by Anne Emery
Though the Heavens Fall
A Mystery
Anne Emery
Contents
Praise for Anne Emery
The Collins-Burke Mystery Series
Introduction
Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter VI
Chapter VII
Chapter VIII
Chapter IX
Chapter X
Chapter XI
Chapter XII
Chapter XIII
Chapter XIV
Chapter XV
Chapter XVI
Chapter XVII
Chapter XVIII
Chapter XIX
Chapter XX
Chapter XXI
Chapter XXII
Chapter XXIII
Chapter XXIV
Chapter XXV
Chapter XXVI
Chapter XXVII
Chapter XXVIII
Chapter XXIX
Chapter XXX
Chapter XXXI
Chapter XXXII
Chapter XXXIII
Chapter XXXIV
Chapter XXXV
Chapter XXXVI
Epilogue
About the Author
Copyright
Praise for Anne Emery
Praise for Lament for Bonnie
“You know you are in the thick of a good mystery novel when you start becoming suspicious of characters you consider shady in the parking lot of your very own town. Anne Emery’s latest, Lament for Bonnie, will leave readers spooked and wary of their surroundings.”
— Atlantic Books Today
“Lament for Bonnie is a good mystery in this entertaining series set in eastern Canada.”
— Glenn Perrett, All Things Entertainment
“The author’s ability to say more with less invites readers along for the dark ride, and the island’s Celtic culture serves as a stage to both the story’s soaring narrative arc and a quirky cast of characters, providing a glimpse into the Atlantic Canadian communities settled by Scots over two hundred years ago.”
— Celtic Life
“The novel is ingeniously plotted.”
— Reviewing the Evidence
Praise for Ruined Abbey
“The eighth in the series, this winning mystery stands on its own . . . fans of Emery’s earlier works will enjoy seeing Father Brennan in the bosom of his feisty Irish family.”
— Booklist, starred review
“True to the Irish tradition of great storytelling, this is a mesmerizing tale full of twists that will keep readers riveted from the first page to the last.”
— Publishers Weekly, starred review
“This is a really tightly plotted historical with solid characters and the elegant style we expect from Emery.”
— Globe and Mail
“Suspenseful to the final page.”
— Winnipeg Free Press
Praise for Blood on a Saint
“As intelligent as it is entertaining . . . The writing bustles with energy, and with smart, wry dialogue and astute observations about crime and religion.”
— Ellery Queen
“Emery skilfully blends homicide with wit, music, theology, and quirky characters.”
— Kirkus Reviews
Praise for Death at Christy Burke’s
“Emery’s sixth mystery (after 2010’s Children in the Morning) makes excellent use of its early 1990s Dublin setting and the period’s endemic violence between Protestants and Catholics.”
— Publishers Weekly, starred review
“Halifax lawyer Anne Emery’s terrific series featuring lawyer Monty Collins and priest Brennan Burke gets better with every book.”
— Globe and Mail
Praise for Children in the Morning
“This [fifth] Monty Collins book by Halifax lawyer Emery is the best of the series. It has a solid plot, good characters, and a very strange child who has visions.”
— Globe and Mail
“Not since Robert K. Tanenbaum’s Lucy Karp, a young woman who talks with saints, have we seen a more poignant rendering of a female child with unusual powers.”
— Library Journal
Praise for Cecilian Vespers
“Slick, smart, and populated with lively characters.”
— Globe and Mail
“This remarkable mystery is flawlessly composed, intricately plotted, and will have readers hooked to the very last page.”
— The Chronicle Herald
Praise for Barrington Street Blues
“Anne Emery has given readers so much to feast upon . . . The core of characters, common to all three of her novels, has become almost as important to the reader as the plots. She is becoming known for her complexity and subtlety in her story construction.”
— The Chronicle Herald
Praise for Obit
“Emery tops her vivid story of past political intrigue that could destroy the present with a surprising conclusion.”
— Publishers Weekly
“Strong characters and a vivid depiction of Irish American family life make Emery’s second mystery as outstanding as her first.”
— Library Journal, starred review
Praise for Sign of the Cross
“A complex, multilayered mystery that goes far beyond what you’d expect from a first-time novelist.”
— Quill & Quire
“Snappy dialogue, a terrific feel for Halifax, characters you really do care about, and a great plot make this one a keeper.”
— Waterloo Region Record
“Anne Emery has produced a stunning first novel that is at once a mystery, a thriller, and a love story. Sign of the Cross is well written, exciting, and unforgettable.”
— The Chronicle Herald
The Collins-Burke Mystery Series
Sign of the Cross
Obit
Barrington Street Blues
Cecilian Vespers
Children in the Morning
Death at Christy Burke’s
Blood on a Saint
Ruined Abbey
Lament for Bonnie
Though the Heavens Fall
Postmark Berlin
Introduction
“Counsellors, I give you the Four Courts.”
That was Father Brennan Burke, giving his two friends a little tour of Dublin, his hometown. The two friends were lawyers: Monty Collins and his wife, Maura MacNeil. They stood on the south side of the River Liffey, gazing across the shining waters at a magnificent neoclassical building on the other side. It had a row of Corinthian columns along the front under a triangular pediment. The building was crowned with a circle of columns in the middle, topped by a dome.
Maura threw up her hands and turned away. “I can’t live up to that. I rest my case before I even get started.”
“Maybe this will bring you back down to earth. Or even below it. Many years ago there was a warren of alleys and passages along there, close to the courts. One of the lanes was so dark and obscure, it became known as Hell. ‘Apartments in Hell’ were advertised in the newspapers as ‘suitable for lawyers.’”
“I am humbled,” Maura averred.
Then they crossed the O’Donovan Rossa Bridge to Inns Quay, admired the Four Courts again from close up, and Monty and Maura followed
Brennan around the back of the building to Chancery Street, where he directed their attention to another part of the complex. They looked up; this building too had a triangular pediment. On it was inscribed the words fiat jvstitia rvat cœlvm. In modern letters, fiat justitia ruat caelum. They all gazed in silence at the ringing proclamation. Monty felt the urge to genuflect before it.
Let justice be done though the heavens fall.
Chapter I
Monty Collins
It was Tuesday, January 24, 1995, and Monty Collins was on assignment in Belfast. He was defending a lawsuit filed against a Canadian-owned company that had a large farm equipment factory on the outskirts of the city, and he had secured a temporary placement with a Belfast law firm by the name of Ellison Whiteside. Monty’s office was in the city centre near Queen’s Square, with a window looking out on the Gothic-style Albert Memorial Clock, which stood over one hundred feet high in the square. He did some paperwork on the farm equipment file and conferred with a couple of local clients, then left the office for lunch in the company of two fellow lawyers from Ellison Whiteside. It was their habit, and would now be his, to head over to McHughs bar, no apostrophe, for a pint and a bite to eat. Wisely, his companions had brought umbrellas for the short walk in the cold winter rain; Monty turned up the collar of his jacket and kept his head down till they reached the bar. They got the last vacant table and ordered soup, sandwiches, and pints of Guinness. It was apparent that the pub regulars had got an early start to the day. Two old fellows were having a row over the leek and potato soup, specifically about what leeks were and where they were grown.
“They’re in the same family as onions. And garlic.”
“In yer hole, they are! Where are we, Ireland or Italy?”
“You’re not even in Ireland!” someone declared from the bar.
“Those are fightin’ words, Charley. Every inch of land on this island is Ireland, and every blade of grass growin’ on it.”
“And every leek!” another guy chimed in. “And they’re green and white. Not a patch of orange on them at all.”
Soup grew cold but pints were consumed before their ideal temperature altered for the worst.
Monty enjoyed a few laughs with his colleagues until they departed for a meeting. He sat and finished his meal. When he was about to get up, he saw a man slide off his barstool and come towards him. He had a wild crop of white hair and stubble on his face, and he appeared to be in his late seventies.
“Those fellas with you were from Ellison Whiteside, am I right, sir?”
“That’s right.”
“You’re new here.”
“Yes, I am.”
“What part of America are you from?”
Monty and other Canadians got that all the time. Everyone assumed they were from the United States. A very few people could discern a Canadian accent, often making the comment that it was softer than the American. Maura was recently told that hers was “sweeter.” No surprise there, Monty supposed; Cape Breton speech often sounded like a mix of Scottish and Irish. He addressed the man in McHughs and said, “I’m from Canada.”
“Oh, I beg your pardon. My mistake. No offence intended.”
“None taken.” And if offence had been taken, Monty was too much the polite Canadian to say so.
The man lowered his voice then. “You’re a solicitor with Ellison’s?”
“That’s right.”
“Well, I have a matter I’d like to discuss with you. A highly confidential matter.”
“I keep all my work confidential.”
“Very good, as it should be. And it’s good to have somebody new in town. The solicitors here have become a wee bit cynical. Worn down by all the violence, you know.”
“Town” sounded somewhere between “tine” and “tarn,” “bit cynical” like “but sunnacal,” “violence” like “vayalence.” Monty nodded in acknowledgement.
“So could I have an appointment with you? Without delay?”
Might as well get it over with today. “Sure, come in after lunch. Ask at the desk for me. My name is Collins, Monty Collins.”
“Interesting combination, sir. Sounds as if you’ve a Brit and a lad from County Cork in your family tree.”
“I have both; you are correct.”
“I’ll see you this afternoon.”
Monty paid for his meal and his pint and returned to his office, where he sat reading the file of a man who claimed he had tripped coming out of the loo in his local bar and had fallen on his knees. Monty could imagine how popular this man — and his solicitor — would be if they took a well-loved publican to the law over something like this. It was hardly the life-and-death legal drama he was accustomed to in the courts at home, defending clients who faced the possibility of life in prison for murder. He shook away those thoughts and started to reach for another of his files when the firm’s receptionist popped her head in the door. “Mr. Malone would like to see you, Monty.” She rolled her eyes.
“Sure, show him in.”
She mouthed the words “good luck” and went back out to reception. Then Mr. Malone, the man from McHughs, was in his doorway. He reached around and closed the door ever so quietly and sat in one of the two client chairs in front of Monty’s desk.
“So, Mr. Malone . . .”
“Hughie.”
“Hughie. How can I help you?”
“You can help blow the lid off one of the biggest cover-ups the wee statelet called ‘Northern Ireland’ has ever known!”
“Cover-up,” Monty repeated.
“A cover-up at the highest levels is what I suspect.”
“I see.”
Hughie sat there nodding his head.
The old cover-up story again. This was not a new experience for Monty, nor for others in his profession. In fact, in a certain kind of case, with a certain kind of client, the client typically goes through a series of lawyers as each one drops his case for lack of merit. That often results in the disgruntled client lodging a complaint with the Bar Society or commencing a lawsuit against the lawyer on completely bogus and fantastical grounds. In virtually every case, the lawyer is accused of “being in on it,” that is, being part of a conspiracy with another party or parties to the complaint, along with other lawyers, the Crown prosecutors, and the judges. It is not unusual for the CIA to crop up in these allegations and, until recently, the KGB. Sometimes aliens had a hand in things as well. These cases often resulted in the client representing himself and foisting on the courts hundreds, even thousands, of pages of the claimant’s ramblings, on everything from his conspiracy theories to his revelations on the meaning of life and the universe. The self-represented litigant. As the old saying goes, “He who acts as his own lawyer has a fool for a client.”
“Tell me what has you concerned,” Monty urged him, against his better judgment.
“In the wee hours of November the fourteenth, 1992, my niece’s husband, Eamon Flanagan that was, fell off the Ammon Road Bridge and drowned. This happened the same night, and in the same vicinity, as a fatal shooting, which has never been solved. That same dark, early morning, Eamon just happened to fall off the bridge and drown.”
“Why do you believe this was something other than just an unfortunate accident?”
“There is no justice in the artificial state known to the world as Northern Ireland.”
“Yes, but in this instance, what do you think really happened to this man?”
“He was attacked and then thrown or pushed off the bridge.”
“What evidence do you have of that?”
“If you don’t mind me saying so, Mr. Collins, you sound like all the rest of them.” Signed lake all the rust o’ thum.
“This happened over two years ago. If things went as you believe they did, why has nothing been done before now?”
“Others have refused to take on the
case.” Of course. That’s why he homed in on Monty, the new solicitor in town. The blow-in from away. “They’re afraid of losing their livelihood. Or worse.”
“That doesn’t exactly encourage me, Mr. Malone.”
“This statelet, this wee bastard of a political entity, is kept in place by fear. Terror from above.”
Monty had no desire to open that particular door, so he tried to steer the conversation back to the facts. If there were any. “What is it you know, which makes you think this was not an accident?”
“The injuries on the body.”
“Oh?”
“Blunt force trauma to his leg and other parts of him.”
“And that tells you what?”
“That he was struck by a powerful force before he went off that bridge.”
“Or he suffered trauma in the fall. The structure of the bridge, perhaps, or rocks below? I don’t have the advantage of seeing the post-mortem report, so there’s nothing I can say about that.”
“Katie has it.”
“Who?”
“His daughter. May I send her in to see you?”
Every cell in Monty’s body cried out No! But, trying to stifle a sigh, he said, “Sure. Send her in.”
Malone nodded and stood up and left the office.
Monty got busy for the rest of the afternoon and put the Hughie Malone visit out of his mind. He would not hold his breath waiting for the dead man’s daughter, if there was a daughter, to make an appearance in the offices of Ellison Whiteside, solicitors, Belfast.
* * *
Monty Collins and Maura MacNeil had come to Ireland because of Monty’s work on behalf of Canadian Earth Equipment Inc., which was one of the biggest clients of his law firm in Halifax, Stratton Sommers. The lawsuit against the company had been launched by farmers and “agribusinesses” — Monty hated that word; it made him lose his appetite — who claimed that their equipment wore out prematurely because of manufacturing defects. It was a multi-million dollar claim. Canadian Earth insisted that the fault lay not with its processes but with the company that supplied the metal for the equipment. Monty’s role would be to gather evidence and statements from the vast manufacturing complex to use in its defence and in the third party claim against the metal supplier. Stratton Sommers expected him to get this done and return home by early May. The fact that he was a Queen’s Counsel at home in Nova Scotia with more than two decades of experience gave him a leg up when it came to meeting the qualifications to practise law in the North of Ireland. Monty was pleased to have been chosen for the overseas posting, but it had to be said that his partners and associates had not exactly been queuing up in the hopes of snagging this assignment. It was not Paris, not Rome, but Belfast in the midst of the Troubles. With that in the forefront of his mind, Monty had done his research; the flat he had rented was close to the university and the Botanic Gardens, a part of the city that had been spared much of the horror of the past quarter century. A ceasefire had been in place since August, but nobody knew how long it would hold.
