I’d anticipated a cool reception. Reaching into my shoulder bag, I withdrew a sealed envelope containing a photocopy of Kessler’s print, stepped forward, and held it out.
“Please give this to Father Morissonneau. I’m certain he’ll see me.”
A scarecrow hand snaked from the robe, snatched the envelope, then signaled that I should follow.
The monk led me through the orange door, across a small vestibule, and down a lavishly paneled hall. The air smelled like Monday mornings in the parochial schools of my youth. A melange of wet wool, disinfectant, and wood polish.
Entering a library, my host gestured that I should sit. A flattened palm indicated that I should stay.
When the monk had gone I surveyed my surroundings.
The library looked like a set transported from a Harry Potter movie. Dark paneling, leaded-glass cabinets, rolling ladders going up to third-story shelves. Enough wood had been used to deforest British Columbia.
I counted eight long tables and twelve card catalogs with tiny brass handles on the drawers. Not a computer in sight.
I didn’t hear the second monk enter. He was just there.
“Dr. Brennan?”
I stood.
This monk was wearing a white cassock and a brown overgarment made up of rectangular front and back panels. No cape.
“I am Father Sylvain Morissonneau, abbot of this community.”
“I’m sorry to come unannounced.” I held out my hand.
Morissonneau smiled but kept his hands tucked. He looked older, but better-fed than the first monk.
“You are with the police?”
“The medical-legal lab in Montreal.”
“Please.” Morissonneau made a hand gesture identical to that of his colleague. “Follow me.” English, with a heavy quebecois accent.
Morissonneau led me back down the main corridor, across a large open space, then into a long, narrow hall. After passing a dozen closed doors, we entered what appeared to be an office.
Morissonneau closed the door, and gestured again.
I sat.
Compared with the library, this room was spartan. White walls. Gray tile floor. Plain oak desk. Standard metal file cabinets. The only adornments were a crucifix behind the desk, and a painting above one row of cabinets. Jesus talking to angels. And looking considerably more fit than in the carved wooden version hanging over the desk.
I glanced from the canvas to the cross. A phrase popped into my head. Before and after. The thought made me feel sacrilegious.
Morissonneau took the straight-back desk chair, laid my photocopy on the blotter, laced his fingers, and looked at me.
I waited.
He waited.
I waited some more.
I won.
“I assume you have seen Avram Ferris.” Low and even.
“I have.”
“Avram sent you to me?”
Morissonneau didn’t know.
“No.”
“What is it Avram wants?”
I took a deep breath. I hated what I had to do.
“I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news, Father. Avram Ferris was murdered two weeks ago.”
Morissonneau’s lips formed some silent prayer, and his eyes dropped to his hands. When he looked up his face was clouded with an expression I’d seen too often.
“Who?”
“The police are investigating.”
Morrissonneau leaned forward onto the desk.
“Are there leads?”
I pointed at the photocopy.
“That photo was given to me by a man named Kessler,” I said.
No reaction.
“Are you acquainted with Mr. Kessler?”
“Can you describe this gentleman?”
I did.
“Sorry.” Morissonneau’s eyes had gone neutral behind his gold-rimmed glasses. “That description fits many.”
“Many who would have access to this photo?”
Morissonneau ignored this. “How is it you come to me?”
“I got your name from Yossi Lerner.” Close enough.
“How is Yossi?”
“Good.”
I told Morissonneau what Kessler had said about the photo.
“I see.” He arched his fingers and tapped them on the blotter. For a moment his focus shifted to the photocopy, then to the painting to my right.
“Avram Ferris was shot in the back of the head, execution style.”
“Enough.” Morissonneau rose. “Please wait.” He gave me the palm-stay gesture. I was beginning to feel like Lassie.
Morissonneau hurried from the room.
Five minutes passed.
A clock bonged somewhere down the hall. Otherwise, the building was silent.
Ten minutes passed.
Bored, I rose and crossed to examine the painting. I’d been right but wrong. The canvas and crucifix did constitute a before-and-after sequence, but I’d reversed the order.
The painting depicted Easter morning. Four figures were framed by a tomb. Two angels sat on an open stone coffin, and a woman, probably Mary Magdalene, stood between them. A risen Jesus was to the right.
As in the library, I didn’t hear Morissonneau’s entry. The first thing I knew he was circling me, a two-by- three-foot crate in his hands. He stopped when he saw me, and his face softened.
“Lovely, isn’t it? So much more delicate than most renderings of the resurrection.” Morissonneau’s voice was altogether different than it had been earlier. He sounded like Gramps showing photos of the grandkids.
“Yes, it is.” The painting had an ethereal quality that really was beautiful.
“Edward Burne-Jones. Do you know him?” Morissonneau asked.
I shook my head.
“He was a Victorian English artist, a student of Rossetti. Many Burne-Jones paintings have an almost dreamlike quality to them. This one is titledThe Morning of the Resurrection. It was done in 1882.”
Morissonneau’s gaze lingered a moment on the painting, then his jaw tightened and his lips went thin. Circling the desk, he set the crate on the blotter and resumed his seat.
Morissonneau paused a moment, collecting his thoughts. When he spoke his tone was again tense.
“The monastic life is one of solitude, prayer, and study. I chose that.” Morissonneau spoke slowly, putting pauses where pauses wouldn’t normally go. “With my vows, I turned my back on involvement in the politics and concerns of this world.”
Morissonneau placed a liver-spotted hand on the crate.
“But I could not ignore world events. And I could not turn my back on friendship.”
