Quietly in Their Sleep

by Donna Leon

  She turned then, arm limp at her side, knife still in her hand, and started to scream. ‘Antichrist. I must kill the Antichrist. God’s enemies shall be ground down into the dust and they shall be no more. His vengeance is mine. The servants of God shall not be harmed by the words of the Antichrist.’ Vainly she tried to raise her hand, but as he watched, her fingers loosened and the knife fell to the floor.

  With one hand, he grabbed at the cloth of her sweater and pulled her savagely away from the bed. She offered him no resistance. He shoved her toward the door, which opened as he neared it, allowing a nurse and a doctor to push into the room.

  ‘What’s going on here?’ the doctor demanded, pausing at the door to switch on the overhead light.

  ‘Even the light of day shall not allow His enemies to hide from His just wrath,’ Signorina Lerini said in a voice made quick by passion. ‘His enemies shall be confounded and destroyed.’ She raised her left hand and pointed a shaking finger at Brunetti. ‘You think you can prevent God’s will from being obeyed. Fool. He is greater than all of us. His will shall be done.’

  In the light that now filled the room, the doctor saw the blood that dripped from the man’s hand and the flecks of spittle that flew from the mouth of the woman. She spoke again, this time to the doctor and the nurse. ‘You’ve tried to harbour God’s enemy, given her succour and comfort, even though you knew she was the enemy of the Lord. But one greater than you has seen through all of your plans to defy the law of God, and he has sent me to administer God’s justice to the sinner.’

  The doctor began to ask, ‘What’s going on ...?’ but Brunetti silenced him with a wave of his hand.

  He approached Signorina Lerini and placed his good hand gently on her arm. His voice became an insinuating murmur. ‘The ways of the Lord are many, my sister. Another shall be sent to take your place, and all His works shall be fulfilled.’

  Signorina Lerini looked at him then, and he saw the dilated pupils and gasping mouth. ‘Are you too sent by the Lord?’ she asked.

  ‘Thou sayest it,’ Brunetti answered. ‘Sister in Christ, your former works will not go unrewarded,’ he prompted.

  ‘Sinners. They were both sinners and worthy of God’s punishment.’

  ‘Many say your father was a godless man, who mocked the Lord. God is patient and all-loving, but He will not be mocked.’

  ‘He died mocking God,’ she said, eyes suddenly filled with terror. ‘Even as I covered his face, he mocked God.’

  Behind him, Brunetti heard the nurse and doctor whispering together. He turned his head toward them and commanded, ‘Quiet.’ Stunned by his voice and by the lunacy audible in the woman’s, they obeyed. He returned his attention to Signorina Lerini.

  ‘But it was necessary. It was God’s will,’ he prompted her.

  Her face relaxed. ‘You understand?’

  Brunetti nodded. The pain in his arm grew from minute to minute, and looking down, he saw the pool of blood beneath his hand. ‘And the money?’ he asked. ‘There is always great need of it in order to fight the enemies of the Lord.’

  Her voice grew strong. ‘Yes. The battle is begun and must be waged until we have won back the kingdom of the Lord. The earnings of the godless must be given to do God’s holy work.’

  He had no idea how long he could keep the nurse and doctor prisoner there, and so he risked saying, ‘The holy father has told me of your generosity.’

  She greeted this revelation with a beatific smile. ‘Yes, he told me there was instant need. To wait could have taken years. God’s commands must be obeyed.’

  He nodded, as if he found it perfectly understandable that a priest should have commanded her to murder her father. ‘And da Prè?’ Brunetti asked, casually, as though it were only a detail, like the colour of a scarf. ‘That sinner,’ he added, though it was hardly necessary.

  ‘He saw me, saw me that day I delivered God’s justice to my sinning father. But only later did he speak to me.’ She leaned toward Brunetti, nodding. ‘He was a sinful man, as well. Greed is a terrible sin.’

  Behind him, he heard shuffling footsteps, and when he looked around, both the nurse and the doctor were gone. He heard running steps disappear down the corridor and, in the distance, raised voices.

  He profited from the confusion of their noisy departure to turn his questions back to da Prè and asked, ‘And those others? The people there with your father. What were their sins?’

  Before he could think of a way to clothe his questions in the rags of her lunacy, she turned puzzled, questioning eyes on him. ‘What?’ she asked. ‘What others?’

  Brunetti realized that her confusion bespoke her innocence, so he ignored her questions and said, ‘And the little man? Da Prè? What did he do, Signorina? Did he threaten you?’

  ‘He asked for money. I told him that I had merely done God’s will, but he said there was no God and no will. He blasphemed. He mocked the Lord.’

  ‘Did you tell the holy father?’

  ‘The holy father is a saint,’ she insisted.

  ‘He is truly a man of God,’ Brunetti agreed. ‘And did he tell you what to do?’ he asked.

  She nodded. ‘He told me God’s will and I hastened to perform it. Sin and sinners must be destroyed.’

  ‘Did he ...?’ Brunetti began, but then three orderlies and the doctor came crashing into the room, filling it with noise and shouts, and she was lost to him.

  In the aftermath, Signorina Lerini was taken to the psychiatric ward, where, after the bones in her elbow were set, she was heavily sedated and placed under twenty-four-hour guard. Brunetti was put in a wheelchair and taken to the emergency room, where he was given an injection against pain and had fourteen stitches in his arm. The head of the psychiatric unit, called to the hospital by the nurse who had witnessed the scene, forbade anyone to speak to Signorina Lerini, whose condition he diagnosed, without having seen or spoken to her, as ‘grave’. When Brunetti questioned them, neither the doctor nor the nurse who had heard his conversation with Signorina Lerini had any clear sense of it beyond a vague impression that it was filled with religious ravings. He asked if they could remember his asking Signorina Lerini about her father and da Prè, but they insisted that none of it had made any sense at all.

  At quarter to six, Pucetti showed up at Maria Testa’s room and found no sign of Brunetti, though the Commissario’s raincoat was draped over a chair. When the officer saw the pool of blood on the floor, his first thought was for the safety of the woman. He moved quickly to the bed, and when he looked down, he was relieved to see that her chest was still moving as she breathed. But then, moving his eyes to her face, he saw that her eyes were open and she was staring up at him.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Brunetti learned nothing about the change in Maria Testa’s condition until almost eleven that morning and not until he arrived at the Questura, his wounded arm in a sling. Within minutes, Vianello came into his office.

  ‘She’s awake,’ he said with no introduction.

  ‘Maria Testa?’ Brunetti asked, though he knew.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What else?’

  ‘I don’t know. Pucetti phoned here at about seven and left the message, but I didn’t get it until a half hour ago. When I called your place, you had already left.’

  ‘How is she?’

  ‘I don’t know. All he said was that she was awake. When he told the doctors that she was, three of them went into her room and told him to leave. He thinks they were going to do tests. That’s when he called.’

  ‘Didn’t he say anything else?’

  ‘Nothing, sir.’

  ‘What about the Lerini woman?’

  ‘All we know is that she’s under sedation and can’t be seen.’ This was no more than Brunetti had known when he left the hospital.

  ‘Thanks, Vianello,’ he said.

  ‘Is there anything you want me to do, sir?’ Vianello asked.

  ‘No, not at the moment. I’ll go back to the hospital later
.’ He shrugged off his raincoat and tossed it over a chair. Before Vianello left, Brunetti asked, ‘The Vice-Questore?’

  ‘I don’t know, sir. He’s been in his office since he got in. He didn’t get in until ten, so I doubt that he learned about any of this before then.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Brunetti repeated, and Vianello left.

  Alone, Brunetti went back to his raincoat and pulled out a bottle of painkillers and went down to the men’s room at the end of the corridor to get himself a glass of water. He swallowed down two pills, then a third, and put the bottle back into the pocket of his raincoat. He had had no sleep the night before and felt it now, the way he always did, in his eyes, which burned with grainy irritation. He leaned back in his chair but winced as the back of his arm hit the chair, forcing him forward.

  Signorina Lerini had said ‘both’ men were sinners. Had da Prè, on one of his rare visits to his sister, seen her come from her father’s room on the day he died? And had Brunetti’s visit and the questions he asked set him thinking about that? If so, then the little man had overlooked, in his attempt to blackmail her, the sense of divine mission which filled and animated her, and in so doing had condemned himself. He had menaced God’s plan and so he had to die.

  Brunetti played the conversation with Signorina Lerini back in his mind. He had not dared, not standing in front of her and confronted with the madness in her eyes, to name the priest, and so he had only her assertion that the ‘holy father’ had told her what to do. Even her confession of the murders of her father and da Prè had been garbled with the ravings of her religious mania, so much so that the two witnesses to what was nothing less than a confession had no idea what they had heard. How, then, convince a judge to issue an order for her arrest? And, as he remembered those wild eyes and the tones of outraged sanctity with which she had spoken, he wondered if any judge would be willing to commit her for trial. Although he had seen his fair share of it, Brunetti hardly considered himself an expert on the subject of madness, but what he had seen last night felt like the real thing. And with the woman’s lost sanity fled any chance of making a case against her or against the man Brunetti was sure had sent her about her sacred mission.

  He called the hospital, but he could not succeed in being put through to the ward where Maria Testa was. He tilted forward and allowed his weight to pull him to his feet. A glance out the window told him that, at least, it had stopped raining. With his right arm, he draped his raincoat over his shoulders and left his office.

  When Brunetti saw the out-of-uniform Pucetti sitting outside the door to Maria Testa’s room, he remembered that, now that someone had tried to murder her, police protection could be provided.

  ‘Good morning, sir,’ Pucetti said, jumping to his feet and snapping out a formal salute.

  ‘Good morning, Pucetti,’ Brunetti responded. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Doctors and nurses have been going in and out all morning, sir. None of them will answer me when I ask them anything.’

  ‘Is there anyone in there now?’

  ‘Yes, sir. A nurse. I think she took some food in. At least it smelled like that.’

  ‘Good,’ Brunetti said. ‘She needs to eat. How long has it been?’ he asked, really, for an instant, incapable of remembering how long this had been going on.

  ‘Four days, sir.’

  ‘Yes, yes. Four days,’ Brunetti said, not really remembering but willing to believe the young man. ‘Pucetti?’

  ‘Yes, sir?’ he asked, not saluting, though it was difficult for him to stop himself.

  ‘Go downstairs and call Vianello. Tell him to get someone over here to relieve you, and tell him to put it on the duty roster. Then get yourself home and have something to eat. When are you on duty again?’

  ‘Not until the day after tomorrow, sir.’

  ‘Was today your day off?’

  Pucetti looked down at his tennis shoes. ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Well, what was it?’

  ‘I had some vacation time coming. So I took a couple of days. I thought I’d, er, I thought I’d give Vianello a hand here. No place to go in this rain, anyway.’ Pucetti studied a speck on the wall to the left of Brunetti’s head.

  ‘Well, when you call Vianello, see if you can get him to change that and put you back on duty. Save your vacation for the summer.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Will that be all, sir?’

  ‘Yes, I think so.’

  ‘Then goodbye, sir,’ the young man said and turned away toward the steps.

  ‘And thanks, Pucetti,’ Brunetti called after him. The only acknowledgement Pucetti made was to raise one hand in the air, but he didn’t look back, and he didn’t otherwise acknowledge Brunetti’s thanks.

  Brunetti knocked on the door.

  ‘Avanti,’ a voice called from inside.

  He pushed the door open and went in. A nun he didn’t recognize, wearing the now-familiar habit of the Order of the Sacred Cross, stood by the side of the bed, wiping Maria Testa’s face. She glanced across at Brunetti but didn’t speak. On the table beside the bed lay a tray, a half-eaten bowl of something that looked like soup in its centre. The blood – his blood – was gone from the floor.

  ‘Good morning,’ Brunetti said.

  The nun nodded but said nothing. She took a half-step forward until, perhaps accidentally, she stood between him and the bed.

  Brunetti moved to the left until Maria could see him. When she did, her eyes opened wide, and her brows pulled together as she fought to recall him. ‘Signor Brunetti?’ she finally asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What are you doing here? Is something wrong with your mother?’

  ‘No, no. Nothing’s wrong. I’ve come to see you.’

  ‘What’s wrong with your arm?’

  ‘Nothing, nothing.’

  ‘But how did you know I was here?’ Hearing the panic that came creeping into her own voice, she stopped and closed her eyes. When she opened them, she said, in a voice that trembled with her effort to force it to remain calm, ‘I don’t understand anything.’

  Brunetti drew nearer the bed. The nun shot him a glance and shook her head, a warning, if that’s what it was, that Brunetti didn’t heed.

  ‘What is it you don’t understand?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t know how I got here. They said I was hit by a car while I was riding a bicycle, but I don’t have a bicycle. There are no bicycles at the nursing home, and I don’t think we’re supposed to ride them, even if there are. And they said I was out at the Lido. I’ve never been to the Lido, Signor Brunetti, never in my life.’ Her voice grew higher and higher.

  ‘Where do you remember being?’ he asked her.

  The question seemed to startle her. She raised a hand to her forehead, just as he had seen her do in his office that day, and again she was surprised not to find the comforting protection of her wimple. With the tips of her first two fingers, she rubbed at the bandage that covered her temple, summoning thought.

  ‘I remember being at the nursing home,’ she finally said.

  ‘The one where my mother is?’ Brunetti asked.

  ‘Of course. That’s where I work.’ The nun, perhaps responding to the increasing agitation in Maria’s voice, stepped forward. ‘I think you better not ask any more questions, Signore.’

  ‘No, no, let him stay,’ Maria implored.

  Seeing the nun’s indecision, Brunetti said, ‘Perhaps it will be easier if I do the talking.’

  The nun looked from Brunetti to Maria Testa, who nodded and whispered, ‘Please. I want to know what’s happened.’

  Looking down at her watch, the nun said, in that brisk voice that people adopt when given a chance to impose their limited power, ‘All right, but only five minutes.’ That said, Brunetti hoped she would leave, but she did not, merely moved to the end of the bed and listened openly to their conversation.

  ‘You were riding a bicycle when you were hit by a car. And you were on the Lido, where you were working in a private clinic.’


  ‘But that’s impossible,’ Maria said. ‘I told you I’ve never been on the Lido. Never.’ As soon as she had spoken, she stopped and said, ‘I’m sorry, Signor Brunetti. Tell me what you know.’

  ‘You’d been working there for a few weeks. You had left the nursing home weeks before. Some people helped you find the job and a place to live.’

  ‘A job?’ she asked.

  ‘At the clinic. Working in the laundry.’

  She closed her eyes for a moment and when she opened them, said, ‘And I don’t remember anything about the Lido.’ Again, her hand moved to her temple. ‘But why are you here?’ she asked Brunetti, and he could tell by her tone that she had remembered his job.

  ‘You came to my office a few weeks ago, and you asked me to look into something.’

  ‘What?’ she asked with a puzzled shake of her head.

  ‘Something that you thought was going on in the San Leonardo nursing home.’

  ‘San Leonardo? But I’ve never been there.’

  Brunetti saw her hands clench into fists on top of the covers and decided there was little sense in continuing like this. ‘I think we better leave this now. Perhaps you’ll remember what’s happened. You need to rest, and you need to eat and get stronger.’ How many times had he heard this same woman say things just like this to his mother?

  The nun stepped forward. ‘That’s enough, Signore.’ Brunetti was forced to agree.

  He reached out with his good hand and patted the back of Maria’s. ‘It’ll be all right. The worst of all of this is over. Just try to rest and eat.’ He smiled and turned away.

  Before he reached the door, Maria turned to the nun and said, ‘Sister, I’m sorry to trouble you, but could you get me a—’ and stopped in embarrassment.

  ‘A bedpan?’ the nun asked, making no attempt to lower her voice.

  Head still bowed, Maria nodded.

  Breath exploded from the nun’s lips, and her mouth tightened in exasperation she did nothing to hide. She turned and went to the door, opened it, and held it while she waited for Brunetti.