“Bill? Go fuck yourself.”
“There’s the proof of what a bad influence this guy is, or maybe it’s the influence of your other hero, Burke. When you start using the F-word, Fred, civilization as we know it is over.”
Bleier gave him a level look. “If you knew the first thing about civilization, or civility, Mr. Logan, this regrettable conversation would not be taking place. And your efforts to portray me as the killer, while it is you who are incapable of controlling your resentments and your emotions —”
“Screw you, Bleier. You too, Freddy!” He stalked away.
“Hi there, Monty,” Fred said to me. “Just another outburst of post-murder tension among the suspects. Do you think if we all accuse each other that means we’re all innocent?”
“All are innocent except one, Fred. And you’re right. It would serve that person very well to occupy the high ground and level accusations at one or more of the others.”
“Well, I hope nobody seriously suspects me.” He turned back to Bleier. “Monty and I both have kind of a boyish, not-guilty look, wouldn’t you say, Kurt?” He put his hands together as if to pray. “I’ll bet he gets away with all kinds of mischief on account of it.”
“I don’t get away with much. My ex-wife catches me out every time.”
“Yeah, with me it’s the church hierarchy!”
“But that doesn’t get you really, really angry, does it, Fred?”
“No!”
“I shall let you get on with your interrogation, Mr. Collins,” Bleier said. “It is obvious that you have not been taken in by this man’s appearance of innocence. I look forward to speaking with you again, Fred.
Auf Wiedersehen
.” He left us, and I waited until I had Fred’s full attention.
“Fred, were you up in the area of Stella Maris Church the day before the murder?”
He stared at me with unblinking grey eyes. “Why on earth would you think that? I was never in that church until we processed in for vespers, and found Father Schellenberg’s body!”
“I didn’t say you were in the church. Were you in Seaview Park, at the top of the Halifax peninsula, on Thursday, November 21?”
“No, I was not! What would I be doing there?”
“I have no idea, Fred. But we have a witness who said she saw you looking shaky and —”
“Your witness is wrong, and so are your accusations! I’m not going to listen to any more of this. Goodbye!”
Somebody else was having a bad day, I saw when I returned to the parking lot. Michael O’Flaherty was sitting at the wheel of his car, trying in vain to get it started. Even through the driver’s side window I could see his agitation. Anguish, even. Then I saw why. Sister Kitty Curran was in the passenger seat. Right. This was Monday the twentieth, the day she was flying back to Rome. And Mike couldn’t get his car going in the cold. I walked over and knocked on his window. He scowled in my direction and rolled down his window.
“Mike, you’re going to flood the engine.”
“Sure, I can get a cab to the airport, Michael,” Kitty said. “Save yourself the trouble here. Cars weren’t meant to operate in these temperatures, I’m thinking.”
“This car’s been working for a decade, Kitty. I’ll get it going.”
The scene took me back to my teen years. A date with a girl I liked and wanted to impress, and everything going wrong. Often with a vehicle. That’s what Mike was going through now, with Kitty.
“Take my car, Mike. It’s all warmed up. Here are the keys.”
“Oh, now, Monty. There’s no need of that.”
But he let himself be persuaded, and his customary good cheer was restored. He transferred Kitty’s bags to my trunk, got her settled in the passenger seat, even tucked my old plaid car robe around her. I said my goodbyes and promised to see her again in Rome if Mike wasn’t over there monopolizing her time. He blushed, but said: “The three of us will go. You, me, and Brennan.”
“All
right
!” I exclaimed.
Something in my tone called forth a clarification from Monsignor O’Flaherty. “
My
trip won’t be like the trip you boys just had! I’m sure Kitty wouldn’t want to know what you might have been up to!”
Kitty knew damn well what we’d been up to but wasn’t about to say so, to me or to Mike.
They started out of the parking lot, then Mike stopped and rolled down the window again. “Monty! Where are my manners? Hop in, and let me drive you to your office!”
“No, a brisk walk will do me good. You kids get going. Take her straight to the airport now, Michael!”
Mike grinned, and Kitty gave me a wink as they pulled away.
We were having our regular Tuesday night choir practice, and this was probably our seventh take on the Saint-Saëns “Ave Verum Corpus.”
“No, gentlemen. Somebody is still saying ‘Mur-ee-ah’ for Maria. The Virgin Mary was not a twin sister to Murray. It is ‘Mah,’ and the
R
is not like the
R
in Murray. You have to frap the
R
, make it almost — almost but not exactly — like a
D
. The way we do with ‘Kyrie.’ So. Maria.”
“But you still want us to roll the
R
in
perforatum
, right, Father?”
“That’s right, Rrrichard. Rrroll the second
R. R
is probably the worst sound in English singing. I could say more on this subject but
I’m sure we’d all rather get it right this time and go home. Once more. And come down to pianissimo when you get to
‘Esto nobis praegustatum in mortis examine.’
It means: ‘Be for us a foretaste in the trials of death.’ Saint-Saëns has written it low and quiet, and it’s all the more moving when it’s done that way. So let’s hear you one more time.”
We sang it again, and he pronounced himself satisfied. Books were slapped shut and chairs rocked as the young boys made their escape from the choir loft. “Boys! You’re in church! Take it easy.”
I waited for Brennan and we descended the stairs together. Gino Savo emerged from the shadows as we entered the nave.
“Beautiful singing, Brennan. Of course it was beautiful the first time. Perhaps you expect too much of your choristers.”
“I run a choir school, Gino. That’s what they’re here for. Now, what can I do for you?”
“I understand you removed some materials from Father Schellenberg’s room at the abbey.”
“Mmm.”
“I would like to have a look at those materials.”
“The police have all that now, Gino. It’s out of our hands.”
“That was not Monsignor O’Flaherty’s understanding.”
Nor mine. The boxes were sitting in my office.
“We had them at the rectory initially but we could hardly leave them there. For reasons of security. I’m sure you understand. And they may be evidence. We are trying to assist the police in any way we can.”
“I see.”
“If and when we get the boxes back we’ll be happy to make them available to you.”
Savo didn’t believe a word Burke was saying. Burke didn’t care. Savo left us with a curt goodbye.
“I guess we’d better have a look in those boxes, Monty.”
“Before or after you go to confession for lying to a representative of the See of Peter?”
“Don’t concern yourself about the state of my soul. Or my standing with the Vatican. Let’s divide the workload.”
“I’ll sort it into three piles, Brennan. One for me, one for you, one for Michael O’Flaherty.”
“I don’t want the boxes over at the rectory. Obviously. If we let
Michael at them, his keen forensic eye will find something ominous on every page. And who’s going to be hearing about it every five minutes? I’d as lief go through it all myself.”
“But you won’t. You haven’t the time. I don’t think we’ll find anything at all. We already know the reasons Schellenberg became unpopular in so many quarters. But there could be some correspondence in there. Who knows? I have an idea. I’ll speak to Mike on the QT, tell him we’d rather go through it ourselves before the Vatican does. Get him involved in a bit of intrigue. He’ll enjoy that. I’ll set Mike up in a conference room in the law office. You can come in and see the stuff when you have time. Meanwhile Mike and I will look it over.”
“Mike doesn’t know any German.”
“A good deal of the material is in English — translations of Schellenberg’s writings, or whatever. I’ll give those items to Michael. So, how are you doing? Recovering from … the trip?”
“Oh, I’m grand, grand entirely.”
I had other things I wanted to discuss with Michael O’Flaherty besides the Schellenberg papers. I wanted to check out the chessboard Colonel Bleier and Father Schellenberg had used. Then I hoped to do a little research into John XXIII and Paul VI, the two popes Brother Robin had lampooned in his drawings. I finally got away from the office in the middle of the afternoon on Wednesday. I made a trip to the choir school, found it open, and headed down the corridor to the little alcove where the chessboard was. Had been. It wasn’t there. I wondered whether Brennan had come by and taken it, knowing it was of interest in light of our conversation with Greta Schliemann. But Brennan was out when I crossed over to the rectory. Maybe Monsignor O’Flaherty would know where he was. I proceeded down the hall to his room.
“Good afternoon, Michael.”
“Good day to you, Monty! Is there anything I can help you with?”
“I was looking for the chessboard we used to see in the corridor at the choir school.” Was that a blush I saw on O’Flaherty’s cheeks? “Where did the board come from? Was it here already, or did someone bring it to the schola?”
“Em, well, I’m embarrassed to tell you, Monty, I have it here. And no, it doesn’t belong to me or to anyone else here as far as I know. It appeared on that little table one day, and I used to see Father Schellenberg playing there, and, well, after what happened nobody seemed to use it anymore, so …” His cheeks flushed a deeper hue. “I took it. A little souvenir of the great man, you know. I thought maybe it was his.”
“It may have been. So it’s here?”
“There it is on my shelf, all set up. I didn’t try to hide it, but I probably shouldn’t have taken it.”
“Oh, I’m sure nobody’s going to rap your knuckles for that, Monsignor. Mind if I have a look?”
“Go ahead, Monty, please.”
I looked at the board, which appeared to be quite old and worn. It was in the form of a box about three inches deep, with the squares painted in cream and brown on the top. I removed the chess pieces and put them aside, then picked up the box. It made a rattling sound, and I turned it over. Half of the bottom was a panel that slid open, so that the pieces could be stored. An inscription on the bottom showed that it had been made in Germany in 1913. Was this the same board that had been used by Max Bleier and Johann Schellenberg in the Nazi prison camp? I opened the sliding panel, and a broken bishop fell out. I saw something else inside as well. Papers.
“What have you got there, Monty?”
“There are papers stashed in here. Let’s have a look. First, though, Mike, would there be a pair of rubber gloves anywhere in the building?”
The elderly priest’s eyes lit up. “Evidence, is it?”
“Could be.”
“You hold on. Don’t touch a thing. I’ll go down to the kitchen and get Mrs. Kelly’s gloves.”
He was back in sixty seconds, out of puff. “Here, Monty. You do it. I’m a bundle of nerves here!”
I snapped the gloves on and drew the papers out of the box.
The first was a message in English. “Reinhold Schellenberg. Stay in the monastery and say your prayers. I repeat, do not leave the monastery. You have destroyed the church. Do not tempt me to destroy you.”
The second was in German. My rough translation was: “Father
Schellenberg. You have failed your homeland, you have failed your church, and you have failed yourself. You have caused others to fail in their faith. God damn you. If I am provided with the opportunity, I will kill you. Know that, and govern yourself accordingly.”
There were no envelopes and no dates.
Michael O’Flaherty’s face was white. “There were threats against him before! Someone must have been waiting for him to leave the monastery, to travel somewhere. If only we had known, we would have done something to try to protect him!”
“You don’t remember when you first saw the chessboard?”
“The first time I noticed it was when I saw Father Schellenberg playing with Colonel Bleier.”
“Exactly.”
“So you think it was Bleier?”
“I don’t know what to think, Michael.” I filled him in on the conversation Brennan and I had had with
Frau Professorin Doktor
Schliemann in Frankfurt. His blue eyes were as wide as those of a child hearing a bedtime story.
“I’d keep that board out of sight for now, Mike. We’ll turn it over to the police. But in the meantime, find a little hiding place for it.”
“Oh, I will! You can be sure. That poor soul! We can’t tell from the notes whether the threats relate to his time with Pope John at the Council, or his time afterwards when he returned to a more traditional stance. Change your position and you have double the enemies!”
“That reminds me of something else I meant to check. Do you have any information on the popes? I’m thinking of John XXIII and Paul VI.”
“The popes of the Vatican Council. I have a little set of cards, Monty. Not a lot of information on each one, but here you go.” He dug around in a desk drawer and pulled out a packet of cards the size of bookmarks, showing pictures and short biographical sketches of each of the popes.
I found Pope Paul. The photo showed a man with short dark hair on the sides, bald on top; he had black eyebrows and a long nose. It was a dignified, intelligent face. “Giovanni Battista Enrico Antonio Maria Montini was born in 1897 to an upper-class Italian family. After ordination in 1920 his studies included diplomacy and canon law. He
spent some time in Warsaw, then returned to the Vatican where he worked for the Secretariat of State for thirty years. During World War II he was responsible for relief work and the care of political refugees. Montini was appointed archbishop of Milan and became known as the ‘archbishop of the workers.’ When he succeeded John XXIII in 1963, he was committed to continuing John’s work on the Second Vatican Council. Paul’s encyclicals on celibacy (1967) and birth control (1968) are still controversial today and tend to overshadow the other accomplishments of this gentle and brilliant man. He died in 1978.”