The Beautiful Mystery (41 page)

The abbot, a man who longed for great silence, had said too much.

Gamache took a deep breath and Frère Sébastien looked over at him, then his gaze shifted to Beauvoir, before finally resting on Superintendent Francoeur.

The smile slid from the young monk’s face, to be replaced by a look of great sympathy. He crossed himself and kissed his thumb, then folded his long hands in front of himself, and bowed slightly, his eyes grave.

“That’s why I was in such a rush. I came as soon as I heard. God rest his soul.”

Now all the monks crossed themselves, while Chief Inspector Gamache studied the newcomer. The man who’d paddled through the gathering darkness, through the gathering mist. Across an unfamiliar lake. And finally found the abbey by following the sound. And the light.

He’d traveled all the way from Rome.

Desperate, it would seem, to reach Saint-Gilbert-Entre-les-Loups. So desperate, he’d taken his life in his hands. This young man, while making a joke about his foolish decision making, looked extremely competent to Gamache. So why had he taken such a risk? What couldn’t wait until morning?

It wasn’t the prior’s murder, Gamache was sure of that. He’d known in the instant Dom Philippe had asked that this stranger knew nothing about it. It was news to Frère Sébastien.

If he’d really come all the way from Rome because of the prior’s death he’d have been more solemn. Would have offered his sympathies right away.

Instead he’d laughed at his own folly, talked of his travels, said how happy he was to see them. Marveled at the monks. But hadn’t once mentioned Frère Mathieu.

No. Frère Sébastien had a reason to be there. And an important one. But it had nothing to do with Frère Mathieu’s death.

“Were those the Vesper bells?” Frère Sébastien asked. “I’m so sorry,
mon père
, to have interrupted. Please, continue.”

The abbot hesitated then turned and walked back down the long corridor, the newcomer behind him, looking this way and that.

Gamache watched him closely. It was as though the visitor had never been in a monastery before.

The Chief signaled Brother Charles to stay at the back of the procession, with him. He waited until the others were a good distance ahead, then turned to the doctor.

“Was it you who called Frère Sébastien the hound of the Lord?”

“Well, I didn’t mean him personally.”

The doctor looked pale, shaken. Not his jovial self. In fact, he looked considerably more upset about the live stranger than the dead prior.

“Then what did you mean?” insisted Gamache.

They were almost in the Blessed Chapel, and he wanted to finish this conversation before entering the church. Not out of some sense of religious propriety, but because of the astonishing acoustics.

This conversation must remain private.

“He’s a Dominican,” said Brother Charles, his voice also low, his eyes never leaving the head of the procession. Frère Sébastien and the abbot.

“How’d you know?”

“His robes and belt. Dominican.”

“But how does that make him the hound of the Lord?”

The head of the procession, like the head of a snake, had entered the Blessed Chapel and the rest were following.

“Dominican,” Brother Charles repeated. “
Domini canis
. Hound of the Lord.”

Then they too entered the Blessed Chapel and all conversation ended. Brother Charles gave Gamache a small nod and followed his fellow monks back onto the altar, where they took their places.

Frère Sébastien genuflected, crossed himself, then sat in a pew, craning his neck. Looking this way and that.

Beauvoir had returned to the pew and Gamache frowned as Superintendent Francoeur joined Jean-Guy. Gamache walked around and slid into the seat on the other side of Beauvoir, so that the Inspector was bracketed by his bosses.

But Beauvoir didn’t care. As Vespers began again he closed his eyes and imagined himself in Annie’s apartment. Lying together on the sofa in front of the fireplace.

She’d be in the crook of his arm. He’d be holding her secure.

Every other woman he’d dated, and Enid, whom he’d married, had been tiny. Slender, petite.

Annie Gamache was not. She was athletic, full bodied. Strong. And when she lay with him, clothed or not, they fit together perfectly.

“I never want this to end,” Annie would whisper.

“It won’t,” he’d assure her. “Never ever.”

“It’ll change, though, when people find out.”

“It’ll be even better,” he’d say.

“
Oui
,” Annie would agree. “But I like it like this. Just us.”

And he liked it like that too.

Now, in the Blessed Chapel, with its scent of incense and candles, he imagined he heard the murmur of the fireplace. Smelled the sweet maple logs. Tasted the red wine. And could feel Annie on his chest.

*   *   *

The music began. At once, from some signal invisible to Gamache, the monks went from still and silent to full voice.

Their voices filled the chapel like air in lungs. It seemed to emanate from the rocks of the walls. As though the Gregorian chants were as much a part of the abbey as the stones and slate and wooden beams.

In front of Gamache, Frère Sébastien stared. Transfixed. Unmoving.

His mouth was open slightly, and there was a glistening down his pale cheek.

Frère Sébastien listened to the Gilbertines sing their service, and wept, as though he’d never heard the voice of God before.

*   *   *

Dinner that night was an almost silent affair.

Since Vespers ended late, the brothers and their guests had gone directly to the dining hall. Tureens filled with brilliant pea and mint soup sat on the table, next to baskets of fresh, warm baguette.

A brother sang the prayer of thanksgiving for the meal, the monks crossed themselves, and then the only sound was of the soup being served and spoons against earthenware bowls.

And then, a low hum was heard. In any other environment it would’ve been inaudible, but here, in the silence, it sounded as loud as the boatman’s engine.

And it got louder. And louder.

The monks, one by one, stopped eating and soon the only sound in the long dining hall was the humming. Every head turned to see where it was coming from.

It came from Chief Inspector Gamache.

He sipped his soup, and he hummed. Looking down at his plate, apparently engrossed in the delicious meal. Then, perhaps sensing scrutiny, he looked up.

But the humming didn’t stop.

Gamache smiled a little as he hummed, and looked at the faces of the monks.

Some looked scandalized. Some looked worried, as though a madman had appeared. Some looked angry, to have their peace disturbed.

Beauvoir looked blank, his soup untouched in front of him, his appetite gone. Francoeur shook his head slightly, as though ashamed.

One monk looked frightened. Frère Simon.

“What’s that you’re humming?”

The question came from the head of the table. But not from Dom Philippe. It was the Dominican who’d asked the question. His young face was interested, good-natured. Not angry, not pained, not scandalized.

In fact, Frère Sébastien seemed sincerely interested.

“I’m sorry,” said Gamache, “I didn’t realize I was humming so loud.
Désolé
.”

But the Chief Inspector didn’t look at all desolate.

“I think it’s a Canadian folk song,” said Frère Simon, his voice slightly higher than usual.

“Is that right? It’s very pretty.”

“Actually,
mon frère
,” said Gamache, and beside him Frère Simon was squirming and knocking his knee against Gamache beneath the table, “it’s a chant. I have it stuck in my head. Can’t seem to get it out.”

“It’s not a chant,” said Simon quickly. “He thinks it is but I was trying to explain that a chant is much simpler.”

“Whatever it is, it’s very beautiful,” said Frère Sébastien.

“Much better than the song it replaced in my head. ‘Camptown Races.’”

“
Camptown racetrack’s five miles long. Doo-dah, doo-dah
,” Frère Sébastien sang. “That one?”

All eyes swung from the Chief Inspector to the newcomer. Even Gamache was speechless for a moment.

Frère Sébastien had made the silly old song sound like a work of genius. As though Mozart or Handel or Beethoven had written it. If the works of da Vinci could turn themselves into music, they’d have sounded like that.

“
All the doo-dah day
,” Frère Sébastien concluded with a smile.

These monks, who sang so gloriously for God, looked at the Dominican as though at a brand-new creature.

“Who are you?”

It was Frère Antoine who asked. The new choirmaster. He wasn’t demanding, not at all accusing. His face and voice held a note of wonderment Gamache hadn’t heard before.

The Chief looked at the other monks.

The discomfort had disappeared. The anxiety gone. Frère Simon had forgotten to be taciturn, Brother Charles was no longer fearful.

What they did look was deeply curious.

“I’m Frère Sébastien. A simple Dominican friar.”

“But who are you?” Frère Antoine persisted.

Frère Sébastien carefully folded his napkin and placed it in front of him. Then he looked down the long wooden table, worn and marked by hundreds and hundreds of years of Gilbertines sitting at it.

“I said I came from Rome,” he began, “but I wasn’t very specific. I come from the Palace of the Holy Office at the Vatican. I work at the CDF.”

Now the silence was profound.

“The CDF?” Gamache asked.

“The Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith.” Frère Sébastien turned to Gamache and clarified. He had an apologetic look on his nondescript face.

Fear had crept back into the room. Whereas before it seemed vague, without form, now it had a form and a focus. The pleasant young monk at the head of the table, sitting beside the abbot. The hound of the Lord.

As he looked at Frère Sébastien and Dom Philippe side by side, the Chief Inspector was reminded of the unlikely emblem of Saint-Gilbert-Entre-les-Loups. Two wolves, intertwined. One wore black on white, the other, the abbot, wore white on black. Polar opposites. Sébastien, young and vital. Dom Philippe, older and aging by the moment.

Entre les loups
. Among the wolves.

“The Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith?” asked Gamache.

“The Inquisition,” said Frère Simon, in a very small voice.

TWENTY-EIGHT

Gamache and Beauvoir waited until they were back in the prior’s office to talk. Superintendent Francoeur had corralled the newcomer right after dinner and the two had stayed in the dining hall.

Everyone else had left as soon as they politely could.

“Jeez,” said Beauvoir. “The Inquisition. I didn’t expect that.”

“No one does,” said Gamache. “There hasn’t been an Inquisition in hundreds of years. I wonder why he’s here?”

Beauvoir crossed his arms and leaned against the door while Gamache sat behind the desk. Only then did he notice the other chair was broken, and leaning, crooked, in a corner.

Gamache said nothing, but looked at Beauvoir and raised a brow.

“A slight disagreement.”

“With the chair?”

“With the Superintendent. No one was hurt,” he hurriedly added on seeing the Chief’s face. But the assurance didn’t seem to work. Gamache continued to look upset.

“What happened?”

“Nothing. He said some stupid things and I disagreed.”

“I told you not to engage him, not to argue. It’s what he does, he gets into people’s heads—”

“And what was I supposed to do? Just nod and bow and take his shit? You might, but I won’t.”

The two men stared at each other for a moment.

“Sorry,” said Beauvoir, and stood up straight. He wiped his tired face with his hands then looked at Gamache.

The Chief was no longer looking angry. Now he looked concerned.

“Has something happened? What did the Superintendent say?”

“Oh, just the usual crap. That you don’t know what you’re doing and I’m exactly like you.”

“And that made you angry?”

“To be compared to you? Who wouldn’t be?” Beauvoir laughed, but he could see the Chief wasn’t amused. He continued to examine Beauvoir.

“Are you all right?”

“God, why do you always ask that, as soon as I get angry, or upset? You think I’m that fragile?”

“Are you all right?” Gamache repeated. And waited.

“Oh, fuck,” said Beauvoir and leaned heavily against the wall. “I’m just tired, and this place is getting to me. And now this new monk, this Dominican. I feel like I’ve landed on another planet. They’re speaking the same language as me, but I keep thinking they’re saying more than I understand, you know?”

“I do.” Gamache kept his gaze on Beauvoir, then looked away. Deciding to let it drop for the moment. But something had clearly crawled inside the younger man’s skin. And Gamache could guess what. Or who.

Chief Superintendent Francoeur had many skills, Gamache knew. It was a terrible mistake to underestimate him. And in all the years they’d worked together, Gamache knew that Francoeur’s greatest gift was bringing out the worst in people.

However well hidden that demon, Francoeur would find it. And Francoeur would free it. And feed it. Until it consumed its host, and became the man.

Gamache had seen decent young Sûreté officers turned into cynical, vicious, strutting thugs. Young men and women with little conscience and big guns. And a superior who modeled and rewarded their behavior.

Once again Gamache looked at Beauvoir, leaning exhausted against the wall. Somehow Francoeur had gotten into Jean-Guy. He’d found the entrance, found the wound, and was roaming around inside him. Looking to do even more damage.

And Gamache had allowed it.

He felt himself almost quaking with rage. In a flash it had claimed his core, and raced to his extremities, so that his hands closed into white-knuckled fists.

Rage was transforming him, and Gamache fought to regain control. To grip his humanity and haul himself back.

Francoeur wouldn’t get this young man, Gamache vowed. It stops here.