Sign of the Cross Read online

Leeza Rae had grown up in a low-income suburb of Halifax. Her mother was in her teens when she gave birth to Leeza, and the father did not stick around. Leeza had had two stepfathers, and a succession of other men had drifted in and out of her mother’s life. There were half-brothers and stepsisters on the scene from time to time. Leeza had not done well academically and had been suspended from high school on a couple of occasions. She stopped attending in grade eleven. Leeza spent all her free time, which was considerable, hanging out at various malls and convenience stores with people of similar background. She had a minor criminal record and a sporadic history of low-paying employment. At the time of her death she was working part-time at the St. Bernadette’s Youth Centre.

  In 1988, Leeza’s boyfriend, Vic Stillman, was sentenced to seven years’ imprisonment for his part in the gang rape of a fifteen-year-old girl. He was in Dorchester Penitentiary when Leeza was killed. Two other boys had been incarcerated but had been released before the murder. A source close to the investigation was quoted as saying there was no known connection between the murder and the rape. Police were following several leads and were optimistic about making an arrest in the near future.

  Rowan came in and made a stop at the sideboard to pour us each a glass of scotch, which he said went into the cask around the time I was admitted to the bar. He sank into a green leather club chair and pushed his greying blonde hair off his forehead. Rowan had the rosy complexion I often associate, probably wrongly, with the English. It gave him a deceptive air of benign goodwill. He got right to the point.

  “I told you I had a rather delicate matter to discuss with you, Monty. Our partners can remain in the dark. For now, at least.” He took a sip of his drink. “You have seen the press cuttings?”

  “Yes. They haven’t picked anybody up for it yet, have they?”

  “No.” Rowan was gazing out to the garden, which led down to the water. “There may be a religious angle to it. At least this man Walker seems to think so. A retired police sergeant.”

  “That would be Emerson Walker. They call him Moody. But why is he thinking anything? He should be playing golf, or opening a Tim Hortons, whatever retired cops do.”

  “One would think so. But he’s taken quite an interest in this girl’s death.”

  “Sounds like Moody, refusing to let go. I remember him from a few cases of mine. Once he got on to something, he bored into it with everything he had. He could get a bit obsessive, but he was usually proved right in the end.”

  “I haven’t spoken to him directly. I have it on good authority, though, that he considers it some kind of religious killing.”

  There had not been a word of this in the newspapers. If there was something religious or ritualistic about this murder, the police were keeping it quiet. Then I remembered one report said the body had been tampered with.

  “So, Rowan, how does this concern us?”

  He looked at me intently as he spoke. “Walker has it in his head that the killer is a priest.”

  “No!”

  “I don’t know what evidence he purports to have but something has led him, in error, to our client.”

  I leaned forward in my chair. “Who is it?”

  “A clergyman of my acquaintance. A Roman Catholic priest by the name of Burke. He’s from New York but he worked here in Halifax in the past. He is here again, at St. Bernadette’s parish. Directs a choir school. These suspicions must be put to rest before they become widespread. So far, there hasn’t been a whisper of this in public. And it is up to us to keep it that way. But we are not helped by the fact that this ex-policeman, Walker, is thick as thieves with the other priest at St. Bernadette’s, an older chap by the name of O’Flaherty. Fine fellow, from what I hear, but not what one would call discreet. He, Walker and a couple of other gentlemen of a certain age often meet at one of the local doughnut shops and gossip over their coffee. I shouldn’t think an old cleric’s gift of gab is of much use to the police in normal times. But Walker will be all ears now, waiting for our client’s name to come up. And we can assume it will, rectory life being what it is.” Stratton looked at his watch. “There is no question of guilt here, at least on the part of our client.”

  “Tell me about him.”

  “He is the priest who started up the first choir school here back in 1968. Do you remember it?”

  “Vaguely.”

  “He had been involved in something similar in New York City. He was familiar with this area, having spent some time in Chester during the summers when he was younger. That is where Sylvia and I first met him, in fact. Our summer place is close to where he used to visit. Some of the local choir aficionados discovered the New York operation and enticed him to come up and create a similar school in Halifax. It carried on successfully for a few years, I understand, but the effort petered out after Father Burke returned to the U.S. A group of us from the Anglican and RC dioceses formed a committee to get the choir school going again. St. Bernadette’s had an available building, so that is where the school is now. Its real name is the Halifax Christian Academy of Sacred Music but everyone, including its principal and its music director, calls it St. Bernadette’s. We Anglicans lost the battle of the names, but everyone is pleased to have the school up and running; there has been no internecine conflict.

  “Anyway. The school admits children from grades four to eight; they do their other years in the regular system. The curriculum is top-of-the-line and the fees are quite high, as you might expect. But there is financial assistance available for a few talented students who are unable to pay the tuition. The children have only been at it for six months but they really are quite splendid.”

  “I’ll have to check out the choir. And its director. This priest —” As I was speaking, Sylvia Stratton glided into the library.

  “Priest? I assume you’re referring to Father Burke. You should meet him, Monty. What was the story we heard about him years ago, Rowan? A cross and a fire? Something ghastly and mystical.” She gave a delicate shudder.

  “There was a fire when he was young, in New York. He must have got too close. I never heard the whole story but, supposedly, the image of his crucifix was burned into his skin. Great fodder for the parish bulletin, I gather. Not generally known up here, though, and that’s the way he wants it.”

  III

  Short, chubby, balding with a fringe of fluffy white hair, a twinkle in the eyes behind his smudged spectacles, and an air of scholarly distraction. That’s what I was expecting when I heard the choirmaster was coming in to see me. But that is not what walked in the door. This man was tall with a full head of cropped black hair rimed with silver, and his hooded eyes were so dark they looked black. Stern and hawk-featured, he was someone you’d address as “Colonel” before you’d say “Father.” There was no Roman collar in sight under his leather jacket. He smelled faintly of smoke.

  “Mr. Collins. I’m Father Burke.” We shook hands.

  “Have a seat, Father. Rowan told me you were coming in but he didn’t tell me much about your case.”

  “There is no case.”

  “Why don’t you tell me how I can help you.” “I can’t imagine why I need help. And there’s nothing I can tell you.”

  I couldn’t hear New York, but there was a not-so-distant echo of Ireland in his voice: the kind of curt, clipped voice you heard just before you lost your kneecap. Burke struck me as a man of great intensity, his strength held in check by sheer effort of will. A very self-contained individual.

  “Would I be right in thinking our appointment today was not your idea?”

  Burke gave a terse nod. He reached into a pocket and brought out a pack of cigarettes, stuck one between his lips, then looked to me for permission. All I could give him in return was a wry “I don’t make the rules” shake of the
head, and he reluctantly put them away before speaking again. “Rowan has heard somewhere that there is a religious connection to the murder of a young girl. For some reason the police think a churchman killed her.”

  “Not the police at this point, as far as we know. A retired detective by the name of Emerson Walker.”

  “So it is. I know Rowan has my best interests at heart. But what can I say? The idea that I would be out there sending people to meet their maker is absurd.”

  “Did you know the girl who was killed?”

  “She was connected with the youth centre at St. Bernadette’s. I may have spoken to her half a dozen times. That’s all.”

  “Do you know anything about her? Other people in her life, who may have —”

  “No.”

  “Here’s what I’m going to do, Father. I’ll meet with Moody Walker — the retired sergeant — and try to find out what the hell is going on. How about that?” Silence. “We’re better off knowing than not knowing, wouldn’t you agree?” I didn’t tell him Rowan had commanded me to find out what was going on and keep the priest informed.

  “Won’t meeting him reinforce these daft suspicions of his?”

  “Oh, I won’t mention any connection with you. We’ll keep that to ourselves as long as we can. I’ll bump into him accidentally. He’s a regular at Tim Hortons. I’ll be in touch when I have something to tell you. And I hope it won’t be much.”

  His black eyes bored into mine. “It won’t be.” He nodded goodbye and left the office.

  Choirmaster? I couldn’t picture it. The sharps had better be sharp in that choir. I went out to reception to see whether Rowan was in. He wasn’t. As I turned to go back to my office I heard our receptionist, who insists she is with us only until her first romance novel finds the right publisher, whisper to one of the secretaries: “As handsome and cruel as a Spaniard!”

  “Get over me, Darlene, I’ll only break your heart.”

  “I’m not talking about you, Monty. I’m talking about the tall dark client who just strode through here. Without giving me the time of day.”

  “Hold your tongue! He’s a man of God.”

  “I’ll say.”

  IV

  I did not yet have a file titled R. v. Burke, the “R” of course standing for Regina, in reference to Her Majesty the Queen. In Canada, all criminal proceedings are conducted in the name of the Crown. Rowan wanted me to keep the Burke matter to myself, but it was never too soon to find out what we might be facing.

  It took a few coffee and doughnut runs at the Robie and Young Street Tim Hortons before I spotted my quarry. Sergeant Walker did not notice me as I slipped into a seat behind him. He had coffee and a blueberry fritter, and was sitting with two other men. One of them, I was interested to note, was a priest, who looked about seventy. He was short, slight and of cheerful countenance. This was obviously Father O’Flaherty, the pastor of St. Bernadette’s. Now that I was seeing them together, I had the feeling I had seen them in each other’s company before. I did not recognize the other man at the table, but I heard them call him Larry. Moody Walker could not have been more than fifty-five but he looked much older. Must have been the job that had worn him out; I’d probably be the same when my time came. He was heavy-set, his brown hair now almost entirely white. He had small, dark brown eyes that fixed on you in a most disconcerting way. I settled in to eavesdrop on the conversation, in the age-old spy posture, with my paper and a coffee in front of me.

  “You boys spend too much time at the track,” Larry was saying. “I wouldn’t put two bucks on a horse, let alone the amount you guys piss away. Cards, now, that’s another thing. Poker’s my game. Ever play, either of you?”

  “I used to play. Not as much now,” Moody replied. “I hear you have a card sharp over your way, though, Mike. Maybe Larry here could get in a game some night at the rectory.”

  “Father Burke, that would be,” O’Flaherty replied in a soft Irish brogue. “A real poker face. I’d invite you over, Larry, but I wouldn’t want to be settin’ you up.”

  “I may get into a game myself some night. Give me a call.” This from Moody Walker.

  O’Flaherty leaned towards the detective. “Moody, were you involved with that huge boatload of drugs that came ashore at the mouth of the harbour? I’m thinking they couldn’t read their charts, to land where they did. That’s coming up for trial next week.”

  “You didn’t just ask if that was my case, did you, Mike? Huge boatloads of drugs are the Mounties’ problem, not mine. If a big Baptist revival tent came to town, I wouldn’t go out there expecting to see you.”

  Larry added: “Father, go back to your tabloids and those dogeared true crime books you keep under your pillow. You’ll get more from them than you ever will from this guy. Everything you bring up, Walker says he wasn’t involved. Guy shot down on the steps of the police station? Doesn’t know a thing about it. To hear him tell it, he didn’t do any work the whole time he was on the HPD payroll. They found him out and that’s why he’s sitting here, too cheap to pick up the tab for us today.”

  I had the feeling this was a well-worn routine around the table.

  “So tell us, Padre,” Walker said, “what’s the latest at the rectory these days? Housekeeper nipping into the communion wine? Using one tea bag instead of two, and sending the other bag back to the old country? Anything of that nature we should know about?”

  “Secrets of the confessional, lads, secrets of the confessional,” the old priest carolled. “There is one bit of news from our patch. Sad, though,” confided Father O’Flaherty. “You know old Tom Lacey?” His cronies shook their heads no. “Well, they rushed him to hospital night before last. Pain in his side. They opened him up. And just closed him right back up again. Nothing they can do but wait for the end.” Both men roared in protest. “Death and dying. It never stops, does it? Speaking of which, I must be off. Time to make the rounds at the infirmary.” The priest went off with a little salute. The other two men crushed their coffee cups and left the building.

  I finished my coffee and headed to the office, none the wiser about the young woman’s death. But I knew for certain that Walker was interested in Burke. Moody was keen to get into a card game at the rectory, all in the interests of putting the new priest under his own personal surveillance.

  V

  The next sighting of my new client took place a few days later, during an event I had not attended since I was young enough to be tugged along by my mother’s hand. A church fair. Prodded none too subtly by Rowan Stratton to stop in and spend some money at the choir school, I grudgingly gave up my Saturday morning and headed out to the fair. It would have been better with the kids, but I wanted to get in, and out, early, and I had no intention of being reamed out for waking the family up. So I went alone.

  St. Bernadette’s was located at the corner of Byrne and Morris streets in the southeast part of the city, not far from the waterfront. The building that housed the youth centre and choir school was on the west side of Byrne across from the church and rectory. It was a stone structure in the Second Empire style, with a mansard roof, dormers, and a cupola topped with a cross. A brick extension had been added later. I climbed the stone steps to the heavy double doors and walked into a room festooned with green crepe paper and cardboard cut-outs of shamrocks and harps. St. Patrick’s Day already. Coming towards me was Father O’Flaherty, a kelly green scarf wound round his neck, and a big welcoming smile on his pink-cheeked face. He held out his hand. “I’m Michael O’Flaherty. Welcome to St. Bernadette’s. Have I made your acquaintance before?”

  “I know we’ve seen each other around, Father. I’m Montague Collins. Monty.”

  “Do come in, Monty, and put down your money at one of our tables. Or several tables. But fir
st, let me show you around.” The priest led me through the building, which had offices, a gymnasium, classrooms, meeting rooms, and a large auditorium with a piano. There were brightly coloured posters on the walls, along with group photos of children, nuns, priests and dignitaries. In one classroom there was a bingo game, the numbers being called by a genial red-faced man with a booming voice. Other rooms had crafts and bake tables, games and face-painting for children; my little girl would have loved it. Father O’Flaherty encouraged me to watch the video presentation of a variety show put on by the church and youth centre at Christmas.

  “And much of the work for the show was done by this fine lady, Eileen Darragh.” A big, capable-looking woman was steaming towards us, and O’Flaherty made the introductions. Ms. Darragh was in her late thirties or early forties, plain of face and stocky of build. She wore her straight brown hair in a no-nonsense bob that just covered her ears. Her clothing did not look expensive but it gave her an efficient appearance. I could well believe it when the priest said: “Eileen is the woman who runs this place! We won’t tell Sister Dunne I said so, eh Eileen? Sister Dunne is our executive director and principal of the school, and Eileen is her assistant.”

  Eileen greeted me warmly, then told us there were three other places she was supposed to be. She took large strides down the corridor, stopping briefly to ruffle the hair of a small child who stood behind a huge puff of cotton candy, which completely hid his face. Or hers.

  Father O’Flaherty left to greet more visitors, and I moved quickly through the fair, picking up some cookies, a pie, and a couple of novelty items for the kids. I was looking at a display set up by one of the religion classes when I noticed a group of elderly women sporting lapel pins that identified them as members of the CWL , the Catholic Women’s League. Two of the women wore top hats of moulded green plastic. They fluttered around a tall man in black.

  “Oh Father, you missed our last meeting, and the one before. We’re not going to let you get away from us again! But I can’t promise you the girls will be well-behaved. Millie will be serving her sherry!”