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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 Kraków. 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