by Anne Emery
That he had to go is beyond dispute. That his death has all the appearance of a ghastly aberration may be put down to the deplorable fact that the others of his ilk — and they are legion — have eluded earthly justice. They will not elude the Just Judge on the Day of Wrath. The Holy Catholic and Apostolic Church is — need it be said? — the One True Church. Founded by Christ Himself and His apostles, the Roman Catholic Church has endured in all its truth and splendour since that time, nearly two thousand years ago. It endures, it is meant to endure, it will endure — despite the fact that there is no one in the See of Peter, no one in place to carry out the Petrine Ministry. In short, the chair is empty! Nobody there, don’t bother looking! The line of succession remained unbroken from Peter to the Year of Our Lord’s Tears, 1958, when our Holy Father, Eugenio Pacelli, Pius XII, joined our Lord in Heaven and left a vacancy that has never been filled.
Never been filled, you say? And you dutifully recite the litany of names — litany of shame! — of those who have pretended to the throne of Peter since 1958. John XXIII, Paul VI, John Paul I, and now John Paul II. “Have you had your head in the sand, Brother Robin?” you ask me. “Have you been living in the desert, has history escaped your notice? Are you mad? There is indeed someone sitting in the chair; I see him,” you say to me. “He’s dressed in white and has all the trappings of a pope; ergo, he is a pope.” No, my dear. No, no, no. You are misinformed. That man sitting there is a heretic. And a heretic cannot be pope. Since 1958 we have had nothing but heretics in the See of Rome.
Brennan reverted to his normal voice. “So our man is a sedevacantist. It means ‘empty seat.’ These are people who maintain that the recent popes were not true popes at all. Needless to say, I consider these extremists to be beyond the pale! I wonder if he claims to be the true pope himself. We’ll soon see.”
“They’ll never let him out of the psych ward if they hear that!” “Oh, no, it’s a regular sport among some of these factions. There are numerous anti-popes who have been crowned by their followers. But let’s get back to Brother Robin:
That some will judge me a madman, I have no doubt. But hear me! And seek ye to understand. (May I add in parentheses that many of our Lord’s most faithful servants were judged to be mad — or drunk! — when they proclaimed the Word of God. I do not number myself among the prophets, but stay ye and hear me for awhile.) Where, you may be asking by now, does Reinhold Schellenberg fit in with my insights into the heresy of the recent so-called popes? Simple. It was he who whispered in the ear of the man who had the ear of the man known to the unsuspecting world as Pope John XXIII. The soi-disant pope listened to Rodl, excuse me, that’s Bishop Franz Rodl of Germany. And Rodl listened to Schellenberg. And what Schellenberg poured in the bishop’s ear was pure poison. Heresy. Next time you’re at what passes for the Holy Mass in this day and age, take a good, long look and think “Schellenberg.” Look at that table which everyone gathers round so sociably, shuffling about and grinning. And I do mean everyone; really, the ragtag and bobtail, they’re all up there now. And in the most frightful garb, some of them! Why does a priest even bother to vest these days, when he has to stand beside the unconsecrated in their mucking-out-the-stables or trolling-the-singles-bars attire? But there they are, the People of God, gathered round their table. It could be called the Protestant table, or the Schellenberg table.
What used to be there, do you recall? The Holy Tabernacle, the Altar of God! But not any more, not with the priest — excuse me, the presider — with his back to it. The Tabernacle has been moved. Even the postconciliar liturgists were able to discern that it was unseemly to keep the Blessed Sacrament there now that Father Chuck has his bum facing it. What to do? Turn Father Chuck around again so we are all facing the same way in adoration of our Lord? O my dear, no, not at all. Let us instead shunt the Tabernacle off to the side! There, the Real Presence is out of the way, and we can all clomp up to the table for our meal. Used to be a sacrifice, The Sacrifice, but now it’s chow time. I once heard a story of a Muslim visiting a Catholic church with a friend. He asked the friend why he genuflected. The friend explained the Catholic belief that Christ is really present in the consecrated Host. And the Muslim said: “If we believed God was truly present here, we would never get up off the floor.” O, that we have much to learn, even from the Mussulman!
“Then he gives out about the changing of the words of consecration and whether the new form is valid or not. He talks about the reduced emphasis on the supernatural. And about the diminished role of the priest, the minimizing of his power with respect to the sacrifice, bringing about through himself the Eucharistic Presence. Priests are now like social workers, don’t need to be celibate for that, no wonder so many left. Et cetera. He quotes extensively from the ‘Ottaviani Intervention.’ That was an attempt by cardinals Ottaviani and Bacci in 1969 to convince Pope Paul to save the traditional Mass, the true Mass according to the cardinals.”
“What about you, Brennan? Where do you stand in all this?” “You know where I stand. I say the old Tridentine Mass as often as I can. I don’t go so far as to say the new Mass is invalid. Obviously. I wouldn’t participate if I thought so. The new Mass is usually — thank God! — conducted with dignity and reverence. And I don’t think everything about Vatican II was bad. My view was that they should have lightened up about all kinds of other things — birth control comes to mind! — but left the Mass and the music alone. I haven’t seen fit, however, to commit murder over the issue. All right. Robin. Here he gets down to brass tacks:
Yes, yes, I know. Reinhold Schellenberg merely went along with others in the Teutonic world in trying to make the Mass a little more … accessible. Accessible to whom? Protestants? Children? Members of other, shall we say, cultural communities? Do you know what one of the experts said at the Vatican Council? In an effort to come up with a Mass that would attract the Japanese? That we shouldn’t make the sign of the cross so often. The sign of the cross! Well, Jesus of Nazareth didn’t die of hara-kiri. That’s just the way it is!
We are told that the people should have a liturgy they understand! True. So, explain it to them. Last time I looked, my missal contained the sacred Latin text and a translation alongside it for my simple Anglo-Saxon brain! Read the translation, go to catechism class, et voilà, liturgy explained and understood. Again, we could learn from others. Do Jews say: “I’m not going to the synagogue because I don’t understand Hebrew”? No. They have Hebrew school. They instruct their children in their own sacral language and in the holy texts. Exactly as we should do.
And then, you say: “But poor old Schellenberg changed his mind. Once he saw the imbecilities that took place in Catholic churches around the globe, and all the other madness and chaos that followed Vatican II, he got back on the straight and narrow, and tried to put things back to rights.” Too little, too late, is what I say. A man is presumed to intend the consequences of his actions. Imagine the case of a man who murders his wife. He regrets it later. Often the case, I’m sure. Does that mean he should escape justice? Obviously not.
Finally, I must address the question: “Why Schellenberg and not all the others?” The answer is simple. You may find it chilling, but here it is: because the opportunity presented itself! Fate delivered the man right into my hands. We were brought together for one purpose. Matter and anti-matter. Church and anti-church. Pope and anti-pope. I had to destroy him.
We sat in silence for a few moments, each of us trying to assess the monk’s extraordinary confession.
“I don’t buy it,” Brennan said at last. “My opinion is no doubt coloured by whatever he told O’Flaherty after his arrest. We didn’t hear what it was, but Michael came away from that session with serious doubts about this fellow’s guilt. My take on the confession is that it’s too clever to be genuine. He’s up to something, obviously, and this statement may be the product of a disturbed mind. But I get the impression he’s not deranged enough to take an axe to someone on a sudden whim.”
“
I can’t agree with you, Brennan,” Maura said. “If he’s intelligent enough to come up with this statement, he’s smart enough to know that he may not be able to disentangle himself once the machinery of the state goes into gear against him. Why would he do this, risk spending the rest of his life in prison, for something he didn’t do? I say he did it, though he may be found NCR.”
“Non compos …” Brennan tried.
“Not criminally responsible. Insanity defence.”
“What do you think, Monty?” Brennan asked then.
“I just don’t know. I see too much guilt in the run of a day to be able to write the monk off as a suspect. On the other hand, I wouldn’t have any trouble seeing the other suspects as guilty too. I’d like to see this guy in person.”
Brennan called me the next morning at the office. “Can you get away? Mike has persuaded Gadkin-Falkes to see us at the hospital. I’ve given the schola students a writing assignment that will sharpen their minds and keep them busy for the morning. How about you?”
“It would take more than that to sharpen the minds of my criminal clients, God love them, but none of them need me this morning. None of them are up on Monday mornings anyway. Give me an hour to do some paperwork, and then we’ll go.”
I got my work done, then called Burke to say I was ready. He picked me up outside my building. I was going along for the interview. But if there was a confession of the sacramental kind, I’d be out of the room and would never get to hear what was said. I would worry about that later.
“What kind of evidence did the police turn up against Robin?” I asked Brennan as we headed onto the Macdonald Bridge to Dartmouth. “Do you know?”
“He had some papers belonging to Schellenberg and he tried to burn them.”
“That doesn’t look good for him. What papers?”
“Notes of some kind. The remnants, or some of them at least, were found in a public rubbish bin a few blocks from the school.”
“How do they know the stuff came from Robin?”
“There were other things with it, which belonged to Robin. And there were ashes. Or something of Robin’s was scorched. I’m not sure. The waste can in Robin’s room was empty; none of the other rooms had had their trash taken out. Now we have a confession, which I don’t find convincing at all. And when Mike arrived at the party that night, he was obviously of the view that Gadkin-Falkes didn’t do it. The monk told him something that threw it all into doubt.”
“But the police were convinced by the evidence even before he confessed.”
“The police aren’t Robin’s priest. Anyway, we’ll go pull his chain.” We drove out Pleasant Street past old wooden houses until the street gave way to more commercial properties. When we got to the Nova Scotia Hospital, which sits overlooking Halifax Harbour, we took a moment to admire the view of the city we had left behind. An enormous cruise ship had just docked on the other side, partly obscured by George’s Island.
We went through a bit of rigmarole with the hospital personnel, then we were shown into the room of Brother Robin. The monk, whom I now remembered from vespers, was tall and bony with a prominent nose and a thin, sardonic-looking mouth. His hair was sandy and he was bald on top; I didn’t know whether this was a ton-sure of some sort, or just male pattern baldness.
“Ah, visitors! How lovely. Father Burke, have you come to bring me my lesson books for the classes I’ve missed? And you are … Mr…. no, I’m afraid I don’t remember your name.” He did indeed have a posh English accent; Brennan’s impersonation had been right on the (old) money.
“This is Mr. Collins.”
“How do you do? I am Robin Gadkin-Falkes.”
“We’ve come to have a word with you.”
“Have you indeed, Father? Do sit down. I’m sorry I can’t offer you anything. The gelatin dessert has been taken away. Untouched.”
Burke wasted no time. “Who killed Schellenberg?”
“My, my, aren’t we direct. Forgive me for saying so, but you lack the circumlocutory Irish charm of your co-ethnic, Monsignor O’Flaherty.”
“I’m not O’Flaherty and you’re not the killer, so let’s get on with it.”
“I don’t for a minute believe O’Flaherty revealed to you anything I said under the seal of the confessional, so I can only infer that this is an exercise of your own deductive powers. Well, your powers have failed you. So why don’t you go off and leave me to come to terms with my remorse over killing the good German father?”
“You didn’t kill him.”
“Of course I did. I’ve told the bill how and why. End of story.” “I suspect the police haven’t closed the file quite yet. Sure, they have your statement, such as it is, but I wonder how compelling their other evidence will be if they start to second-guess your confession.”
“My arrest in the middle of the night was quite compelling, I must say.”
“They claim you burned something belonging to Schellenberg.”
“Yes, I did! Or tried to. Have you ever tried to burn away all traces of a document in an ashtray? Not as easy as it sounds.”
“What were the papers?” No reply. “Why would you burn them in your room?” Still no reply. “Why be the only fellow in the rectory with his waste can emptied out after the murder?” There was no answer again, and Burke raised his voice: “Where’s the murder weapon?”
“I told the police I threw it into the harbour!”
“I didn’t ask what you told the police. I asked you where it is.”
“What a bizarre experience this is. Trying to maintain my guilt whilst being interrogated by someone who insists I am innocent! I don’t know if you’ve ever been under extreme stress, Father, but people do not always act logically in those circumstances. I have no idea what I did. I panicked. I’ve admitted the killing; I never claimed I committed the perfect crime.”
“Let’s cut the shite here. You didn’t commit the crime — at least, not the murder. No doubt you’re guilty of fucking around with the police during a murder investigation. But never mind that for now. Tell me this: why would you put yourself through all this — getting banged up in a mental institution, and then it will be a murder trial —”
“Which you don’t recommend, I presume.”
“— for something you didn’t do. Whom are you protecting?”
“You flatter me, Brennan. May I call you by your Christian name?”
“Suit yourself. Robin. Now, what are you up to? You’ve got O’Flaherty spooked. He didn’t reveal anything confidential, but it’s clear he thinks there’s a killer on the loose across the harbour.”
He changed course then. “Did it ever occur to you that I may just be seeking attention?”
“If so, you’ve succeeded. Now if you’ve had enough, perhaps you could deliver yourself of the truth and let us bring the real murderer to justice. Rather than leaving him free to lop someone else’s head nearly off its post.”
“I must correct you, Brennan, if you will permit me. You say I have succeeded in attracting attention to myself and, to an extent of course, I have. But I have not yet had my day in court. I have not yet been presented with the opportunity to make a speech from the dock, a practice honed to brilliance by your own countrymen facing execution for various crimes against the state. Or against their colonizers.”
“You strike me as a man well able to expound his views without resorting to the criminal process. Write an article. Write a book. Write a letter to the Times.”
“I in fact did write articles. I doubt if they’ve survived. The Gadkin-Falkes by-line appeared in a publication called the English Catholic. I played at being a journalist whilst in my early twenties and so I was selected to cover the final session of the Second Vatican Council in 1965. If my work is still extant, it will support my motive for killing the former Vatican II busybody.”
“Well, then, why didn’t you just dust off your outpourings on the subject, and get up on a soapbox in Hyde Park?”
“I would have done,
I suppose, if I’d given old Schellenberg a thought before I left the sceptred isle. But he wasn’t even in my thoughts, until he made his startling appearance here at your worthy institution. The opportunity presented itself and the rest, as they say —”
“The opportunity presented itself for somebody, but not you. Now who was it?”
“All right, Brennan, all right. Have it your way for a moment. Let us say for the sake of argument that it wasn’t me. And let us think about this purely hypothetical killer. Somehow I doubt that the sort of person who would do this — someone not in control of his emotions or his actions — would be able to withstand the ordeal I am about to undergo with such admirable sangfroid. Put me in the dock, throw me in the nick, bang me up here among the barmy — it doesn’t inconvenience me in the least. After all, I’ve been in a monastery for twenty-two years! Could have been worse, I suppose. I could have gone into the army, like my poor nephew, and been posted to Northern Ire —”
“What made you choose the religious life, Robin?”
“I am a servant of the Lord. Like yourself, Brennan.”
“Why a brother and not a priest?”
“Oh, I agree. You have a higher calling than I, but —”
“Why not set your sights on being Robin Cardinal Gadkin-Falkes, Cardinal Archbishop of Westminster?”
“I could ask you the same. Why not Archbishop of Armagh? But I think I know the answer. Your ego, let us say, is sufficient unto itself. You do not crave or need the affirmation that comes from a position of leadership. And you most certainly do not need the aggravation. My imagination fails me when I try to picture you dealing patiently with the administrative cock-ups of your inferiors.”
The man may have been mad as a hatter but he had Burke pinned with uncanny accuracy; no doubt he saw in him qualities he himself possessed. Burke, true to form, ignored the exchange.
“So I guess we’d better get the police on the line, Robin, and set them straight.”
“Oh, I’ll deny this little exchange if you report it to them.”
