Cecilian Vespers (31 page)

“Oh, Father Mills! Would you like coffee and a biscuit? Anything for breakfast?”

“Thanks, Mrs. Kelly. Maybe I’ll …” Fred peered into the dining room and saw me with Gino Savo. “… take up your offer another time. I think I’d better get over to the school. I left a couple of things undone.” He said hello to us and kept moving.

“Do you really think you’ll be able to solve this case to Rome’s satisfaction, Father Savo? The police believe they have the right man. I’ve been doing some questioning outside official channels, and I’m not getting anywhere.”

“I am here to monitor the investigation, not to conduct it myself. I am here to see that our interests are not compromised.”

“You’re here at the direction of the papal nuncio to this country.”

“Correct.”

“Does he have any theories about the killing?”

“He has a theory that no one connected with the Vatican has done this.”

“You’re not talking about priests in general.”

“It may be a rogue priest. We all pray that it is not. We — I especially, in my role in the Congregation for the Clergy — are concerned with all priests. But Arturo Del Vecchio, the nuncio, concerns himself with those who have had, or may again have, a position in the Vatican itself.”

“As far as I know that could only be Father Sferrazza-Melchiorre.”

“There is also the matter of Father Schellenberg himself. Was there something sensitive in his background that might embarrass the church?”

“From what I understand, Father Schellenberg could have drawn fire from any number of directions.”

“He is blamed by many for the loss of the old Mass and our musical heritage, and for all the other elements of disintegration that people attribute to the Second Vatican Council. Others, as you know, attack him for retrenching in more recent years. Liberals feel betrayed by one of their own, as they considered him to be.”

“Did you know Schellenberg?”

“Yes, I knew him and worked with him in various capacities over the years.”

“Were you an admirer?”

“Very much so. Of course.”

“So you have a personal, as well as an official, incentive to see his killer identified and punished.”

The priest’s eyes began to fill with tears, and he blinked to clear them.

I returned to the subject of the silk-apparelled cleric who seemed to be living in exile. “I get the impression Father Sferrazza-Melchiorre may be doing a bit of purgatory before he returns to the gates of Saint Peter.” Savo shrugged, and I continued. “Is the nuncio worried that Father Sferrazza-Melchiorre might be guilty?”

“He does not think that! Of course not. The Del Vecchio and the Sferrazza-Melchiorre families have known each other since the time of the Borgi — since Renaissance times. He knows Enrico is not a murderer. His desire is to make sure there is no misunderstanding that could lead to suspicions of Enrico if no other explanation is found. Or suspicions of anyone else who may be found to have a connection with Rome. That is all.”

As simple as that.

“And you yourself are close to the nuncio?” “He has always been good to me.”

I suspected that it was a great boost to someone’s career in the Vatican hierarchy if a powerful man was good to you. Savo would not want to let the pope’s ambassador down.

“Do you share the nuncio’s faith in Enrico?”

“Yes, yes, of course I do. My presence here goes beyond Enrico. I want to know what happened. I intend to find out. Then I shall present my findings and return to Rome. I shall also arrange to have Father Schellenberg’s remains released and flown back to his home for burial.”

“Well, let me know if you discover anything Brennan or Michael should know. And I’ll do the same for you.”

“I will. Thank you.” Neither of us believed the other, but appearances were maintained, and I took my leave.

Chapter 12

He has besieged and enveloped me
with bitterness and tribulation.
— Lamentations 3:5

Two weeks into the new year, the schola participants organized a concert, presenting their own musical arrangements and, in a couple of cases, their compositions. The music would be performed on Friday night by the St. Bernadette’s Choir of Men and Boys, of which I was a member. This time, though, I would be in the audience, as I had not been able to attend the daytime rehearsals.

Father Burke, dressed in his soutane, arrived and sat beside me. He looked tense.

“What’s the matter?” I asked.

“Who knows what we’ll be hearing out of them tonight?” he answered. “And, of course, I’ve got Savo in my house. There is a glimmer of light in the darkness, however.”

“Oh?”

“Kitty Curran flew in today. I’m expecting her here any minute.”

“Wonderful! Where is she staying?”

“The parish house.”

She arrived just as the master of ceremonies, Enrico Sferrazza-Melchiorre, rose to welcome the audience. I slid over and made room
for Kitty, so that she was sitting between me and Burke.

The nun greeted me with a hug and kiss, then demanded in a whisper: “All right, lads. Tell me who’s who. Which one’s Logan?” We discreetly pointed to our suspects, giving her their names and a bit of background. She waved to Enrico Sferrazza-Melchiorre and, after a jolt of surprise, he smiled and made a little bow in her direction. Then we settled in to wait for the downbeat.

“He’s not afraid to fly, but would you look at the white knuckles on yer man for this occasion?” Kitty said, pointing to Burke’s hands, which were gripping his knees.

As it turned out, he had little to fear and much to be proud of. The choristers, looking deceptively angelic in their pre-Vatican II surplices, acquitted themselves well. Most of those who conducted the music were competent, and some exceptional. Father Sferrazza-Melchiorre, Father Ichiro Takahashi of Japan, and Soeur Thérèse Savoie, a Moncton, New Brunswick, nun, were in the latter category. The music had been chosen to represent the entire liturgical year, so we heard Victoria’s beautiful “O Magnum Mysterium,” honouring the pregnancy of the Virgin Mary and the birth of the Saviour; the very moving “O Vos Omnes” by Pablo Casals, in which Jesus asks passersby if their suffering is comparable to his; Victoria again on a similar theme, with the “Reproaches from the Cross” in Greek and Latin; and the “Exultet” and the “Alleluias” traditionally chanted at the Easter Vigil. The biggest surprise of the evening came under the baton of Billy Logan. The former priest, his abrasive manner held in check, managed to portraythe exquisite longing of Palestrina’s “Sicut Cervus”:

Sicut cervus desiderat ad fontes aquarum ita desiderat anima mea ad te Deus
.

Like as the hart desireth the waterbrooks, so longeth my soul for thee, O God.

The only low point was Jan Ford and her committee, who brought out a ukulele and tambourine and sang while a man and a woman pantomimed the actions they imagined went along with the words:

Sharing, caring, daring yet to be
At the Jesus table, friend to you and me.
Share Him, care f’r Him, we, Christ’s bo-od-y,
Yea, His body and His light, His folk are we!

I sneaked a look at Burke and saw all too clearly how music could lead to murder. His Irish mouth was clamped down in a thin white line; his eyes were like the sun’s rays boring through a magnifying glass at an insect about to be incinerated. Christ’s folk were oblivious up at the altar. I thought he was set to shout them down. I leaned across Kitty and gave him a warning look.

But all in all, it was a success. Brennan rose at the end and gave a gracious tribute to the performers. Every one of them.

Maura had offered to host a reception following the performance. She had given me instructions as to what to bring, and I had dropped the items off earlier. Now I waited while Brennan made a quick trip across to the rectory to change into pants and a sweater. Then we all walked to Morris Street and a few blocks west to Dresden Row for the post-performance party.

“Where’s Kitty?” I asked on the way.

“Monsignor O’Flaherty has appointed himself her escort for the evening. I think he’s in love. He’s been hanging on her every word since she arrived. A nun from Dublin is to Mike what a lap dancer from Brazil would be to you and, em, well,
you
, Collins. So what did you think of the concert?”

“Some of that was music to die for, Brennan. And Reinhold Schellenberg died on the feast of Saint Cecilia, patron saint of church musicians.”

“That hasn’t slipped my mind, Montague.”

“Who would you single out as the most likely person to murder for music?”

“The most likely person for
me
to murder, you mean?”

“Excuse the lack of lawyerly precision. I meant the person most likely to commit murder.”

“I knew that, Monty. I was taking the piss out of ya. Well, to answer your question, it wouldn’t be Jan Ford.”

“Don’t be too sure. If Schellenberg’s right turn has any lasting
influence, and the old music enjoys a revival, her own efforts will be shunted to the sidelines.”

“Nobody could harbour such strong feelings over that drivel,” he said dismissively.

“So she’s not worthy of being the murderer!”

“Hmmph.”

“All right, who?”

“We can dismiss Colonel Bleier if music was the motive.” “What did we hear about him? He married into a very musical family. Jadwiga Silkowski’s home was filled with music.”

“Too much of a stretch. If he killed Father Schellenberg, it was for another reason. Something to do with their past in Germany.”

“Logan?”

“I wouldn’t know where to begin, to sort out what motivates Logan. Obviously he’s never come to terms with his departure from the priesthood. Beyond that, who knows?”

“Enrico.”

“He loves the music; he loves all the great art of the church. But I suspect if we find out he did away with Schellenberg, he did it for motives much more Byzantine than music.”

“That leaves you, I guess, Brennan.”

“Very amusing, Monty.”

“So. Where were you on the afternoon of November 22?”

He stopped and looked at me. “You’re not serious, I hope.”

“No. Though maybe you have an acolyte — a groupie — somewhere who feels he or she is striking a blow for the music that constitutes a great part of your life’s work.”

“That must be it. Let me know when you’ve tied up the loose ends.” We arrived at the house on Dresden Row, and Maura met us at the door. It was the first time she had seen Burke since the trip to Italy.

“Brennan! Poor Collins was wrung out after his travels. Did you exhaust yourself as well? Quite the trip, was it?” No reply. “What happened to him?” she asked me. “Struck dumb at the throne of Saint Peter? Silenced by the Holy Inquisition?”

“No, no, amn’t I still a little weary from the jet lag?” he said lamely. She gave him a penetrating look, and he made his way around her. “Step aside, MacNeil. I’ve a hooley to attend.”

“Well, I intend to hear all the details of the journey, about which Collins has said very little. But which, I’m sure, produced the solution to the mystery we’ve all been living with here. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have gone. Let me know if an arrest is imminent and whether it’s someone under my roof right now.” I knew from our previous conversations, of course, that it was her belief that the police had got it right — “this time,” she had said to me, in order to show she was not a lackey of the police and was ready to second-guess them on the next occasion — and that Burke and I had affected to think otherwise in order to justify a road trip to Italy.

“We’re still at the stage of helping the police with their inquiries.”

“I see. Well, pour yourselves a whiskey or a glass of wine, and grab something to eat. Unless you’re both sated for all time after your bacchanalian revels abroad.”

“Where are the kids?”

“Normie’s staying at Kim’s, and Tom is with Lexie.”

“Okay. Remind me later. I promised Normie I’d find her a little job to do in connection with the case. I had Tom do the newspaper research, so she wanted in on it too. I have something she can do —”

“Funny you should say that. She believes she knows where the answer lies, but it requires a trip to — Disney World!”

“All right, all right. You’ve made your point.” I would take the direct approach, and ask Normie myself.

The house was soon full, and the gathering achieved what was almost a party atmosphere, but the strain of the murder thrummed beneath the surface, for some of us at least, like a sombre bass line. Gino Savo arrived with Mike O’Flaherty and Kitty Curran, Gino appearing to be in a less festive mood than his two companions.

“Now, Kitty, where would you like to sit?” Mike asked solicitously. “Would you have a little something to drink?”

“I’d have a whiskey if such a thing were available,” Kitty replied.

“Oh, surely there’s a drop of whiskey. I’ll go and see. Now you just make yourself comfortable there.” He was soon back with a glass of whiskey and a couple of chocolate treats in a tiny silver dish.

I left her in his tender care for a few more minutes, then brought Maura over and introduced her, noting Kitty’s role on the Council for Justice and Peace. Keenly interested in social justice herself, Professor MacNeil was soon in rapt conversation with the globe-trotting nun, while Mike O’Flaherty looked on adoringly. The smell of something burning in the kitchen reinforced the fact that MacNeil had found something much more interesting than tending to the stove. I went out, switched off the burner, and turned on the fan to suck up the smoke. I didn’t bother to look at whatever remained in the pot, just opened the back door and pitched it into the snow. Maura didn’t ask any questions when I returned to the living room.

The two women continued their intense conversation until the baby, Dominic, cried out from his room, and Maura excused herself.

I sat down with Kitty. “Well, you’ve got nearly half the cast in front of you tonight, Sister.”

“In front of me and Gino Savo.” I had forgotten that the Vatican’s man was in the crowd; now I saw him standing against the far wall, looking tense and ill at ease. “He’ll be more intent on observing them than I will. Nobody put me in charge!” She sipped her drink and popped a chocolate into her mouth.