The Beautiful Mystery (40 page)

*   *   *

The bells of Saint-Gilbert rang out. Not the thin call to prayers of earlier in the day, but all the bells pealed in a hearty, robust, full-bodied invitation.

Chief Inspector Gamache looked at his watch, out of habit. But he knew what the bells signaled. Five o’clock service.

Vespers.

The Blessed Chapel was empty when he slid into a pew. He put the murder weapon on the seat beside him, and closed his eyes. But not for long. Someone had joined him in the pew.

“
Salut, mon vieux
,” said Gamache. “Where’ve you been? I was looking for you.”

He’d known it was Jean-Guy without looking.

“Here and there,” said Beauvoir. “Investigating a murder, you know.”

“Are you all right?” Gamache asked. Beauvoir seemed dazed and his clothes were disheveled.

“Fine. I went for a walk and slipped on the path outside. I need to get out every now and then.”

“I know what you mean. Any luck with Frère Raymond in the basement?”

Beauvoir looked lost for a moment. Frère Raymond? Then he remembered. Had that even happened? It seemed so long ago.

“The foundations look OK to me. And no sign of a steel pipe.”

“Well, no need to look further. I’ve found the murder weapon.”

Gamache handed the towel to his second in command. Above them the bells stopped ringing.

Beauvoir carefully unwrapped the package. There, in the folds, was the iron knocker. He looked at it, not touching, then up at Gamache.

“How d’you know this’s what killed him?”

The Chief Inspector told him about his conversation with Frère Simon. The Blessed Chapel was very quiet now and Gamache kept his voice in the lowest register. When he looked up it was to see that the Chief Superintendent had arrived and was sitting in a pew across from them and down a row.

The gap between them, it seemed, was widening. This was fine with Gamache.

Beauvoir wrapped the length of iron back up. “I’ll put it in an evidence bag. Not much hope of forensics, though.”

“I agree,” whispered the Chief.

From the wings of the chapel came a now familiar sound. A single voice. Frère Antoine, Gamache recognized, alone, came in first. The new choirmaster.

Then his rich tenor was joined by another voice. Frère Bernard, who collected eggs and wild blueberries. His voice was higher, less rich but more precise.

Then Brother Charles, the
médecin
, walked in, his tenor filling in the gaps between the first two monks.

One after another the brothers filed in, their voices joining, mixing, complementing. Giving a plainchant depth and life. As beautiful as the music had been on CD, as wonderful as it had been yesterday, it was even more glorious now.

Gamache could feel himself both invigorated and relaxed. Calmed and enlivened. The Chief wondered if it was simply because he knew the monks now, or if it was something less tangible. Some shift in the monks that came with the death of their old choirmaster and the ascension of the new.

One after another, the monks walked in, singing. Frère Simon. Frère Raymond. And then, at last, Frère Luc.

And everything changed. His voice, not a tenor, not a baritone. Neither, yet both, joined the rest. And suddenly the individual voices, the individual notes were connected. Joined. Held in an embrace, as though the neumes had lengthened and become arms, and were holding each monk and each man listening.

It became whole. No more wounds. No more damage. The holes became whole. The damage repaired.

Frère Luc sang the simple chant, simply. No histrionics. No hysteria. But with a passion and fullness of spirit that Gamache hadn’t noticed before. It was as though the young monk was free. And being freed, he gave new life to the gliding, soaring neumes.

Gamache listened, struck dumb by the beauty of it. By the way the voices claimed not just his head, but his heart. His arms, his legs, his hands. The scar on his head, and his chest, and the tremble in his hand.

The music held him. Safe. And whole.

Frère Luc’s voice had done that. The others, alone, were magnificent. But Frère Luc elevated them to the Divine. What had he told Gamache?
I am the harmony.
It seemed the simple truth.

Beside Gamache on the bench, Jean-Guy Beauvoir had closed his eyes, and felt himself slip away to that familiar world, where nothing mattered. There was no more pain, no more ache. No more uncertainty.

Everything would be fine.

And then, the music stopped. The last note died away. And there was silence.

The abbot stepped forward, made the sign of the cross, opened his mouth.

And stood there.

Stunned by another sound. One never heard during Vespers. Never before heard during any prayer service at Saint-Gilbert-Entre-les-Loups.

It was a rod on wood.

Pounding.

Someone was at the door. Someone wanted in.

Or out.

TWENTY-SEVEN

Dom Philippe tried not to notice.

He intoned a blessing. Heard the response. Gave the next call.

He’d become quite good, he realized, at not noticing. At shutting out unpleasantness.

His vow of silence had been expanded to include a vow of deafness. Much longer and he’d be completely senseless.

Standing perfectly still, he surrendered to God.

Then Dom Philippe sang, in a voice no longer young and vigorous but still filled with adoration, the next line of the prayer.

And heard the pounding on the gate, as though in response.

“Lord have mercy,” he sang.

Pounding.

“Christ have mercy.”

Pounding.

“Holy Trinity, have mercy on him.”

Pounding.

The abbot’s mind went blank. For the first time in decades, after hundreds, thousands of services, his mind went blank.

The peace of Christ, the grace of God had been replaced. By pounding.

Pounding.

Like a giant metronome.

Pounding at the gate.

The monks, lined up on either side of him, looked. At him.

For guidance.

Oh, God, help me
, he prayed.
What should I do
?

The pounding wouldn’t stop, he realized. It had taken on a rhythm. A dead, repetitive thumping. As though a machine was doing it.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

It would go on forever. Until …

Until it was answered.

The abbot did something he’d never, ever done before. Not as a novice, not in all his years as a monk, and now as abbot. The thousands of services he’d celebrated. He’d never once left.

But he did now. He bowed to the cross, then turning his back on his congregation, he walked off the altar.

His heart was pounding too, but much faster than the banging at the gate. He could feel perspiration beneath his robes. They felt heavy as he walked down the long aisle.

Past that Superintendent of the Sûreté, with his clever eyes and clever face.

Past the young Inspector, who seemed so anxious to be anywhere other than where he was.

Past the Chief Inspector, who listened so closely, as though trying to find answers not just for the crime, but for himself.

Dom Philippe walked past them all. He tried not to rush. Told himself to be measured. To walk with purpose, but with containment.

The pounding continued. Not louder, not softer. Not faster, but neither did it slow. It kept an almost inhuman consistency.

And the abbot found himself rushing. Toward it. Desperate to make it stop. The noise that had shattered Vespers. And finally blown a hole through his determined calm.

Behind Dom Philippe the monks followed, in a long, thin line. Hands up sleeves, heads bowed. Feet hurrying along. Trying to keep up, while not appearing to run.

As the last monk left the altar, the Sûreté officers joined them, Gamache and Beauvoir a step behind Francoeur.

Dom Philippe exited the Blessed Chapel and turned down the long, long corridor. With the door at the very end. He knew it was a trick of his imagination, but the wood seemed to strain forward with each thump.

Lord have mercy
, he prayed as he approached the door. It was the last prayer he’d said on the altar and the only one that had stayed with him, clinging on when everything else had fled.
Lord have mercy. Oh, dear God, have mercy
.

At the door, the abbot stopped. Should he look through the slat, to see who was there? But would it matter? Whoever was there wouldn’t stop, the abbot knew, until the heavy door had been opened.

He realized he didn’t have a key.

Where was the
frère portier
? Would he have to go all the way back to the Blessed Chapel, to get the key?

The abbot turned and was surprised to see the other monks, in a semi-circle, behind him. Like a choir about to sing Christmas carols. All ye faithful had come, but they were hardly joyful and triumphant. They looked more glum and distressed.

But they were there. The abbot was not alone. God did have mercy.

Frère Luc appeared beside him, the key shaking slightly in his slender hand.

“Give it to me, my son,” said the abbot.

“But it’s my job,
mon père
.”

Bang.

Bang.

Bang on the door.

Dom Philippe kept his hand out. “This job falls to me,” he said and smiled at the alarmed young monk. With trembling hands Frère Luc unclipped the heavy metal key and gave it to the abbot, then stepped back.

Dom Philippe, his own hand unsteady, thrust back the deadbolt. Then he tried to get the key in the lock.

Bang.

Bang.

He brought his other hand up, to steady the key, to help guide it.

Bang.

It slid into place, and he turned it.

The banging stopped. Whoever was on the other side had heard, through the banging, the thin metallic click as the door unlocked.

The gate opened.

It was twilight, the sun almost set. The mist was thicker now. Some light spilled out of the monastery, from the crack in the door, but no light came in.

“
Oui?
” said the abbot, wishing his voice sounded firmer, more authoritative.

“Dom Philippe?”

The voice was polite, respectful. Disembodied.

“
Oui
,” said the abbot, his voice still not his own.

“May I come in? I’ve come a long way.”

“Who are you?” asked the abbot. It seemed a reasonable question.

“Does it matter? Would you really turn a person away on a night like this?”

It seemed a reasonable answer.

But reason wasn’t the Gilbertines’ long suit. Passion, commitment, loyalty. Music. But not, perhaps, reason.

Still, Dom Philippe realized the voice was right. He couldn’t possibly shut the door now. It was far too late. Once opened, whatever was out there had to come in.

He stepped back. Behind him he heard, as one, the rest of the congregation step back. But out of his peripheral vision he noticed two people holding their ground.

Chief Inspector Gamache and his Inspector, Beauvoir.

A foot stepped in. Well shod, in black leather, with mud and a piece of bright, dead leaf stuck to it. And then the man was in.

He was slender and of medium height, slightly shorter than the abbot. His eyes were light brown, as was his hair, and his skin was pale, except for a slight flush from the cold.

“
Merci
,
mon père
.” He hauled in a duffel bag and turned to look at his hosts. He smiled then, fully and completely. Not with amusement, but with wonderment. “At last,” he said. “I found you.”

He wasn’t handsome, nor was he hideous. He was unremarkable, except for one thing.

What he wore.

He was also in a monk’s robes, but while the Gilbertines wore a white surplice on black, his robes were black on white.

“
The hound of the Lord
,” one of the monks whispered.

When Gamache turned to see which of them had spoken he saw they all had their mouths slightly open.

“We don’t use that term anymore,” said the new arrival, scanning the men in front of him, his smile widening. “Puts people off.”

His voice was pleasant as he continued to stare at them.

The Gilbertines stared back, not smiling.

Finally the stranger turned to Dom Philippe, and offered his hand. The abbot, silently, took it. The young man bowed, then straightened up.

“My name is Brother Sébastien. I’ve come from Rome.”

“Tonight?” asked the abbot and immediately regretted the stupidity of the question. But he’d heard no plane, nor had he heard the motorboat.

“I flew in from Rome this morning, and made my way here.”

“But how?” the abbot asked.

“I paddled.”

Now it was Dom Philippe’s turn to stare, his mouth slightly open.

Frère Sébastien laughed. It was, like the rest of him, pleasant.

“I know. Not my most brilliant idea. A small plane got me to the local airfield but the fog was getting too thick and no one wanted to take me the rest of the way, so I decided to take myself.” He turned to look at Gamache, paused, perplexed, then looked back at the abbot. “You were much farther away than I realized.”

“You paddled all this way? From the village?”

“I did.”

“But that’s miles. How’d you even know where to go?” The abbot willed himself to be quiet, but he couldn’t seem to stop the questions.

“The boatman directed me. Said to keep going past three bays and to turn right at the fourth.” He seemed delighted by the directions. “But the mist got really heavy and I was afraid I’d made my last mistake. But then I heard your bells and followed the sound. When I got to the head of the bay I saw your lights. You have no idea how happy I am to find you.”

And he looked happy, thought Gamache. In fact, he looked ecstatic. He kept staring at the monks as though he wasn’t one himself. As though he’d never met a
religieux
.

“Have you come because of the prior?” asked Dom Philippe.

And Gamache had a sudden insight. He stepped forward, but it was too late.

“About his murder?” the abbot asked.