Cecilian Vespers Read online

  “Good. That means I’m doing my job.”

  “When do I get an introduction to the great man?” I asked.

  “We have a surfeit of great men here, Monty. To whom are you referring?”

  “Not to you, you pompous arsehole.”

  “Ah. Could it be Father Schellenberg then? If so, you’re in luck. Mike O’Flaherty charmed him into giving a lecture this afternoon. He had to be cajoled and he made it clear he does not want to speak on the subject of the Second Vatican Council. His topic will be the divine office of the Latin rite, the prayers sung at various hours of the day. Matins, lauds, vespers, compline, and so on. Schellenberg is a Cistercian-Benedictine monk, so he knows whereof he speaks. And after his lecture you, too, will be qualified to speak on the matter. If ever you’re asked.”

  “Good. Some new opening lines for my next visit to a pickup joint. Hey, baby, have you heard this one? A lawyer and a monk go into a bar. Only it’s time for compline, so the monk says —”

  “It’s always worked for me.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Anyway, O’Flaherty had lined up a bus trip for the group, to Peggy’s Cove; the tour will be postponed for an hour or two so people can hear Schellenberg first. Be here at two o’clock.”

  I returned to my office on Barrington Street, dictated some letters on a medical malpractice case, and tried to line up my witnesses for an upcoming drug trafficking trial. Then, just before two, I headed over to the schola for the lecture by Reinhold Schellenberg. But I was out of luck. I would not be meeting the renowned theologian after all.

  “Father Schellenberg came to see me,” Monsignor O’Flaherty explained. “He was most apologetic. But something came up, and he had to go out. Where he’d have to go, and him a stranger in town, I don’t know. I didn’t ask. Anyway, he promised he’d give his talk next week. So I called the bus company and got the Peggy’s Cove trip back on schedule. I packed them all onto the bus, and they’re gone. But, Monty, you’ll meet Schellenberg this evening at vespers.”

  “Yes, our choir’s first performance for the schola.”

  “A beautiful ceremony, the peaceful closing of the day.”

  Stella Maris Church had not been used, as a church at least, for fifteen years. It was the scene of occasional manoeuvres by the police, putting the run to squatters who used the place for their own purposes. The massive ironstone building, with its twin Gothic spires, sat high on the northwest tip of the Halifax peninsula, above what is now the Fairview Container Terminal. Overlooking the waters of the Bedford Basin, the church had been built in the late nineteenth century to assert the Catholic presence in the city; it was a landmark visible to those approaching by boat or by train from the north. Now, commuters coming in on the Bedford Highway could see only the tips of the spires, behind the massive structures of the container terminal. Very few people lived in the area; it was strictly industrial.

  The church’s day was nearly done. Stella Maris was scheduled for demolition the following week, and in fact a twentieth-century addition at the back had already been torn down, except for one jagged stone wall. The stained-glass windows would be saved, as would the pews, the font, and all the other fittings. Brennan had mentioned his desire to have the ornate old altar transferred to St. Bernadette’s, where it would be used for the weekly Tridentine Mass.

  Now, in the dark of a moonless November night, robed figures gathered before the blackened wooden doors of the church. The scene was indistinguishable from one that might have taken place in the early Middle Ages. We were far away in time from modern-day Halifax. Priests in vestments, monks in cowls, nuns in habits, choir-boys in white surplices, we processed into the nave and down the aisle. A candle in red glass flickered on the altar; our golden candles were the only other light. The only warmth. Incense wafted back to us from the front of the procession. Two by two we genuflected before the Blessed Sacrament present on the altar and took our places in the sanctuary for the Office of Vespers, by which we would consecrate the end of the day to God. Father Burke chanted the opening prayer:

  APERI, Domine, os meum ad benedicendum nomen sanctum tuum: munda quoque cor meum ab omnibus vanis, perversis et alienis cogitationibus.

  OPEN my mouth, O Lord, to bless thy holy name: cleanse also my heart from all vain, evil and distracting thoughts.

  In the company of friars who sang Gregorian chant as part of their everyday lives, choir and clergy made their voices one; the ancient psalms floated upwards like the incense. All vain, evil, and distracting thoughts melted away, and I felt myself at peace in a way I had never known.

  The peace was shattered by a scream.

  We all whirled towards the sound. One of the sisters stood clutching her heart; her other hand groped wildly for support. Her mouth hung open; her eyes were fixed on the south wall of the sanctuary. “Mother of God, Mother of God,” she whispered over and over.

  “What is it?” Burke demanded, making all too clear his annoyance at the breaking of the spell.

  “He’s dead! He’s been …” Her voice faltered but her trembling finger pointed to the scene.

  With a swish of robes, the whole group rushed to see. There, slumped against the wall, was a figure in white vestments and a Roman collar, drenched with blood. The blood was everywhere, on the wall, the floor, and all over the man’s body, which had been nearly severed from his head. What was that on his leg? I shifted slightly to get a better view in the dim light. There were three or four cards showing hearts pierced with arrows — valentine cards! And something else; it appeared to be a swizzle stick for stirring drinks. The top of it was shaped like an anchor. I saw no sign of a murder weapon.

  “It’s Father Schellenberg!” a woman cried behind me. “Oh God in heaven! Who would do this?”

  A few feet shuffled towards the scene, and someone said: “He should be given the last —”

  “Stop! Do not approach the body!” The voice was German. Colonel Bleier, the former East German police officer. Bleier’s voice was calm, and it carried the weight of authority, but his face was ashen. “Everyone move back to your places,” he instructed. “We will not further interfere with the scene. Is there a working telephone in the building?”

  “There wouldn’t be, no,” Burke answered distractedly. He turned towards the dead man and began to pray aloud in Latin.

  “Does anyone have a car telephone?” Bleier demanded. Nobody in the group was on the cutting edge of 1990s technology. “One of you will go and call the authorities. You will exit the same way you entered, and return that way also.”

  I was already on my way. “I’m going for the police.” I turned to make sure I’d been heard; I saw Bleier making a count and writing something down — names? — in a small spiral notebook.

  I got into my car and drove at top speed to Jenny’s Place Beverage Room on Lady Hammond Road, where I used the phone to alert the Halifax Police Department. When I returned to the church, I saw that the traumatized group had broken into small clusters, though, in strict obedience to the resident officer of the polizei, none had left the sanctuary. Some, such as Father Sferrazza-Melchiorre, knelt in prayer; others sat with eyes downcast as if in shame. An aggressive-looking man with red hair stood with his hands gripping the pew in front of him; he stared at the body and seemed to be unaware of anything else. It was too late to mark anyone’s immediate reaction to the discovery. If someone had made a ham actor’s effort to look surprised, I had missed it. We had all been gaping at the dead man. I joined Father Burke and Monsignor O’Flaherty, who were on their feet, eyeing the scene and conferring with Colonel Bleier.

  “Ah. Monty,” O’Flaherty said. “We were just saying that there’s a swath of clean floor leading from the body to the sacristy. The killer must have wiped up after himself.”

  “I wonder how long the body has been there. Any idea?”

  “I would say a number of hours,” Bleier answered. “Was the church door locked when you arrived, Father Burke?”

  �
��I can’t say for sure because I was given a key to the side door and used it. I was able to push open the front doors — they have those bars you push down — so I don’t know whether they were locked when I pushed on the bar or not.”

  “I came in the front just now. It wasn’t locked. Or, at least, it hadn’t locked behind us when we all came in.”

  “I see. When was the last time you were here, before this evening, Father?”

  “Yesterday afternoon. I brought the … the Blessed Sacrament and placed it in the tabernacle. The place was bathed in light, and there was nothing amiss.”

  “The church is not used, am I correct?”

  “That’s right. It’s going to be knocked down next week. Young people, homeless people, sleep in here sometimes. But the place was empty when I was here yesterday. I looked around and I locked up.”

  “Would there be tools in the basement, I’m wondering, Brennan?”

  “Don’t know, Michael. I’d say not. I imagine everything’s been removed.”

  The local police arrived then and took charge, securing the scene, examining the body and surroundings, and taking our statements. Colonel Bleier and a tall, balding man I had not met watched the police activity with interest. Monsignor O’Flaherty tended to the flock of schola students, reassuring them that the killer would be brought to justice and that counsellors would be available for anyone who would like to use their services. The schola’s director, Father Burke, was too shell-shocked to respond. Even if he were his usual self, he would not have thought of counselling. And he would undoubtedly have sworn to bring the killer to justice himself. For everyone on the scene, it was a long night.

  I went to the rectory with Burke and O’Flaherty after the police were finished with us. We stood together in the parking lot of St. Bernadette’s before I headed home.

  “Let us hope and pray this slaughter had nothing to do with our work here,” O’Flaherty pleaded. “Some other motive was in play, surely —”

  “It happened on the feast of Saint Cecilia, Michael. Patron saint of church musicians.”

  “That could be coincidence, Brennan. The killer knew we would be going to Stella Maris and so —”

  “Nothing about this looks like coincidence to me, as much as I would like to go along with you, Mike.”

  “How did Saint Cecilia die?” I asked. “Was she a martyr?”

  “She was indeed,” O’Flaherty replied. “She didn’t die a happy death, God rest her soul. Now, as for details … Let me do some quick research. I have a number of works on the saints’ lives. Are you coming in, Monty?”

  “No, it’s long past my bedtime.”

  “I’ll be back in a jiffy.”

  O’Flaherty’s face told half the tale when he returned. “Not a happy death, indeed not. Saint Cecilia’s killers —”

  “Who were they?” I interrupted.

  “The Roman authorities of the second or third century. The true date is unknown. They tried to suffocate her in her bath. But she survived that attempt. They then sent a soldier to cut off her head! Three times he hacked at her neck, yet he couldn’t separate her head from her body. They left her like that, the poor young girl. She lived for three days before she finally succumbed!”

  “Nearly, but not quite, decapitated. Just like Reinhold Schellenberg.”

  Part Two

  Chapter 2

  Liber scriptus proferetur

  In quo totum continetur,

  Unde mundus judicetur.

  A book, written in, will be brought forth

  In which is contained everything that is,

  Out of which the world shall be judged.

  — “Dies Irae,” Requiem Mass

  Michael O’Flaherty had friends in the police department and, the Monday after vespers, one of his cronies gave him a call. Michael phoned me that morning to fill me in. The autopsy had provided no surprises. The priest bled to death as the result of a massive wound to his throat. The murderer’s weapon had nearly severed Father Schellenberg’s spinal column. Blood and tissue samples did not show any alcohol, drugs, or toxins. He had been vested as if for Mass at the time, and wore his black clerical suit underneath. He had a wallet containing a few dollars in cash, and some identifying information. There was loose change in his pants pocket. The report described the odd collection of items I had seen: a swizzle stick from a local bar and a bunch of crumpled valentine cards. There were no names on the cards and no printed greetings, just the front flap with a heart and arrow picture.

  At lunchtime I grabbed a pen and notebook and took a run over to St. Bernadette’s to see if there were any new developments. I found Brennan in the auditorium of the choir school, sitting at the piano. He had a pair of half-glasses perched on his nose and a pencil clenched in his teeth. He picked out a melody and a few chords, then made notations in a music dictation book. Composing a new setting for the Mass. I had heard some of it before. Now, I noticed, the music had a darker tone than I remembered.

  I walked up to him and watched his fingers on the keys. “How have you managed to make such a seemingly ordinary series of notes sound so plaintive, so dolorous? What key are you in?”

  “C minor. This is the ‘Kyrie.’ I’ll repeat the progression in the ‘Miserere Nobis.’”

  If he had turned to his music to escape the concerns of this world, it was clear that he hadn’t travelled very far. The tragedy was colouring his composition. Not surprising, perhaps: the “Kyrie” is a plea for God’s mercy.

  “How are the other people holding up?” I asked.

  “They’re going around like the walking wounded, which is to be expected. But they’re determined to carry on with our program. I’m grateful for that, so I’ll have to pull myself together and get to work. Come over to the rectory. Mike O’Flaherty went to the police station in the hopes of getting some more information. He’ll be back any minute.”

  We left the school and crossed the street to the parish house. I followed Brennan into the priests’ library, and sat down with him at a long cherry-wood table. Bookshelves rose to the ceiling along three walls of the room. I took out my notebook and uncapped my pen.

  “So give me an outline of the day. What were people doing on Friday, leading up to vespers?”

  “Does this mean you’re on the case?”

  “Aren’t I always? Besides, what’s the alternative? Sitting on my butt wondering what the real story is!”

  “Well, that’s a relief, because I can’t see myself interrogating the very people who have paid to attend my college. Our lawyer, on the other hand, has no need to be so delicate.”

  “Exactly. So, tell me about the day of the murder.”

  “We had Mass in the morning, at nine. I had the impression at the time that the whole group, or nearly the whole group, was there, including Reinhold Schellenberg. Then everyone had a free day until it was time for Schellenberg’s afternoon lecture. Which, as you know, he never gave because something came up. If we knew what came up, we’d be more than halfway to the truth about his murder. Anyway, most of our students went to Peggy’s Cove on the bus, and we didn’t see them again until vespers.”

  “Any unusual behaviour that morning?”

  “Nothing I noticed.”

  “What about Communion? Did everyone receive? Would it stand out in a group like this if someone didn’t come forward for the sacrament?”

  “I see what you mean, but I simply didn’t notice if there was anyone like that.”

  “Well, let’s hope the police have a handle on who was where at the crucial time. Here’s Mike. Good afternoon, Monsignor!”

  “Good day to you, Monty.”

  “What did they tell you, Michael?” Brennan asked.

  “The good news is that the vast majority of our students can be eliminated from suspicion. Of the fifty-six participants at the schola, only eight missed the bus trip to Peggy’s Cove. Reinhold Schellenberg, six other men, and one woman.”

  “How many of the seven can accoun
t for their time in the afternoon?”

  “None of them, unfortunately.”

  “Don’t be telling us that, Michael!”

  “It’s true,” O’Flaherty replied. “No, wait, one of them was in a tavern at the time of the murder, and has a witness to prove it. The estimated time of death was between two and four in the afternoon. The bus left for Peggy’s Cove at one-thirty, with forty-eight of our students on it. The others were either in their rooms alone, or out shopping or walking by themselves. Or so they claim.”

  “Who are the seven besides Schellenberg?”

  “William Logan, Father Enrico Sferrazza-Melchiorre, Father Fred Mills, Colonel Kurt Bleier, Brother Robin Gadkin-Falkes, Jan Ford, and Luigi Petrucci.”

  “I’ve met Sferrazza-Melchiorre and Bleier. Who are the others?”

  “Well, you may have seen Jan Ford on opening day. She expressed some views on the liturgy and music that diverged somewhat from those of the director of the schola, our Father Burke here.”

  “Right, I remember her. Brother Robin? I never met him. Or Mills, Logan, and Petrucci.”

  “Brother Robin is a monk, as you can guess from the title.”

  “Same order as Schellenberg?”

  “Well, a Benedictine, but not of the same stripe.”

  “Okay. Mills?”

  “Fred Mills is a young priest who is a former student of Brennan’s, when Brennan taught in the seminary. Somewhere in New York.”

  “So Brennan can fill us in on him.”

  “Fred Mills wouldn’t kill a spider if it was advancing on his mother’s handbag,” Brennan avowed.

  “Good. Logan?”

  “A priest who left to marry. He taught with Brennan at the sem.”

  “Is his wife here with him?”

  “Yes, though I haven’t met her.”

  “So she wasn’t on the bus trip.”

  “No, she must have been with Logan, wherever he was.”

  “And Petrucci?”

  “I don’t know anything about him, except that he’s the one the police say was having a wee drop to drink at the crucial time. His nephew vouched for him. Petrucci is not a priest. He’s a layman, obviously someone keenly interested in church music and liturgy.”