a whisper. “Was it one of us?”
“Of course not!”
“Then who?”
“Not who, Gershom. What?”
4
Light was streaming through a high window. The abbot raised his chin, and closed his eyes against the sun. Rheinhardt thought he looked tired.
“Brother Stanislav was a good Piarist,” said the abbot. “I daresay you will consider me grudging with my praise. It does not sound very generous-‘a good Piarist’-but as far as I am concerned there is no higher commendation, no greater accolade.” The shaft of yellow light faded, and the abbot opened his eyes. “Stanislav exemplified Piarist virtues. He was humble and pious, hardworking and dutiful. He was respected by his brothers in Christ and loved by the children he taught.” As an afterthought he added, “The young are less sullied by the world and are naturally drawn toward goodness-of that I am certain.”
“Where did Brother Stanislav come from?”
“Poland.”
“Does he still have family there?”
“No. His father was impecunious and abandoned his wife and son when Stanislav was a boy. Stanislav’s mother died shortly after-God rest her soul.” The abbot made the sign of the cross. “She was, however, a devout woman, and Stanislav attended the Piarist school in Krakow. It became his ambition to dedicate his life to the service of others, and the brothers who instructed him became his inspiration. He was ordained when still a young man, and since then the Piarist order has been his only family. What do you know of us, Inspector?”
“I know only that you provide teaching for the poor.”
“We owe our existence to Joseph Calasanz.” The abbot gestured toward a portrait that hung behind his table. It was an oil painting, darkened with age, that showed an old monk with gentle eyes. “He pledged to assist the needy, but, being a practical man, he wanted to offer them more than just his prayers. He believed that the provision of a good, free education would give children born into poverty a better start in life. Thus, when our order was recognized by Pope Gregory XV, all Piarist monks were bound to take a fourth vow in addition to the usual three: that of complete devotion to the gratis instruction of youth.”
The abbot smiled, quietly satisfied with this compressed history.
“Did Brother Stanislav talk to you very much about the children in his classes?”
“Yes. He was always talking about them: how Johannes had mastered his algebra or Franz Xavier his Latin grammar. He enjoyed their little triumphs as though they were his own.”
“And what about children who were difficult… problematic?”
“How do you mean, ‘problematic’?”
“Children who misbehaved.”
“Brother Stanislav was an experienced teacher. He had no difficulty maintaining discipline in his classes.”
“But what if a child did misbehave? Would he punish such a child?”
“Yes, of course.”
“How?”
“Penance-the setting of a repetitive written exercise-or prayers for forgiveness.”
“And if the child still misbehaved?”
“Well, the child would have to be disciplined.”
“In what way?”
“The birch… across the fingers of the left hand.” The abbot observed Rheinhardt shifting uncomfortably in his seat. “Inspector, if our pupils are to make the most of what we are trying to offer them, it is imperative that they are well behaved. Moreover, it would not be fair to the other children if we let miscreants run wild.”
“How often are children punished in this way?”
“Very infrequently.”
“About ten or fifteen years ago… was there anyone here-a child-whom Brother Stanislav had to punish repeatedly?”
The abbott leaned back in his chair, brought his hands together, and focused his gaze on his fingertips. His brow cracked like dry parchment.
“No. I cannot remember a child like that, not at that time.”
“Then earlier, perhaps?”
“Many years ago-perhaps twenty or so-we had to expel a boy called Richard Kahl.”
“What did he do?”
“He was a bully and a thief.”
“Did Brother Stanislav punish him?”
“We all did.”
“Do you know where he is now, this Kahl?”
“In the Saint Marxer cemetery.”
“He’s dead?”
“Yes. He became a drunkard and strangled his wife.” The abbot made the sign of the cross again. “A tragedy… a great tragedy.” Looking up, the old man continued, a note of desperation catching in his throat. “Inspector, surely you are not thinking that one of our pupils is responsible for Brother Stanislav’s murder?”
“I must consider all possibilities, Father.”
“God preserve us.”
“Perhaps you would be so kind as to ask some of the other monks if they can remember any child whom they think might have harbored ill feelings toward Brother Stanislav?”
The abbott nodded.
“Did Brother Stanislav’s ministry bring him into contact with individuals suffering from mental illness?”
“He visited hospitals during the course of his work.”
“Was he ever threatened?”
“By a lunatic?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t know. It is possible.”
“If he had been threatened, would he have told anyone-a fellow Piarist in whom he confided?”
The abbot shook his head. “Stanislav treated all his brothers in Christ equally. He did not cultivate special friendships.” Then, after a lengthy pause, he said, “Inspector? Have you ever encountered anything like this before? What I mean to say is… Brother Stanislav’s head?” He winced as he recalled the decapitation and blood. “It looked as if his head had been ripped from his body.”
“I have seen many terrible things, Father.”
“But this… have you seen anything quite like this before?”
“No, Father. I haven’t.”
“If I didn’t know better…” The old man clenched his fist and pressed his knuckles to his lips.
“What?” Rheinhardt prompted.
“If I didn’t know better,” the abbot repeated, “I would say it was the work of the devil.”
Rheinhardt rose from his chair. “Thank you for your assistance, Father.”
Before closing the door, Rheinhardt paused. The abbot’s eyes must have been registering the room in which he was seated, but what he was actually seeing in his mind was clearly something quite different: a hideous force, come from hell to unleash its evil power on the doorstep of his church.
