Blood on a Saint

by Anne Emery

  After two or three arias, Te Kanawa would address the audience with little explanatory notes or remarks in her soft New Zealand accent. About an hour into the show, she announced that she would be doing Mozart’s “Laudate Dominum.” That was a favourite of Burke’s and of Normie’s. Monty looked over at Normie, and saw her getting to her feet. The other students got up too, along with the men and boys.

  Monty was so nonplussed that he realized he had not been listening to the singer’s words. He tuned in and heard, “So please come up and join me.”

  What?

  Then Maura was up too, motioning to him. “You’re on too. That’s why you’ve been rehearsing it.” He joined the others as they scrambled from their seats. Maura leaned over. “Father Burke!” He looked at her, stunned. “Surprise! It’s all arranged. You’ll be given the sheet music when you get up there.” This was happening, and Burke hadn’t known about it! From the triumphant look on the faces of his wife and daughter, Monty concluded that they were somehow responsible for the arrangements.

  Next thing Monty knew, he and the St. Bernadette’s choristers were all onstage with the Mozart scores in their hands. Last to come was Father Burke. He looked as if he had ascended bodily into the heavens. And when Kiri Te Kanawa looked at him and smiled and said, “Father Burke, I presume?” he was no longer looking through a glass darkly but had come face to face at last with the Absolute. All he could do was gape at her. “Will you conduct us, Father?” He stood there nodding like an automaton, then snapped out of it and got to work.

  The orchestra started up, and Ms. Te Kanawa sang the solo part of the exquisite composition. “Quoniam confirmata est super nos misericordia ejus.” The choirs came in for the four-part harmony under her soaring lines, and the performance was superb.

  The ovation was warm and sustained.

  “Thank you for this, Father,” the soprano said.

  “I . . . I . . .”

  “I wasn’t led to expect you would be so bashful, Father!”

  Laughter from the audience, and from the choir school members on the stage.

  “Now would you be kind enough to sing this with me?” She produced a sheet of music and handed it to Burke.

  His eyes were riveted on the page as if he could not believe what he was seeing. Then he cleared his throat and stood next to his idol and, taking their cue from the orchestra, they sang the “Sanctus” and “Benedictus” from Burke’s own Missa Doctoris Angelici. She flew solo on the “Benedictus.” The rest was a duet, and their voices were heavenly together.

  When they finished, and the applause died down, she handed the music to him and announced that the piece was part of a Mass composed by Father Brennan Burke. Then she turned to him and said, “This is magnificent, Brennan. May I call you Brennan?”

  “Oh, yes,” he vowed, as if she had asked whether she could make love to him and only him every night for the rest of their lives.

  The audience loved it.

  “I’d like to sing this again someday, Brennan, and perhaps the rest of the Mass parts? I’ll see what I have to do to acquire the performing rights.”

  He handed his music to her with a gesture that said, “It’s all yours.”

  She looked out at the audience and said, “He needs a manager.”

  But he just shook his head.

  “Thank you,” she said then, “to all the talented singers from St. Bernadette’s. Thank you, Ms. MacNeil. And thank you, Brennan.”

  She gave him a kiss on the cheek, and he floated from the stage, to affectionate laughter from the crowd.

  When it was over, Monty and family and the slipped-the-surly-bonds-of-earth Brennan Burke all met back at the house on Dresden Row to celebrate.

  “I have never seen you so happy, Brennan,” Maura said. “Have you ever been this happy?”

  “Did I even exist before now?” he asked, still looking like a young, fresh-faced boy who had given his heart to his one true love.

  “All right, fill us in,” Monty said to Maura as he poured wine for one and all, including his ten-year-old daughter. They stood in a circle in the living room and basked in the glory.

  “I couldn’t have done it without Normie,” Maura said. The child grinned from ear to ear. “She tricked Brennan into practising the piece, saying it was for a sick friend. But going back a few steps, Monty, you showed me a copy of the mangled letter that Brennan’s former secretary had sent off to Kiri.”

  “Oh, God,” Burke said, his voice a wail of anguish.

  “I did some research and confirmed that the address was the only correct thing in it, so it might actually arrive.”

  A mewling pained sound emerged from Burke.

  “So I got in contact with her publicity person and explained what had happened. That Father Brennan Burke runs the choir school and the schola for traditional music. But that, unfortunately, he is functionally illiterate, can’t even spell ‘cat,’ and has to be reminded to bathe once in a while — ”

  “No!” he cried out.

  “Just kidding you, Brennan, dear. I told her what had happened with the secretary, how mortified you were, how much you love her music, and all that. And I wondered if she might consider making an appearance at the choir school, where the children might do a short piece for her and present her with a donation to her favoured charity, which supports young musicians in New Zealand.

  “I figured I’d never hear back, but at least they would know that the letter was not the product Father Burke meant to send out.”

  “Thank you, angel of mercy.”

  “Then I got a note from the publicist, who suggested, instead of a visit to the school, a couple of pieces performed together at the concert itself. Which was good because I figured you wouldn’t want her to see the circus going on at St. Bernadette’s. I had sent along a bootleg recording of you singing with the choirs, Brennan. And a picture of you, a good one. Not sure which of those items might have turned the tide. But you should know that she was very keen on this and did it willingly, no pressure from this end.

  “Normie got you practising the piece. I contacted the school and the members of the men’s choir, and swore them to secrecy. It’s a surprise to Monty as well, Brennan.”

  “Oh, yeah. I didn’t see this coming at all,” Monty agreed.

  “Collected ticket money, and money for the donation, and made the reservations. And the rest is history.”

  “Oh, my God in heaven, it’s so brilliant!” Burke put down his wineglass and threw his arms around her, squeezed her tight, and kissed her on the cheek. “If I were not pledged to Kiri, I would love you more than anyone on the planet.”

  “I’ll take that as high praise indeed.”

  “And you!” He walked over to Normie, relieved her of her glass, picked her up and swung her around. “You little pet! Telling me about your friend with consumption. Perfect subterfuge. Thank you, thank you, thank you, Normie!”

  He set her down and she stood there, beaming.

  “Good job, Klumpenkopf!” Tommy Douglas said, and she didn’t even flinch at the nickname, which her brother had bestowed on her because her curls were often clumps of tangles in the mornings.

  She said, “I’m going to go and write a story about the big surprise in my diary!” With that, she left to scamper up the stairs to her room.

  “Oh, and by the way,” Burke said, “whenever I descend from the clouds, I’ll make up whatever people put out for the donation.”

  “No, Brennan, don’t even think about it.”

  “I will. But for now, I shall just revel in the memory.”

  “The most charming thing about it all, Brennan,” Maura said, “is that there is one person on earth, your beloved Kiri Te Kanawa, who thinks you are not the stone-faced, hard-drinking, carnally know­ledgeable, tough-arse renegade we know, but a shy, bashful, blushing, and holy priest of Go
d.”

  “I just couldn’t . . . what to say to her, I just . . . she is so . . .”

  “Let’s just leave him there stammering and have another glass of wine, shall we?”

  Brennan

  It was agonizing for Brennan to come down from the heights to which he had ascended in the company of Kiri Te Kanawa. But he was brought back to earth when he recalled the disturbing behaviour of Ignatius Boyle, and the reaction of Maggie Nelson to the news that Pike Podgis was in possession of a photograph of Boyle and Jordyn Snider. Brennan was torn by the irony of the situation. When he was all but certain it was Podgis alone who had killed Jordyn Snider, he would have given anything to get out from behind the screen of the confessional, in order to reveal what he thought he had known about Podgis. Now that he knew Ignatius Boyle had a sexual history with the victim and therefore might have had a sinister connection to her death, could Brennan get him behind the confessional screen and protect him somehow? Brutal Ignatius’s act had been, if he had a part in the murder, but at least in his case he had a life of hardship to perhaps explain his character and his actions.

  And Brennan still wanted to find out more about the strange interlude in Boyle’s life when he awoke with the ability to discuss theological matters in French. There would be nothing untoward about a priest conducting an inquiry into that phenomenon. But how would he begin? Monty had represented Boyle in the past, when Monty was with Legal Aid. There was likely to be information in the Legal Aid files that would help in Brennan’s quest. But talking to Monty about Boyle, given the sensitive nature of what Brennan was learning about the unfortunate man, and Monty’s interest in him as an alternative suspect, was out of the question. And Brennan would never be able to pry confidential information out of Monty even without those complications.

  But he was not above asking Maura MacNeil, professor of poverty law at Dalhousie Law School, some general questions about the poor and disadvantaged citizens of Halifax. It was Monday and it was blues night. He knew Monty was out having a pub supper with his band, Functus, as a prelude to wailing on the harp late into the night. Trying not to feel too underhanded, Brennan dropped in on the MacNeil family on Dresden Row.

  “Father, I am not worthy that thou shouldst come under my roof. Speak but the word and my soul shall be healed.”

  “Unworthy thou usually art. But you have earned yourself heaps of credit in heaven for your heroics in the Kiri Te Kanawa affair.”

  He spotted Normie in the living room. “Scots wha’ hae wi’ Wallace fled!”

  “Father, that’s not it! I keep telling you ‘fled’ would mean Wallace ran away. He didn’t. It’s ‘with Wallace bled’! They fought with Wallace, and he was a hero.”

  “Oh, pardon me, Normie. I don’t know why I keep getting that wrong.”

  “You’re just teasing me because I’m half-Scottish, and you don’t know how to speak Scottish!”

  “I may be guilty of a wee bit o’ tha. Sorrrry, lassie.”

  “You sound funny!”

  “I can well imagine.”

  “I’m studying my Latin words for choir!”

  “Good girl yourself, Normie. I wish more of the students were like you.”

  “I’m not always good, though, Father.”

  “You’re well within the bounds, love, no worries. And thank you again for the concert surprise.”

  “Fafa! Fafa!” Little Dominic toddled over to see him, and Brennan picked the child up and kissed his cheek. It came as a relief, though Brennan would rather be burned at the stake than allude to it, when the little lad began calling him “Fafa” for “Father” instead of “Dada” as he used to during the darkest times of Monty and Maura’s separation, when Brennan would occasionally help Maura out by looking after the children.

  “Ah. Mr. Douglas.” Tommy Douglas had come up from the basement den.

  “Hey, Brennan. Great concert the other day.”

  “It was brilliant. Brilliant! How’s your own music career progressing?” A bluesman like his father, Tom had put together a band called Dads in Suits. Brennan had not yet heard them, but looked forward to catching them sometime soon.

  “It’s going well. We have a gig coming up, St. Pat’s high school dance. And we may be part of a show at the St. Mary’s Boat Club; it’s a charity event. We’re waiting to hear.”

  “Good luck with it. And here’s Lexie. How are you today, sweetheart?”

  Tom’s girlfriend, Lexie, was a lovely girl with long blond curls and wire-rimmed glasses that only served to enhance her beauty, like jewel­lery for her light hazel eyes.

  “Just great, Father. I’ve got the choir doing a Healey Willan Mass now.”

  She was an accomplished organist and had taken the initiative of forming a small choir at St. Malachy’s church. Brennan helped her out with sheet music from time to time.

  “I’ll stop by and listen. Willan has some very good music.” Brennan had not been aware of the Anglo-Canadian composer until coming to Halifax, and he had become a fan. “And you have to love the way he described his provenance: ‘English by birth; Canadian by adoption; Irish by extraction; Scotch by absorption.’”

  “I know. Isn’t it great? And we heard some wonderful music on Saturday, Father.”

  “Oh, yes. She was magnificent.”

  “Don’t get him started on Kiri,” Maura admonished Lexie. “He’ll be useless for anything or anyone else for the rest of the day.”

  “We’d better clear out before he really gets wound up,” Tom said, and the young couple said their goodbyes.

  Normie made an ostentatious return to her Latin studies, and Dominic sat at her feet playing with a fleet of trucks.

  Maura and Brennan headed to the kitchen and sat at the table.

  “Drink, Father?”

  “Ginger ale.”

  “She’s a good influence on you, Brennan. Kiri, I mean.”

  “Well, you’re not. So don’t aggravate me. I might have to go back on the batter just to endure your insolence.”

  “What, I’ve used up my credit with you already? That was a short-lived indulgence.”

  “Right, right. I’m just not used to you being on the good side of the ledger.”

  “O ye of little faith.”

  “Thank you,” he said when she placed a glass of ginger ale on the table in front of him, and returned to her seat “So, how are things?”

  “Good, dear, good,” she replied in a heavy Cape Breton accent.

  “Any progress since I laid down the law in God’s house in Dublin?” He was referring to the summer in Ireland, where he had launched his most recent salvo at the couple’s separation and made a heartfelt plea that they resolve their problems and reunite their family once and for all.

  He expected to be put off with a flippant reply, her usual mode of defence, but she surprised him again. “Things are going well, Brennan. Monty spends a lot of time with us here and, well, I’m hopeful. And of course, we both know it’s not just Monty who’s the sticking point. I’m the one who put the kibosh on things just as we were about to reconcile. But God knows, I didn’t mean to.” Her unplanned pregnancy, the birth of Dominic, and Monty not the father. She looked out at the dark-haired little boy in the living room. “It’s difficult for Monty, and no wonder. I’ve often thought that if the situation were reversed, and he had a child by somebody else, I’d be just as resistant as he has been. There is blame enough to go around here, but everybody knows the baby is just an innocent party! Monty’s making a real effort, and I do know he is fond of Dominic.”

  “I’m sure he is. What’s not to like?” Brennan twisted around and gazed at the happy little fellow with his sister, then turned back to Maura, smiling at her.

  “I don’t know where you get the patience to deal with us, Brennan.”

  “That is the first time, and will probably be the last, that
anyone has ever used the word patience in connection with my character.”

  “Get it while you can, Burke. You may never hear it, or any other compliment, from my lips again.”

  “I shall hold it in my heart and treasure it for the rare gem it is.”

  “So, what’s happening with you these days?”

  “Stalking the saints. Part of my job description.”

  “Sounds more elevated than what the rest of us do for our daily bread. What exactly do you mean?”

  “I’d like to find out a bit more about Ignatius Boyle.”

  “Are you sure? It seems to me every time we find out about somebody, it’s bad news.”

  You have no idea. She meant the indecency conviction. Imagine what she would say if she knew about the Polaroid photo of Ignatius naked with the young murder victim. Brennan could not think of a way that a young, beautiful girl like Jordyn Snider would willingly go with a scruffy homeless man old enough to be her father, and Monty’s words came back to Brennan: “It’s not a big step from a minor sexual offence to a more serious one.” But, Brennan reminded himself, no matter what the shameful history of that encounter might be, the photo was in the possession of Pike Podgis, the one man with the blood of the victim on his shoes. So there was nothing to say Ignatius had been the man with the knife. Brennan tried to put all that out of his mind for the time being.

  “Right now, it’s Mr. Boyle’s unexplained linguistic and theological abilities I’m interested in. How would I find out something about his family life? I’ve tried talking to him.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah. But I didn’t get too far.”

  “How come? Doesn’t he want to talk about it?”