The Beautiful Mystery (12 page)

“Who could have done this,
mon père
?”

Now they were stopped on the dock, watching as the boatman and the officers secured Frère Mathieu’s covered body to the boat, beside the catch of bass and trout and the writhing worms.

Again the abbot considered. “I don’t know. I should know, but I don’t.”

He looked behind him. The monks had ventured out and were standing in a semi-circle, watching them. Frère Simon, the abbot’s secretary, was standing a step or two forward.

“Poor one,” said Dom Philippe under his breath.

“Who do you mean?”

“
Pardon?
”

“You said, ‘Poor one.’ Who did you mean?” asked Gamache.

“Whoever did this.”

“And who is that, Dom Philippe?” He’d had the impression the abbot had been looking at one monk as he’d spoken. Brother Simon. The sad monk. The one who’d separated himself from the rest.

There was a moment’s tense silence as the abbot looked at his community, and Gamache looked at the abbot. Finally the abbot turned back to the Chief Inspector.

“I don’t know who killed Mathieu.”

He shook his head. A weary smile appeared on the abbot’s face. “I actually believed I could look at them just now and tell. That there’d be something different about him. Or me. That I’d just know.”

The abbot gave a small grunt of laughter. “Ego. Hubris.”

“And?” asked Gamache.

“It didn’t work.”

“Don’t feel badly, I do the same thing. I have yet to look at anyone and know immediately that they’re the killer, but I still try.”

“And what would you do if it worked?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Suppose you did look at someone, and just knew?”

Gamache smiled. “I’m not sure I’d trust myself. Probably think it was all in my imagination. Besides, it wouldn’t impress a judge if on the stand I said, ‘I just knew.’”

“That’s the difference between us, Chief Inspector. You need proof in your line of work. I don’t.”

The abbot glanced behind them again and Gamache wondered if this was idle conversation, or something more. The semi-circle of monks continued to watch.

One of them had killed Brother Mathieu.

“What’re you looking for,
mon père
? You might not need proof, but you need a sign. What sign in their faces are you looking for? Guilt?”

The abbot shook his head. “I wasn’t looking for guilt. I was looking for pain. Can you imagine the pain he must have been in, to do this? And the pain he still feels?”

The Chief scanned their faces again, and finally came to rest on the man right beside him. Gamache did see pain in the face of one of the monks. Dom Philippe. The abbot.

“Do you know who did this?” Gamache asked again, quietly. So that it was only audible to the abbot and the sweet autumn air around them. “If you do, you must tell me. I’ll find him eventually, you know. It’s what I do. But it’s a terrible, terrible process. You have no idea what’s about to be unleashed. And once it starts, it won’t stop until the murderer is found. If you can spare the innocent, I’m begging you to do it. Tell me who did this, if you know.”

That brought the abbot’s full attention back to the large, quiet man in front of him. The slight breeze tugged at the graying hair just curling by the Chief Inspector’s ears. But the rest of the man was still. Firm.

And his eyes, deep brown like the earth, were thoughtful.

And kind.

And Dom Philippe believed Armand Gamache. The Chief Inspector had been brought to the monastery, admitted to their abbey, to find the murderer. It was what this man was always meant to do. And he was almost certainly very good at it.

“I would tell you if I knew.”

“We’re ready,” Beauvoir called from the boat.

“
Bon.
” Gamache held the abbot’s eyes for another moment then turned to see the boatman’s large hand resting on the outboard motor, ready to pull the cord.

“Captain Charbonneau?” Gamache invited the Sûreté inspector to take a seat.

“Is it possible to keep this quiet?” asked Dom Philippe.

“I’m afraid not,
mon père
. The news will get out, it always does,” said Gamache. “You might consider issuing a statement yourself.”

He saw the distaste on the abbot’s face and suspected that wouldn’t happen.

“
Au revoir
, Chief Inspector,” said Dom Philippe, extending his hand. “Thank you for your help.”

“You’re welcome,” said Gamache, taking the hand. “But it isn’t over yet.” At a nod from Gamache, the boatman yanked the cord and the motor leapt into life. Beauvoir dropped the rope into the boat and it drifted away. Leaving Gamache and Beauvoir standing on the dock.

“You’re staying?” asked the abbot, bewildered.

“Yes. We’re staying. I leave with the murderer, or not at all.”

Beauvoir stood beside Gamache and together they watched the small boat chug down the sunset bay, and around the corner. Out of sight.

The two Sûreté investigators remained there until the sound had disappeared.

And then they turned their backs on the natural world and followed the robed figures back into the monastery of Saint-Gilbert-Entre-les-Loups.

TEN

Beauvoir spent the early evening setting up their Incident Room in the prior’s study while Chief Inspector Gamache read the interviews with the monks, and spoke to some in more depth.

A picture was emerging. How accurate it was was impossible to say, but it was clear and surprisingly consistent from man to man.

After Vigils at five in the morning, the monks had had breakfast and prepared for the day. There was another service at seven thirty, Lauds. It ended at eight fifteen. Then their workday began.

Work was any number of things, but for each man it was much the same each day.

They worked in the garden, or with the animals. They cleaned the abbey, did the archives, did repairs. Cooked the meals.

Each man was, it turned out, quite expert in his field. Whether it was as a chef or gardener, engineer or historian.

And they were all, without exception, exceptional musicians.

“How does this happen, Jean-Guy?” Gamache asked, looking up from his notes. “That they’re all remarkable musicians?”

“You’re asking me?” Beauvoir’s voice came from beneath the desk, where he was trying to reconnect the laptop. “Dumb luck?”

“Dumb luck would be you getting that thing to work,” said the Chief. “I think there’s another agency at work here.”

“I hope you don’t mean divine.”

“Not entirely, though I wouldn’t rule it out. No, I think they must have been recruited.”

Beauvoir looked out from beneath the desk, his dark hair disheveled. “Like hockey players are recruited?”

“Like you were recruited. I found you lording it over the evidence locker in that Sûreté outpost, remember?”

Beauvoir would never forget. Banished to the basement, because no one wanted to work with him. Not because he was incompetent, but because he was an asshole. Though Beauvoir preferred to believe they were just jealous of him.

He’d been assigned to the evidence locker since he was only fit for things not actually alive.

They’d wanted him to quit. Expected him to quit. And, to be honest, he’d been about to quit, when Chief Inspector Gamache had come calling on a murder investigation. He’d come to the locker looking for a piece of evidence. And found Agent Jean-Guy Beauvoir.

And had invited him to join the investigation.

It was a moment Beauvoir would never forget. Looking into those eyes, a smart-ass remark dying on his lips. He’d been fucked with so often, jerked around, insulted, bullied. He barely dared hope this wasn’t another trick. A new bit of cruelty. Kicking a dead man. Because Beauvoir could feel himself dying down there. All he’d ever wanted was to be a Sûreté officer. And every day he came closer to losing it.

But now this large man with the quiet demeanor had offered to take him away.

To save him. Even though they were strangers.

And Agent Beauvoir, who had sworn to never trust again, had trusted Armand Gamache. That was fifteen years ago.

Had these monks also been recruited? Found? Saved, even? And brought here?

“So,” said Beauvoir, getting up from the floor and dusting off his slacks, “you think someone lured these monks to the abbey?”

Gamache smiled and looked at Beauvoir over the top of his reading glasses. “You have a gift for making everything sound suspicious, even ominous.”

“
Merci
.” Beauvoir sat down with a thump on one of the hard wooden chairs.

“Does it work?” Gamache nodded toward the laptop.

Beauvoir pressed some buttons. “The laptop works, but we can’t connect to the Internet.” Beauvoir continued to pound the connect button as though that would help.

“Perhaps you should pray,” suggested the Chief.

“If I was going to pray for anything it’d be food.” He gave up trying to connect. “When’s dinner, do you think?”

Then Beauvoir remembered something and brought a small wax paper packet from his pocket. He placed it on the desk between them and opened it up.

“What are those?” asked the Chief, leaning closer.

“Try one.”

Gamache picked up a chocolate and held it between his large fingers. It looked microscopic there. Then he ate it. And Beauvoir smiled to see the astonishment, and delight, on Gamache’s face.

“Blueberry?”

Beauvoir nodded. “Those tiny wild ones. Chocolate covered. They make them by the bucketload here. I found the
chocolaterie
when I was looking for the monks. Seems like the better find.”

Gamache laughed, and together they ate the few chocolates. They were, the Chief had to admit, without a doubt the best he’d ever tasted, and he’d tasted a few chocolates in his life.

“What’re the chances, Jean-Guy, that all two dozen monks here, all of them, would have good voices?”

“Pretty small.”

“And not just good voices, but great voices. And ones that work together, that fit together.”

“Maybe they were trained,” suggested Beauvoir. “Isn’t that what the choir director, the dead man, would’ve done?”

“But he had to have something to work with. I’m far from an expert on music but even I know a great choir isn’t just a collection of great voices. They have to be the right voices, complementary. Harmonious. I think these monks are here by design. I think they were specially chosen, to sing the chants.”

“Maybe they were specially bred for this,” said Beauvoir, his voice low and his eyes mock-mad. “Maybe this is some Vatican plot. Maybe there’s some mind control in the music. To lure people back to the Church. Produce a zombie army.”

“My God, man, that’s brilliant! It’s so obvious.” Gamache looked at Beauvoir with awe.

Beauvoir laughed. “You think the monks were specially chosen?”

“I think it’s a possibility.” The Chief got to his feet. “Keep working at that. It would be nice to be able to contact the outside world. I’m going to speak to the
portier
.”

“Why him?” asked Beauvoir as Gamache made for the door.

“He’s the youngest here, probably the most recent arrival.”

“And a murder happens because something changes,” said Beauvoir. “Something provoked the murder of Frère Mathieu.”

“It was almost certainly building for a while, most murders take years to actually happen. But finally something, or someone, tips the balance.”

That was what Gamache and his team did. They sieved for that often tiny event. A word. A look. A slight. That final wound that released the monster. Something had made a man into a murderer. Had made a monk into a murderer, surely a longer journey than most.

“And what was the most recent change?” asked Gamache. “Perhaps the arrival of Frère Luc. Maybe that somehow upset the balance, the harmony, of the abbey.”

The Chief closed the door behind him and Beauvoir went back to work. As he tried to figure out what was wrong with the connection, his mind went back to the evidence locker. His hell. But he also thought about the door with the word “
Porterie
” stamped on it.

And the young man relegated to it.

Was he hated? Surely you had to be, to be stuck there. Every other job made sense in the abbey. Except his. After all, why have a porter for a door that never opened?

*   *   *

Gamache walked through the halls, meeting a monk here and there. He was beginning to recognize them, though he couldn’t yet put names to all the faces.

Frère Alphonse? Frère Felicien?

The monks’ faces were almost always in repose, their hands thrust up their drooping sleeves in a mannerism the Chief realized was just something monks did. When he passed, they always caught his eye and nodded. Some ventured small smiles.

All looked, at a distance, calm. Contained.

But up close, at that moment when they passed, to a man Gamache saw anxiety in their eyes. A plea.

For him to leave? To stay? To help? Or to go away?

When he’d arrived, not that many hours ago, the abbey of Saint-Gilbert had seemed peaceful. Restful. It was surprisingly beautiful. Its austere walls not cold, but soothing. The daylight refracted by the imperfect glass, broken into reds and purples and yellows. Apart they were individual colors, but together they made giddy light.

Like the abbey. Made up of individuals. Alone they were no doubt exceptional, but together they were brilliant.

Except for one. The shadow. Necessary, perhaps, to prove the light.

Gamache approached another monk as he made his way through the Blessed Chapel.

Frère Timothé? Frère Guillaume?

They passed and nodded and again Gamache caught something in this anonymous monk’s passing glance.

Perhaps each man had a private plea, different from the rest, depending who he was and what was his nature.

This man—Frère Joel?—clearly wanted Gamache to go away. Not because the monk was afraid, but because Gamache had become a walking billboard, advertising the murder of the prior. And their failure as a community.

They were supposed to do only one thing. Serve God. But instead, this abbey had gone in the opposite direction. And Gamache was the exclamation mark that drove that truth home.