FIFTEEN

Fino Alla Fine Dei Tempi 

I stopped my incessant pounding when the latch to the front door began rattling. The door itself was thick oak, scarred and knotted, stained to a dark luster, and it creaked loudly when it opened, thirsty for oil.

“What is it ya want then, pounding at the door like it’s yer own an’ to do with as ya please?” the woman who answered said irritably. Her eyes were locked on the wood, roving up and down, and she placed her hand at chest height and caressed the oak, as though I’d done it great harm and she was there to find the wounds and provide comfort.

“Mrs. McParlin,” I said.

She pulled her eyes from the door and frowned, the lines in her face deepening, trying to connect the voice and now the face with a name but failing to do either.

By my quick reckoning, it had been almost 14 months since Caeli and I last visited the archbishop’s home. Even then, we hadn’t seen much of Uncle Jack’s housekeeper beyond a fast introduction upon our arrival and a serving of tea minutes later.

She was working hard to pull it together now.

“We’ve met before, Mrs. McParlin – a year or so ago,” I said. “My name is …”

“Hush now – don’t say another word ’til I figured it out for meself – and no more clamorin’ at the door, for the love of jaysus,” she said. “Yer like to bring the place down, old as it ’tis.”

She stepped closer, eyeing me suspiciously, as though her initial assessment of brutal door-batterer was correct. I could see her working the equation through in her head, a puzzle to be solved. Then the synapses finally fired and the curtains were swept back, the windows opened, and she stepped to her left and placed her hand on the ornate metal door handle.

I thought for an instant that she wanted to pull it shut.

“Ach, I know ye and who ye are, and likely even what ya want,” she said. “He’s not here, I tell ya, and little more than that I know, so don’t be after botherin’ me with a hundred questions, an’ me not able to answer any for ye.”

“You remember me well then, Mrs. McParlin,” I said, positioning my foot so that I could use it as wedge if she decided to try to pull the door shut.

“I said I did – just now, were ye payin’ attention. You came a’callin’ a year ago and a bit more, I believe, with Himself’s niece, it was. Her name is Caeli … Caeli Brown, it is – a lovely thing, pretty as an Irish meadow, though tainted by all things American, don’t ya know.”

“Like me?”

“Exactly like you, young man. You’ve called the tune well, I’d say.”

“And I thank you for the ‘young man’ observation, Mrs. McParlin,” I said. “It’s been some time since I last heard those words. My name is Blake, by the way – in case you forgot. Max Blake.”

“Ach, I knew it all along and was only takin’ me time,” she said. “What is it then yer after here, Master Blake? The archbishop’s not in residence – hasn’t been for a few days now, little wonder. And yer young lady, Miss Brown? Why, I haven’t seen hide nor hair of her since the last time the two of you was after pesterin’ the archbishop. If you’ve lost her along the way somehow, you’ll do yerself no good lookin’ for her here, I assure ye.”

She paused, peering at me over the top of her eyeglasses, which were secured by a blue strap that draped across her shoulders.

“Ya haven’t lost her, have ye?”

“Of course not, Mrs. McParlin,” I said, thinking it better to determine what she knew before spilling my own secrets.

But she’d said something else that caught my attention, and I wanted to determine if it was merely an Irishism or a full-on slip that she hadn’t intended. Either way, I didn’t want to be left like a beggar at the door.

“You must be terribly busy or otherwise occupied,” I said, conjuring my most genuine, high-wattage smile. “I can think of no other reason why you’d forget something that’s so thoroughly Irish, Mrs. McParlin – a surprising thing to be noticed by a mere Yank.”

Apparently my smile was a bit rusty – too much time around Leonard, no doubt – and my riddle produced little more than a scowl.

“Forget? Not likely – not me,” she said, her eyes turning dark. “Just what are ye drivin’ at, I wonder.”

I should note here, for the record, that Mrs. McParlin often answers a question with another question that isn’t phrased as a question, or at least one that requires the normal punctuation at the end.

“It’s just that you haven’t invited me inside,” I said. “Whatever would the archbishop think if he knew you’d left Caeli Brown’s intended standing at the door?”

He eyes widened momentarily.

“Well now, ’tis a good thing he’s not here to see it then, nor hear of it,” she said, softening at the social oversight. “And I’ve naught a wee drop in the house to offer ye, be it tea or somethin’ else entirely. But I suppose ye can come in fer a minute – even if I’ve nothing a’tall to tell you nor provide.”

She opened the door wide enough for me to slip through, then instantly pulled it shut again and secured the lock. She led me past two rooms with closed doors to the kitchen, where she’d apparently been preparing a meal when I interrupted her day.

“Have a seat, if ye must,” she said, pointing to one of the battered wood chairs that surrounded an equally battered teak table. “I’ve chores to do, so I hope ye don’t mind that I won’t sit and talk meself silly – not that I’d be so bold.”

“Not at all, Mrs. McParlin,” I said. “Can I help you with anything? I’m happy to pitch in if there’s something I could do to ease your day.”

“Pitch in, is it.” I got the deep scowl again. “Not likely. I’m more than able to tend to me own business and need no help from the likes of you.”

She was at the stove with a large wooden spoon in hand, and she removed the lid from an iron pot that was simmering on the front burner and began slowly stirring the contents.

“Smells delightful,” I said, and in fact it did.

“Oxtail soup,” she said matter-of-factly. “Good for the teeth, and for the soul. Let me show ye the secret to good oxtail soup then, though ye must promise never to tell anyone ya got it from me.”

“Of course. Who would I tell?”

“Who, indeed, and surely not Himself.”

She set the lid on the counter, picked up a bottle of red table wine that was hidden behind canisters of flour and sugar, and poured a generous dollop into the pot.

“There it ’tis then. Pity you can’t stay, as this won’t be ready for another hour. But, like I already told ye, His Eminence is away. I’ve no insight as to where he’s gone or when he’ll return, and I’ve fulfilled me God-given duty to invite ye in, even if I’ve nothing to offer beyond the secret that was passed down from me own mother, who got it from her mother before her, may they both rest with the saints in peace.”

“Amen,” I said, and she raised an eyebrow at me, wary of a mock.

But I gave her a serious, earnest look, which gets a better workout than my genuine smile, at least when I’m working, and she nodded her head a single time and returned her attention to the stove.

“Something you said earlier, Mrs. McParlin, prompts me to ask. How many others have come these past days to ask after the archbishop’s whereabouts?” I said.

“A few, I suppose. I haven’t a list, if that’s what yer after.”

“Can you tell me whether they’re parishioners, or church officials … or the police, maybe?”

“The police, is it. What in the world would the Guards want with the archbishop, I wonder, and him only gone away on holiday?”

“So the archbishop is on vacation – is that the official line?”

“Line, is it,” she said. “That line, as you call it, comes direct from Monsignor McBride.”

I remembered McBride from our last visit. He also kept a room in the parsonage and was a confidante of Caeli’s uncle. They were about the same age, and I recalled that the two were childhood friends.

“Is the monsignor in? I’d enjoy saying hello again and perhaps asking him …”

“He’s not here now but is expected for dinner.”

“The oxtail soup.”

“And a lovely soup it ’tis,” she said.

“Mrs. McParlin, if I may,” I said. “A moment ago you mentioned that the archbishop wasn’t in residence, and you added the words ‘little wonder.’ Could you tell me what you meant?”

“Small wonder he’s gone, what with all the time he’s been after spending on matters that are of no concern to the church,” she said quickly. “Day and night he’s been occupied, he has, with little time for himself, nor for the duties he needs to be after tendin’ …”

She stopped suddenly and eyed me suspiciously, as though I’d somehow coaxed the very words from her mouth that she’d promised not to mention to anyone – certainly not to me.

“Go ahead, Mrs. McParlin,” I said. “You have my full attention.”

I can tell you this about the archbishop’s housekeeper. While thoroughly Irish, she understood the Italian term malocchio as well as any woman I’ve met. I got a full dose of the evil eye from her now – one that lasted for several uncomfortable seconds.

“Let’s just say he’s not been himself, the archbishop, and many of his duties in recent weeks have fallen to the monsignor,” she eventually said. “I’m sure the holiday, wherever he’s gone, will do His Eminence a world of good, and he’ll return to us fresh and rested and anxious to resume his mission, god willin’.”

“I’m sure,” I said.

“Yes, well, I’ve told ye what I know, which is precious little an’ more than I intended,” she said. “I’m sure you’ll be after wantin’ to take yer leave now, Master Blake, and only too happy I am to show ye out.”

The lid went back on the pot, the spoon returned to the counter, and my host was now the doorman, ready to whisk me out of her kitchen.

“I wonder, Mrs. McParlin, if you’d be so gracious as to allow me stay until the monsignor returns?” I said. “Perhaps he holds the key to the archbishop’s location, you see, and it’s imperative that we – we being Caeli and myself – locate His Eminence, and quickly. We’re getting married, you see, and I promised Caeli that I’d ask Uncle Jack to perform the ceremony.”

“Married? Married, is it – an’ by the archbishop himself? By the saints, you’d ’ve save us both a lot of time, Master Blake, had ye told me that in the first place.”

She wasn’t particularly happy, grumbling more than I thought a grown woman should – certainly more than was ladylike, even by my low standards – as the time passed and the soup simmered and a minuscule chip, unexpected and unwelcome, was discovered in a serving bowl.

But she managed some small talk, from the weather to the tonal qualities of the cathedral’s famed pipe organ to the notion that it was becoming almost impossible to find a supplier of quality bread to accompany a simple meal.

“You wouldn’t think it’d be such a bother, but what’s a cup o’ soup without a nice bit of bread to help it along?” she asked, though I don’t think that she was expecting an answer.

She mentioned Monsignor McBride in passing on two occasions but said nothing of substance about Caeli’s Uncle Jack, which I found odd.

I offered at one point to run out for some additions to supplement the meal – “Guinness or Harp, perhaps, or a bottle of something the monsignor prefers, or something you’d enjoy, Mrs. McParlin,” I said. Sadly, she told me not to bother.

My intention for asking, beyond politeness, was to check the parking area to determine if anyone had taken a particular interest in the Range Rover. I was concerned that the players who’d been following me since I’d arrived in Ireland might have somehow picked up the scent and were even now waiting for my return.

Mrs. McParlin kept an eye on an old Seth Thomas clock that hung above the stove, occasionally glancing at it and muttering to herself, scampering about but showing no signs of accomplishing much beyond using the ladle to stir the contents of the pot.

“Vespers are almost over,” she said after another spot-check of the clock. “The monsignor will be here in 5 minutes – no more nor less, mark me words,” and she pulled a round loaf of what looked like soda bread from a wooden box on the counter and slipped it into the oven.

“You’ll be off to wash yer hands then – just down the hall, to the left,” she said. “Go on – git. We don’t want to keep the monsignor waitin’ when he comes in, and you bein’ a surprise an’ all. I trust he won’t take offense and sack me – not after all these years of doin’ the poor man’s bidding.”

“Monsignor McBride will be delighted that you invited me in,” I said as I headed for the washroom. “It’s the Christian to do.”

“Sure, ’tis that. I’m certain he has much to worry about, so no proddin’ him with questions during his evening meal, if ya please.”

If the Rev. Donald McBride was surprised to see me, or disappointed or delighted or any other human emotion, he hid it well when he made his entrance exactly 5 minutes later. He shook my hand perfunctorily, assured Mrs. McParlin that she’d done the right thing by extending the church’s hospitality to a visitor from foreign shores, beckoned me to join him, said grace for the two of us, thanked the housekeeper for her service before waving her off when she asked if she could provide anything else, and waited until she’d left the room.

We both ignored the soup, though it smelled delightful and I was hungry enough to swap out my bowl for the pot that remained simmering on the stove.

“It’s Himself yer askin’ after,” he said. “Surely yer not here to arrange for His Eminence to perform somethin’ as mundane as a wedding.”

McBride was much as I remembered him from our last visit: a short, bandy-legged man with a rough-shell exterior and eyes that were as black as asphalt. He looked more like a carnival barker than a priest – the guy who lures you into the freak show. His nose was crooked, cocked to the left as though he’d been in one too many pub fights, and a thin scar lined his cheek, running diagonally toward his mouth.

I’d found his tone, even a year ago and in the presence of Caeli’s uncle, to be disconcerting. Rude, blunt, and charmless also came to mind.

Clearly, the year since hadn’t improved his disposition.

“Finding the archbishop would allow me to accomplish two things at once, the proverbial birds with a single stone,” I said, attempting to insert some congeniality into my voice to offset his brusque opening. “Caeli and I have, in fact, set our wedding date, and I can’t think of a better place to …”

“Get on then, Mister Blake,” he said, cutting me off with a flick of his wrist, the same gesture he’d used to dismiss Mrs. McParlin brief moments before. “Where is Miss Brown, exactly? Why isn’t she here with ye?”

He leaned in closer and narrowed his eyes.

“A better question, boyo, is why yer here a’tall,” he said.

I was surprised at the hostility in his voice and didn’t want to offend the man with a sharp reply. But his question got me to wondering:

Why am I here, at the parsonage – is that what he’s asking?

Or why am I in Ireland, chasing after Caeli?

I decided to play it safe.

“Caeli is searching for the archbishop,” I said. “Where she is at the moment, I can’t venture to guess, which has me concerned.”

“Another reason yer here with me then,” he said, a statement rather than a question. “To locate the archbishop’s niece.”

I didn’t respond. I’ve found that silence is upsetting to many people, especially those with uneasy dispositions, and they’ll work hard to fill in the gaps. Oftentimes what they offer is prattle. But sometimes it’s candid, even profound, and I was hoping for exactly that from the archbishop’s aide.

“Yer fiancée was here three days and maybe a half ago, I believe, for a brief period – no more than a scant few minutes,” McBride said. “She rattled on about His Eminence being in danger of sorts. I assured her that was hardly the case, so far as I knew. She then insisted I was unaware of the dangers he faced. And I showed her exactly what I’ll show ye … the very thing that sent her on her way.”

He pulled from his cassock a postcard that he set on the table and flicked with a finger, sending it shooting across the scarred teak surface.

“The Isles of Greece,” he said, in case I didn’t recognize the Aegean setting of a small fishing boat, sail unfurled, sunset behind, at port in calm waters, Greek letters stenciled on the stern.

The hand-written message on the back was telling:

Ah, Donald, the glories of the past at last. Byron was right:

‘Eternal summer gilds them yet,

But all, except their sun, is set.’

I could stay here forever – Fino Alla Fine Dei Tempi. Please don’t write, or call, or otherwise set the wolves upon me. I’ll return when ready and not an instant before.

J

“So he sent this?” I said.

He waved the question away.

“And it came … when, exactly?” I asked.

“The postmark’s on the back, directly over the stamp.”

“And it’s from Uncle Jack … you’re sure of it?”

“I’m not sure of anything, boyo,” he said. “Though in my business, that’s not always a good thing.”

“But you think this is from Uncle Jack.”

“Things are not always as they seem, Mister Blake. Ye of all people should know that.”

He sounds just like Don Vincenzo …

“And if the archbishop tells you his secrets …?”

“What the archbishop tells me is protected by the seal of the confessional,” he said.

His eyes were hard in that instant, cold and unsettling. But the moment passed, a cloud that momentarily blocked the sun, and he settled back in his chair again and half-smiled.

“What’s offered on the back is as good as I can tell ye at present – the best I know and nothin’ more besides,” he said. “Have a taste of the soup then. Mrs. McParlin, for all her faults and quirks, is a marvelous cook. It’s one of the things that keeps me here.”