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stinging creatures lay in wait. I ask you, really! What civilized person
Had I been there, Louisa would have stayed with me and we d have
contented ourselves with the shops and art galleries of Jo burg. Instead
of boarding a private plane I would have lashed myself to the pro-
pellers to prevent that! and going off to the jungle. Anyway, she
died out there. I never saw her again. After my own unsuccessful
attempt to follow her into death, I underwent years and years of
tedious therapy. How many times can you hear the word narcissism
before you want to scream and fall upon your therapist with a blunt
and heavy object? Could it be that you were in love with yourself,
Robin? We were in love with each other! And with ourselves! It was
all one and the same. Why be tiresome about it? Forgive me, I must
be boring you. Brennan, you have been silent all through my little
scene. Is it just too tawdry for you? Should I fall to my knees in the
confessional yet again?
Brennan looked over at him, not unsympathetically, I thought, but
still did not speak.
Where did religion come into all this, Robin? I asked him.
It was not just a reaction, a retreat from the world, contrary to the
trite thinking that characterized just about everyone I ever met subse-
quently. My sister and I had always been I won t say pious and I
certainly won t say saintly perhaps I could say spiritual. We came
from an old papist family. Shunned by many of the best people on
account of it, needless to say. I had always toyed with the idea of
entering an order. I knew I would never marry. Even what passes for
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the aristocracy in England these days would not have condoned the
only marriage that I ever wanted to contract. So, no interest in settling
down with a wife. There went the biggest obstacle to religious life for
me. I joined the Benedictines and spent my days tilling the fields,
tending the garden, chanting my office, and praying to God to take
me home where I could see Him, and Louisa, face to face.
I am very sorry about your sister, Robin, I said. Is there a con-
nection of some kind between her death, your grief for her, and the
death of Reinhold Schellenberg?
Not that I can see. Can you? I thought we were talking of this
note you found in my room.
We were. But naturally I wonder whether a message sent to you,
the man accused of the murder of Schellenberg, is in some way con-
nected to the case.
Can t help you there, I m afraid.
How well do you know Father Sferrazza-Melchiorre?
Robin raised his eyebrows. How well could a simple monk like
me know a worldly figure like Sferrazza-Melchiorre?
You tell me.
I have lived a monastic life. Our sartorially splendid sacerdos
clearly has not. So Mediterranean! I had never heard of the man until
I arrived at the schola cantorum.
Did you become friendly with him during the course?
We exchanged pleasantries from time to time. That is all. Why are
you asking about him? Is he a suspect? I hope he is, if you ll forgive me
for saying so. The jailhouse and the mental asylum would bring him
into intimate contact with the least of our Lord s dear brethren. A new
dimension to his vocation, I daresay. And a new, pared-down wardrobe
instead of all that clobber he s usually got on. Now Logan, the
American, poor devil, not even a Roman collar could dress him up.
Don t be thinking you can mulvather us with all this chit-chat,
Brennan admonished him. Let s get back to
My dear chap, I ve never heard you speak in your native patois,
and I must say
Don t you my dear chap me. You seem to be getting a little too
much enjoyment out of all this and your central role in it. Well, I for
one have had my fill of you. Suddenly, Burke bolted out of his chair
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and leaned into the monk s pale face. Did you, or did you not, kill
Schellenberg?
Gadkin-Falkes reared back, clutching his blanket in front of him.
Leave me! Get out!
A nurse rushed into the room. What s going on here? Are you all
right, Brother Robin?
Yes, I m quite all right, thank you. Though I do think it s time for
these men to leave.
Brother Robin needs to rest now, she told us, and stood aside for
us to leave. Burke glared at the man in the hospital bed. But the
invalid refused to meet his eyes.
Mulvather? I inquired.
Bamboozle, confuse. Trying to get us off track with all this shite
about Enrico s wardrobe. About the confession, Monty I m
thinking we should keep it to ourselves for a bit. Leave the other sus-
pects wondering whether we think Gadkin-Falkes is guilty or not.
Mum s the word.
We drove back across the harbour to St. Bernadette s.
I have to prepare tomorrow s lecture on the sacred music of
Mozart. How would you like to fill Michael O Flaherty in on our con-
versation with Gadkin-Falkes?
Sure. I ll give him a quick rundown before I head home.
I found Michael in the priests library and described our encounter
with the Englishman.
So we know a bit more about Robin now, Mike. We know he s
well aware of the prayer beads, though he refuses to admit it. And he
denies any particular interest in Saint Philomena.
The chaplet was the only item in his room that related to
Philomena, was it, Monty?
As far as I could see, yes.
Mike said: So that reinforces the impression that the Philomena
reference is about someone else.
Right. The only other reference I saw to a saint was a little
drawing of Saint Charles. Whoever he is.
What did the drawing look like?
It depicted the saint spinning in his grave. Somebody in one of the
schola classes apparently announced that he or she had heard enough
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of Palestrina. Sacrilege, in the opinion of Robin and the saint.
Well now, that would be Charles Borromeo. Sixteenth-century
Italian saint. A contemporary, and a champion, of Palestrina. Charles
is a particular favourite of clergymen, including Pope John xxiii! If my
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