yes?”
“Correct,” Brackett said, sounding more comfortable talking to Kaz. Most people did, which is why we’re such a good team. “The Holy See—that’s basically the same thing as the Vatican—has its own secretary of state, who governs for the Pope. There is a separate structure for the Vatican City State. Police and military functions, that sort of thing.”
“Did Monsignor Corrigan have any run-ins with Filberto Soletto, head of the police?” I asked.
“Soletto? No, why would he?”
“Don’t know,” I said. “It’s why I asked. How about you? Do you know Soletto?”
“This place is one hundred and eight acres. It takes up less than one-fifth of a square mile. His office is a stone’s throw away. Of course I know Soletto. How could I not?” Brackett crossed his legs, fidgeting with the crease of his trousers. The sole of his shoe was worn down, and I could see where his socks had been darned. It was evidently a life of genteel deprivation.
“How is his investigation going?”
“He’s decided that a Jew on the run killed Corrigan. Don’t ask me why, but he’s stuck on that idea.”
“Maybe because someone powerful told him to be?”
“That would have to be a cardinal, at least. I doubt it.”
“Oh yeah, those guys got where they are by being sweet and gentle, I forgot.”
“Listen, Boyle, that kind of talk won’t go well here, no matter how true,” Brackett said, sucking at his pipe. The tobacco smelled bad, harsh with the faint odor of burning leaves.
“Back in Boston, you know what Archbishop O’Connell’s nickname is?” I asked.
“As a matter of fact, I do. Politicians call him Number One, last I heard. You’re right, politics here can be bare-knuckle, but everything is done quietly, covered up with flowery language and lace robes. Don’t suggest involvement in murder without proof, and think it through even if you have proof. You’ll stay out of trouble that way.” The voice of experience?
“Did Soletto have a specific suspect, or was it any Jew on the run?” I asked.
“Oh, he caught the fellow,” Brackett said. “Found him hiding somewhere in the Bernini colonnades. Had blood on his coat, I think.”
“Where is he now?”
“Handed over to the Italian police. Likely dead by now.”
“I had no idea the Vatican was a dangerous place,” Kaz said, encouraging Brackett to say more.
“It was for Monsignor Corrigan,” Brackett said. “He wasn’t the type to shy away from things.”
The maid came in with a tray of bread, butter, marmalade, and cheeses, setting it down next to the coffee. As she arranged the dishes, Brackett stared silently out his window, relighting his pipe. Not a man of danger himself. He gestured for us to help ourselves, and I didn’t hesitate.
“What sort of things?” I asked, grabbing a plate.
“Some priests do their job, others have a calling. Corrigan had a calling. I guess you could say he didn’t let common sense get in the way of helping people, even if it wasn’t his business. I always thought he would be more at home working in a soup kitchen, rubbing elbows with tramps.”
“He was a lawyer in the Holy Office,” Kaz said. “How did he get into trouble helping people?”
“You’ve had experience with lawyers, no doubt,” Brackett said, permitting himself the slightest of smiles. “He volunteered for a mission to prisoner-of-war camps last year. Italian and German camps, up north. Mostly British prisoners. They collected letters for relatives, worked with the Red Cross, delivered blankets, that sort of thing.”
“Seems like he did what he was supposed to do,” I said.
“Perhaps, but he and another priest were recalled. Apparently they were working too hard at it. The bishop in charge of the visits liked to stay in fine hotels, maybe visit one camp a day, then have a nice meal with a good local wine. Corrigan went to two or three camps a day, then came back to Rome to read out the names of POWs on the
“Correct,” Brackett said, sounding more comfortable talking to Kaz. Most people did, which is why we’re such a good team. “The Holy See—that’s basically the same thing as the Vatican—has its own secretary of state, who governs for the Pope. There is a separate structure for the Vatican City State. Police and military functions, that sort of thing.”
“Did Monsignor Corrigan have any run-ins with Filberto Soletto, head of the police?” I asked.
“Soletto? No, why would he?”
“Don’t know,” I said. “It’s why I asked. How about you? Do you know Soletto?”
“This place is one hundred and eight acres. It takes up less than one-fifth of a square mile. His office is a stone’s throw away. Of course I know Soletto. How could I not?” Brackett crossed his legs, fidgeting with the crease of his trousers. The sole of his shoe was worn down, and I could see where his socks had been darned. It was evidently a life of genteel deprivation.
“How is his investigation going?”
“He’s decided that a Jew on the run killed Corrigan. Don’t ask me why, but he’s stuck on that idea.”
“Maybe because someone powerful told him to be?”
“That would have to be a cardinal, at least. I doubt it.”
“Oh yeah, those guys got where they are by being sweet and gentle, I forgot.”
“Listen, Boyle, that kind of talk won’t go well here, no matter how true,” Brackett said, sucking at his pipe. The tobacco smelled bad, harsh with the faint odor of burning leaves.
“Back in Boston, you know what Archbishop O’Connell’s nickname is?” I asked.
“As a matter of fact, I do. Politicians call him Number One, last I heard. You’re right, politics here can be bare-knuckle, but everything is done quietly, covered up with flowery language and lace robes. Don’t suggest involvement in murder without proof, and think it through even if you have proof. You’ll stay out of trouble that way.” The voice of experience?
“Did Soletto have a specific suspect, or was it any Jew on the run?” I asked.
“Oh, he caught the fellow,” Brackett said. “Found him hiding somewhere in the Bernini colonnades. Had blood on his coat, I think.”
“Where is he now?”
“Handed over to the Italian police. Likely dead by now.”
“I had no idea the Vatican was a dangerous place,” Kaz said, encouraging Brackett to say more.
“It was for Monsignor Corrigan,” Brackett said. “He wasn’t the type to shy away from things.”
The maid came in with a tray of bread, butter, marmalade, and cheeses, setting it down next to the coffee. As she arranged the dishes, Brackett stared silently out his window, relighting his pipe. Not a man of danger himself. He gestured for us to help ourselves, and I didn’t hesitate.
“What sort of things?” I asked, grabbing a plate.
“Some priests do their job, others have a calling. Corrigan had a calling. I guess you could say he didn’t let common sense get in the way of helping people, even if it wasn’t his business. I always thought he would be more at home working in a soup kitchen, rubbing elbows with tramps.”
“He was a lawyer in the Holy Office,” Kaz said. “How did he get into trouble helping people?”
“You’ve had experience with lawyers, no doubt,” Brackett said, permitting himself the slightest of smiles. “He volunteered for a mission to prisoner-of-war camps last year. Italian and German camps, up north. Mostly British prisoners. They collected letters for relatives, worked with the Red Cross, delivered blankets, that sort of thing.”
“Seems like he did what he was supposed to do,” I said.
“Perhaps, but he and another priest were recalled. Apparently they were working too hard at it. The bishop in charge of the visits liked to stay in fine hotels, maybe visit one camp a day, then have a nice meal with a good local wine. Corrigan went to two or three camps a day, then came back to Rome to read out the names of POWs on the
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