refreshed, and chatted to me quite pleasantly about her evening out. I drove Normie to her friend Kim’s and dropped her off. With a free day ahead of me, I decided to take a run over to the choir school in case there was anyone I could buttonhole for information. Things were quiet until I approached a classroom at the far end of the main corridor. I heard raised voices and I peered in through the
window of the door at the back of the room. I opened it and slipped in unseen. I had walked into an argument. Jan Ford was seated behind a desk, brandishing a hymn book in the direction of Father Sferrazza-Melchiorre in one of the chairs. How she thought she would be able to convert Enrico to her way of thinking, I couldn’t imagine. But this was the same person who had expected police officers in Florida to side with her in her protest against the death penalty. She was not a woman who would go down without a fight. William Logan slouched in another seat, bored and above it all.

Jan had the floor. “Music should be accessible, user-friendly —”

“Will you please speak English!” This from Father Sferrazza-Melchiorre.

“— music that the people understand, that makes them feel good about themselves, even if the music does not come up to the old elite standards —”

“The music you speak of is trash! Melodies designed to appeal to the nursery! Babyish words and sentiments. All you hear in North America is this talk of people feeling good about themselves, whether they have done anything to merit all this good feeling or not!”

“Did it ever occur to you that we, as liturgists, have a role to play in moving people to that feeling? To let them know they are welcomed and empowered in their faith community?”

“All I hear from you,
Signora
Ford, is about the people. Congratulating themselves in these embarrassing songs. Have you forgotten God? Did you not hear Father Burke yesterday when he spoke of abandoning the self to God in worship?”

“I’m not surprised that Burke would dismiss the self, the very personhood of the faithful, in his form of worship. I suspect the phrase ‘self-actualization’ is not even in Burke’s vocabulary.”

You got that right
. I realized they still did not know I was there. “Get with the times, Enrico,” Ford continued. “You’re stuck in the past.”

“You say that as if you mean to insult me,
Signora
Ford,
ma sai una cosa?
— I am not insulted.”

“Right,” William Logan put in. “You can’t be insulted. Hundreds of years of aristocratic breeding make you immune to the opinions of the common people!”