The Beautiful Mystery (31 page)

Gamache nodded. It made sense. In the logical little world they’d just created. But so much about the lives of the monks didn’t seem logical. And the Chief Inspector had to remind himself not to confuse what should have been, what could have been, with what actually was.

They needed facts.

“If Frère Raymond told the prior,
patron
, what do you think would happen next?”

“I think we can guess. The prior would’ve been enraged—”

“—or maybe not,” Beauvoir interrupted and the Chief looked at him. “Well maybe the abbot, in staying silent about something so vital, had finally given the prior the weapon he needed. The prior might have pretended to be angry, but in fact, he might have been ecstatic.”

Gamache imagined the prior. Saw him getting the news about the crumbling foundations. The fact the abbot knew, and was apparently doing nothing. Except praying. What would the prior then do?

Would he tell anyone else?

Gamache thought not. At least, not right away.

In a silent order, information became a powerful currency, and Frère Mathieu was almost certainly a miser. He’d never have shared that information so quickly. He’d have hoarded it. Waited for the perfect moment.

Gamache couldn’t be sure, but he thought the prior would probably ask for a meeting with the abbot. Someplace private. Not overlooked. Not overheard. With only the birds, and the old-growth maple, and the black flies as witnesses. If you didn’t count God.

Again, though, the Chief shook his head. It didn’t fit all the facts. One fact, supported by witnesses, was that it was the abbot who had sought out the prior. Not the other way around.

Except.

Gamache thought back to one of his interviews with the abbot. In the garden. When the abbot admitted it was the prior’s idea to meet. Only the timing was the abbot’s.

So, the prior had asked for the meeting. Could it have been about the foundations?

And the scenario shifted again. To the abbot, sending his private secretary on a fool’s errand. To find the prior and ask him to meet later that morning.

Frère Simon leaves.

And the abbot has his office, his cell, and his garden to himself. And there he waits, for Frère Mathieu, and the assignation he’d secretly set up. Not for after the 11
A.M.
mass, but after Lauds.

They go into the garden. Dom Philippe doesn’t know for sure why the prior wants to meet, but he suspects. He’s brought a length of pipe out with him, hidden in the long black sleeves of his robe.

Frère Mathieu tells the abbot he knows about the foundations. Demands the second recording. Demands a lifting of the vow of silence. To save the monastery. Or in Chapter later that day he’ll tell all the monks about the foundations. About the abbot’s silence. About the abbot’s paralysis in the face of crisis.

When Frère Mathieu brings out his bomb, the abbot brings out his pipe. One weapon is figurative, and the other isn’t.

Within seconds the prior lies dying at the abbot’s feet.

Yes, thought Gamache, imagining the scene. It fit.

Almost.

“What’s wrong?” asked Beauvoir, seeing the unease on the Chief’s face.

“It almost makes sense, but there’s a problem.”

“What?”

“The neumes. That piece of paper the prior had on him when he died.”

“Well, maybe he just brought it with him. Maybe it’s nothing.”

“Maybe,” said Gamache.

But neither man was convinced. There was a reason the prior had the paper. A reason he died curled around it.

Could it have something to do with the rotting foundations of Saint-Gilbert-Entre-les-Loups? Gamache couldn’t see how.

“I’m all confused,” Beauvoir admitted.

“So am I. What’s confusing you,
mon vieux
?”

“The abbot, Dom Philippe. I talk to Frère Bernard, who seems a good guy, and he thinks the abbot’s almost a saint. Then I talk to Frère Raymond, who also seems pretty decent, and he thinks the abbot’s first cousin to Satan.”

Gamache was quiet for a moment. “Can you find Frère Raymond again? He’s probably in the basement. I think that’s where his office is. Ask him directly if he told the prior about the foundations.”

“And if a pipe was the murder weapon the killer probably got it from the basement. And might’ve taken it back.”

Which, Beauvoir knew, made the strappy, chatty Frère Raymond a pretty good suspect. The prior’s man, who knew about the cracks, who loved the abbey and believed the abbot was about to destroy it. And who better than the maintenance monk to know where to find a length of pipe?

Except. Except. Yet again, Beauvoir came up against the fact that the wrong monk had been killed. All that fit. If the abbot had died. But he hadn’t. The prior had.

“I’ll also ask Frère Raymond about the hidden room,” said Beauvoir.

“
Bon
. Take the plans. See what he thinks. And look at the foundations. If they’re that bad, it should be easy to see. I wonder why no one noticed before?”

“You think he was lying?”

“Some people do, I’m told.”

“It goes against my nature to be cynical,
patron
, but I’ll try. And you?”

“Frère Simon must be finished copying the chant we found on the prior. I’ll go and get it. I also have a few quiet questions for him. But first I want to finish reading the coroner’s and the forensics reports in peace.”

A sharp, determined footfall echoed in the chapel. Both men turned toward it, though each knew what they’d see. Not one of the soft-footed monks, that was certain.

Chief Superintendent Francoeur was walking toward them, his feet clacking on the stone floor.

“Gentlemen,” said Francoeur. “Did you enjoy your lunch?” He turned to Gamache. “I could hear you and the other monk discussing poultry, was it?”

“Chickens,” confirmed Gamache. “Chantecler, to be exact.”

Beauvoir repressed a smile. Francoeur hadn’t meant for Gamache to be quite so enthusiastic. Asshole, thought Beauvoir. And then he caught sight of Francoeur’s cold eyes, staring at the Chief, and his smile froze on his face.

“I hope you have something more useful planned for this afternoon,” said the Superintendent, his voice casual.

“We do. Inspector Beauvoir is planning to tour the basement with Frère Raymond, looking for a possible hidden room. And maybe even the murder weapon,” Gamache added. “And I’m off to speak further with the abbot’s secretary, Frère Simon. The man I was talking to over lunch.”

“About pigs perhaps, or goats?”

Beauvoir grew very still. And watched the two men, in the peaceful, cool chapel, glare at each other. For a beat.

And then Gamache smiled.

“If he’d like, but mostly about that chant I told you about.”

“The one found on Frère Mathieu?” asked Francoeur. “Why talk to the abbot’s secretary about that?”

“He’s making a copy of it, by hand. I’m just going to get it.”

Beauvoir noticed that Gamache was underplaying what he wanted to speak to Frère Simon about.

“You gave him the one piece of solid evidence we have?”

That Francoeur was incredulous was obvious. What wasn’t obvious to Beauvoir was how Gamache managed to not snap back.

“I had no choice. I needed the monks’ help in figuring out what it is. Since they don’t have a photocopier, this seemed the only solution. If you have another I’d be happy to hear it, sir.”

Francoeur barely pretended at civility anymore. Beauvoir could hear his breathing from feet away. He suspected the monks, silently moving along the edges of the Blessed Chapel, could also hear the deep and ragged breaths. Like bellows, fanning Francoeur’s rage.

“Then I’ll come with you,” said the Superintendent. “To see this famous piece of paper.”

“With pleasure,” said Gamache, and pointed the way.

“Actually,” said Beauvoir, thinking quickly. It felt a bit like leaping off a cliff. “I was wondering if the Superintendent would like to come with me.”

Both men now stared at Beauvoir. And he could feel himself in free fall.

“Why?” they asked together.

“Well…” He couldn’t possibly give them the real reason. That he’d seen the murderous look in Francoeur’s eyes. And he’d seen the Chief slip his right hand into his left. And hold it softly there.

“Well,” Beauvoir repeated. “I thought the Superintendent might like a tour of the abbey, the places most people never see. And I could use his help.”

Beauvoir saw Gamache’s brows rise, ever so slightly, then lower. And Beauvoir looked away, unable to meet his Chief’s eyes.

Gamache was annoyed at Beauvoir. It happened from time to time, of course, in the high-stress, high-stakes job they had. They’d sometimes clash. But never had he seen that look on Gamache’s face.

It was annoyance, but it was more than that. The Chief knew perfectly well what Beauvoir was doing. And Gamache’s feelings about it went way beyond mere disapproval, beyond anger even. Beauvoir knew the man enough to see that.

There was something else in the Chief’s face, visible for just that instant, when he’d raised his brows.

It was fear.

TWENTY-TWO

Jean-Guy Beauvoir grabbed the rolled-up plans of the monastery off the desk in the prior’s office. As he did he glanced at Gamache, who sat in the visitor’s chair. On his lap were the coroner’s and forensic reports.

Francoeur was waiting for Beauvoir in the Blessed Chapel and he had to hurry back. But still, he paused.

Gamache put his half-moon reading glasses on, then looked at Beauvoir.

“I’m sorry if I overstepped, Chief,” said Beauvoir. “I just…”

“Yes, I know what you ‘just.’” Gamache’s voice was unyielding. Little warmth left in it. “He’s no fool, you know, Jean-Guy. Don’t treat him like that. And never treat me like that.”

“
Désolé
,” said Beauvoir, and meant it. When he’d offered to take the Superintendent off Gamache’s hands he never dreamed this would be the Chief’s reaction. He thought the Chief would be relieved.

“This isn’t a game,” said Gamache.

“I know it isn’t,
patron
.”

Chief Inspector Gamache continued to stare at Beauvoir.

“Do not engage with Superintendent Francoeur. If he taunts, don’t respond. If he pushes you, don’t push back. Just smile and keep your eye on the goal. To solve the murder. That’s all. He’s come here with some agenda, we both know that. We don’t know what it is, and I for one don’t care. All that matters is solving the crime and getting home. Right?”

“
Oui,
” said Beauvoir. “
D’accord
.”

He nodded to Gamache and left. If Francoeur had an agenda, so did Beauvoir. And it was simple. To just keep the Superintendent away from the Chief. Whatever Francoeur had in mind, it had something to do with Gamache. And Beauvoir was not going to let that happen.

“For God’s sake, be careful.”

The Chief’s final words followed Beauvoir down the corridor and into the Blessed Chapel. As did his last view of Gamache, sitting in the chair, the dossiers on his lap. A paper in his hand.

And the slight tremor of the page as a draft caught it. Except that the air was completely still.

At first Beauvoir couldn’t see the Superintendent, then he found him by the wall, reading the plaque.

“So this’s the hidden door into the Chapter House,” said Francoeur, not looking up as Beauvoir approached. “The life of Gilbert of Sempringham isn’t interesting reading I’m afraid. Do you think that’s why they hid the room behind here? Knowing any possible invader would die of boredom on this very spot?”

Now Chief Superintendent Francoeur did look up, right into Beauvoir’s eyes.

There was humor there, Beauvoir saw. And confidence.

“I’m all yours, Inspector.”

Beauvoir regarded the Chief Superintendent and wondered why the man was so friendly to him. Francoeur knew without a doubt that Beauvoir was loyal to Gamache. Was one of the Chief’s men. And while Francoeur baited and goaded and insulted the Chief, he was only extremely pleasant, charming even, to Beauvoir.

Beauvoir grew even more guarded. A frontal attack was one thing, but this slimy attempt at camaraderie was something else. Still, the longer he could keep this man away from the Chief, the better.

“The stairs are over here.” The two Sûreté men walked to the corner of the chapel, where Beauvoir opened a door. Worn stone steps led down. They were well lit and the men descended until finally they were in the basement. Beauvoir stood, not on dirt as he’d expected, but on huge slabs of slate.

The ceilings were high and vaulted.

“The Gilbertines don’t seem to do anything half-assed,” said Francoeur.

Beauvoir didn’t answer, but it was exactly what he’d been thinking. It was cooler down there, though not cold, and he suspected the temperature would stay much the same even as the seasons above changed.

Large wrought-iron candleholders were bolted to the stone, but the light came from naked bulbs strung along the walls and ceiling.

“Where to?” Francoeur asked.

Beauvoir looked this way. Then that. Not at all sure. His plan, he realized, hadn’t been thought all the way through. He’d expected to arrive in the basement and for some reason find Frère Raymond right there.

Now he felt a fool. If he’d been with Chief Inspector Gamache he’d have made a joke and they’d have gone looking for Frère Raymond together. But he wasn’t with Gamache. He was with the Chief Superintendent of the Sûreté du Québec. And Francoeur was staring at Beauvoir. He wasn’t angry. Instead he looked patient, as though working with a rookie agent who was just doing his bumbling best.

Beauvoir could have slapped that look right off his face.

Instead he smiled.

Deep breath in. Deep breath out.

He was the one who’d invited the Superintendent along, after all. He had to at least appear happy to have him. To cover his uncertainty, Beauvoir walked over to one of the stone walls and put his hand on it.

“Frère Raymond told me over lunch that the foundations are cracking,” said Beauvoir, examining the stone, as though this was the plan all along. He mentally kicked himself for not making arrangements with the monk.