strings?'
'I don't know, and he couldn't find out. But Antonin was in what you might call internal exile for a year or so before he was transferred here.' When Brunetti remained silent, she said, 'Usually, when they're sent back like that – under a cloud, as it were – they stay where they've been sent for far longer, often for the rest of their careers.'
'Why was he removed?' Brunetti asked.
'He was accused of running a scam’ she said, then added, 'I should have told you that to begin with, I suppose.'
'What sort of scam?'
'The usual thing they do in Africa and in lots of the missions in the Third World: letters back home, telling how great the need for help is, how little they have, and how poor the people are.' To Brunetti it sounded so very much like the letters Antonin had sent to Sergio.
'But Padre Antonin's mission moved into the modern age’ she said with something like admiration in her voice. 'He set up a website with photos of his jungle parish and his happy congregation filing into church for Mass. And the new school that had been built with donors' money’ She tilted her chin and asked, 'When you were a boy, Signore, did you get to ransom babies?'
'Ransom?'
'With the little cardboard collection box that you put your pocket money in, and the money went to ransom a pagan baby and save him for Jesus?'
‘I think they had them at school, but my father wouldn't let me give them anything’ Brunetti said.
'We had them, too,' she said, failing to say whether she had or had not contributed to the salvation of pagan souls for Jesus. There was something she wasn't telling him; he had no idea what it was, but he had no doubt that it would soon be revealed. 'Padre Antonin used the same tactic on his website’ she explained. 'By sending money to a bank account, you could pay for the education of a child for one year.'
Brunetti, who had a number of Indian orphans in his fiscal care, found himself growing uncomfortable.
'He spoke of education and vocational training, not about religion, at least on the website’ she explained. Then, before he could ask, she said, ‘I suppose he assumed that people who consulted a website would be more interested in education than in religion.'
'Perhaps’ Brunetti said, then asked, 'And?'
'And then the whole thing blew up when someone looking at the website noticed that the photos of Antonin's happy congregation were also used on the site of a school run by some bishop in Kenya. Not only that, but the pious stories of hope and faith were the same, as well.' She smiled. ‘I suppose they thought there would be no ecclesiastical cross-checking, if I might call it that.' Then, her cynicism slipping through, she asked, 'Besides, all Black people look alike, don't they?'
Ignoring this last, Brunetti enquired, 'What happened?'
'The person who noticed it was a journalist working on an article about these missionary groups.'
'A journalist with or without sympathy?' Brunetti asked.
'Luckily for Antonin, with.' 'And so?'
'And so he reported it to someone at the Vatican, who had a quiet word with Antonin's bishop, and Padre Antonin found himself suddenly transferred to Abruzzo.'
'And the money?'
'Ah, here it becomes interesting,' she said. 'It turns out that Antonin had nothing to do with the money: it all went to an account his bishop had set up in his own name, along with a percentage of the money raised by the bishop in Kenya who was using Antonin's photos. Antonin never had any idea how much money they raised: he didn't care so long as they had enough to run the school and feed the children.' She smiled at the simplicity of the man.
'He served as a kind of front man, I suppose you could say,' she went on. 'He was European, had contacts in Italy, knew people here who could design a website, and he knew how to appeal to people's generosity.' She smiled again, a cooler smile. 'If it hadn't been for the journalist, he'd probably still be there, saving souls for Jesus.'
Indignant, as much for Antonin as because of what his initial response to the story revealed about his own prejudices, Brunetti said, 'Didn't he protest? He was innocent.'
'Poverty. Chastity. Obedience’ She paused after each word. 'It seems Antonin takes them all seriously. So he obeyed the command of Rome and came back, did his job in Abruzzo. But then it seems someone found out what had really happened – the journalist probably told someone – and Antonin was sent here.'
'Has he told anyone the truth?' Brunetti asked.
She shrugged. 'He does his job, takes care of the people in the hospital, buries the dead.'
'And tries to stop people from being caught up in similar scams?' Brunetti ventured.
'So it would seem’ she said reluctantly, preferring, regardless of the evidence, to keep her suspicions of the clergy intact. She leaned forward and began to get to her feet. 'Do you want me to continue looking into Leonardo Mutti?'
Though Brunetti's best instincts warned him not to waste more time on this, he now felt he owed Antonin a favour. 'Yes, please. Antonin kept insisting that he was from Umbria, so perhaps you could see if you can find anything there.'
'Yes, Commissario’ she said, finally getting to her feet. 'Vianello told me about the little girl. Terrible.'
Did she mean the death, or the disease, or the fact that she probably died while robbing an apartment, or that no one had come to claim her? Rather than answer this, Brunetti said, ‘I can't get rid of the sight of her.'
'Vianello said the same, sir’ she said. 'Perhaps it will be better when it's settled.'
'Yes. Perhaps’ Brunetti replied. When he said no more, she left his office and went back to her own.
Three days later, a phone call from the Carabinieri substation at San Zaccaria was transferred to him. 'You the one looking for the Gypsy?' a man's voice asked. 'Yes.'
'They told me to call you.' 'And you are?'
'Maresciallo Steiner’ the man answered, and at the name Brunetti realized that the accent lurking in the man's voice was German.
'Thank you for calling, Maresciallo’ Brunetti said, opting for politeness, though he had a feeling it might not cut much ice.
‘Padrini showed me the photo your guy left, said you wanted to know about her’
'Yes, that's correct.'
'My boys brought her in here a couple of times. Usual stuff: call a female officer, wait for her to get here, then search the kid. Search the other ones that got brought in with her, too. That happened twice. Then get in touch with their parents.' A pause followed, then Steiner added, 'Or the people who say they're the parents. Then wait for the parents to come, or if they don't show up, take the kids out to the camp and hand them over. That's the procedure. No comments, no charges, and not even a little tap on the back of the wrist to remind them not to do it again.' Steiner's words suggested sarcasm, but his tone expressed only tired resignation.
'Could you tell me exactly who recognized her?' Brunetti asked.
'As I told you, two of my men. Pretty girl: didn't look like one of them. So they remembered her.'
'Could I come down there and talk to them?' Brunetti asked.
'Why? You guys going to handle the case?'
Immediately on his guard to avoid whatever turf war the Maresciallo might be imagining, Brunetti said amicably, 'I'm not sure there's much of a case to handle, Maresciallo. What I'd like to do is get a name and, if possible, an address from your records, then get a positive identification from her parents…' Brunetti paused here, then added in a tone of complicit camaraderie,'… or the people claiming to be her parents.'
All Brunetti heard was a muffled grunt from Steiner, perhaps of agreement, perhaps of appreciation. He went on. 'As soon as we have that, we can consign her body to them and close the case.'
'How'd she die?' the Carabiniere asked.
'Drowned. Just as it said in the papers,' Brunetti answered, then added, 'for once.' This time Brunetti heard a short grunt of agreement. 'No signs of violence: I figure she fell into the canal. Probably didn't know how to swim’ he said, without a thought of adding, 'poor thing.'
'Yeah, it's not like they spend a lot of time at the beach, is it?' Steiner asked, and Brunetti mumbled something
