Cecilian Vespers (17 page)

“They found fingerprints on that rosary, or whatever you called it, the chaplet I found in Robin’s room.” I had heard the news from Moody Walker on Tuesday morning, and was now on the phone to Brennan, filling him in. “Actually, the prints on the beads and medal weren’t good enough to use. But there were identifiable prints on the note. Are you ready for this? The prints belong to Enrico Sferrazza-Melchiorre.”

“What? Why would he give a note like that to Gadkin-Falkes? It doesn’t make sense. And if he did give it, when? It must have been slipped under the door after the arrest, so how would Enrico expect Robin to get it? Or was he hoping someone else would pick it up?”

He paused. “But, more to the point —”

“How come his prints are on file with the police?”

“Right. Interpol, or whatever it would be.”

“Guess we’d better ask him. Where would he be this time of day?”

“Here in his room, as far as I know. Come on over.”

I got snagged by a client on my way out of the office but I got him settled down, then drove to the rectory. I went upstairs, met Brennan, and followed him to the room of Enrico Sferrazza-Melchiorre. He came to the door wearing a smoking jacket of crimson satin with black lapels; he greeted us and bade us sit.

We made a bit of small talk, then I opened the questioning: “Enrico, did you send a note to Robin Gadkin-Falkes?”

The expression on his face didn’t change. “No.”

“Are you curious about why we’re asking?”

His elaborate shrug brought into motion his eyes, mouth, shoulders, and hands.
“Va bene
, I will ask you: why are you asking?”

“Because somebody wrote a note to the monk, and attached it to a set of prayer beads, and your fingerprints are on the note.”

That produced a reaction. He leaned back defensively. “My fingers on it? How can that be?”

“I was hoping you could answer that question for us.”

“No, I cannot. This note, what does it say?”

Brennan joined the conversation.
“Fac me tecum plangere.”

“Perché ‘plangere’?” he asked Brennan.

“I don’t know why. I suppose a person could be grieving for a colleague who had fallen into mortal sin by taking the life of a fellow human being. Or it could be grief over a false charge of murder. Do you think he did it?”

“How could I know? I was not there.”

I said to him: “Whoever wrote the note is not the object of any suspicion. It’s just that, if the person knows something about Brother Robin and the killing of Father Schellenberg, it would be enormously helpful if that person came forward with information.”

“I know nothing. And I did not write the note.”

“Enrico, may I ask why your fingerprints are on file with the authorities?”

His hands made a graceful gesture of dismissal. “A small thing, an inconvenience. Monty, it would put you to sleep if I annoyed you —” he looked at Brennan “—
noia?
”

Brennan replied: “Boring. If you bored him.”

“If I bored you by telling this long, foolish story. A misunderstanding is all it was. So. If you have no more questions about this strange English monk, I must dress for my day at your schola, Brennan.” We took our leave.

“What do you make of that?” I asked Burke. He answered with a very Italian shrug. “Well, I’m certainly not satisfied with what we heard in there. I wonder how significant the prayer beads themselves are. If the guy just wanted to send a note, why attach it to the beads?”

“We’ll assume the chaplet is significant,” he answered. “I’m not familiar with Saint Philomena. I meant to ask Mike. Let’s see if he’s in.”

Monsignor O’Flaherty was not in, but his room was open so we
went inside. “He has Butler’s
Lives of the Saints
. There it is.” He pointed to four faded red volumes on the shelf.

“So,” I said, “Philomena. Starts with P. I’m guessing volume three.” I picked it up.

“It may be number three or it may not. The collection isn’t organized alphabetically but chronologically. Liturgical calendar. If you don’t happen to know what Saint Philomena’s feast day is, pick a volume at random and start looking. The indexes are in the front.”

It took us a while but we found her, and she was indeed in volume three, month of August.

“I never expected to see a four-volume book of the saints so well-thumbed and dog-eared,” I remarked.

“This edition was published in 1956, and I can believe Michael’s been reading it every night since. Let me see it.” He removed it from my unconsecrated hands, and skimmed over the entry. “Philomena. Martyred as a young girl in Rome. Miraculous cures attributed to her.” He closed the book, and we left the room.

“Brennan, just how much of a factor are the saints these days? I can’t say I’ve heard much about them in recent years!”

“Montague, what people
these days
think or talk about, with their brains addled by television, has no bearing one way or the other on the eternal realities. In the murder case before us, we have a Saint Cecilia death scene and a Saint Philomena chaplet. To ignore the saints as a possible factor would be to ignore the evidence. You wouldn’t want to do that, would you?”

“No, Your Honour.”

“Thank you.”

“So, who’s your saint?” I asked him. “Are you devoted to any one in particular?”

“You figure it out.”

“Thomas Aquinas.”

“Of course. The Angelic Doctor. I’ve named my new Mass after him. Now if I could only get it to sound the way I want it. The ‘Agnus Dei’ just doesn’t work. I hope to have the premiere in February, towards the end of the schola session, but now I don’t know. Anyway, Saint Thomas is my main contact in heaven. And Saint Gregory. Whatever role he played in gracing us with Gregorian chant must
have landed him at the right hand of God. There’s a beautiful statue at Chartres Cathedral, the Holy Spirit in the form of a dove perched on Gregory’s shoulder, whispering in his ear. Bestowing the gift of Gregorian chant. I’m not a weepy fellow normally, but I was moved to the point of tears when I first saw that.”

“So where did the Philomena beads come from, I wonder? One of the priests may have had them on hand. Or he may have gone out and bought them especially for the occasion. There may be something in the miraculous cures, a tie-in with the reference to grief. Is it time for another chat with the accused? How about tonight?”

“Why not?”

Robin Gadkin-Falkes was sitting in a chair facing his window; he was wrapped in a blanket.

“Good evening, Robin,” Brennan said.

He turned to see us. “Good evening, gentlemen. What can I do for you? Or would you like to ask first whether they’re making me comfortable here?”

“Are they?”

“They are most kind. And exceedingly tactful. Perhaps I’m considered a sensitive sort. I am rather a hothouse rose, I must confess. Oh, shouldn’t bandy the C-word about carelessly, should I? Do sit down, Father.”

Brennan sat in the only other chair.

“Here, Mr. Collins,” the monk said, rising.

“Monty.”

“Monty, take this chair. I shall take to my bed like the poor invalid I am. So, gentlemen, what brings you to me today?”

“We found something in your room,” Brennan told him.

“Oh! Nothing embarrassing, I trust.”

“Someone sent you a message.”

“Best wishes for an early verdict of insanity, perhaps?”

“I’m afraid not. It’s a note attached to a chaplet of Saint Philomena.”

There was a jolt of recognition before he tried to cover it by fussing with his blanket.

“Would you be kind enough to enlighten us about it?”

“I’m sure you need no enlightenment from me, Brennan. You’ve seen the thing. I haven’t.”

“Oh? I thought perhaps you had.”

“No. So, do tell me. I am intrigued, and not a little bored in here.”

“Have you a particular devotion to Saint Philomena?”

“Can’t say that I have, no.”

“Let’s move on to the note, then. It says: ‘
Fac me tecum potare
.’”

Robin couldn’t hide his surprise. That was not what he was expecting to hear. He recovered as best he could. “Someone has a sense of humour. Must be trying to jolly me along through my ordeal. Well, if you find him, tell him I should be delighted to drink with him, as long as it’s his treat. Nothing to swill in this place.”

“Oh, forgive me,” Brennan said then. “I had it wrong. It’s ‘
Fac me tecum plangere
.’”

“Ah. We’ve gone from boozing to grief. A reversal of the natural order of things.”

“That’s right. I’m asking myself whether the writer of the note is grieving with you over your plight today, or whether the grief refers to something else. What do you think, Robin?”

I expected another flippant reply. But no.

“I lost someone.” He looked away from us towards the window. “I understand grief all too well.” He faced us again and continued. “Forgive me, if you will, for descending to melodrama. I lost my own mirror image, the other half of my soul. She was the love of my life, and I mean my entire life. From the instant of conception to this day and if God chooses, I shall but love her better after death. Let me show you.”

He got up, opened his overnight bag, and gently extracted a photograph in a leather frame. “Here we are at fifteen, the year before she died.”

The black-and-white photo showed a boy and a girl, slim and attractive with short blond hair. He had his arm around her shoulder, and they both were gazing intently at something to the left of the camera. Apart from the fact that one was male and the other female, they were identical.

“Twins, as you can see. My sister, Louisa. We were one. We shared
the same womb, the same cot in the nursery, the same bath. We never grew apart. We never needed anyone else. For anything. When she was taken from me, I tried to go with her. Tried to top myself, you see. Didn’t succeed. Here I am.”

Brennan had lapsed into silence, so I asked: “How did your sister die?”

“My parents took her to South Africa, where we had family. I didn’t go because I was in high dudgeon about something my father had said. If I had gone, Louisa would never have contracted her illness — or I should say infection — because she would not have gone into the wilds of Africa on an adventure with my half-wit cousins. They struck out into the jungles, where all manner of writhing, biting, stinging creatures lay in wait. I ask you, really! What civilized person — Had I been there, Louisa would have stayed with me and we’d have contented ourselves with the shops and art galleries of Jo’burg. Instead of boarding a private plane — I would have lashed myself to the propellers to prevent that! — and going off to the jungle. Anyway, she died out there. I never saw her again. After my own unsuccessful attempt to follow her into death, I underwent years and years of tedious therapy. How many times can you hear the word ‘narcissism’ before you want to scream and fall upon your therapist with a blunt and heavy object? ‘Could it be that you were in love with yourself, Robin?’ We were in love with each other! And with ourselves! It was all one and the same. Why be tiresome about it? Forgive me, I must be boring you. Brennan, you have been silent all through my little scene. Is it just too tawdry for you? Should I fall to my knees in the confessional yet again?”

Brennan looked over at him, not unsympathetically, I thought, but still did not speak.

“Where did religion come into all this, Robin?” I asked him. “It was not just a reaction, a retreat from the world, contrary to the trite thinking that characterized just about everyone I ever met subsequently. My sister and I had always been — I won’t say ‘pious’ and I certainly won’t say ‘saintly’ — perhaps I could say ‘spiritual.’ We came from an old papist family. Shunned by many of the ‘best’ people on account of it, needless to say. I had always toyed with the idea of entering an order. I knew I would never marry. Even what passes for
the aristocracy in England these days would not have condoned the only marriage that I ever wanted to contract. So, no interest in settling down with a wife. There went the biggest obstacle to religious life for me. I joined the Benedictines and spent my days tilling the fields, tending the garden, chanting my office, and praying to God to take me home where I could see Him, and Louisa, face to face.”

“I am very sorry about your sister, Robin,” I said. “Is there a connection of some kind between her death, your grief for her, and the death of Reinhold Schellenberg?”

“Not that I can see. Can you? I thought we were talking of this note you found in my room.”

“We were. But naturally I wonder whether a message sent to you, the man accused of the murder of Schellenberg, is in some way connected to the case.”

“Can’t help you there, I’m afraid.”

“How well do you know Father Sferrazza-Melchiorre?”

Robin raised his eyebrows. “How well could a simple monk like me know a worldly figure like Sferrazza-Melchiorre?”

“You tell me.”

“I have lived a monastic life. Our sartorially splendid
sacerdos
clearly has not.
So
Mediterranean! I had never heard of the man until I arrived at the schola cantorum.”

“Did you become friendly with him during the course?”

“We exchanged pleasantries from time to time. That is all. Why are you asking about him? Is he a suspect? I hope he is, if you’ll forgive me for saying so. The jailhouse and the mental asylum would bring him into intimate contact with the least of our Lord’s dear brethren. A new dimension to his vocation, I daresay. And a new, pared-down wardrobe instead of all that clobber he’s usually got on. Now Logan, the American, poor devil, not even a Roman collar could dress him up.”

“Don’t be thinking you can mulvather us with all this chit-chat,” Brennan admonished him. “Let’s get back to —”

“My dear chap, I’ve never heard you speak in your native patois, and I must say —”

“Don’t you ‘my dear chap’ me. You seem to be getting a little too much enjoyment out of all this and your central role in it. Well, I for one have had my fill of you.” Suddenly, Burke bolted out of his chair
and leaned into the monk’s pale face. “Did you, or did you not, kill Schellenberg?”