The Beautiful Mystery (6 page)

“Well, he’d seen his killer, he knew he was dying. He had the strength to crawl all this way. Why didn’t he use some of that last energy to leave us a message?” Beauvoir asked.

They looked around, but the earth had been trampled. Not by them, but by a bunch of monks, well meaning or otherwise.

“Maybe it’s simpler than that,” said Charbonneau. “Maybe he was like an animal. Curling up to die alone.”

Gamache felt an overwhelming sympathy for the dead man. To die alone. Almost certainly struck down by someone he knew and trusted. Was that the alarm on this man’s face? Not that he was dying, but that it was at the hands of a brother. Was that how Abel had looked, as he fell to the earth?

They bent over the monk again.

Frère Mathieu was in late middle age, and rotund. A man who didn’t appear to deny himself much. If he mortified his flesh it was with food. And maybe drink. Though he didn’t have the ruddy, bloated complexion of the dissolute.

The prior simply looked well satisfied with his life, though clearly more than a little disappointed by his death.

“Could there have been another blow?” asked the Chief. “To his abdomen, perhaps?”

“…
and blessed is the fruit of thy womb…”

Beauvoir also leaned closer and nodded. “His arms are wrapped around his stomach. Do you think he was in pain?”

Gamache stood up and absently brushed dirt from his knees.

“I’ll leave him to you, Inspector. Captain.”

The Chief Inspector retraced his steps, careful not to wander from the path he’d already created.

“
Holy Mary, mother of God
…”

The monks continued to repeat the Hail Mary.

How did they know when to stop, Gamache wondered. When was it enough?

He knew what his goal was. To find whoever had killed Frère Mathieu.

“…
pray for us sinners
…”

But what was theirs, these three black-robed figures?

“…
now and at the hour of our death. Amen.
”

FIVE

The Chief watched the monks for a few moments, then he turned and watched Beauvoir.

He’d put on weight, and while still lean he was no longer gaunt. Jean-Guy’s face had filled out and the shadows under his eyes had disappeared.

But more than the physical change, Beauvoir now seemed happy. Indeed, happier than Gamache had ever seen him. Not the feverish, giddy highs of the addict, but a settled calm. Gamache knew it was a long and treacherous road back, but Beauvoir was at least on it.

Gone were the mood swings, the irrational outbursts. The rage and the whining.

Gone were the pills. The OxyContin and Percocet. It was one of the terrible ironies that medications meant to relieve pain would finally cause so much.

God knew, thought Gamache as he watched his Inspector, Beauvoir had had genuine pain. Had needed those pills. But then he’d needed to stop.

And he had. With help. Gamache hoped it wasn’t too soon for his Inspector to be back on the job, but suspected what Beauvoir needed now was normalcy. To not be treated as though he was handicapped.

Still, Gamache knew Jean-Guy needed watching. For any cracks in the calm.

For now, though, Gamache turned away from the agents, knowing they had a job to do. And he turned away from the monks, knowing they also had their job.

And he had his.

Gamache looked around the garden.

It was the first chance he’d had to really take it in.

It was square. Roughly forty feet by forty. Not meant for sports or large gatherings. The monks would not be playing soccer here.

Gamache noticed a wicker basket with gardening implements dropped on the ground. There was also a black medical bag, close to the praying monks.

He began to wander, looking at the perennials, at the herbs all marked and named.

Echinacea, meadowsweet, St. John’s wort, chamomile.

Gamache was no gardener, but he suspected these weren’t just herbs or flowers, but medicinal. He looked around again.

Everything here seemed to have a purpose. To be thought out.

Including, he suspected, the body.

There was a purpose to this murder. His job was to find it.

A curved stone bench sat under the maple in the center of the garden. Most of the tree’s autumn leaves had fallen. Most had been raked up, but some were scattered on the grass. And a few, like forlorn hope, clung to the mother tree.

In summer, in full leaf, there would be a magnificent canopy, throwing dappled light over the garden. Not much of this garden would be in full sun. Not much in complete shade.

The abbot’s garden had achieved a balance between light and dark.

But now, in autumn, it seemed to be dying.

But that too was the natural cycle. It would be deviant, abnormal, if all was in perpetual flower.

The walls were, Gamache guessed, at least ten feet high. No one climbed out of the garden. And the only way in was through the abbot’s bedroom. Through the secret door.

Gamache looked back at the monastery. No one inside the monastery could come into, or even see into, the abbot’s garden.

Did they even know it was here? Gamache wondered. Was that possible?

Was this not only a private garden, but a secret one?

*   *   *

Dom Philippe repeated the rosary.

“Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee.…”

His head was bowed but his eyes were open, just a slit. He watched the police officers in the garden. Bending over Mathieu. Taking his picture. Prodding him. How Mathieu, always so fastidious, so precise, would have hated this.

To die in the dirt.

“
Holy Mary, mother of God…”

How could Mathieu be dead? Dom Philippe mouthed the rosary, trying to concentrate on the simple prayer. He said the words, and heard his brother monks beside him. Heard their familiar voices. Felt their shoulders against his.

Felt the sunshine on his head, and smelled the musky autumn garden.

But now nothing seemed familiar anymore. The words, the prayer, even the sunshine felt foreign.

Mathieu was dead.

How could I not have known?

“
… pray for us sinners…”

How could I not have known?

The words became his new rosary.

How could I not have known that it would all end in murder?

*   *   *

Gamache had come full circle and stopped in front of the praying monks.

He had the impression as he approached that the abbot had been watching.

One thing was obvious. In the few minutes Gamache had been in the garden, the abbot’s energy had diminished even further.

If the Hail Marys were meant to comfort, it wasn’t working. Or perhaps, without the prayers Dom Philippe would be in worse shape. He seemed like a man on the verge of collapse.

“
Pardon
,” said Gamache.

The two monks stopped their prayers, but Dom Philippe continued, to the end.

“
… now and at the hour of our death
.”

And together they intoned, “
Amen
.”

Dom Philippe opened his eyes.

“Yes, my son?”

It was the traditional greeting of a priest to a parishioner. Or an abbot to his monks. Gamache, though, was neither. And he wondered why Dom Philippe would use that term with him.

Was it habit? An offer of affection? Or was it something else? A claim to authority. A father’s over a child.

“I have some questions.”

“Of course,” said the abbot while the other two remained silent.

“I understand one of you found Frère Mathieu.”

The monk to the right of the abbot shot Dom Philippe a look, and the abbot gave a very small nod.

“I did.” The monk was shorter than Dom Philippe and slightly younger. His eyes were wary.

“And you are?”

“Simon.”

“Perhaps,
mon frère
, you can describe what happened this morning.”

Frère Simon turned to the abbot, who nodded again.

“I came in here after Lauds to tidy up the garden. Then I saw him.”

“What did you see?”

“Frère Mathieu.”

“
Oui
, but did you know it was him?”

“No.”

“Who did you think it might be?”

Frère Simon lapsed into silence.

“It’s all right, Simon. We need to speak the truth,” said the abbot.

“
Oui, Père Abbé
.” The monk didn’t look happy or convinced. But he did obey. “I thought it was the abbot.”

“Why?”

“Because no one else comes in here. Only him and me now.”

Gamache considered that for a moment. “What did you do?”

“I went to see.”

Gamache glanced over at the wicker basket, on its side, the contents tumbling out onto the autumn leaves. The rake thrown down.

“Did you walk, or run?”

Again that hesitation. “I ran.”

Gamache could imagine the scene. The middle-aged monk with his basket. Preparing to garden, to rake up the dead leaves. Entering this peaceful garden to do what he’d done so many times before. Then seeing the unthinkable. A man collapsed at the base of the wall.

Without doubt, the abbot.

And what had Frère Simon done? He’d dropped his tools and run. As fast as his robed legs would take him.

“And when you got to him, what did you do?”

“I saw that it wasn’t
Père Abbé
at all.”

“Describe for me please everything that you did.”

“I knelt down.” Every word seemed to cause him pain. Either because of the memory, or just their existence. The very act of speaking. “And I moved his hood. It’d fallen across his face. That’s when I saw it wasn’t the abbot.”

It wasn’t the abbot. That was what seemed to matter to this man. Not who it was, but who it wasn’t. Gamache listened closely. To the words. The tone. The space between the words.

And what he heard now was relief.

“Did you touch the body? Move him?”

“I touched his hood and his shoulders. Shook him. Then I went to get the doctor.”

Frère Simon looked at the other monk.

He was younger than the other two, but not by much. The stubble on his close-cropped head was also graying. He was shorter and slightly rounder than the other two. And his eyes, while somber, held none of the anxiety of his companions.

“Are you the doctor?” Gamache asked and the monk nodded. He seemed almost amused.

But Gamache wasn’t fooled. One of Reine-Marie’s brothers laughed in funerals and wept at weddings. A friend of theirs always laughed when someone yelled at him. Not from amusement, but an overflow of strong emotion.

Sometimes the two got mixed up. Especially in people unused to showing emotion.

The medical monk, while appearing amused, might in fact be the most devastated.

“Charles,” the monk offered. “I’m the
médecin
.”

“Tell me how you found out about the death of the prior.”

“I was with the animals when Frère Simon came to get me. He took me aside and said there’d been an accident—”

“Were you alone?”

“No, there were other brothers there, but Frère Simon was careful to keep his voice low. I don’t think they heard.”

Gamache turned back to Frère Simon. “Did you really think it was an accident?”

“I wasn’t sure and I didn’t know what else to say.”

“I’m sorry.” Gamache turned back to the doctor. “I interrupted you.”

“I ran to the infirmary, grabbed my medical bag and we came here.”

Gamache could imagine the two black-robed monks running through the sparkling halls. “Did you meet anyone on the way?”

“Not a soul,” said Frère Charles. “It was our work period. Everyone was at their chores.”

“What did you do when you arrived in the garden?”

“I looked for a pulse, of course, but his eyes were enough to tell me he was dead, even if I hadn’t seen the wound.”

“And what did you think when you did?”

“At first I wondered if he’d fallen off the wall, but I could see that was impossible.”

“And then what did you think?”

Frère Charles looked at the abbot.

“Go on,” said Dom Philippe.

“I thought someone had done this to him.”

“Who?”

“I honestly hadn’t a clue.”

Gamache paused to scrutinize the doctor. In his experience when someone said “honestly” it was often a prelude to a lie. He tucked that impression away and turned to the abbot.

“I wonder, sir, if you and I might talk some more.”

The abbot didn’t look surprised. He looked as though nothing could shock him anymore.

“Of course.”

Dom Philippe bowed to the other two monks, catching their eyes, and the Chief wondered what message had just passed between them. Did monks who lived silently together develop a form of telepathy? An ability to read each other’s thoughts?

If so, that gift had sorely failed the prior.

Dom Philippe led Gamache to the bench under the tree. Away from the activity.

From there they couldn’t see the body. They couldn’t see the monastery. Instead the view was to the wall, and the medicinal herbs and the tops of the trees beyond.

“I’m finding it hard to believe this has happened,” said the abbot. “You must hear that all the time. Does everyone say that?”

“Most do. It would be a terrible thing if murder wasn’t a shock.”

The abbot sighed and stared into the distance. Then he closed his eyes, and brought his slender hands to his face.

There was no sobbing. No weeping. Not even praying.

Just silence. His long elegant hands like a mask over his face. Another wall between himself and the outside world.

Finally he dropped his hands into his lap. They rested there, limp.

“He was my best friend, you know. We’re not supposed to have best friends in a monastery. We’re all supposed to be equal. All friends, but none too much. But of course that’s the ideal. Like Julian of Norwich, we aspire to an all-consuming love of God. But we’re flawed and human, and sometimes we also love our fellow man. There are no rules for the heart.”

Gamache listened and waited, and tried not to overinterpret what he was being told.