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  A Mystery

  Anne Emery

  Contents

  Praise for Anne Emery

  The Collins-Burke Mystery Series

  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

  Acknowledgements

  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

  Chapter I

  Father Brennan Burke

  A loud rapping on the door jolted Father Burke from the fog of sleep. What time was it? Where was he? His cell in the Crumlin jail! The screws were murdering his sleep again. No. Merciful God, no. His room at the parish house? He looked around, bleary-eyed. Hadn’t he already woken up? Somewhere else? He sank back into sleep. The rapping again, even louder this time. Christ. His head was pounding, his stomach was queasy, and that racket at the door wasn’t helping matters. “Fuck off!”

  “Open this door. Now!”

  Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, was that . . . Oh, God, not the . . . Sure, it was indeed the bishop. Archbishop, to be precise. And Father Burke was in for a belt of the crozier. He bolted from the bed, pulled on a pair of trousers and a shirt, and rocketed into his bathroom. He didn’t care if it was the Pope himself; the man would have to wait. Brennan Burke would not greet anyone, human or divine, without first brushing his teeth.

  He made a quick job of it and then lunged for the door. He yanked it open, and there was His Grace, the Most Reverend Dennis Cronin, looming in the doorway like the wrath of God. His handsome face was suffused with anger, his blue eyes as cold as the dusting of snow on his coat. Brennan stepped back to let him in. Just before he closed the door, he saw that one lurking in the corr
idor, taking it all in. Mrs. Kelly, the housekeeper, had never approved of Father Brennan Burke. Every time he saw her, she had a puss on her. Now she could hardly keep the triumphant smirk from her normally prissy lips. Brennan gave the door a good hard slam and turned to face his superior officer.

  “Where in the hell were you all night, Father Burke?”

  “All night? What time did I get here?” Brennan asked stupidly.

  “How do you think it looks to the people of this parish, this diocese, to see one of their priests out in public helping himself to lashings of drink and carrying on and singing at the top of his lungs . . .”

  Whatever Brennan had done, he knew he hadn’t done any bad singing; his music was always top notch. This was not, however, the time to debate musical quality with his bishop.

  “. . . and then passing out drunk, staying the night somewhere other than the rectory of Saint Bernadette’s church?”

  “I, em . . .” Brennan began, though he had no idea what he was about to say.

  Didn’t matter; the bishop overrode him. Advanced on him and raised his voice. “You!” he said, stabbing a finger into Brennan’s chest. “You are acting like the very worst stereotype of an Irishman!”

  That got to him. “What exactly do you mean by that, Bishop?” he demanded.

  “I mean the stereotype by which many people define us to this day. Next month when you’re out and about, take a look at the Saint Patrick’s Day cards displayed on the shelves. What is the constant theme? Besides the leaping leprechauns and the pots of gold, what do you see? Jokes about the drink and the drunks. That’s us, the way much of society still views us. And little wonder, with the likes of you out there acting the maggot.”

  “Dennis, for Christ’s sake . . .”

  “What did the London Times say about us during the famine? What were our habits? ‘Sitting idle at home, telling stories, going to fairs, plotting, and rebelling.’ Disraeli called us ‘this wild, reckless, indolent, uncertain, and superstitious race!’ That’s what they thought of us. And, it hardly needs saying, they all assumed we were drinkers. Do we want people to think we’re still good for nothing but fighting, fucking, and getting drunk?”

  It was rare old times indeed when the bishop let fly with the F word; that said it all about how wound up he was. If Mrs. Kelly still had her twitchy ear up against the door, imagine the state of her, hearing His Grace say fuck.

  “I don’t have to spell it out any further for you, Brennan, what was and still is said about our people. And here’s you, acting it out for all to see. You’ve only been back in the city for a few days, and how have you been spending those days? Hungover from boozing it up night after night. You’re a disgrace.”

  To my race, Brennan finished silently. Brennan wasn’t the type to let somebody walk all over him, wasn’t the type to remain silent in the face of aggravation. He came from a family whose ancestors, and whose members still living, had taken up arms to fight and die for Ireland. They were Fenians, Irish Volunteers, IRA men. The Burkes had no need to be lectured on what an Irishman should be. He never thought he would live to see the day when somebody would accuse him of letting down the side for Ireland. But he spoke not a word. It was, at long last, time for him to turn the other cheek.

  Because he deserved it. He fully deserved a bollocking from his bishop. He was guilty. He’d been legless with drink, and not for the first time.

  “And so, because you drank yourself senseless, you weren’t here for our parishioner Meika Keller. She came looking for you here at ten o’clock last night. Said you had agreed to see her.”

  What? What was he saying? Meika Keller? Had she been talking to Brennan recently? Yes, of course. It was just . . . when? Yesterday, wasn’t it? He tried to clear his head.

  “What did she say to you?” the bishop asked now.

  “Say to me? When?”

  “For the love of God, Brennan, wise up here. What did she want to talk to you about?”

  “I don’t . . .” It was coming back to him through the haze now. The woman had been chatting with him at Saint Mary’s University, where she was a professor and Brennan a part-time lecturer. As Meika was leaving the campus, she asked if she could come and speak with him. Could she meet him that night after a charity event of some kind that she had to attend? That would have been last night. “What time is it?” Brennan asked now.

  “It’s too late, Brennan. That’s what time it is.”

  “No, no, I’ll see her. Just let me . . .”

  “Was it a confession she asked for, Brennan? At least tell me that.”

  He tried to reconstruct the conversation with Meika Keller. She was usually cheerful, witty, full of personality. She had always struck him as unflappable. Yesterday, though, her manner was different. There was something on her mind and it must have been serious, if she wanted to meet Father Burke at ten o’clock at night.

  “I’m thinking yes, Dennis, she may have wanted to see me in the confessional. Well, I’ll track her down now and apologize and hear what she has to say. Maybe help put her mind at rest.”

  “No, you won’t, Brennan.”

  Something in Cronin’s manner gave Brennan a chill. “What is it, Dennis?”

  “At seven thirty-five this morning, Meika Keller’s body washed up on the beach at Point Pleasant Park.”

  Detective Sergeant Piet Van den Brink

  It was a chilly, grey morning in Halifax when Detective Sergeant Piet Van den Brink had stood on the shore looking out at the Atlantic Ocean, as if the rolling surf could bring in the answers he needed to explain the presence of the body lying at his feet. A man out for an early morning run in the park had spotted the woman at the water’s edge; he had dashed to his car in the parking lot and called the police on his cellular phone. Since then, the technical work had all been completed, the body and scene examined and photographed, evidence gathered and bagged, and Piet took one last look and scribbled a few more observations in his notebook. Lying on her back on the rocky beach was a woman who appeared to be in her early forties, slim, with light-blond hair matted with seaweed. What struck Piet as immediately significant was her clothing. She was wearing a gold necklace and a black dress in a pattern with white lines in it. Over the dress was a black jacket, which had come partly off, leaving her left shoulder bare.

  “How would you describe that dress?” Piet turned to his partner, Detective Sergeant Ailsa Young. “What would you call that pattern? Not plaid, but what? Checkered?”

  “Windowpane check, I’d call it,” she replied, and Piet made a note in his book. “Dressed for an evening out. And not an evening in the water.”

  Not that anyone would go for a swim in the waters off Point Pleasant Park, night or day, in the month of February. Piet was shivering with the cold even in his heavy winter coat and gloves. He had always liked Point Pleasant, which covered the southern tip of the Halifax peninsula with one hundred and eighty-five acres of trees, trails, a two-hundred-year-old Martello tower, and a number of ruined fortifications. Piet found it fascinating that the city continued to pay the local representative of the British Crown, the lieutenant governor, one shilling per year in rent for the site. Water surrounded the park on three sides: Halifax Harbour to the east, the Northwest Arm with its yacht clubs and pricey real estate on the shore to the west, and the Atlantic Ocean to the south. The temperature of the water in February wouldn’t rise much above one degree centigrade.

  Monty Collins

  Monty Collins couldn’t wait to see the last of his client. The guy, Bowser, had just had a meltdown in the courtroom, after the judge found him guilty of aggravated assault. Bowser had insisted on a defence of mistaken identity, which didn’t have a hope of success, given that he and the victim had known each other for years, had a long-simmering grudge against one another, and were seen together the evening of the fight. Monty had tried over and over again to change his clien
t’s mind, advised him to agree to self-defence as a strategy, or to explore a plea bargain with the Crown, all suggestions the client had dismissed hands down. Of course, all of that was utterly predictable from a guy who had fired his Legal Aid lawyer, one of the best trial lawyers in the province, and then fired his second lawyer, claiming they were no effing good. Then it was Monty’s turn. After the verdict, Bowser had screamed at Monty in front of the prosecutor, the judge, and the courtroom gawkers. The judge bellowed at Bowser to shut up. The accused man’s uncontrollable rage would no doubt leave an impression on His Honour for sentencing time. The prosecutor and a couple of the other lawyers present commiserated with Monty on the way out of the courtroom. “We’ve all been there, buddy. And you’ve got a file full of CYA letters to produce if need be.” Cover-your-ass letters, showing how Monty had given all the right advice, and the client had not taken heed. Oh yeah, the file was full of those.

  Monty was the only criminal defence lawyer at Stratton Sommers. He knew that his partners tolerated turkeys like this case only because Monty attracted righteous or high-profile cases as well, which brought fame and fortune to the firm. When he got back to the office just before noon, he found his senior partner, Rowan Stratton, standing in the reception area with some of the other lawyers.

  “Ah, Monty. Just back from court?”

  “Yeah. Don’t ask.”

  “I shan’t. We’ve just heard some very sad news. Perhaps you’ve heard it as well. A woman was found dead this morning on the beach at Point Pleasant Park.”

  “No, I didn’t hear anything.”

  “She’s been identified as Meika Keller.”

  “Christ! Does anybody know . . . ?”

  “Nothing yet, as far as I have heard.”

  Monty knew Meika Keller to see, though he had never met her. Her name was frequently heard in connection with fundraising events for the symphony, theatre, and charitable organizations. She was a university professor and a patron of the arts.

  “Did you know her, Rowan?”

  “I’ve seen her with her husband at various charity wingdings. He is Commodore Hubert Rendell, Commander Canadian Fleet. Only knew them to say hello. Shame, really; the family lives a few blocks from us. Moved in a couple of years ago. Emscote Drive. Inherited the Rendell house after a death in the family, so the commodore left his dockyard Navy house and moved into the old family homestead. Well, excuse me, chaps. Must be off.”