Death at Christy Burke's Read Online Free

give it some thought. But in the meantime, I’ve pints to pour and thirsts to slake.”
    He went back to his work, and Monty and Brennan turned to another subject of conversation, namely the differences in flavour they seemed to recognize between Guinness and Murphy’s stout. But Michael’s thoughts were on the lines that had been spray-painted on the wall of the pub. “What do you think about those messages, Monty? You’re a student of criminal behaviour.”
    “I’m out of my league here, Mike, though it strikes me that the accusations escalated over time, from ‘guilt’ or ‘guilt and guns’ in the beginning to ‘killers’ at the end. Or, as you pointed out, he may have meant ‘killer’ singular, in the possessive.”
    “Escalating, yes, you may be right. Which makes you wonder what he’ll say next. Or do!”
    Brennan said: “You’ve done enough on it for now, Sergeant. We’ve a session starting up. You can resume your investigation next time you’re in.”
    Michael had a mouthful of questions but they would have to wait. At the far end of the room a group of musicians took their seats, and the session started up. Mandolin, tin whistle, fiddle, and bodhran. Fresh drinks materialized in front of Michael and his cronies; they sat back with their glasses and enjoyed the music. Still, Michael’s mind was abuzz with other matters. The allegations of murder scrawled on the pub wall. The vanished preacher. And the upcoming introduction to Father Leo Killeen. Michael knew that Brennan’s father, Declan Burke, had been involved in the “politics” of his day in Ireland, and that he had spirited his family out of the country in the dead of night as a direct result of that involvement. He knew something else too: Leo Killeen had been Declan Burke’s commanding officer in the IRA before discovering his vocation to the priesthood. What was Killeen doing in the North? Michael felt a little frisson of excitement. He didn’t intend to miss a thing.
    And there was something else. The cream in the cocoa, really. Not only was Michael on holiday in Ireland with his two closest male friends, he was also going to be seeing . . . Kitty Curran. Sister Kitty Curran was a native of Dublin, and she had done missionary work in some of the poorest and most war-torn areas of the globe. She now worked in the heart of the Vatican, with one of the church’s peace and development organizations. It was in Rome that she and Brennan had become friends. The nun had paid a short visit to Halifax earlier in the year, at Brennan’s urging. She and Michael had hit it off right from the start. And why not? Two people in middle age — well, a little past that in Michael’s case. Two people living consecrated lives. It was only natural for them to get along. He gave his watch a discreet glance.
    “Don’t be fretting now, Michael. She hasn’t stood you up.” That was Brennan. Wouldn’t you know he’d catch Michael checking the time.
    “We should have met her at the airport, Brennan. Helped her with her bags, a taxi, all that.”
    “Kitty has been carrying her own bags around the world since she left this country for Africa as a newly minted nun in the 1960s. Rumour has it she took over the controls of an old turboprop that had been hit by gunfire in the Belgian Congo. She’s well able to look after herself.”
    “Ah, now, Brennan. That doesn’t mean we can’t be gentlemen.”
    Brennan leaned towards Michael and spoke with urgency. “Let’s clear out now, while we still can. Give her the slip. She’ll only break your heart, Michael.”
    “Have you ever thought that’s why men go into the priesthood, Brennan? So they won’t have their hearts broken?”
    “Maybe that’s it. I know it’s worked for me.”
    “Has it now.”
    Brennan did not reply, but took a long sip of his John Jameson.
    They listened to the band’s final number before their break, a haunting piece on the tin whistle called “The Lonesome Boatman.”