Neither of us took any pleasure in seeing Marguerite’s face as the shock hit her full force.
... there’s someone who’ll stand beside you.
Turn around, look at me.
And there’s someone who’ll love and guide you.
Turn around, look at me.
— Jerry Capehart, “Turn Around, Look at Me”
I
My client and I stood in the parking lot of St. Bernadette’s, looking at the church. “I wonder if Marguerite had a moment of doubt about coming here tonight,” Brennan mused. “Do you suppose it entered her head that I was the killer and she was next?”
“If she was afraid of you, she covered it well.”
“She would. Well, everyone will know soon enough. I’m not a scary guy.”
The words came to me then, from Moody Walker: “A real scary Irish guy.” That encounter still haunted me. I grasped Burke’s arm and spoke quietly: “Brennan, what was going on with that young girl up at Mount A, the one whose boyfriend you beat up?”
He sighed and looked into my eyes. “That was my daughter, Monty. That creature had hurt my little girl.”
“Your
daughter!?
”
“My child, mine and my girlfriend in New York. My girlfriend Sandra.” There was no point in telling him I knew Sandra. And hadn’t
I heard something else just recently about the birth of the child? It would come to me. Burke continued: “I nearly passed out when Eileen asked if my child was here in Nova Scotia. This killer knows my little girl? Fortunately, for all of us, she does not.”
“So it wasn’t this little Natalie...”
“No. I don’t even remember Natalie.” He was silent for a few moments, then took up his story again: “I wasn’t supposed to know where our baby had been placed for adoption. It was confidential. But I found out. The Catholic Church has a long reach! I’m sure Sandra has no idea where the child is or who the adoptive parents are; she didn’t want to know. It was her decision to place the baby here. Maybe she thought it was a safer place to grow up. People aren’t running around carrying guns here. I don’t know. We weren’t on speaking terms. But I had to know the baby was going to be all right. And she was. A beautiful family, the most loving parents you could ask for. I never went near them, or her. Just heard from time to time that the little one was doing fine. Till I was told that she had gone to Mount Allison on a music scholarship — of course! — and had fallen in with this ne’er-do-well of a boyfriend. I heard he had hit her and knocked her down a set of stairs. Then apologized, as they all do: ‘It will never happen again.’ Fuck that. It always happens again. I decided to make sure it didn’t. Her parents probably knew nothing about it. You know what kids are like when they go off to college. They sure as hell don’t fill the parents in on what they’re up to. So I took it upon myself to do her father’s dirty work for him, and leave the family in blissful ignorance. Problem solved. And I’d do it again.”
I stood there, nodding. I knew the question was inane and probably inappropriate, but curiosity won out. “So, who does she look like?”
Far from being offended, Brennan seemed tickled to be asked. “I’d say Sandra’s face, my colouring. Not as tall as Sandra. And too thin when I saw her. I did stop in to hear her play the violin here in Halifax before I went on my mission. And I had seen her perform once before. I was an anonymous smiling face in the audience. I’m sure her parents are very proud.”
I smiled at him. “I’m sure they are.”
“So you can see why I was so desperate to know whether that incident was going to come out in court. If it had turned out that this
Myers was involved in the killings, or if the fight was going to surface in court, I’d have pleaded guilty to the murders rather than drag her name into this. Nobody must ever know I’ve been watching out for her. She’s the only one in this world I would protect by giving up my life.” I stood staring at him. I knew he meant it.
It occurred to me then that the police might have unearthed this information, and that might explain why Karl Schenk had not used it on rebuttal. It would have corroborated the Crown’s theory on motive, but it might also have engendered sympathy among the jurors. I would never know.
“Monty, I’m more grateful than I can ever say, for all you’ve done.” He put his hand out and we shook. Then he pulled me towards him for a quick embrace. “Poker night Wednesday. Mass in the ancient tongue Saturday morning. Be there. I’m thinking of conscripting you as an altar boy. God knows, you look the part. So start brushing up on your Latin.” Unfazed by what must have been a look of astonishment on my face, he continued: “You’ve done your job, for me. Now I’ll do mine, for you.” He started away, then turned. “Oh, and you’d better start bringing your own little daughter to Mass, so she can put a name to what she already knows.”
II
Over the next few days a frenzy of publicity erupted. My client was exonerated, and the entire legal apparatus went into gear again, this time for somebody else. Brennan and I turned down requests for interviews and, as we had from the beginning, we referred all reporters’ calls to Rowan Stratton.
Brennan had missed his chance to be guest conductor of the Halifax Symphony and the Recordare Chorus in Mozart’s
Coronation Mass;
there was not enough time for him to prepare. But Rowan stopped by my office one day to tell me Brennan would have a spot in the program after all. The symphony’s conductor had graciously offered to put the
Kyrie in D Minor
back in the program and have Brennan conduct that little segment. He was happy to accept, and he had embarked on a hectic rehearsal schedule with the performers.
I was pleased to hear it. “That should do him the world of good, take his mind off what he’s been through.”
“Most certainly. He is talking about scheduling a choir school concert as well, a few months down the road. So he is on the mend.” Rowan got up to leave, then paused. “I was speaking last night to an old, old friend of Brennan’s, and more recently of yours, I dare say.”
“Oh?”
“Sandra Worthington called to express her relief at the way things had turned out. Said she had never doubted him. Good of her, I thought. But of course she knew him well enough to know he wasn’t a killer. I had no doubts myself, it goes without saying. How about you, Montague?” Rowan gave me a cynical look.
“I doubt everybody, Rowan. I’d be no good to you otherwise.”
“Sandra tells me she’s flying up here in a few weeks’ time. Not here exactly. She’s renting a car and going to the old place in Chester. I got the impression the property may be about to change hands. When her grandparents died, it passed to their son, Sandra’s uncle. Not sure what the story is now. Sylvia and I will drive out there to see her. Sandra asked me to pass along her congratulations, by the way, for the work you did on the case. So, there you have it.”
Chester is only forty minutes from Halifax. I would make a point of getting the dates of her visit from Rowan. I thought about Sandra. I had taken a shine to her in New York, when she had filled me in on her history with Burke, and we had shared some laughs over a bottle of wine. Just then I recalled what I had been trying to remember when Brennan spoke of protecting his daughter. With all the drama that had unfolded in the murder case, I had never followed up on the information Sister Dunne had given me, about the maternity nurse who was present when Sandra and Brennan’s child was born.
I called Marguerite, who still sounded shell-shocked over the unmasking of Eileen Darragh as the murderer, and I got the nurse’s telephone number. It took a couple of tries, but later that afternoon I was on the phone with Mary Beth McConnell in Connecticut. I explained who I was and how I had obtained her number. I told her a bit about Brennan and the case, and how it had all turned out.
“Yes, I remember that poor girl. She came down with eclampsia. Hypertension, convulsions. She was so sick, and so unhappy. It was
heartbreaking. I was the nurse in charge. We were keeping a close eye on her.”
“Did anyone come to see her at all?”
“Her parents, of course, and her grandparents, I believe. So concerned. They spent as much time with her as they could during visiting hours. The poor little thing was so ill, I don’t think she even knew they were there. And the young lad, the priest.” I could tell from the nurse’s voice that she was smiling. “He was new to his job, like me. Very nervous. He wasn’t supposed to be there.” That’s putting it mildly, I thought. He was a seminarian.
“He asked me if he could come in and sit with her quietly in the nighttime. I didn’t know what his connection was. At first I thought he was her brother or something. But why be so hush-hush? I had my suspicions, but I kept them to myself. What’s the difference? He was so kind to her, even though she had no awareness of his presence. I remember looking in and he was wiping her face with a cool cloth, talking to her all the while. He was with her for... I think it was the two nights of her illness... always the same, there in his soutane, black hair falling over his forehead, holding her hand, talking quietly.
“And when the baby was born. Well! It was all I could do to keep him out of the delivery room. I mean men, fathers, go into the delivery room all the time now. As you probably know. But then? Fathers waited outside, and paced. Not that anyone ever said he was the... Well anyway, he was a nervous wreck, and the delivery was a long one. She was, of course, in bad shape afterwards. She had made arrangements beforehand about the adoption, and never wavered about that. I don’t know whether she would even remember holding her baby. But he would.”
“He held the baby?”
“Oh yes. He asked me if he could bless her... I think the baby was a girl. Maybe he wanted to baptize her. So I left the baby in the room with him and the mother that evening. Procedures are in place these days, God knows. But I was newly in charge, and he and I were both on the same side of the Tiber. That was much more of a bond then than it would be now. I knew he meant well. One of the other girls said she saw him walking back and forth in the room rocking the infant, talking and singing to her. I went in when it was time to
take the baby to the nursery. The young fellow kissed the baby’s forehead, kissed the mother, and walked out. I never saw him again.”
“And she never knew he was there.”
“She never knew.”
III
I had a lot of work to clear away. I was determined to take some time off, to unwind from the pressures of the past months, and to enjoy the company of my kids. I managed to get out of the office and stay out for an entire week late in November. Winter had come early, and there was enough snow for a couple of days of tobogganing on Citadel Hill with Normie, Tom, and Lexie. I began to recover from the stress and exhaustion of the trial, and Maura and I were able to conduct ourselves with civility.
And then it was the eighth of December, a Saturday. Brennan’s concert was scheduled for that night. The Strattons were planning to drive to Chester early in the afternoon to have a brief visit with Sandra before returning to the city for the performance. So I planned my visit for the morning. I took the old Number 3 highway and drove with the ocean on my left until I reached the turnoff to the small town of Chester. Large wooden houses with enormous sea-facing windows lined the narrow streets. I made my way past the Chester Yacht Club and across the causeway to the peninsula, where the Strattons had their cottage. The presence of a rental car tipped me off when I reached the Worthington place, a grey-shingled summer house with a veranda. And there was Sandra, all bundled up, returning from a morning walk. I got out and watched her approach. I could smell snow in the air.
“Monty!” She came over and gave me a kiss and a hug. Her cheek was pink and cold. She stood back and assessed me. “You look a little more, shall we say, bluesy than you did last time I saw you.”
“Old and haggard, you mean? I’ve been through the wringer over the last few months, and I’m sure it shows. But a visit with you will perk me up. Rowan told me you were here. What brings you to Chester at this time of year?”
“I have to decide whether to buy this place or let the family know it can go up for sale. Come inside. I’ve got a fire on.”
The cottage had a large living room with a stone fireplace and a crackling fire. Everything in the room was the colour of the seashore: the floor was the shade of sand, the walls were shell white, the furniture and other objects in the room were sea green or blue.
“Coffee or cocoa?”
“What are you having?”
“Cocoa.”
“Make it a double.”
While she waited for the milk to heat up, we chatted about New York, what was coming up at the Met, what her children were doing. When we were sipping our steaming cocoa, Sandra said: “You didn’t drive out here to tell me war stories about the murder trial, I hope.”
“No, I’ve already had all the attention I need for that episode. And a waiting room full of new criminal clients. No. I drove out here to see you.” She smiled and waited in silence. “Though there is something I want to tell you.”
“About
him,
I presume.”
“Sandra, I probably shouldn’t meddle in this. Even though you wouldn’t believe the way he’s meddled in my life, but that’s a story for another day. Sometime we’ll sit down over a few drinks and I’ll tell you about the morning he showed up at my place unannounced, in clerical dress, and found me flaked out with a woman I’d brought home.”
“Really!” She looked at me keenly. “I’m going to take you up on that; I intend to find out a lot more about this decadent life you seem to be leading. So, I suppose Bren got a leg up over this woman, to use his own words, as soon as your back was turned.”
“No, no, he didn’t. But all that can wait. As I said, I probably should leave this alone. In fact, those are the words I generally live by: let it be. One of the many things about me that my wife dislikes.”
“That, and the other women you flake out with?”
“She doesn’t sit at home nights, mourning my absence.”
I became absorbed in swirling the hot, sweet liquid around in my mug. Then I faced her. “About Brennan. I know he’s not perfect —” This brought forth an un-Worthington-like guffaw from Sandra, but
I soldiered on. “He’s not perfect, but he’s a better man than you think he is. In one way at least.”