The Beautiful Mystery ciag-8

by Louise Penny

  “But it has these things.” Gamache pointed to the squiggles above the words. “Neumes, right?”

  “Right. That’s what’s so troubling about it.”

  “Troubling, Frère Luc?”

  “It’s meant to look like a Gregorian chant. It’s masquerading as one. But it’s an imposter. Where did you find it?”

  “On the body of Frère Mathieu.”

  Luc blanched. Gamache knew that there were two things a person could not create, no matter how much they willed it. A blanch and a blush.

  “What does that tell you, Frère Luc?”

  “That the prior died trying to protect what he loved.”

  “This?” Gamache lifted the page.

  “No, not that at all. He must have taken that from someone here. Someone who was trying to turn the chants into a joke. Trying to make them an abomination. And the prior wanted to stop it.”

  “You think this was done as an insult?”

  “Someone knew Gregorian chants and neumes enough to mock them. Yes, it was done on purpose, as an insult.”

  “Someone here, you said. Who?” Gamache watched the young monk.

  Frère Luc was quiet.

  Gamache waited. Then he spoke, recognizing that sometimes silence was a useful tactic. Much more oppressive and threatening than hurled insults. But here silence was their comfort. It was the spoken word that seemed to frighten the monks.

  “Who hated Frère Mathieu enough to mock his life’s work?” Gamache persisted. “Who hated him enough to kill him?”

  Luc remained silent.

  “If every monk here loves the chants, why would one mock them? Create what you call an abomination?” Gamache held the vellum up and leaned forward very slightly. Luc backed away very slightly, but he had nowhere to go.

  “I don’t know,” said Luc. “I’d tell you if I did.”

  The Chief studied Frère Luc, and thought he probably would. He loved the chants and clearly admired and respected the prior. Frère Luc would not protect any man who was out to kill both. But while this monk might not know who did it, he might have suspicions. As the abbot had said earlier, Gamache needed proof, but a monk only needed his beliefs. Did Frère Luc believe he knew who’d killed the prior, and mocked the chants? And was he arrogant enough to think he could deal with them on his own?

  The Chief Inspector held the monk’s eyes and when he spoke his voice was stern.

  “You must help me find out who did this.”

  “I don’t know anything.”

  “But you suspect.”

  “No. That’s not true.”

  “A murderer is walking these halls, young man. A killer is trapped in here with us. With you.”

  Gamache saw the fear in Luc’s eyes. A young man who sat alone all day, the only key to the outside world attached to a rope around his waist. The only way out was through him. If the murderer ever wanted to escape it might literally be over this young man’s dead body. Did Luc appreciate that?

  The Chief Inspector leaned away, but not by much. “Tell me what you know.”

  “All I know is that not everyone was happy about the recording.”

  “The new one? The one the prior was about to make?”

  Frère Luc paused then shook his head.

  “The old one? The first one?”

  Frère Luc nodded.

  “Who was unhappy?”

  Now Frère Luc looked miserable.

  “You must tell me, son,” said Gamache.

  Luc leaned forward. To whisper. His eyes darting into the dim corridor. Gamache also leaned forward. To hear.

  But before he could say anything, Frère Luc’s eyes widened.

  “There you are, Monsieur Gamache. Your Inspector said you’d be here. I’ve come to take you to dinner.”

  Frère Simon, the abbot’s secretary, stood in the hallway, a few feet from the porter’s door. His hands up his sleeves, his head humbly bowed.

  Had he heard their conversation? Gamache wondered.

  This was the monk whose eyes never seemed to quite close. Who watched everything, and who, Gamache suspected, heard everything.

  ELEVEN

  Two monks came out of the kitchens carrying bowls of small new potatoes, drizzled with butter and chives. Broccoli and sweet squash and casseroles followed. Cutting boards with warm baguettes dotted the long refectory table and platters of cheeses and butter were silently passed up and down the long benches of monks.

  The monks, though, took very little. Passing the bowls and bread, but only taking enough to be symbolic.

  They had no appetite.

  This left Beauvoir in a quandary. He wanted to drop huge spoonfuls of everything onto his plate until he could no longer see above it. He wanted to make an altar of the food, then eat it. All.

  When the first casserole, a fragrant cheese and leek dish with a crunchy crumble top, came by he paused, looking at the modest amounts everyone else had taken.

  Then he took the biggest scoop he could manage and plopped it onto his plate.

  Bite me, he thought. And the monks looked like they might.

  The abbot broke the silence with grace. And then another monk rose after the meal had been served, and walked to a lectern. There he read from a prayer book.

  Not a word was said in conversation.

  Not a word was said about the hole in their ranks. The missing monk.

  But Frère Mathieu was very much present, hanging over them like a haunting. Taking advantage of the silence to grow until he finally filled the room.

  Gamache and Beauvoir were not seated together. Like children who couldn’t be trusted, they were at opposite ends of the table.

  Near the end of the meal, the Chief folded his cloth napkin and rose.

  Frère Simon, across from him, motioned, at first subtly then with more vigor, for the Chief to sit back down.

  Gamache met the man’s eyes, and also motioned. That he’d received the message, but was going to do what he needed to do anyway.

  Down the bench, Beauvoir, seeing the Chief rise, also got to his feet.

  There was perfect silence now. Not even the discreet clink of cutlery. All forks and knives were either put down, or suspended. All eyes were on the Chief.

  He walked slowly to the lectern and looked down the table. Twelve monks on one side. Eleven monks on the other. The room, the community, out of balance.

  “My name is Armand Gamache,” he said into the shocked silence. “Some of you I’ve already met. I’m the Chief Inspector of homicide for the Sûreté du Québec. This is my second in command, Inspector Beauvoir.”

  The monks looked anxious. And angry. At him.

  Gamache was used to this transference. They couldn’t yet blame the killer, so they blamed the police for turning their lives upside down. He felt a rush of sympathy.

  If they only knew how bad it would get.

  “We’re here to investigate what happened this morning. The death of Frère Mathieu. We’re grateful for your hospitality, but we need more than that. We need your help. I suspect whoever killed your prior had no intention of hurting others.” Gamache paused. Then his voice grew more intimate. More personal. “But others will be hurt, very badly, before this is over. Things that you want to remain private will be made public. Relationships, quarrels. All your secrets will come out as Inspector Beauvoir and I hunt for the truth. I wish it wasn’t so, but it is. Just as you wish Frère Mathieu wasn’t dead.”

  But even as he said it, Gamache wondered if it was true.

  Did they wish Frère Mathieu was still among them? Or did they wish him dead? There was real pain here. The monks of this monastery were devastated. Deeply upset.

  But what were they really mourning?

  “We all know that the murderer is among us right now. He’s shared our table, eaten the bread. Listened to the prayers and even joined in. I want to speak with him for a moment.” Gamache paused. Not, he hoped, to be melodramatic, but to let his words sink through the armor these
monks wore. Cloaks of silence and piety and routine. He needed to break through those, to get to the man inside. The soft center.

  “I think you love this abbey and don’t want to hurt your fellow monks. That was never your intention. But as careful as Inspector Beauvoir and I might be, more damage will be done. A murder investigation is catastrophic for all involved. If you thought the worst was the murder, wait for it.”

  His voice was quiet but commanding, authoritative. There could be no doubt he was speaking the truth.

  “There is one way to stop it, though. Only one.” Gamache let that hang in the air. “You must give yourself up.”

  He waited, and they waited.

  A throat cleared and all eyes swung to the abbot, who rose to his feet. Eyes widened in shock. Frère Simon also made to get up, but the abbot, in a move barely visible, motioned him down.

  Dom Philippe turned to his community. If the tension had been great before, it sizzled now, the room crackling with it.

  “No,” said the abbot, “I’m not about to confess. I join the Chief Inspector in asking, begging, whoever did this to come forward.”

  No one moved, no one spoke. The abbot addressed Gamache.

  “We will cooperate, Chief Inspector. I’ve lifted the vow of silence. There might be a tendency toward silence now, but it’s no longer an obligation.”

  He looked at the monks. “If any of you has information, you must not keep it to yourself. There’s no moral or spiritual value in protecting whoever did this. You must tell Chief Inspector Gamache everything you know, and trust him and Inspector Beauvoir to sort out what matters and what doesn’t. That’s what they do. We pray, and work, and contemplate God. And sing to the glory of God. And these men,” he nodded to Gamache and Beauvoir, “find killers.”

  His voice was calm, matter-of-fact. This man, who didn’t speak often, now found himself saying words like “killers.” He pressed on.

  “Our order has been tested over the centuries. And this is another test. Do we really believe in God? Do we believe all the things we say and sing? Or has it become a faith of convenience? Has it, in splendid isolation, grown weak? When challenged we simply do whatever is easiest. Do we sin by silence? If we have real faith then we must have the courage to speak up. We must not protect the killer.”

  One of the monks rose and bowed to the abbot.

  “You say, mon père, that our order has been tested over the centuries, and that’s true. We’ve been persecuted, driven out of our monasteries. Imprisoned and burned. Driven to the brink of extinction. Driven into hiding. All by the authorities, by men like these,” he waved toward Gamache and Beauvoir, “who also claimed to be acting in the interest of so-called truth. This man has even admitted he’ll violate our abbey to get at that truth. And you’re asking us to help? You invited them in. Gave them a bed. Share our food. Courage has never been our weakness, Père Abbé. Judgment has.”

  The monk was one of the younger men. Late thirties, Gamache guessed. His voice was assured, reasonable, sensible. A few of the other monks were nodding. And more than a few were averting their eyes.

  “You ask us to trust them,” he continued. “Why should we?”

  The monk sat down.

  The brothers who weren’t busy studying the table in front of them moved their eyes from the monk who just spoke, to the abbot, and finally to Gamache.

  “Because, mon frère, you have no choice,” said the Chief. “As you say, we’re already in. The door has locked behind us and the outcome is not in doubt. Inspector Beauvoir and I will find whoever killed Brother Mathieu and we’ll bring him to justice.”

  There was a small, anonymous snort of derision.

  “Not divine justice, but the best this world has to offer for now,” continued Gamache. “The justice decided by your fellow Québécois. Because, like it or not, you are not citizens of some higher plane of existence, some greater dominion. You, like me, like the abbot, like the boatman who brought us here, are all citizens of Québec. And will abide by the laws of the land. You may, of course, also abide by the moral laws of your beliefs. But I pray to God they’re the same thing.”

  Gamache was annoyed. That much was obvious. Not at being challenged, but by the arrogance, the haughty assumption of both superiority and martyrdom this monk had taken. And the others had supported.

  Not all the others, Gamache could see. And Gamache saw something else with sudden clarity. This arrogant monk had done him a huge favor. And shown him something only vaguely hinted at before.

  Here was a community divided, a fissure running through them. And this tragedy, rather than bridging it, was simply widening the gap. Something lived in that dark crevice, Gamache knew. And when he and Jean-Guy found it it would almost certainly have nothing to do with faith. Or God.

  They left the monks to their stunned, and convenient, silence and walked toward the Blessed Chapel.

  “You’re pissed,” said Beauvoir, almost running to catch up to Gamache’s long strides.

  “Pissed off, perhaps, but not pissed,” said the Chief, with a smile. “Seems, Jean-Guy, we’ve landed in the only monastery on earth that doesn’t make liquor.”

  Beauvoir touched the Chief’s arm to slow him down and Gamache stopped in the middle of the corridor.

  “You old…”

  At a look from Gamache, Beauvoir stopped what he was about to say, but also smiled.

  “That was all an act,” Beauvoir lowered his voice, “you storming out. You wanted to show that asshole monk you wouldn’t be pushed around, unlike the abbot.”

  “It wasn’t entirely an act, but yes. I wanted the others to know it was possible to challenge that monk. What’s his name anyway?”

  “Frère Dominic? Frère Donat? Something like that.”

  “You don’t know, do you.”

  “Not a clue. They all look the same to me.”

  “Well, find out, please.”

  They’d started walking again, more slowly this time. When they reached the Blessed Chapel the Chief paused, glanced behind him to see the empty corridor, then walked through the center of the church, Beauvoir at his side.

  Passing the pews, the two men mounted the steps, crossed the altar and Gamache took a seat on the front choir bench. The prior’s place. Gamache knew that because it had been empty at Vespers. It was directly across from where the abbot sat. Beauvoir sat down next to the Chief.

  “Do you feel a song coming on?” he whispered, and Gamache smiled.

  “The main reason I pushed was to see what would happen. Their reaction was interesting, Jean-Guy, didn’t you find?”

  “Interesting that monks would be so self-satisfied? I’ll alert the press.”

  Like many Québécois of his generation, he had no use for the Church. It just wasn’t part of his life. Unlike previous generations. The Catholic Church wasn’t just a part of his parents’ lives, and his grandparents’, it ruled their lives. The priests told them what to eat, what to do, who to vote for, what to think. What to believe.

  Told them to have more and more babies. Kept them pregnant and poor and ignorant.

  They’d been beaten in school, scolded in church, abused in the back rooms.

  And when, after generations of this, they’d finally walked away, the Church had accused them of being unfaithful. And threatened them with eternal damnation.

  No, Beauvoir was not surprised that monks, when scratched, bled hypocrisy.

  “What I found interesting was the divide,” said the Chief. His voice was quiet, but it echoed through the chapel. This was the sweet spot, he realized. Right here. Where the benches were. The Blessed Chapel had been designed for voices. To pick them up, and bounce them off the perfect angles. So that a whisper here would become clear anywhere else in the church.

  Transmutation, thought Gamache. Not water into wine, but a whisper into an audible word.

  How curious, again, that a silent order would create an acoustic marvel.

  This was not the place for a pr
ivate conversation. But then, the Chief didn’t care who overheard.

  “Yes, that was pretty clear,” agreed Beauvoir. “They all look so calm and peaceful, but there was real anger there. That monk doesn’t like the abbot.”

  “Worse,” said Gamache. “He doesn’t respect him. It’s possible to have a leader you wouldn’t choose as a friend. But you need to at least respect them. Trust them. That was quite a body-shot. Publicly accusing the abbot of bad judgment.”

  “Maybe it’s true,” said Beauvoir.

  “Maybe.”

  “And the abbot let him get away with it. Would you?”

  “Let someone insult me? Clearly you’re not paying attention. It happens all the time.”

  “But one of your subordinates?”

  “That too has happened, as you know. And I don’t automatically fire them. I want to know where it’s coming from. Get at the root. That’s far more important.”

  “So where’s this coming from, do you think?”

  It was a good question. One Gamache had been asking himself as he’d left the dining hall, and walked through the church.

  That this was an abbey divided was obvious. The murder wasn’t, in fact, an isolated event, but the latest in probably an escalating series of blows.

  The prior had been attacked with a stone.

  And the abbot had also just been attacked. With words.

  One killed instantly, the other slowly. Were they both victims of the same person? Were the abbot and the prior on the same side of the divide? Or opposite sides? Gamache looked across the slate floor, past the altar, to the far side. Where the abbot sat.

  Two men, of an age, staring at each other for decades.

  One in charge of the abbey, the other in charge of the choir.

  When they’d been in the garden that morning and Gamache had taken the abbot aside for a talk, he’d had the impression that the abbot and the prior were very close.

  Closer, perhaps, than the Church would officially condone.

  Gamache had no problem with that. Indeed, he completely understood and would find it surprising if some of these men didn’t find comfort in each other. It seemed perfectly natural to him. What he wanted to know, though, was what had started the rift. Where did the crack begin? What blow, minor or otherwise, had started it all?