by Anne Emery
“This happened during evening prayers. As in our case of an attack during vespers. Who tried to kill him?”
“A group of nasty priors.”
“Priors?”
“High-ranking monks.”
“Why?”
“He tried to rein them in, I suppose. Reform their order.”
“Which order was it?”
“They were called the Umiliati. I don’t know much more than that.”
“Well, try to know a bit more about it next time we speak!” “Monty, if someone here is devoted to Charles Borromeo, who was the victim — not the perpetrator — of an assassination attempt, chances are the fellow would take a dim view of those who try to pick off members of the clergy. There’s no reason to think he’d take up arms against them. That would be like saying a devotee of Saint Thomas Aquinas would suddenly try to imitate the actions of his brothers in abducting him, holding him captive, and sending a hooker into his room. It doesn’t make sense to think —”
“What? What are you talking about now?”
“Don’t you know the history of Saint Thomas?”
“I know something about his times, and his thought, but what’s this about a hooker?”
“Thomas’s family — they were nobility, with a military history and royal connections — had become resigned to the fact that Thomas’s future lay with the church. So they tried to make the best of it. They paved the way for him to become a monk and then, eventually, the abbot of Monte Cassino. But Thomas was having none of it. He was determined to become one of the Begging Friars, in the new order founded by Saint Dominic. Well! The fur was flying when he brought this news home. Not long afterwards, when Thomas was travelling on a road near Rome, he was waylaid by his furious brothers, who seized him and locked him up in a castle. They sent in a painted hussy to tempt him. He put the run to her and settled down to his life’s work.”
“And here I thought all this ecclesiastical mayhem was an aberration! We could have wild-eyed, murderous factions on all sides of this and never penetrate to the truth.”
“It doesn’t admit of an obvious solution.”
“Borromeo was a favourite saint of John XXIII,” I mused aloud. “And our victim, Father Schellenberg, was active in the Council set up by John in the sixties. But then he turned against John. So —”
“Who said he turned against John? Don’t forget, Pope John died just eight months after convening the Council; it went on for another two years after his death. It’s just as likely Schellenberg thought the changes in the church, as far as they went, would have offended John had he lived to see them. So he may have thought he was being true to John’s legacy by backtracking in his positions. You can’t take this train of thought to any logical end.”
“So it seems. What are you going to do now?”
“Try to compose a few suitable bars of music for my Mass.”
“Good luck with it.”
“I’ll need it. See you later.”
He headed for the auditorium, and I started for the exit. Michael O’Flaherty and Fred Mills were chatting in the doorway.
“Did you know Father Mills played baseball in the major leagues, Monty?” Michael asked.
“I heard that. The Royals, was it, Fred?”
“That’s right.”
“When did you play?”
“Mid-seventies.”
“With George Brett and Amos Otis!”
“Yeah, them and Mayberry and Patek. I taught them everything they know!”
“What position did you play?”
“Second base. If you watched the games on television, you probably saw a lot of Cookie Rojas on second. But if you kept watching, you’d see me once in a while.”
“And he had a pretty nice batting average,” Michael put in. “What was it, Fred?”
“It was .281.”
“Good for you. Must have been hard to leave it behind.”
“Well, yeah, but I knew I had a vocation, Monty. Brennan thinks I should have stayed on, and become a major league baseball chaplain or something.”
“You could have heard their confessions.”
“Didn’t have to — I was on the road with them!”
“Some wild times, I’ll bet.”
“Not for me.”
“Well, I should be off,” I said. “Suppertime.”
“I could use a bit of nourishment myself,” O’Flaherty commented. “Mrs. Kelly is away today. Gone to visit her sister. So I’ll make a foray into her kitchen and see what she left for us.”
“Never mind that, Mike,” I said. “Let’s go find a bite to eat in one of the local guzzling dens. Especially since you missed lunch at the Gondola. My treat.”
“Oh, now, doesn’t that sound tempting!”
“How about you, Fred? Are you up for a brew?”
“Sure. I’d love a beer and a bit of pub grub.”
“We’ll take my car,” I said. “Do you want to change first, Mike?”
“No, no, I’ll keep my collar on. It helps to keep my head straight!”
“Sound advice for us all,” Fred agreed.
“So, Fred, what kind of parish are you in?” Michael asked, as we walked to the parking lot.
“Parishes, Mike, in the plural. Too many, and not the one I want. They won’t give me Saint John Vianney, which is a very dynamic young parish named after my favourite saint. There’s a cranky old priest ensconced there, and he won’t retire. And how can they force him out, with the situation the church is facing these days? There’s a real shortage of priests where I am, in Kansas, so I’m run ragged. I had to plead and beg to get time off to attend the schola. But I had not had a vacation in six years, so the bishop finally took pity on me. As long as I brought some of my paperwork with me.”
“Yes, we’ve lost a great number of priests in the last twenty-five years. Ever since Vatican II. There was good and bad about the Council, for sure. Don’t tell Brennan I said so, but not every single piece of post-Vatican II music is bad! And the Mass is still beautiful in its own way, as he well knows or he wouldn’t say Mass at all! It hasn’t all been liturgical chaos since 1965. As for our fellow priests, however, I say they should have worked through their problems and stuck to their vocations. Holy Orders isn’t something a man takes on lightly. But who listens to an oul fella?”
“I agree with you entirely, Mike. There’s a homey expression where I come from: stick-to-it-iveness, and I wish more priests were blessed with it.”
We got into my car, Michael in the front passenger seat, Fred in the back.
“Where to, Monsignor? The Midtown?”
“Oh, I do enjoy the Midtown. But if you have another place in mind, take us there. We’re up for an adventure, aren’t we, Fred?”
“Adventure is my middle name.”
“Then let’s go all the way to our sister city and sample the grub over there. I know a place where they pour a decent pint, and they have a splendid the view of the harbour lights. It’s right on the water.”
“What’s this?” Fred asked. “Where are we going?”
“Overseas,” I answered. I made my way to Gottingen Street and continued north towards the turnoff for the bridge.
“Really, where are we going?”
“You can probably see it from here if you look across and to the south,” I answered.
“Let me out.”
“What?”
“I didn’t know you were planning to — to go so far. I thought we were going to a place near the choir school. Have a quick bite, down a beer, and then back home.”
“This isn’t far at all, Fred. Less than five minutes and we’ll have glass and menu in hand.”
“No!” His voice had risen. “I can’t take this much time off tonight. Just stop and let me out.”
“Time off from what?”
“I’m preparing a report for the bishop back home. It’s long overdue. So let me out!”
“Okay, Fred. I’ll turn around at North Street and take you back to the r
ectory.”
“No, no, it’s all right. I’ll —”
“What’s the matter, Fred? Have you been to this bar before, by any chance?”
“No! Brennan can vouch for me on that score. In fact, I’ve never been anyplace over there.”
The light turned red at the North Street intersection. I stopped, and Fred Mills jumped out of the car. He skipped over to the sidewalk and began the trek back downtown. Michael was twisted around, looking at the young priest’s back. “I guess we’d better leave him be, Monty. We’ll keep going and have our pint. Or two. Though I suspect he needs it more than we do. Brennan speaks very highly of the lad.”
“Yes, he does.” Though he wouldn’t be able to vouch for the young priest’s whereabouts every minute of every day, as much as Mills might like us to believe otherwise.
We continued on to the Wheel and Anchor. Michael and I sat by the windows, ordered food and drink, and admired our hometown across the harbour. The water was absolutely still, and the lights cast a perfect reflection. It was a different bartender from last time, so I pulled out the crumpled photos from my wallet and gave my spiel again. He didn’t recognize any of my suspects. A young waitress came by then, with a fistful of anchor swizzle sticks like the one found on Father Schellenberg’s body, and I showed the pictures to her. She looked at them intently but, in the end, shook her head.
“Sorry I can’t help you. I don’t remember seeing any of these guys, but they look pretty clean-cut. Put a ball cap on somebody and have them go for a day without a shave, and it’s a different story. I know because I did a makeover on my boyfriend. Cleaned him up before introducing him to my mum and dad! If any of these guys came in looking a little rougher, I wouldn’t recognize them from these pictures.”
“Too true,” the bartender agreed.
They went back to work, and Mike and I returned to our meal. Mike kept me highly entertained with stories of his life as a fledgling priest in some of the small villages outside Halifax. Hearing what he went through in his years as a man of the cloth, I could well understand his disappointment with those who failed to stay on the path on which God had set them. We finished our beer and returned to Halifax.
Burke and I had dinner at my house the following night. I steamed the salmon; he provided the wine. Now the plates were off the dining room table, and I was sitting with my case file and a legal pad in front of me, a pencil in my hand.
“All right, Father. Let’s hear about the saints. If I write it all down, maybe I’ll see a connection. Start with Saint Charles Borromeo.”
“He is sometimes called ‘Apostle to the Council of Trent.’ He participated in the Council, which took place in the sixteenth century, and he played a significant role in enforcing its decrees. He was an important figure in the Counter-Reformation.”
“The Council of Trent, which formalized the Tridentine Mass. The Council that many feel was betrayed by the Second Vatican Council four hundred years later.”
“That’s right,” Brennan replied as I scribbled notes. “And to be more specific, Charles was involved in the reform of the church’s music. Some say it was Borromeo himself who commissioned three Masses from Palestrina, including the incomparable Missa Papae Marcelli. The date of the composition of that Mass is a matter of dispute, but that’s a debate for another day.”
“So, we have Robin Gadkin-Falkes devoted to the saint who is most closely associated with the Council of Trent, the very saint honoured by Pope John XXIII on his coronation day. And —”
“And Reinhold Schellenberg was an adviser to an adviser to John XXIII, and then seemed to revert to the Council of Trent after witnessing the problems associated with John’s own Council, and it goes back and forth and gets us nowhere.”
“All right. What other saints do we have? Fred Mills mentioned someone, his favourite saint. It will come to me —”
“Saint John Vianney. Fred has been devoted to him since his seminary days. John is a patron saint of priests. Known as a great confessor. Heard confessions sixteen hours a day, according to some accounts.”
“There could be something in that.”
“Could be. Or not.”
“I’ll write it down. Saint John, Fred. He who lied to us about his alibi. Oh, and he jumped out of the car yesterday rather than go to the Wheel and Anchor with me and Michael! Said you’d vouch for him, that he’s innocent nonetheless.”
“I do. He is. Move on.”
“All right, all right. Who else have we got by way of saints? What did I hear about Jan Ford and a saint? She’s writing an operetta about somebody.”
“An operetta,” Burke repeated. “Spare me.”
“Joan of Arc, that’s it. And it’s a song cycle, not an operetta. Mrs. Kelly was telling me she was invited to add a few lines.”
“Are you demented, Montague? You’re not making sense here.”
“I know, but the point is Jan Ford is interested in Saint Joan of Arc.”
“There may be good news in that somehow. Who’s got more backbone than Joan of Arc? If Ford prays to her often enough, the warrior saint may cure her of her wishy-washy music.”
“Hope so. And then we have Saint Philomena. Of particular interest because of the prayer beads and note found in Brother Robin’s room. He denies any knowledge of the note, which would make sense if it was delivered after his arrest. But you’ll recall his jolt of recognition, so it’s hard to know what to think. He claims he has no particular interest in her as a saint. Have we found anyone else here who is devoted to her?”
“Not that we know of.”
“But the fingerprints of Enrico Sferrazza-Melchiorre were on that note, though he dismissed out of hand any suggestion that he wrote it. He has a little shrine in his room, but that’s to the Virgin Mary. You should have seen the face on Sergeant Walker when we came upon Enrico serenading a portrait of the bare-breasted virgin!” Burke gave a snort of laughter. “Has he got a saint besides Mary that he favours?”
“I didn’t see anything — oh, he did mention Saint Andrew Avellino at one point. I don’t recall how the subject came up.”
“Avellino? Who’s he?”
“I know very little about him. I’ll see what I can find out.”
“Next in the litany of saints? Saint Cecilia, obviously, given that the murder was committed on her feast day, November 22. Patron saint of church musicians like yourself.”
“What did we decide about the manner of Father Schellenberg’s death when compared to Cecilia’s?”
“Mike O’Flaherty told us Cecilia’s killers had tried to suffocate her in her bath. I don’t recall anything about our case corresponding to that. But hold on while I dig out my crime scene notes.” I found them and placed them on the table. “Nothing about a bath. The victim had a couple of odd items on him. A swizzle stick from the Wheel and Anchor. The police checked the bar, and nobody remembered Father Schellenberg being there, but of course nobody could say for sure that he hadn’t been. Same with my efforts to find someone who recognized any of our suspects from their photos. And there were the valentine cards, pink hearts with arrows through them. The police couldn’t trace the valentines. Card shops say they are typical of the cards you’d find in a boxed set. The victim had some loose change in his pocket. Nothing remarkable about the coins. He had a wallet with the usual items in it. Anyway, back to Saint Cecilia. According to Mike, she somehow survived the drowning or suffocation attempt, so they went at her again. They took three whacks at her neck, trying to decapitate her. But they couldn’t get her head off. She managed to live for three days after all that. It appeared as though our killer tried to sever Schellenberg’s head from his body; he very nearly succeeded. So, some similarities. The scene may indeed have been staged to correspond to Saint Cecilia.”
“Which may bring us back to music as a motive.”
“How far would you go in the name of great music, Brennan?”
“I can’t count the times music has nearly driven me to murder!”
“Nearly, but in the end you stayed your hand. Seriously, though, do you think someone would kill for music?”
“‘Music is the harmonious voice of creation, an echo of the invisible world.’ That is a quotation from Giuseppe Mazzini, a nineteenth-century Italian. Monty, think what your own life would be without the music you love: blues, opera, all the other kinds of music you play or listen to. Imagine if someone had the power to deny it to you forever. Imagine a concert pianist or a blues guitarist if someone took a hammer to his fingers … Well, let’s not dwell on that. Remember too that if this person is a churchman, the Catholic Church thinks in terms of centuries, millennia, not decades or years. Do you know what the Second Vatican Council said about music? This may surprise you, given the schlock you’ve heard in the church ever since the Council. But the Council itself wrote that the musical tradition of the universal church is a ‘treasure of inestimable value, greater even than any other art.’ Meaning it’s greater than Michelangelo’s Pietà, greater than the immense Gothic cathedrals with their priceless stained-glass windows. Music is pre-eminent because it forms a ‘necessary or integral part of the solemn liturgy.’ The Council document goes on to say that Gregorian chant is the music specially suited to the Roman liturgy, and that chant should be given pride of place in the Mass and other services. The tones that were adopted in plainchant are the tones that were sung in ancient Jewish times, the time of Jesus and the apostles. Polyphony, too, was mentioned in the Council documents. Think of the Renaissance polyphony we sing here in the choir. Play in your mind the melody and words of Victoria’s ‘Reproaches’: the soaring line of the ‘sanctus immortalis,’ the descending notes through the ‘miserere nobis.’ What could possibly be more beautiful, more holy than that line of music?
“If someone thinks all that will die out forever as the result of decisions that were made or of vulgarities that were allowed to creep in, and if he is the type of personality who can cross the line you or I would never cross, you know as well as I do somebody would kill for music.”
We were silent for a few minutes. I thought about music and the other great art associated with the Catholic Church. The sculpture, the stained glass, the great cathedrals. And it reminded me of something I had meant to do. I had not yet managed to interview the man who had set fire to a church in his native New Jersey some years before.
