Celt abd Pepper

184 Pages·2014·0.63 MB·English

by  McInerny Ralph

The author and publisher have provided this e-book to you for your personal use
only. You may not make this e-book publicly available in any way. Copyright
infringement is against the law. If you believe the copy of this e-book you
are reading infringes on the author’s copyright, please notify the publisher
at: us.macmillanusa.com/piracy.
Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Epigraph
Prologue
Part One
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Part Two
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Epilogue
Also by Ralph McInerny
Copyright
For Kevin and Helen Cawley
Plots were seldom original: with fair frequency, there was the irrepressible, all-betraying sneeze
in the dusty attic, or the pepper flung in the assailant’s eyes.
—Shirley Hazzard, GREENE ON CAPRI
PROLOGUE
Winter is the season when the University of Notre Dame, now in the third
millennium, most resembles its nineteenth-century origins. It was a bleak winter
day in 1842 when Father Sorin arrived at the site of the future university and
then as now a frigid wind came from the northwest and shook the leafless trees.
Great drifts of snow descended from the log chapel to the frozen lake. Only a
visionary could have seen a university rising from that snow-covered ground.
There are countless more buildings now and for most of the year there is
incessant activity on campus. While classes are in session ten thousand students
reside in the dorms and other housing provided for them; they fill the dining
halls and hurry from class to class along the campus walks. In May, after the
graduation ceremonies are over, there is a slight lull, punctuated only by
weddings in the campus church, but before the month is out a seemingly endless
series of activities enlivens the campus. Flag-twirlers gather, crash courses in
Catholicism are given, charismatic rallies are held, conferences convene,
thousands of kids take part in sports programs, and wistful alumni wander about
the campus, trying to get their bearings in the new Notre Dame. But winter is
different.
The midyear break runs from the second week in December to the third week
in January, and the exodus from campus is almost total. The Morris Inn closes,
the University Club shuts its doors, campus eateries keep irregular hours; the
foreign student who has remained on campus, too far from home to go there,
finds food difficult to get. The classrooms in DeBartolo and elsewhere are
abandoned. In Decio and Molloy, the odd professor can be found in his office,
but he is unlikely to answer a knock on his door. The thirteen floors of the
library are all but deserted.
North of the library, beyond the intervening quartet of residence halls, two
towers rise, built originally to house students, but lately converted into offices.
Grace accommodates the continuing metastasis of administrative activities,
Flanner houses the University Press, a center or two, but largely faculty offices.
Emeriti can be found there, moving arthritically about, but several floors are
occupied by active faculty, by and large independent types who eschew Decio,
attracted by this location, away from the center of things—eccentric, as one
might say. A reclusive philosopher, experts in Dante, random members of Celtic
Studies, are quartered there. It was in an office on the seventh floor of Flanner
that the body of visiting professor Martin Kilmartin was discovered one January
afternoon during the midsemester break.
*
“Don’t die between semesters,” Father Carmody advised Roger Knight. “Above
all, don’t die in a campus office.”
Prompted by the discovery of Kilmartin’s corpse, the old priest had been
recounting lugubrious stories of campus deaths of yore, especially when the
deceased had not been discovered for some time. In one such tale, Father
McAvoy, the archivist, had been found in his office in the library on a Monday,
having died most likely on the previous day.
“That was quick,” Father Carmody added. “There have been some others…”
He stopped when Roger lifted a hand. “Of course Joe Evans is a special case.”
“Joe Evans?”
“Director of the Jacques Maritain Center. A legendary bachelor don. But he
lived off campus and was found dead in his apartment. In August. August is
another bad month to die.”
“What month would you recommend, Father?”
“October,” Carmody said without hesitation. “Mid week in October. The
funeral can be held on Saturday morning. A hundred thousand fans on campus!”
Father Carmody was of an age, eighty on his last birthday, and doubtless
found thoughts of death congenial enough. Often in talking with the old priest,
Roger had the sense that Carmody felt somewhat posthumous already. But
events like the discovery of young Kilmartin’s body revived him.
“Did you know him, Roger?”
“I had hoped to know him better. We really talked only once.” Roger shook
his head. “There seemed no need for haste. I love his poetry.”