Cecilian Vespers Read Online Free PDF Page A

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 BeverageRoom 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