The Beautiful Mystery (4 page)

If Beauvoir was a hunter, and Gamache an explorer, the men and women who came here were pilgrims. Desperate to be given what they believed these men had.

But it would have been for nothing.

All were turned away at the gate.

Beauvoir realized he’d seen this view before. In photographs. What they now saw had become a popular poster and was, somewhat disingenuously, used by Tourisme Québec to promote the province.

A place no one was allowed to visit was used to lure visitors.

Beauvoir also leaned forward. At the very end of the bay a fortress stood, like a rock cut. Its steeple rose as though propelled from the earth, the result of some seismic event. Off to the sides were wings. Or arms. Open in benediction, or invitation. A harbor. A safe embrace in the wilderness.

A deception.

This was the near mythical monastery of Saint-Gilbert-Entre-les-Loups. The home of two dozen cloistered, contemplative monks. Who had built their abbey as far from civilization as they could get.

It had taken hundreds of years for civilization to find them, but the silent monks had had the last word.

Twenty-four men had stepped beyond the door. It had closed. And not another living soul had been admitted.

Until today.

Chief Inspector Gamache, Jean-Guy Beauvoir and Captain Charbonneau were about to be let in. Their ticket was a dead man.

THREE

“Want me to wait?” the boatman asked. He rubbed his stubbly face and looked amused.

They hadn’t told him why they were there. For all he knew they were journalists or tourists. More misguided pilgrims.

“
Oui, merci,
” said Gamache, handing the man his payment, including a generous tip.

The boatman pocketed it and watched as they unloaded their things then climbed onto the dock.

“How long can you wait?” asked the Chief.

“About three minutes,” laughed the boatman. “That’s about two minutes more’n you’ll need.”

“Can you give us,” Gamache checked his watch. It was just after one in the afternoon. “Until five o’clock?”

“You want me to wait here until five? Look, I know you’ve come a long way, but you must know it won’t take four hours to walk to that door, knock, then turn round and come back.”

“They’ll let us in,” said Beauvoir.

“Are you monks?”

“No.”

“Are you the pope?”

“No,” said Beauvoir.

“Then I’ll give you three minutes. Use ’em well.”

Off the dock and up the dirt path, Beauvoir swore under his breath. When they reached the big wooden door the Chief turned to him.

“Get it out of your system, Jean-Guy. Once through there the swearing stops.”

“
Oui, patron
.”

Gamache nodded and Jean-Guy raised his hand and hit the door. It made almost no sound, but hurt like hell.

“
Maudit tabernac
,” he hissed.

“I think that’s the doorbell,” said Captain Charbonneau, pointing to a long iron rod in a pocket chiseled out of the stone.

Beauvoir took it and hit the door a mighty whack. That made a sound. He hit it again and noticed the pockmarks, where others had hit. And hit. And hit.

Jean-Guy looked behind him. The boatman raised his wrist and tapped his watch. Beauvoir turned back to the door and got a start.

The wood had sprung eyes. The door was looking at them. Then he realized a slit had been opened, and two bloodshot eyes looked out.

If Beauvoir was surprised to see the eyes, the eyes seemed surprised to see him.

“
Oui?
” The word was muffled by the wood.

“
Bonjour, mon frère
,” said Gamache. “My name is Armand Gamache, I’m the Chief Inspector of homicide with the Sûreté. This is Inspector Beauvoir and Captain Charbonneau. I believe we’re expected.”

The wooden window was rammed shut and they heard the unmistakable click as it was locked. There was a pause and Beauvoir began to wonder if they really would get in. And, if not, what would they do? Ram the door down? Clearly the boatman would be no help. Beauvoir could hear a soft chuckle coming from the dock, mingling with the lapping of the waves.

He looked into the forest. It was thick and dark. An attempt had been made to keep it at bay. Beauvoir could see evidence of trees chopped down. Stumps dotted the ground around the walls, as though there’d been a battle and now an uneasy truce. The stumps looked, in the shadow of the monastery, like tombstones.

Beauvoir took a deep breath and told himself to get a grip. It wasn’t like him to be so fanciful. He dealt in facts. Collected them. It was the Chief Inspector who collected feelings. In each murder case, Gamache followed those feelings, the old and decaying and rotting ones. And at the end of the trail of slime, Gamache found the killer.

While the Chief followed feelings, Beauvoir followed facts. Cold and hard. But between the two men, together, they got there.

They were a good team. A great team.

Suppose he isn’t happy?
The question snuck up on Beauvoir, out of the woods.
Suppose he doesn’t want Annie to be with me?

But that was, again, just fancy. Not fact. Not fact. Not fact.

He stared at the door and saw again the pockmarks, where it had been beaten. By someone, or something, desperate to get in.

Beside him, Chief Inspector Gamache was standing solid. Calm. Staring at the door as though it was the most fascinating thing he’d seen.

And Captain Charbonneau? Out of the periphery of Beauvoir’s vision he could see the outpost commander also staring at the door. He looked uneasy. Anxious to either enter or leave. To come or go. To do something, anything, other than wait on the stoop like some very polite conquerors.

Then there was a noise, and Beauvoir saw Charbonneau twitch in surprise.

They heard the long, drawn-out scrape of wrought iron against wood. Then silence.

Gamache hadn’t moved, hadn’t been surprised, or if he was he hadn’t shown it. He continued to stare at the door, his hands clasped behind his back. With all the time in the world.

A crack appeared. It widened. And widened.

Beauvoir expected to hear a squeal as old, rusty, unused hinges were finally used. But instead there was no sound at all. Which was even more disconcerting.

The door opened completely, and facing them was a figure in a long black robe. But it wasn’t totally black. There were white epaulettes at the shoulders, and a small apron of white partway down the chest. As though the monk had tucked a linen napkin into his collar and forgotten to remove it.

Tied at his waist was a rope, and attached to that was a ring with a single giant key.

The monk nodded, and stepped aside.

“
Merci
,” said Gamache.

Beauvoir turned to the boatman and barely resisted giving him the finger.

Had his passengers levitated, the boatman could not have looked more surprised.

On the threshold Chief Inspector Gamache called back.

“Five o’clock then?”

The boatman nodded and managed, “
Oui, patron
.”

Gamache turned back to the open door, and hesitated. For a heartbeat. Unnoticeable by anyone other than someone who knew him well. Beauvoir looked at Gamache and knew why.

The Chief simply wanted to savor this singular moment. With one step, he would become the first nonreligious ever to set foot into the monastery of Saint-Gilbert-Entre-les-Loups.

Then Gamache took that step, and the others followed.

The door closed behind them with a soft, snug thud. The monk brought up the large key and placed it in a large lock, and turned.

They were locked in.

*   *   *

Armand Gamache had expected to need a few moments to adjust to the dark interior. He hadn’t expected that he’d need to adjust to the light.

Far from being dim, the interior was luminous.

A long wide corridor of gray stones opened up ahead of them, ending in a closed door at the far end. But what struck the Chief, what must have struck every man, every monk, who entered those doors for centuries, was the light.

The corridor was filled with rainbows. Giddy prisms. Bouncing off the hard stone walls. Pooling on the slate floors. They shifted and merged and separated, as though alive.

The Chief Inspector knew his mouth had dropped open, but he didn’t care. He’d never, in a life of seeing many astonishing things, seen anything quite like this. It was like walking into joy.

He turned and caught the eye of the monk. And held it for a moment.

There was no joy there. Just pain. The darkness Gamache had expected to find inside the monastery was not in the walls, but in the men. Or, at least, in this man.

Then, without a word, the monk turned and walked down the hallway. His pace was swift, but his feet made almost no sound. There was just a slight swish as his robe brushed the stones. Brushed past the rainbows.

The Sûreté officers hiked their packs securely over their shoulders and stepped into the warm prisms.

As he followed the monk, Gamache looked up and around. The light came from windows high up the walls. There were no windows at head height. The first were ten feet off the ground. And then another bank of windows above that. Through them Gamache could see blue, blue skies, a few clouds, and the tops of trees, as though they were bending to look in. Just as he was looking out.

The glass was old. Leaded. Imperfect. And it was the imperfections that were creating the play of light.

There was no adornment on the walls. No need.

The monk opened the door and they walked through into a larger, cooler space. Here the rainbows were directed to a single point. The altar.

This was the church.

The monk rushed across it, managing to genuflect on the fly. His pace had picked up, as though the monastery was slightly tilted and they were tumbling toward their destination.

The body.

Gamache glanced around, quickly taking in his surroundings. These were sights and sounds never experienced by men who actually got to leave.

The chapel smelled of incense. But not the musky, stale scent of so many churches in Québec, that smelled as though they were trying to hide something rotten. Here the scent was more natural. Like flowers or fresh herbs.

Gamache took it all in, in a series of swift impressions.

There was no somber and cautionary stained glass here. He realized the windows high on the walls were angled slightly so that the light fell to the simple, austere altar first. It was unadorned. Except for the cheerful light, which played on top of it and radiated to the walls and illuminated the farthest corners of the room.

And in that light Gamache saw something else. They weren’t alone.

Two rows of monks faced each other on either side of the altar. They sat with their heads bowed, their hands folded in their laps. All in exactly the same position. Like carvings, tipping slightly forward.

They were completely and utterly silent, praying in the prism of light.

Gamache and the others passed from the church and entered yet another long hallway. Another long rainbow. Following the monk.

The Chief wondered if their guide, the hurrying monk, even noticed the rainbows he was splashing through anymore. Had they become humdrum? Had the remarkable become commonplace, in this singular place? Certainly the man in front of them didn’t seem to care. But then, the Chief knew, violent death did that.

It was an eclipse, blocking out all that was beautiful, joyous, kind or lovely. So great was the calamity.

This monk who was leading them was young. Much younger than Gamache had expected. He quietly chastised himself for having those expectations. It was one of the first lessons he taught new recruits to his homicide division.

Have no expectations. Enter every room, meet every man, woman and child, look at every body with an open mind. Not so open that their brains fell out, but open enough to see and hear the unexpected.

Have no preconceptions. Murder was unexpected. And often so was the murderer.

Gamache had broken his own rule. He’d expected the monks to be old. Most monks and priests and nuns in Québec were. Not many young people were attracted to the religious life anymore.

While many continued to search for God, they’d given up looking for Him in a church.

This young man, this young monk, was the exception.

In the brief moment Chief Inspector Gamache and the monk had stared at each other, locked eyes, Gamache had realized two things. The monk was barely more than a boy. And he was extremely upset, and trying to hide it. Like a child who’d stubbed his toe on a rock but didn’t want to admit to the pain.

Strong emotions were the rule at a murder scene. They were natural. So why was this young monk trying to hide his feelings? But he wasn’t doing a very good job.

“Jeez,” puffed Beauvoir, coming up beside Gamache, “what do you wanna bet Montréal is through there?”

He nodded to the next closed door, at the far end of the corridor. Beauvoir was more winded than Gamache or Captain Charbonneau, but then he carried more baggage.

The monk took a wrought-iron rod, like the one at the front door, from the side of the door and hit the wood. There was a mighty thump. He waited a moment, then hit again. They waited. Finally Beauvoir took the rod and gave the door a mighty rap.

Their wait ended with a familiar rasp, as again a deadbolt was pulled back. And the door opened.

FOUR

“My name is Dom Philippe,” said the elderly monk. “The abbot of Saint-Gilbert. Thank you for coming.”

He stood with his hands up his sleeves and his arms across his midsection. He looked exhausted. A courteous man, trying to hold on to that courtesy in the face of a barbaric act. Unlike the young monk, the abbot wasn’t trying to hide his feelings.

“I’m sorry it was necessary,” said Gamache, and introduced himself and his men.

“Follow me, please,” said the abbot.

Gamache turned to thank the young monk who had shown them the way, but he’d already disappeared.