Free The Mazovia Legacy by Michael E. Rose Page A

practice, but now he turned his gaze to Natalia to gauge her woman’s reaction. She was shaken, and looked it. The priest offered no further information or explanation. He did not ask any more about their connection to the dead man. The death, apparently, was all the news he was willing to give, the end of the story he was willing to tell.
    â€œHe’s dead,” Natalia repeated.
    â€œ Oui, madame. ”
    â€œWhen did he die?”
    â€œSome time ago, madame .”
    â€œBut when exactly?” she insisted, looking over at Delaney with fear in her eyes. Stay cool, Delaney told her wordlessly. Stay on it.
    The priest stood silently, angrily, for a few moments before speaking.
    â€œYou are friends of Father Bernard?” he asked.
    â€œWell, my uncle was his friend,” Natalia said. “Stanislaw Janovski. And my uncle has died too and I know he would have wanted Father Bernard to come to his funeral and when he did not come I telephoned to find out why.”
    â€œWas Father Bernard your uncle’s confessor?”
    â€œNo. A very old friend.”
    â€œHe did not come because he was dead, madame, ” the priest repeated.
    â€œBut when did he die? What happened to him?” Natalia asked again.
    â€œWhy does that matter to you? He was an old man. As your uncle was probably an old man. Le bon Dieu called them both and now they are gone,” the priest said.
    He looked over their shoulders into the parking lot and then back over his own shoulder into the dark hallway behind him. Delaney thought he could make out the dim form of the Ursuline housekeeper deep in the shadows.
    â€œLook,” Delaney said. “My friend here just wants a little information about what happened to Father Bernard. Her uncle was very close to him and she would like to know a little about the circumstances of his death. Why would that be a problem?”
    The priest had clearly decided he did not like this tall anglophone with a beard.
    â€œI did not say it was a problem, monsieur .”
    â€œThen why not just tell us what happened?” It was apparently easier for the priest to give them the information than to tell them why doing so might be a problem.
    â€œFather Bernard met with an unfortunate accident,” he said.
    â€œWhat kind of accident?” Delaney suspected that the news was not going to be good, that somehow the news would be very, very significant, for Natalia and, by extension now, for himself.
    â€œHe drowned, monsieur .”
    â€œDrowned,” Delaney repeated. “He drowned.”
    â€œOui, monsieur.”
    â€œIn the wintertime.”
    â€œWhen? When did he drown?” Natalia seemed very alarmed now. Her eyes had widened and she looked over at Delaney briefly.
    â€œIt was in January. About four weeks ago.”
    â€œWhat date? What date was it, please?” she asked.
    â€œThe date? Well, madame, that is hard for me to remember.”
    â€œWhat week? What week? The second week?”
    â€œYes. I think that would be correct. Yes, the second week of January.”
    â€œWhat date? What day?”
    The priest looked intently at her and then at Delaney. He could clearly see her distress, but he just as clearly did not want to know why she was distressed. Delaney knew that a priest of this vintage would be unused to being questioned. There would be far too much questioning going on nowadays, in his view. This priest would prefer the days when the Catholic Church in Quebec was above question, when the authority of priests was unquestioned, when two young people, who were not French Canadians and possibly not even Catholics, would not dare to stand on his doorstep and demand information.
    He would be wishing for a return to the old days, before the Quiet Revolution when the new Liberal government after Premier Duplessis’s death had changed everything, had taken control of the schools and the hospitals and the charities away from the Church and