Death at Christy Burke's

by Anne Emery

  “Is he in the city?”

  “In the city, no. I believe he’s in the North doing good works. But he’ll be back in the parish before too long.”

  “What kind of good works is he performing in the North, Finn?” Brennan asked.

  Finn turned his head in Michael’s direction, then in Monty’s, before returning his attention to Brennan. A slight nod from that quarter seemed to be the assurance he wanted that he could speak freely.

  “You’ve heard about that, em, accident. In Dungannon.”

  “The bombing, you mean?”

  “It was a bombing, Brennan, yes. But you know it was never meant — from what I hear — never meant to harm a human soul. It was only after —”

  “The owner of the business, and his sister visiting from England, were blown to bits, Finn.”

  “It’s a tragedy, to be sure. But they wouldn’t have been scratched — they wouldn’t even have been on the premises — if the Royal Ulster Constabulary hadn’t decided, for reasons of their own, to ignore the warning. It’s well known that a warning was given. It’s all been in the papers. The warning wasn’t acted upon. And the lads — the organization — issued an apology, as you know. It was meant to be a routine commercial bombing, the kind of thing . . .” Finn’s voice faltered against his nephew’s unyielding expression.

  Another bombing in Northern Ireland. This clearly wasn’t the time to probe further into that. And what, if anything, did it have to do with Leo Killeen? Well, Michael would find out soon enough. In the meantime he would keep his own counsel. Brennan had given Michael a friendly warning that his interest in this country’s past and politics might not be shared by everyone he would meet on the trip. Most people would be more interested in getting on with their lives than reliving and rehashing their history. Others would be all too interested, and Michael could bring trouble on himself if he said the wrong thing in the wrong company. He understood that.

  But he couldn’t banish the poor American preacher from his thoughts. “Perhaps Finn could put his two cents in. What I have in mind, Finn, and you can tell me whether you think there’s any value in it, is a press conference held by Brennan and myself, and other priests, perhaps bishops and sisters, all of us calling on the Reverend Merle Odom’s captors to release him to his family, no questions asked. Maybe Father Killeen would have some advice for us.”

  The dark glasses turned to Brennan, who eventually spoke up. “I think we’re a little out of our depth here, Michael. These things tend to be more complicated than they might appear.”

  “Sure, you’re right, I imagine. It’s just that I can’t get it out of my mind. An event like that, it tends to take on a life of its own, causing repercussions farther down the line. What did they say on the news about him leaving the hotel? Was he carrying anything with him? Was he in the habit of being up so early? Who was the last person to see him?”

  “You’ll have to forgive Mike, Finn. He missed his calling as Sergeant O’Flaherty of the Garda Síochána.”

  “Ah, now, Brennan,” Mike said.

  But his fellow priest had a point. Mike was a bit of a crime buff — no, better rephrase that! Mike wasn’t in favour of crime of any sort. He deplored and feared violence, and did not understand how a person could bring himself to cause pain to another human being. Or even to animals. He himself feared stinging insects of all kinds, broke into a cold sweat whenever they buzzed around him; yet he felt guilty every time he squashed the life out of one. But he was keenly interested in detective work and crime-solving, and spent the little free time he had reading detective stories. Brennan was right: Mike liked to think that if he hadn’t been called to the priesthood, he might indeed have become a policeman. And Sergeant O’Flaherty had a ring to it, no question! There was something else, too: the Protestant minister was a man of a certain age, as Mike was himself, and even if the fellow was in error theologically, even if he “dug with the wrong foot,” as was often said of the Protestants, still, the thought of the elderly man being snatched from the street . . .

  “A man of his age, off for a little holiday, and he becomes the victim of a crime.” Mike shook his head.

  “We’re on holiday too, Mike. And we too are on the premises of a crime scene,” Monty said. “Isn’t that right, Finn?”

  “It is,” Finn agreed.

  “What do you mean? What happened?” Mike asked.

  “Dastardly deeds were done right here,” Monty replied.

  “What was done? To whom?”

  “To Christy’s itself. Christy Burke’s pub is the victim.”

  Finn explained: “Nothing too dreadful, Michael, but an annoyance all the same. Some louser has been vandalizing the pub. Spraying graffiti on the walls outside.”

  “Oh! I’m sorry to hear it, Finn. Such a fine building. I didn’t notice anything.”

  “No, we’ve cleaned it up. Painted over it. Getting a little weary of it. But pubs on this island have come to more grievous harm than this, so I shouldn’t whinge about it too much. Still, I’m not happy.”

  “Who could blame you for being aggrieved? When did it happen?”

  “Happened three times. Just over a week ago, most recently. We got it painted yesterday.”

  “This is a foolish question, I suppose, but have you any idea who’s doing it?”

  “If I did, he’d not be doing it again, the fucker.”

  “I suppose you have to throw someone out of here occasionally . . .”

  “I have to turf someone out from time to time, but either they come back promising to sin no more, or they come back to give me a bollocking. Either way, I get them sorted. There’s also a handful of hard cases that have been excommunicated. Barred for life. But none of these fellows are going to tiptoe quietly about the place and write mysterious messages on my walls.”

  “Could the fellow be targeting you for . . . some other reason?”

  “Michael, I won’t deny I’ve made enemies from time to time. But they’ve always been more direct in their retaliation! Don’t be worrying about me.”

  “What does it say, the graffiti, or is it just scribbling?”

  “‘Come all ye to the killers own loc . . .’ Unfinished but obviously meant ‘local.’ That was the latest.”

  “Killers in the plural or killer’s with an apostrophe or was it plural and . . . ?”

  “No apostrophe. We’ve got it narrowed down to people who didn’t take the cup for punctuation when they were in school!”

  “And the other messages, the earlier ones?”

  “Same class of thing. ‘Guinness for the Guilty’ or ‘Guinness, Guns, and Guilt’ or some such rubbish. Then something about ‘A Pint for the Perpetrators of Crime,’ with ‘perpetrators’ spelt as ‘perpetaters.’ What a tool!”

  “Don’t be a tool, stay in school! You can spray-paint that on his T-shirt if you locate him, Finn,” Monty said.

  “He’ll be lucky if that’s all he gets from me.”

  “Maybe he ‘got it’ from somebody else,” Michael said. “The fact that your artist — or poet — didn’t finish his message suggests he was interrupted in the middle of things.”

  “Well, we didn’t find a corpse in the morning, Michael. Or any signs of violence. If the man received a thumping, there was no indication of it left behind. I’ll tell you this much: if I’d caught him while he was at it, there’d have been blood spilt! But I didn’t and there wasn’t. Maybe somebody walked or drove by, and he scarpered so he wouldn’t be identified. Most likely, though, the vandal is some head-the-ball who doesn’t know what he’s talking about!”

  A middle-aged woman approached the bar, and Finn poured her a pint. When she returned to her table, Michael resumed his interrogation: “What time does the last person leave here at night?”

  “I’m the last man out usually, after one. Closer to half-one, most nights.”
>
  “And you open in the morning at what time?”

  Brennan interrupted at that point. “Mr. Burke is tired now, Sergeant. Perhaps he could answer your questions another time, if he thinks of anything that could assist in your inquiries. Do you have a card you could leave with him?”

  Michael had to laugh. “Pardon me, Finn. I’m getting a little too deeply into my role!”

  “The role you were born to play, Mike,” said Monty. “I’ll have to hire you as my investigator when we get home. I often require the services of a private eye in my law practice.”

  “I’d be pleased to be of service, Mr. Collins.”

  “You’ll have to show me a good track record. Solve this crime against Christy’s, and come see me.”

  “I may surprise you!”

  Finn said to his nephew: “There’s never a lull in the conversation with these two, Bren. Lets you save your voice for the pulpit on Sundays, I guess.”

  “Ah, they’re a grand pair, Finn. Why don’t you station them outside the pub in the wee hours? They’ll catch your vandal, and the money you save on paint you can hand over as a reward for their efforts.”

  “I’ll give it some thought. But in the meantime, I’ve pints to pour and thirsts to slake.”

  He went back to his work, and Monty and Brennan turned to another subject of conversation, namely the differences in flavour they seemed to recognize between Guinness and Murphy’s stout. But Michael’s thoughts were on the lines that had been spray-painted on the wall of the pub. “What do you think about those messages, Monty? You’re a student of criminal behaviour.”

  “I’m out of my league here, Mike, though it strikes me that the accusations escalated over time, from ‘guilt’ or ‘guilt and guns’ in the beginning to ‘killers’ at the end. Or, as you pointed out, he may have meant ‘killer’ singular, in the possessive.”

  “Escalating, yes, you may be right. Which makes you wonder what he’ll say next. Or do!”

  Brennan said: “You’ve done enough on it for now, Sergeant. We’ve a session starting up. You can resume your investigation next time you’re in.”

  Michael had a mouthful of questions but they would have to wait. At the far end of the room a group of musicians took their seats, and the session started up. Mandolin, tin whistle, fiddle, and bodhran. Fresh drinks materialized in front of Michael and his cronies; they sat back with their glasses and enjoyed the music. Still, Michael’s mind was abuzz with other matters. The allegations of murder scrawled on the pub wall. The vanished preacher. And the upcoming introduction to Father Leo Killeen. Michael knew that Brennan’s father, Declan Burke, had been involved in the “politics” of his day in Ireland, and that he had spirited his family out of the country in the dead of night as a direct result of that involvement. He knew something else too: Leo Killeen had been Declan Burke’s commanding officer in the IRA before discovering his vocation to the priesthood. What was Killeen doing in the North? Michael felt a little frisson of excitement. He didn’t intend to miss a thing.

  And there was something else. The cream in the cocoa, really. Not only was Michael on holiday in Ireland with his two closest male friends, he was also going to be seeing . . . Kitty Curran. Sister Kitty Curran was a native of Dublin, and she had done missionary work in some of the poorest and most war-torn areas of the globe. She now worked in the heart of the Vatican, with one of the church’s peace and development organizations. It was in Rome that she and Brennan had become friends. The nun had paid a short visit to Halifax earlier in the year, at Brennan’s urging. She and Michael had hit it off right from the start. And why not? Two people in middle age — well, a little past that in Michael’s case. Two people living consecrated lives. It was only natural for them to get along. He gave his watch a discreet glance.

  “Don’t be fretting now, Michael. She hasn’t stood you up.” That was Brennan. Wouldn’t you know he’d catch Michael checking the time.

  “We should have met her at the airport, Brennan. Helped her with her bags, a taxi, all that.”

  “Kitty has been carrying her own bags around the world since she left this country for Africa as a newly minted nun in the 1960s. Rumour has it she took over the controls of an old turboprop that had been hit by gunfire in the Belgian Congo. She’s well able to look after herself.”

  “Ah, now, Brennan. That doesn’t mean we can’t be gentlemen.”

  Brennan leaned towards Michael and spoke with urgency. “Let’s clear out now, while we still can. Give her the slip. She’ll only break your heart, Michael.”

  “Have you ever thought that’s why men go into the priesthood, Brennan? So they won’t have their hearts broken?”

  “Maybe that’s it. I know it’s worked for me.”

  “Has it now.”

  Brennan did not reply, but took a long sip of his John Jameson.

  They listened to the band’s final number before their break, a haunting piece on the tin whistle called “The Lonesome Boatman.” When the music died out, Michael and his companions pondered their empty glasses. Time for another round?

  “Here she is!” Monty exclaimed.

  There in the doorway, peering into the dim interior, was Kitty Curran. Short, a little on the plump side, with reddish curls turning grey, the nun was dressed in civilian clothes: a navy skirt, a sky-blue sweater over a white shirt, and a discreet gold cross above her left breast.

  Monsignor O’Flaherty sat rooted in his chair, beaming in the direction of the door.

  “Monsignor?” Brennan prompted him with his left eyebrow raised.

  “Good heavens, where are my manners?” Michael rose and made for the new arrival. “Kitty! Kitty! Over here. Isn’t this grand! How are you?”

  She held out her arms, and he stepped into her embrace. She planted a big kiss on his cheek and then tugged him to his table. “That lipstick on your cheek, Michael. Whatever will they say at the parochial house?” Michael’s hand shot up to his left cheek, and she laughed. “I don’t paint my face, a chara!”

  “How’ve you been, darlin’?” Brennan asked. “Any big shakeups in the Vatican I should know about?” He stood and embraced her.

  “They’re talking about you for the red hat, but I told them the Reverend Doctor Brennan Xavier Burke is content to serve as a humble parish priest to the end of his days. Monty! Is all of Halifax over here?”

  “Everyone who’s anyone is here in this very room. Good to see you, Kitty.”

  “Now make yourself comfortable, Kitty,” Michael said. “Here, would you like this seat? You’ll be able to see the band. Or how about this one? Farther away from Brennan and his cigarettes, should he be so inconsiderate as to light one up again.”

  “I’m grand, Michael, thank you. I’ll sit right here. If Brennan does anything to get on my nerves, I’ll crack his knuckles with my ruler.”

  “What can I get you to drink, Kitty?”

  “Considering the company I’m keeping, I’ll have a parish priest.”

  Michael stared. He wasn’t sure how to respond, until Brennan started to laugh, then called over to Finn: “Something tall and black with a white collar for the lady here, Finn.”

  “Coming up.” He proceeded to pour her the customary pint of dark stout with white foam on top, and Michael caught on.

  “Now. Kitty. Are you hungry at all? Should we be thinking of something to eat for you? Finn doesn’t serve meals here, but . . .”

  “No, Michael, I’m grand, I’m telling you. There are Dublin men who went to work for a day with nothing but Guinness to sustain them, and I’m in solidarity with them. Bring it on. Speaking of solidarity with the workers, Monty, where is your lovely wife? She’s a bit of a commie, is she not? And don’t waste my time telling me she’s not your wife anymore, or whatever trouble you imagine you’ve brought upon yourself. Life is short. Is she here?”

  “Not yet, but she�
�s coming with Normie and the baby. She’s very keen to see you.” The two women had struck up a friendship in the short time Kitty had been in Halifax.

  “Splendid! When can we expect her?”

  “A week from tomorrow. I’m at the Jury’s Inn, Christchurch, and all I could get is a single room; they’re very booked up for the summer. I’ll have to find another place.”

  “Tell her I have a convent with several rooms vacant, if she and the children would like to stay there. Much more economical than a hotel. I can’t invite you, Monty, sorry to say. Mother Superior’s ninety-two but, from what I hear, she doesn’t miss a trick. So she’d notice if there was a man lurking about the premises . . .”

  “No problem. I’m sure Maura would love to join you there.”

  “Perfect. Where are the rest of you staying?”

  “I’m at a B and B in Gardiner Street,” Michael replied, “and Brennan’s not far from Monty’s hotel, staying with some other priests in a house near the John’s Lane church. One of the priests is his cousin, if I’m not mistaken.”

  “Another Father Burke,” Monty remarked. “That’s all we need, two of them tag-teaming us.”

  “Fear not. This is a Father Brennan, my mother’s side of the family.”

  “You’ve got both flanks covered.”

  “Can’t be too careful.”

  Kitty noticed the Irish Independent folded on the table and picked it up. “I’m going to be bringing death to the table now, I’m afraid. Is it safe to walk the streets of Ireland these days at all? You have to wonder. I hope somebody can tell me this is not the Rory Dignan I knew. It can’t be him if it happened in the North, surely. They’re a Dublin family. Northsiders like myself.”

  “It can’t be who? What’s this about Northsiders?” They looked up to see Finn Burke approaching the table.

  “Kitty, this is my uncle, Finn Burke. Finn, Sister Kitty Curran.”

  They greeted each other, then Finn joined them at the table.

  Kitty smoothed out the newspaper and read the article. “It says a funeral is to be held in Endastown tomorrow afternoon for Rory Dignan, one of three men shot by Loyalist paramilitaries last week. The shootings are widely believed to have been reprisal killings for the bombing of the factory in Dungannon two months ago.” She looked up. “The Rory Dignan I knew would no more take part in a bombing than I would take part in a game of strip poker.”