Authors: Anne Emery
“No!” he cried out.
“Just kidding you, Brennan, dear. I told her what had happened with the secretary, how mortified you were, how much you love her music, and all that. And I wondered if she might consider making an appearance at the choir school, where the children might do a short piece for her and present her with a donation to her favoured charity, which supports young musicians in New Zealand.
“I figured I’d never hear back, but at least they would know that the letter was not the product Father Burke meant to send out.”
“Thank you, angel of mercy.”
“Then I got a note from the publicist, who suggested, instead of a visit to the school, a couple of pieces performed together at the concert itself. Which was good because I figured you wouldn’t want her to see the circus going on at St. Bernadette’s. I had sent along a bootleg recording of you singing with the choirs, Brennan. And a picture of you, a good one. Not sure which of those items might have turned the tide. But you should know that she was very keen on this and did it willingly, no pressure from this end.
“Normie got you practising the piece. I contacted the school and the members of the men’s choir, and swore them to secrecy. It’s a surprise to Monty as well, Brennan.”
“Oh, yeah. I didn’t see this coming at all,” Monty agreed.
“Collected ticket money, and money for the donation, and made the reservations. And the rest is history.”
“Oh, my God in heaven, it’s so brilliant!” Burke put down his wineglass and threw his arms around her, squeezed her tight, and kissed her on the cheek. “If I were not pledged to Kiri, I would love you more than anyone on the planet.”
“I’ll take that as high praise indeed.”
“And you!” He walked over to Normie, relieved her of her glass, picked her up and swung her around. “You little pet! Telling me about your friend with consumption. Perfect subterfuge. Thank you, thank you, thank you, Normie!”
He set her down and she stood there, beaming.
“Good job, Klumpenkopf!” Tommy Douglas said, and she didn’t even flinch at the nickname, which her brother had bestowed on her because her curls were often clumps of tangles in the mornings.
She said, “I’m going to go and write a story about the big surprise in my diary!” With that, she left to scamper up the stairs to her room.
“Oh, and by the way,” Burke said, “whenever I descend from the clouds, I’ll make up whatever people put out for the donation.”
“No, Brennan, don’t even think about it.”
“I will. But for now, I shall just revel in the memory.”
“The most charming thing about it all, Brennan,” Maura said, “is that there is one person on earth, your beloved Kiri Te Kanawa, who thinks you are not the stone-faced, hard-drinking, carnally knowledgeable, tough-arse renegade
we
know, but a shy, bashful, blushing, and holy priest of God.”
“I just couldn’t . . . what to say to her, I just . . . she is so . . .”
“Let’s just leave him there stammering and have another glass of wine, shall we?”
Brennan
It was agonizing for Brennan to come down from the heights to which he had ascended in the company of Kiri Te Kanawa. But he was brought back to earth when he recalled the disturbing behaviour of Ignatius Boyle, and the reaction of Maggie Nelson to the news that Pike Podgis was in possession of a photograph of Boyle and Jordyn Snider. Brennan was torn by the irony of the situation. When he was all but certain it was Podgis alone who had killed Jordyn Snider, he would have given anything to get out from behind the screen of the confessional, in order to reveal what he thought he had known about Podgis. Now that he knew Ignatius Boyle had a sexual history with the victim and therefore might have had a sinister connection to her death, could Brennan get him behind the confessional screen and protect him somehow? Brutal Ignatius’s act had been, if he had a part in the murder, but at least in his case he had a life of hardship to perhaps explain his character and his actions.
And Brennan still wanted to find out more about the strange interlude in Boyle’s life when he awoke with the ability to discuss theological matters in French. There would be nothing untoward about a priest conducting an inquiry into that phenomenon. But how would he begin? Monty had represented Boyle in the past, when Monty was with Legal Aid. There was likely to be information in the Legal Aid files that would help in Brennan’s quest. But talking to Monty about Boyle, given the sensitive nature of what Brennan was learning about the unfortunate man, and Monty’s interest in him as an alternative suspect, was out of the question. And Brennan would never be able to pry confidential information out of Monty even without those complications.
But he was not above asking Maura MacNeil, professor of poverty law at Dalhousie Law School, some general questions about the poor and disadvantaged citizens of Halifax. It was Monday and it was blues night. He knew Monty was out having a pub supper with his band, Functus, as a prelude to wailing on the harp late into the night. Trying not to feel too underhanded, Brennan dropped in on the MacNeil family on Dresden Row.
“Father, I am not worthy that thou shouldst come under my roof. Speak but the word and my soul shall be healed.”
“Unworthy thou usually art. But you have earned yourself heaps of credit in heaven for your heroics in the Kiri Te Kanawa affair.”
He spotted Normie in the living room. “Scots wha’ hae wi’ Wallace fled!”
“Father, that’s not it! I keep telling you ‘fled’ would mean Wallace ran away. He didn’t. It’s ‘with Wallace
bled
’! They fought with Wallace, and he was a hero.”
“Oh, pardon me, Normie. I don’t know why I keep getting that wrong.”
“You’re just teasing me because I’m half-Scottish, and you don’t know how to speak Scottish!”
“I may be guilty of a wee bit o’ tha. Sorrrry, lassie.”
“You sound funny!”
“I can well imagine.”
“I’m studying my Latin words for choir!”
“Good girl yourself, Normie. I wish more of the students were like you.”
“I’m not always good, though, Father.”
“You’re well within the bounds, love, no worries. And thank you again for the concert surprise.”
“Fafa! Fafa!” Little Dominic toddled over to see him, and Brennan picked the child up and kissed his cheek. It came as a relief, though Brennan would rather be burned at the stake than allude to it, when the little lad began calling him “Fafa” for “Father” instead of “Dada” as he used to during the darkest times of Monty and Maura’s separation, when Brennan would occasionally help Maura out by looking after the children.
“Ah. Mr. Douglas.” Tommy Douglas had come up from the basement den.
“Hey, Brennan. Great concert the other day.”
“It was brilliant. Brilliant! How’s your own music career progressing?” A bluesman like his father, Tom had put together a band called Dads in Suits. Brennan had not yet heard them, but looked forward to catching them sometime soon.
“It’s going well. We have a gig coming up, St. Pat’s high school dance. And we may be part of a show at the St. Mary’s Boat Club; it’s a charity event. We’re waiting to hear.”
“Good luck with it. And here’s Lexie. How are you today, sweetheart?”
Tom’s girlfriend, Lexie, was a lovely girl with long blond curls and wire-rimmed glasses that only served to enhance her beauty, like jewellery for her light hazel eyes.
“Just great, Father. I’ve got the choir doing a Healey Willan Mass now.”
She was an accomplished organist and had taken the initiative of forming a small choir at St. Malachy’s church. Brennan helped her out with sheet music from time to time.
“I’ll stop by and listen. Willan has some very good music.” Brennan had not been aware of the Anglo-Canadian composer until coming to Halifax, and he had become a fan. “And you have to love the way he described his provenance: ‘English by birth; Canadian by adoption; Irish by extraction; Scotch by absorption.’”
“I know. Isn’t it great? And we heard some wonderful music on Saturday, Father.”
“Oh, yes. She was magnificent.”
“Don’t get him started on Kiri,” Maura admonished Lexie. “He’ll be useless for anything or anyone else for the rest of the day.”
“We’d better clear out before he really gets wound up,” Tom said, and the young couple said their goodbyes.
Normie made an ostentatious return to her Latin studies, and Dominic sat at her feet playing with a fleet of trucks.
Maura and Brennan headed to the kitchen and sat at the table.
“Drink, Father?”
“Ginger ale.”
“She’s a good influence on you, Brennan. Kiri, I mean.”
“Well, you’re not. So don’t aggravate me. I might have to go back on the batter just to endure your insolence.”
“What, I’ve used up my credit with you already? That was a short-lived indulgence.”
“Right, right. I’m just not used to you being on the good side of the ledger.”
“O ye of little faith.”
“Thank you,” he said when she placed a glass of ginger ale on the table in front of him, and returned to her seat “So, how are things?”
“Good, dear, good,” she replied in a heavy Cape Breton accent.
“Any progress since I laid down the law in God’s house in Dublin?” He was referring to the summer in Ireland, where he had launched his most recent salvo at the couple’s separation and made a heartfelt plea that they resolve their problems and reunite their family once and for all.
He expected to be put off with a flippant reply, her usual mode of defence, but she surprised him again. “Things are going well, Brennan. Monty spends a lot of time with us here and, well, I’m hopeful. And of course, we both know it’s not just Monty who’s the sticking point. I’m the one who put the kibosh on things just as we were about to reconcile. But God knows, I didn’t mean to.” Her unplanned pregnancy, the birth of Dominic, and Monty not the father. She looked out at the dark-haired little boy in the living room. “It’s difficult for Monty, and no wonder. I’ve often thought that if the situation were reversed, and he had a child by somebody else, I’d be just as resistant as he has been. There is blame enough to go around here, but everybody knows the baby is just an innocent party! Monty’s making a real effort, and I do know he is fond of Dominic.”
“I’m sure he is. What’s not to like?” Brennan twisted around and gazed at the happy little fellow with his sister, then turned back to Maura, smiling at her.
“I don’t know where you get the patience to deal with us, Brennan.”
“That is the first time, and will probably be the last, that anyone has ever used the word patience in connection with my character.”
“Get it while you can, Burke. You may never hear it, or any other compliment, from my lips again.”
“I shall hold it in my heart and treasure it for the rare gem it is.”
“So, what’s happening with you these days?”
“Stalking the saints. Part of my job description.”
“Sounds more elevated than what the rest of us do for our daily bread. What exactly do you mean?”
“I’d like to find out a bit more about Ignatius Boyle.”
“Are you sure? It seems to me every time we find out about somebody, it’s bad news.”
You have no idea.
She meant the indecency conviction. Imagine what she would say if she knew about the Polaroid photo of Ignatius naked with the young murder victim. Brennan could not think of a way that a young, beautiful girl like Jordyn Snider would willingly go with a scruffy homeless man old enough to be her father, and Monty’s words came back to Brennan: “It’s not a big step from a minor sexual offence to a more serious one.” But, Brennan reminded himself, no matter what the shameful history of that encounter might be, the photo was in the possession of Pike Podgis, the one man with the blood of the victim on his shoes. So there was nothing to say Ignatius had been the man with the knife. Brennan tried to put all that out of his mind for the time being.
“Right now, it’s Mr. Boyle’s unexplained linguistic and theological abilities I’m interested in. How would I find out something about his family life? I’ve tried talking to him.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. But I didn’t get too far.”
“How come? Doesn’t he want to talk about it?”
Brennan could hardly tell her that he had been interrogating Boyle in relation to the murder, after finding evidence in Podgis’s apartment. After breaking in with the aid of a convicted burglar. Brennan began feeling the stress of his own furtive behaviour all over again.
“Brennan, are you all right?”
“Sure I’m grand.”
“Aren’t you always?”
“You said it. So, where would I look for background information on Ignatius?”
“Well, obviously, Community Services would be involved with him because he would be on assistance. Welfare, by another name.”
“Would they talk to me? I assume all information is confidential. I should hope it is!”
“It is, of course. But if you’re just trying to find out good stuff about Ignatius, such as considering him for sainthood, they might at least talk to you. You might ask whether he has ever taken a French course in an attempt to find employment. Even that might not be available to you, but they probably wouldn’t kick you out of the office. His criminal record, though, might slow down his canonization.”
“Mmm.”
“Why don’t you go in and talk to Lena Vanherk at Community Services? She’s one of the workers there, and I’ve known her for years. Tell her I sent you. Hold on, I’ll get you her card.”
She left the kitchen, spent a couple of minutes with the children in the living room, and then returned with the business card.
†
Not one to waste time when he wanted something done, Brennan was sitting in the office of Lena Vanherk the following day. The social worker was a kind-looking woman in her mid-fifties, with an air of intelligence and competence. Brennan explained his interest in the linguistic phenomenon that occurred during the hospital admission of Ignatius Boyle. Lena told him what he had expected to hear, that all information was confidential.
“Sure, I understand that. Just thought I would ask. Have you any suggestions as to where I could look or how I could go about this?”