The Beautiful Mystery (36 page)

“I don’t know. A minute, maybe slightly more. I gave him last rites, and it calmed him a bit.”

“What are the last rites, can you repeat them for me?”

“Surely you’ve heard them?”

Gamache had heard them, and knew them. Had given them himself, swiftly, urgently, while holding one dying agent after another. But he wanted Frère Simon to say them now.

Simon closed his eyes. His right hand reached out just a little, and cupped just a little. Holding an invisible hand.

“
O Lord Jesus Christ, most merciful lord of earth, we ask that you receive this child into your arms, that he might pass in safety from this crisis, as thou hast told us with infinite compassion
.”

His eyes still closed, Frère Simon lifted his other hand and with his thumb he sketched a cross. On the dying monk’s forehead.

Infinite compassion
, thought Gamache, looking down at the young agent, his own specter in his own arms. In the heat of the moment, Gamache hadn’t had time to give the full last rites, so he’d simply bent down and whispered, “
Take this child.
”

But the agent was already gone. And Gamache himself had to go.

“This is where,” the Chief said, “a dying man, if he’s able, gives his confession.”

Frère Simon was silent.

“What did he say?” Gamache asked.

“He made a noise,” said Frère Simon, as though in a trance. “Trying to clear his throat and then he said ‘homo.’”

Now Simon focused. He came back from far away. The two men stared at each other.

“Homo?” asked the Chief.

Frère Simon nodded. “You can see why I didn’t say anything. It has nothing to do with his death.”

But, thought Gamache, perhaps a lot to do with his life. The Chief considered for a moment.

“What do you think he meant?” he finally asked.

“I think we both know what he meant.”

“Was he gay? Homosexual?”

For a moment Frère Simon tried on his disapproving look, then abandoned it. They were far beyond that.

“It’s hard to explain,” said Frère Simon. “We’re two dozen men here alone. Our goal, our prayer, is to find divine love. Compassion. To be consumed by the love of God.”

“That’s the ideal,” said Gamache. “But in the meantime, you’re also human.”

The need for physical comfort was, he knew, powerful and primal and didn’t necessarily go away with a vow of chastity.

“But what we need isn’t physical love,” said Frère Simon, correctly interpreting Gamache’s thoughts, and correcting him. The monk didn’t sound at all defensive. He was simply struggling to find the right words. “I think most, if not all of us, have left that far behind. We’re not highly sexed or sexual.”

“What do you need then?”

“Kindness. Intimacy. Not sexual. But companionship. God should replace man in our affections, but the reality is, we all want a friend.”

“Is that how you feel, with the abbot?” Gamache asked the question baldly, but his voice and his manner were gentle. “I saw how you reacted when you thought he was the one hurt and dying.”

“I love him, it’s true. But I have no desire for physical relations. It’s hard to explain a love that goes so far beyond that.”

“And the prior? Did he love another?”

Frère Simon was silent. Not a mulish silence, but a contemplative one.

After a minute or so he spoke. “I wondered if he and the abbot…”

It was as far as he could go, for the moment. There was another pause.

“There were many years when they were inseparable. Besides myself, the prior was the only other person ever invited into the abbot’s garden.”

For the first time, Gamache began to wonder if the garden existed on different planes. It was both a place of grass and earth and flowers. But also an allegory. For that most private place inside each one of them. For some it was a dark, locked room. For others, a garden.

The secretary had been admitted. And so had the prior.

And the prior had died there.

“What do you think the prior meant?” asked Gamache.

“I think there’s only one possible interpretation. He knew he was dying and he wanted absolution.”

“For being a homosexual? I thought you just said he probably wasn’t.”

“I don’t know what to think anymore. His relationships might’ve been platonic, but he might’ve privately yearned for more. He knew it. And God knew it.”

“Is it the sort of thing God would condemn him for?” Gamache asked.

“For being gay? Maybe not. For breaking his vow of chastity, probably. It’s the sort of thing that would need to be confessed.”

“By saying ‘homo’?” Gamache was far from convinced, though when a person was dying reason played a very small part, if any. When the end came and there was time for only one word, what would that be?

The Chief Inspector had no doubt what his last words would be. And were. When he’d thought he was dying he’d said two words, over and over until he could speak no more.

Reine-Marie.

It would never occur to him to say “hetero.” But then, he carried no guilt about his relationships. And maybe the prior did.

“Do you have his personal records I might see?” asked Gamache.

“No.”

“‘No,’ you don’t want to show me, or ‘no,’ you really don’t have files.”

“We really don’t have files.”

On seeing the Chief Inspector’s expression, Frère Simon explained. “When we enter the religious life we’re rigorously tested and screened. And our first abbey would’ve kept records. But not Dom Philippe, not here at Saint-Gilbert.”

“Why not?”

“Because it can’t possibly matter. We’re like the French Foreign Legion. We leave the past behind.”

Gamache stared at this
religieux
. Was he really that naïve?

“Just because you want to leave your past at the gate doesn’t mean it stays there,” said the Chief. “It has a way of creeping through the cracks.”

“If it comes all this way, then I suppose it was meant to find us again,” said Frère Simon.

By this logic, thought Gamache, the prior’s death was also God’s will. Meant to happen. God clearly had his hands full with the Gilbertines. The French Foreign Legion of religious orders.

It fit, Gamache thought. No retreat was possible. There was no past to go back to. Nothing outside the walls but wilderness.

“Speaking of cracks, do you know about the foundations?” Gamache asked.

“The foundations of what?”

“The abbey.”

Frère Simon looked confused. “You need to speak to Frère Raymond about them. But give yourself half a day and be prepared to come away knowing more about our septic system than is probably healthy.”

“So the abbot didn’t say anything to you about the foundations of the abbey? And the prior didn’t either?”

Now it dawned on Frère Simon. “Is there something wrong with them?”

“I was asking if you’d heard anything.”

“No, nothing. Should I have?”

So the abbot had kept it to himself, as Gamache had suspected. Only the abbot and Frère Raymond knew that Saint-Gilbert was crumbling. Had, at best, a decade of life left.

And maybe the prior also knew. Maybe Frère Raymond, in desperation, had told him. If so, the prior had died before he could tell anyone else. Was that the motive? To shut him up?

Will no one rid me of this troublesome priest?

“You knew the prior had been murdered, didn’t you?”

Frère Simon nodded.

“When did you realize?”

“When I saw his head. And…”

The monk’s voice petered out. Gamache stayed completely quiet. Waiting.

“… and then I saw something in the flower bed. Something that shouldn’t be there.”

Gamache stopped breathing. The two men became a
tableau vivant
, frozen in time. Gamache waited. And waited. His breathing now was shallow, quiet, not wanting to even disturb the air around them.

“It wasn’t a stone, you know.”

“I know,” said the Chief. “What did you do with it?”

He almost closed his eyes to pray that this monk hadn’t picked it up and thrown it over the wall. To disappear back into the world.

Frère Simon got up, opened the main door into the abbot’s office, and stepped into the corridor. Gamache followed, presuming the monk was leading him to some hiding place.

But instead, Frère Simon stopped at the threshold and reached over, then presented Chief Inspector Gamache with the murder weapon. It was the old iron rod, used for hundreds of years to gain admittance to the abbot’s most private rooms.

And used, yesterday, to crush the skull of the prior of Saint-Gilbert-Entre-les-Loups.

TWENTY-FIVE

Jean-Guy Beauvoir coursed through the corridors of Saint-Gilbert-Entre-les-Loups. Searching.

The monks who ran into him initially paused to greet him with their customary bow. But as he got closer they stepped back. Out of his way.

And were relieved when he passed them by.

Jean-Guy Beauvoir stalked the corridors of the monastery. Looking in the vegetable garden. Looking in the
animalerie
, with the grazing goats and Chantecler chickens.

Looking in the basement. Where Frère Raymond was invisible, but his voice echoed down the long, cool corridors. He was singing a chant. The words were slurred and his voice, while still beautiful, held little of the Divine and more of the brandy and Bénédictine.

Beauvoir raced back up the stone stairs and stood in the Blessed Chapel, breathing heavily. Turning this way and that.

Monks in their long black robes stood away from the dancing light, watching him. But he paid no attention. They weren’t his quarry. He was hunting someone else.

Then he turned and pushed his way through the closed door. The hallway was empty, and the door at the end was closed. And locked.

“Open it,” he demanded.

Frère Luc didn’t dawdle. The massive key was in the lock and turned, the deadbolt thrust back, and the door open within moments. And Beauvoir, robed in black as surely as if he’d been wearing a cassock, was out the door.

Luc closed it quickly. He was tempted to open the slat in the door and look out. To watch what was about to happen. But he didn’t. Frère Luc didn’t want to see, or hear, or know. He went back to his little room and put the big book on his knees, and lost himself in the chants.

Beauvoir saw what he was looking for immediately. Standing by the shore.

Not thinking, not caring, he was miles beyond either, Beauvoir ran with all his might.

Ran as though his life depended on it.

Ran as though lives depended on it.

Straight at the man in the mist.

As he ran he let out a terrible sound from deep in his belly. A sound he’d kept in for months and months. A sound he’d swallowed, and hid and locked away. But now it was out. And propelling him forward.

Chief Superintendent Francoeur turned just moments before Beauvoir crashed into him. He took half a step away, avoiding the brunt of the blow. Both men fell to the rocks, but Francoeur not as heavily as Beauvoir.

He scrambled out from underneath Beauvoir and reached for his gun, just as Beauvoir rolled over and sprang to his feet, also reaching for his weapon.

But it was too late. Francoeur had his gun out, and aimed at Beauvoir’s chest.

“You shithead,” Beauvoir screamed, barely noticing the weapon. “You fucker. I’ll kill you.”

“You just attacked a superior officer,” snapped Francoeur, shaken.

“I attacked an asshole, and I’ll do it again.” Beauvoir was yelling at the top of his lungs, shrieking at the man.

“What the hell is this about?” Francoeur yelled back.

“You know damn well. I found what you had on the laptop. What you were looking at when I came in.”

“Oh, fuck,” said Francoeur, looking at Beauvoir with uncertainty. “Did Gamache see it?”

“What the hell does that matter?” screamed Beauvoir, then he bent over, hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath. He looked up. “I saw it.”

Deep breath in, he begged his body. Deep breath out.

Christ, don’t pass out.

Deep breath in, deep breath out.

He felt light-headed.

Oh, dear God, don’t let me pass out now.

Beauvoir released his knees and slowly straightened. He’d never be as tall as the man opposite. The man with the gun pointed at Beauvoir’s chest. But Beauvoir stood as tall as he could. And stared at the creature.

“You leaked the video.”

His voice had changed. It was raspy. Insubstantial. Each word rode out of his mouth on a deep, deep breath, from deep, deep down.

The door to his private place had blown off, and with it came the words.

And the intent.

He would kill Francoeur. Now.

Beauvoir kept his eyes locked on the Superintendent. In the blurry edge of vision he could see the gun. And he knew, when he leapt, Francoeur would get off at least two shots. Before Beauvoir covered the space between them.

And Beauvoir calculated that as long as he wasn’t hit in the head or the heart, he’d make it there. And have just enough life left, enough will, to tackle this man to the ground. Grab a rock. And crush his skull.

He was reminded, for a mad moment, of the story his father had read to him, over and over. About the train.

I think I can. I think I can.

I think I can kill Francoeur before he kills me.

Though Beauvoir knew he’d die too. Just not first. Dear God, not first.

He tensed and leaned forward a fraction, but Francoeur, hyperalert, raised the gun a fraction. And Beauvoir stopped.

He would bide his time. Wait for that split second of distraction on Francoeur’s part.

That’s all I need.

I think I can. I think I can.

“What?” the Superintendent demanded. “You think I leaked the video?”

“Stop the fucking games. You betrayed my friends, your own people. They died.” Beauvoir felt himself slipping into hysteria, nearly sobbing, and hauled himself back. “They died, and you leaked the fucking tape of it happening.”

Beauvoir’s throat was closing in, his voice just a squeal. His breathing came in wheezes as he hauled air through the shrinking passage.