The Beautiful Mystery (26 page)

“So he cheated?”

“I suppose that’s one way of putting it.”

“Could he have cheated in other areas of the plan?” asked Beauvoir. Though he knew the answer to that. When someone deceived once, they’d do it again.

“I suppose.” The monk looked as though one of the angels had fallen. “But I can’t see anything else wrong. Why does it matter?”

“It might not.” Beauvoir rolled the plan back up. “You asked what I was looking for. I’m looking for a hidden room.”

“Like the Chapter House?”

“We know about that one. I’m looking for another.”

“So there is one.”

“We don’t know. We’ve just heard rumors, and obviously you have too.”

For the first time in their conversation Beauvoir sensed a hesitation in the monk. As though a door had slowly swung shut. As though Frère Bernard had his own hidden room.

Of course, everyone had one. And it was his job, and the Chief’s, to find those too. Unfortunately for them those rooms almost never hid treasure. What they invariably found were mountains of crap.

“If there really is a secret room in the monastery, you need to tell me,” Beauvoir pressed.

“I don’t know of any.”

“But you’ve heard rumors?”

“There’re always rumors. I heard that one the first day I arrived.”

“For a silent order you seem to do a lot of talking.”

Bernard smiled. “We’re not completely silent, you know. We’re allowed to talk at certain times of the day.”

“And one of the things you talk about is secret rooms?”

“If you’re only allowed a few minutes’ conversation a day, what do you think you’d talk about? The weather? Politics?”

“Secrets?”

Frère Bernard smiled. “Sometimes the divine mystery, and sometimes just mysteries. Like hidden rooms. And treasure.”

He gave Beauvoir a knowing look. A sharp look. This monk, thought Beauvoir, might be calm and even gentle. But he was no fool.

“Do you think they exist?”

“A room and some treasure lugged here by Dom Clément and the other monks centuries ago?” Frère Bernard shook his head. “It’s fun to think about. Passes the time on cold winter nights. But no one really believes it exists. Someone would’ve found it ages ago. The abbey’s been renovated, updated, repaired. If there was a secret room we’d have found it.”

“Maybe someone did.” Beauvoir stood. “So, how often are you allowed to leave?”

The monk laughed. “It’s not a prison, you know.”

But even Frère Bernard had to admit, from that angle, Saint-Gilbert sure looked like one.

“We leave whenever we want, though we don’t go far. Walks, mostly. We look for berries and firewood. We fish. In the winter we play hockey on the ice. Frère Antoine organizes that.”

Beauvoir felt again that vertigo. Frère Antoine played hockey. Was probably the captain and the center. The same position Beauvoir played.

“In the summer some of us jog and do tai chi. You’re welcome to join us after Vigils.”

“Is that the early morning service?”

“Five
A.M.
” He smiled. “Your Chief was there this morning.”

Beauvoir was about to say something sharp, to shut down any ridiculing of Gamache, when he saw that Frère Bernard seemed simply amused. Not mocking.

“Yes, he mentioned it to me,” said Beauvoir.

“We talked later, you know.”

“Oh, really?” But Beauvoir knew perfectly well it was Frère Bernard the Chief had spoken to that morning in the showers and that they’d then collected eggs together. Brother Bernard had told the Chief about the rift in the community. In fact, Chief Inspector Gamache had the impression the monk had sought him out specifically to tell him that.

And only then did it occur to Beauvoir to wonder if the same thing was happening here. Had this monk simply been out collecting blueberries and stumbled upon him? Or was this no accident? Had Frère Bernard seen Beauvoir leave, with the scroll, and followed him?

“Your Chief’s a good listener,” said the monk. “He’d fit in well here.”

“He does look good in a robe,” said Beauvoir.

Frère Bernard laughed. “I was afraid to say it.” The monk looked at Beauvoir, examining the younger man. “I think you’d also enjoy it here.”

Enjoy?
thought Beauvoir.
Enjoy? Does anyone actually enjoy it here?

He’d presumed they tolerated it, like a hair shirt. It never occurred to him living in Saint-Gilbert-Entre-les-Loups actually made them happy.

Frère Bernard picked up his basket of blueberries and they walked a few paces before he spoke again. He seemed to be choosing his words carefully.

“I was surprised to see someone else arrive. We all were. Including your boss, I think. Who was that man who flew in?”

“His name’s Francoeur. He’s the Chief Superintendent.”

“Of the Sûreté?”

Beauvoir nodded. “The big boss.”

“Your pope,” said Bernard.

“Only if the pope’s a moron with a gun.”

Frère Bernard snorted then fought to wipe the smile from his face.

“You don’t like him?”

“Years of contemplation have sharpened your instincts, Frère Bernard.”

Again Bernard laughed. “People come from miles around to hear my insights.” Then his smile disappeared completely. “For instance, this Francoeur, he doesn’t like your boss, does he?”

This too, they both knew, wasn’t exactly an incredible feat of perception.

Beauvoir wondered what to say. His impulse was always to lie. He’d have made, he thought, a good medieval architect. He immediately wanted to deny there was a problem, to cover the truth. To at the very least hide the scale of it. But he could see that would be useless. This man had seen clearly, as had everyone else, Francoeur’s easy dismissal of Gamache on the dock.

“It goes back a few years. They had a disagreement over a fellow officer.”

Frère Bernard didn’t say anything. He simply listened. His face calm, his eyes noncommittal and attentive. They walked slowly through the forest, their feet crackling on the twigs and leaves, fallen to the well-trodden path. The sun broke through the trees in patches and every now and then they heard the scrambling of a chipmunk or a bird or some other wild creature.

Beauvoir waited a moment, then went on. Might as well, he thought. It was all public knowledge anyway. Unless you lived in a monastery in the middle of nowhere.

What the monks knew and what everyone else knew seemed two very different things.

“The Chief arrested one of the superintendents of the Sûreté, even though Francoeur and the others had ordered him not to. His name was Arnot. He was actually the Chief Superintendent at the time.”

And now there was a small reaction on the monk’s placid face. A tiny lifting of the brows. And then they settled back into place. It was almost invisible. Almost.

“Arrested him for what?”

“Murder. Sedition. It came out that Arnot was encouraging officers on reserves to kill any native who made trouble. Or, at the very least, when a young native was shot or beaten to death, Arnot didn’t discipline the officers who did it. It was a short step from turning a blind eye, to actively encouraging the killings. It became, apparently—” Beauvoir spoke haltingly, finding it difficult to talk about something so shameful. “—almost a sport. An elderly Cree woman asked Gamache for help finding her missing son. That’s when he discovered what was going on.”

“And the rest of the Sûreté leadership wanted your boss to stay quiet about it?”

Beauvoir nodded. “They agreed to fire Arnot and the other officers, but they didn’t want a scandal. Didn’t want to lose the trust of the public.”

Frère Bernard didn’t drop his eyes, but Beauvoir had the impression they wavered.

“Chief Inspector Gamache arrested Arnot anyway,” said Frère Bernard. “He disobeyed orders.”

“It never occurred to him not to. He thought the mothers and fathers and loved ones of those who were killed deserved an answer. And a public trial. And an apology. It all came out. It was a mess.”

Bernard nodded. The Church knew from scandals, and knew from cover-ups and knew from messes.

“What happened?” the monk asked.

“Arnot and the others were convicted. They’re serving life sentences.”

“And the Chief Inspector?”

Beauvoir smiled. “He’s still Chief. But he’ll never make Superintendent and he knows it.”

“But he kept his job.”

“They couldn’t fire him. Even before this happened he was one of the most respected officers in the Sûreté. The trial made him hated by the big bosses, but adored by the rank and file. He restored their pride. And, ironically, the public trust. Francoeur couldn’t fire him. Though he wanted to. He and Arnot were friends. Good friends.”

Frère Bernard thought about that for a moment. “So did this Francoeur know what his friend was doing? They were both superintendents.”

“The Chief could never prove it.”

“But he tried?”

“He wanted to get all the rot out,” said Beauvoir.

“And did he?”

“I hope so.”

Both men thought back to that moment on the dock. Gamache’s extended hand, to help Francoeur from the plane. And Francoeur’s look. A glance.

There wasn’t just enmity there. There was hatred.

“Why’s the Chief Superintendent here?” asked Frère Bernard.

“I don’t know.” Beauvoir tried to keep his voice light. And it was the truth. He really didn’t know. But again he felt the worry in his stomach roll over and scrape his insides.

Frère Bernard frowned as he thought. “Must be difficult for them to work together. Do they have to often?”

“Not often.”

He’d go no further. He certainly wouldn’t tell this monk about the last time Gamache and Francoeur had been thrown together on a case. The raid on the factory. Almost a year ago now. And the disastrous results.

He saw again the Chief gripping the sides of his desk and leaning toward Francoeur in a manner so threatening the Chief Superintendent had paled and stepped back. Beauvoir could count on one hand the number of times he’d heard Gamache yell. But he’d yelled that day. Right into Francoeur’s face.

The ferocity of it had frightened even Beauvoir.

And the Chief Superintendent had shouted back.

Gamache had prevailed. But only by stepping back. By apologizing. By begging Francoeur to see reason. Gamache had begged. That was the price he’d paid, to get Francoeur to act.

Beauvoir had never seen the Chief beg before. But he’d done it that day.

Gamache and Francoeur had barely spoken since. Perhaps a word at the state funeral for the officers killed in that raid on the factory, though Beauvoir doubted it. And maybe something at the ceremony, when Francoeur had pinned a medal of bravery on Gamache’s chest. Against Gamache’s wishes.

But Francoeur had insisted. Knowing that to the rest of the world it would appear he was rewarding the Chief Inspector. But the two men, privately, knew the truth.

Beauvoir had been in the audience for that ceremony. Had seen his Chief’s face when the medal had been placed on his chest. It might as well have pierced his heart.

It was the right deed. For the wrong reason.

Beauvoir knew his Chief deserved that medal, but Francoeur had done it to humiliate. Publicly rewarding Gamache for an action that had left so many Sûreté agents dead and wounded. Francoeur had given it to him not as recognition for all the lives Gamache had saved that terrible day, but as an accusation. A permanent reminder. Of all the young lives lost.

Beauvoir could have killed Francoeur at that moment.

Again he felt a clawing in the pit of his stomach. Something was trying to rip its way out. He wanted desperately to change the subject. To wipe away the memories. Of the ceremony, but mostly of that horrific day. In the factory.

When one of the lives lost had almost been his own.

When one of the lives lost had almost been the Chief’s.

Beauvoir thought about the tiny pills the size of wild blueberries. The ones still hidden in his apartment. And the burst they brought. Not of musky flavor, but of blessed oblivion.

Numbing what hid in Beauvoir’s secret room.

He hadn’t had an OxyContin or a Percocet in months, not since the Chief had confronted him. Taken the pills away. Gotten him help.

He might make a good Gilbertine after all. Like them, he lived in fear. Not of what would come at him from the outside, but what was patiently lying in wait inside his own walls.

“Are you all right?”

Beauvoir followed the soft voice back. Like candies along a path. Leading him out of the forest.

“Can I help?”

Frère Bernard had put out his rough hand and was touching Beauvoir’s arm.

“No, I’m fine. Just thinking about the case.”

The monk continued to examine his companion. Far from convinced he was hearing the truth.

Beauvoir scrambled around in his memory, picking up bits and pieces, desperate to find something useful. The case. The case. The prior. The murder. The scene. The garden.

The garden.

“We were talking about the abbot’s garden,” said Beauvoir. His voice was gruff, not inviting any more confidences. He’d already gone too far.

“Were we?” asked Frère Bernard.

“You said everyone knows about it. But you haven’t actually been in the garden yourself.”

“That’s right.”

“Who had?”

“Anyone Dom Philippe invited.”

Beauvoir realized he wasn’t listening as closely as he should. He was still distracted by his memories, and the feelings they awakened.

Had there been resentment in Frère Bernard’s voice just now?

Beauvoir didn’t think so, but with his attention frayed he couldn’t be sure. And again he cursed Francoeur. For being where he wasn’t wanted. In the monastery. And in Beauvoir’s head. Rattling around in there. Poking awake things better left sleeping.

He remembered what one of his counselors had advised when he felt anxious.

Breathe. Just breathe.

Deep breath in. Deep breath out.

“What do you think of the abbot?” he asked. He was feeling light-headed.

“What do you mean?”

Beauvoir wasn’t sure what he meant.

Deep breath in. Deep breath out.