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.
5
Councillor Julius Schmidt; his nephew and assistant, Fabian; Councillor Burke Faust; and Hofrat Holzknecht were seated in one of the upper chambers of the town hall.
The agenda had been dispensed with, and a large pile of documents had now been signed and stamped with official seals. Hofrat Holzknecht was going over the paperwork, while Fabian distributed cognac and cigars.
“All in order,” said Holzknecht. The title with which he was distinguished-Hofrat-had been introduced in the eighteenth century for high officials. It had come to represent not only social elevation but the power to dispense favors (or what the Viennese referred to as protektion).
Schmidt and Faust-both councillors of the same rank-were political allies, but they were not friends. Faust was, on the whole, indifferent to Schmidt. Faust was a pragmatist, and Schmidt’s personal qualities were largely irrelevant as far as he was concerned. The reverse, however, was not true. Schmidt was acutely aware of everything that made up the person of Burke Faust, and each constituent part inspired resentment. He resented Faust’s diamond ring, his expensive wristwatch, and his edelweiss tiepin; he resented his spotless frock coat, the smell of his Italian cologne, and his relaxed, superior attitude; he resented his spacious Hietzing villa, his full head of hair, and his family fortune. But most of all, he resented the fact that Faust was almost certainly going to get the job that he, Schmidt, wanted-a key position on Mayor Lueger’s special advisory panel.
Faust had recently created a stir by writing an article for Die Reichspost on the “social question,” an eloquently argued piece of polemical writing that not only found a sympathetic audience among the mayor’s inner circle but impressed the “Lord God of Vienna” himself. Mayor Lueger needed the services of a talented propagandist, and, luckily, one had appeared. Faust had started writing his piece as soon as old Horngacher had announced that he was retiring. Schmidt had to admire Faust, albeit grudgingly. He was a consummate opportunist.
Schmidt took a cigar and held a match to its tip. He ensured that the burn was even, and then put the match out by waving his hand violently in the air. He dropped the match into a glass ashtray and stared at Faust, who was conferring with Hofrat Holzknecht.
How Schmidt wanted that job.
The successful candidate would become a confidant of Mayor Lueger, would be introduced to important people and be granted significant powers. An ambitious man might even use this privileged position to cultivate more general support among the party membership. Mayor Lueger would not last forever. His eyesight wasn’t so good these days, and there were rumors about his failing health. In the fullness of time a replacement would have to be found.
Schmidt sniffed his cognac. The fragrance seemed to enter his skull and excite his imagination. He thought of Mayor Lueger’s theatrical public appearances, his gold chain of office flashing in the sunlight, his entourage of laborers, civil servants, nuns, priests, and altar boys, the members of his inner circle, with their special green tailcoats with black velvet cuffs. Even when the mayor opened a factory, he managed to create a sense of occasion. Spectacle! How Schmidt longed to slip his arms into the silk-lined sleeves of such a tailcoat. But it would not be him going to the tailor’s. No-it would be Burke Faust.