by Louise Penny
He could go no further. His face was red with rage and Beauvoir wondered if his head might explode.
But still, the homicide inspector said nothing. He waited. And waited.
Finally silence was his friend. And this monk’s enemy. Because in that silence sat a specter. Fully grown. Fully fleshed. Of all the little boys. All the choirboys. The schoolboys. The altar boys. The trusting boys. And their parents.
That lived forever, in the silence of the Church.
When given a choice, given free will, the Church had chosen to protect the priests. And how better to protect those clerics than to send them into the wilderness. To an order all but extinct. And build a wall around them.
Where they could sing, but not speak.
Was Dom Philippe as much guard as abbot? A saint who kept watch over sinners?
NINETEEN
“Do you know why the Gilbertines have black robes and white hoods? It’s unique, you know. No other order wears it.”
Chief Superintendent Sylvain Francoeur was sitting behind the prior’s desk, leaning back casually in the hard chair, his long legs crossed.
Chief Inspector Gamache was now in the visitor’s chair, on the other side of the desk. He was trying to read the coroner’s report and the other papers Francoeur had brought with him. He looked up and saw the Superintendent smiling.
It was an attractive smile. Not slimy, not condescending. It was warm and confident. The smile of a man you could trust.
“No, sir. Why do they?”
Francoeur had arrived at the office twenty minutes earlier and given the reports to Gamache. He’d then proceeded to interrupt the Chief’s reading with trivial statements.
Gamache recognized it as a twist on an old interrogation technique. Designed to irritate, to annoy. Interrupt, interrupt, interrupt, until the subject finally exploded and said far more than they normally would have, out of frustration at not being allowed to say anything at all.
It was subtle and time consuming, this wearing away at a person’s patience. Not used by the brash young agents of today. But the older officers knew it. And knew, if they waited long enough, it was almost always effective.
The Chief Superintendent of the Sûreté was using it on his head of homicide.
Gamache, as he listened politely to Francoeur’s mundane observations, wondered why. Was it just for fun, to toy with him? Or was there, as there always was with the Chief Superintendent, some deeper purpose?
Gamache looked into that charming face and wondered what was going on inches from the smile. In that rotting brain. In that Byzantine mind.
As much as Jean-Guy might consider this man an idiot, Gamache knew he wasn’t. No one rose to be the most senior police officer in Québec, in one of the most respected forces in the world, without having skills.
To dismiss Francoeur as a fool would be a grave mistake. Though Gamache could never totally shake the impression Beauvoir was partly right. While Francoeur wasn’t an idiot, he wasn’t as clever as he appeared. And certainly not as clever as he thought he was. After all, Francoeur was skilled enough to use an old and subtle interrogation technique, but arrogant enough to use it on someone who’d almost certainly recognize what it was. He was really more cunning than clever.
But that didn’t make him less dangerous.
Gamache looked down at the coroner’s report in his hand. In twenty minutes he’d only managed to read a single page. It showed the prior to be a healthy man in his early sixties. The usual wear and tear on a sixty-year-old body. Some slight arthritis, some hardening of the arteries.
“I looked up the Gilbertines as soon as I’d heard about the prior’s murder.” Francoeur’s voice was agreeable, authoritative. People not only trusted this man, they believed him.
Gamache lifted his eyes from the page and put a politely interested look on his face.
“Is that right?”
“I’d read some of the newspaper articles, of course,” said the Superintendent, moving his eyes from Gamache to gaze out the narrow slat of the window. “The news coverage when their recording was such a hit. Do you have it?”
“I do.”
“So do I. Don’t understand the attraction myself. Dull. But lots liked it. Do you?”
“I do.”
Francoeur gave him a small smile. “I thought you might.”
Gamache waited, quietly watching the Superintendent. As though he had all the time in the world and the paper in his hand was far less interesting than whatever his boss was saying.
“Caused a sensation. Amazing to think these monks have been here for hundreds of years and no one seemed to notice. And then they do one little recording and voilà. World famous. That’s the problem, of course.”
“How so?”
“There’s going to be an uproar when news of Frère Mathieu’s murder gets out. He’s more famous than Frère Jacques.” Francoeur smiled and, to Gamache’s surprise, the Superintendent sang, “Frère Jacques, Frère Jacques, dormez-vous? Dormez-vous?”
But he sang the cheerful child’s song like a dirge. Slowly, sonorously. As though there was some meaning hidden in the nonsense verse. Then Francoeur stared for a long, cold moment at Gamache.
“There’s going to be hell to pay, Armand. Even you must have figured that out.”
“Yes, I had. Merci.”
Gamache leaned forward and placed the coroner’s report on the desk between them. He stared directly at Francoeur, who stared back. Not blinking. His eyes cold and hard. Daring the Chief Inspector to speak. Which he did.
“Why are you here?”
“I’ve come to help.”
“Forgive me, Superintendent,” said Gamache. “But I’m still not sure why you came. You’ve never felt the need to help before.”
The two men glared at each other. The air between them throbbed with enmity.
“In a murder investigation, I mean,” said Gamache, with a smile.
“Of course.”
Francoeur looked at Gamache with barely disguised loathing.
“With communications down,” the Superintendent looked at the laptop on the desk, “and only one phone in the monastery, it was clear someone would need to bring those.”
He waved at the dossiers on the desk. The coroner’s report and the findings of the forensics team.
“That is extremely helpful,” said Gamache. And meant it. But he knew, and Francoeur knew, that it didn’t take the Chief Superintendent of the Sûreté to act as courier. In fact, it would have been far more helpful, if that really was the goal, to have one of Gamache’s homicide investigators bring it.
“Since you’re here to help, perhaps you’d like me to give you the facts of the case,” Gamache offered.
“Please.”
Gamache spent the next few minutes trying to give Superintendent Francoeur the facts, while the Superintendent continually interrupted with meaningless questions and comments. Most suggesting Gamache might have missed something, or failed to ask something, or failed to investigate something.
But, haltingly, Gamache managed to tell the story of the murder of Frère Mathieu.
The body, curled around the yellowed paper, with the neumes and Latin gibberish. The three monks praying over the dead prior in the garden. The abbot, Dom Philippe, his secretary, Frère Simon, and the doctor, Frère Charles.
The evidence of an increasingly bitter rift in Saint-Gilbert. Between those who wanted the vow of silence lifted and another recording of Gregorian chants made, and those who wanted neither. Between the prior’s men and the abbot’s men.
Through constant interruptions, Gamache told the Superintendent about the hidden Chapter House and the abbot’s secret garden. The rumors of more hidden rooms, and even a treasure.
At that the Superintendent looked at Gamache as though at a credulous child.
Gamache simply continued, giving concise character sketches of the monks.
“It seems you’re no closer to solving the murder than when you arrived,”
said Francoeur. “Everyone’s still a suspect.”
“It’s a good thing that you’re here, then,” Gamache paused. “To help.”
“It is. For instance, you don’t even have the murder weapon.”
“That’s true.”
“Or even know what it was.”
Gamache opened his mouth to say they suspected a rock from the garden had crushed the prior’s skull, then was tossed over the wall and into the woods. But instinct, and perhaps a slight gleam of satisfaction in Francoeur’s eyes, told him to stop. Instead he looked at the Superintendent, then down at the mostly unread coroner’s report.
He turned the page and scanned. Then looked up, meeting Francoeur’s eyes. The gleam had become a glow, of triumph.
Gamache cupped his right hand in his left. Holding it steady. So that Francoeur wouldn’t see the slight tremble and believe he’d caused it.
“You read the reports?” Gamache asked.
Francoeur nodded. “On the flight. You’ve been looking for a rock, I understand.”
He made it sound ridiculous.
“That’s true. Clearly we were wrong. It wasn’t a rock at all.”
“No,” Francoeur uncrossed his legs and leaned forward. “No dirt or residue in the wound. Nothing at all. As you see, the coroner thinks it was a long metal object like a pipe or a poker.”
“You knew this when you arrived and didn’t tell me?” Gamache’s voice was calm, but the censure was clear.
“What? Me presume to tell the great Gamache how to do his job? I wouldn’t dream of it.”
“Then why are you here, if not to pass on valuable information?”
“Because, Armand,” Francoeur spat the name out as though it was merde in his mouth, “one of us cares for the service and one of us cares about his career. I’m here so that when news of the murder gets out and all hell breaks loose, and the world’s media descends, we don’t look like complete imbeciles. I can at least give the impression the Sûreté is competent. That we’re doing all we can to solve the brutal killing of one of the most beloved religieux in the world. You know what the world will want to know when his murder is made public?”
Gamache remained quiet. He knew that while continually interrupting could cause an explosion of information, silence could too. A man like Francoeur, so tightly restraining his rage, needed simply to be given space. And, perhaps, a well-timed shove.
“Why, with only two dozen suspects in a cloistered abbey, the famed Sûreté du Québec still couldn’t make an arrest,” Francoeur sneered. “What could possibly be taking so long, they’ll ask.”
“And what will you tell them, Sylvain? That it’s difficult to get at the truth when your own people are withholding information?”
“The truth, Armand? You want me to tell them that an arrogant, smug, incompetent asshole is in charge of the investigation?”
Gamache raised his brows and faintly gestured toward where Francoeur was sitting. Behind the desk.
And Gamache saw Francoeur slip over the edge. The Superintendent stood and the stone floor screamed as the chair scraped against it. Francoeur’s handsome face was livid.
Gamache remained seated, but after a moment he slowly, slowly got to his feet, so that they faced each other across the desk. Gamache’s hands were behind his back, clasping each other. His chest was exposed, as though inviting Francoeur to take his best shot.
There was a soft tapping on the door.
Neither man responded.
Then it came again, and a tentative “Chief?”
The door opened a crack.
“You need to treat your people with more respect, Armand,” snapped Francoeur, his voice loud. Then he turned to the door. “Come.”
Beauvoir stepped in and looked from man to man. It was near impossible to enter the prior’s office, so thick was the atmosphere. But Beauvoir did. He stepped in, and stood shoulder to shoulder with Gamache.
Francoeur dragged his stare from the Chief Inspector over to Beauvoir and took a deep breath. And even managed a coy smile.
“You’ve come at a good time, Inspector. I think your Chief and I have said enough. Perhaps even more than enough.”
He gave a disarming little laugh and put out his hand.
“I didn’t get a chance to say hello when I arrived. My apologies, Inspector Beauvoir.”
Jean-Guy hesitated, then took it.
A bell rang and Beauvoir made a face. “Not again.”
Superintendent Francoeur laughed. “My feelings exactly. But perhaps while the monks go about their business of praying we can go about ours. At least we’ll know where they are.”
He all but winked at Beauvoir, then turned back to Gamache.
“Think about what I said, Chief Inspector.” His voice was warm, almost cordial. “That’s all I ask.”
He made to leave and Gamache called after him.
“I think, Chief Superintendent, you’ll find that bell isn’t for prayers but for lunch.”
“Well,” Francoeur smiled fully, “then my prayers are answered. I hear the food here is excellent. Is it?” he asked Beauvoir.
“Not bad.”
“Bon. Then, I’ll see you at lunch. I’ll be staying a few days, of course. The abbot has been good enough to give me one of the rooms. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll just freshen up and meet you there.”
He nodded to both of them, then walked off confidently. A man in complete command of himself, of the situation, of the monastery.
Beauvoir turned to Gamache.
“What was that about?”
“I honestly haven’t a clue.”
“You all right?”
“Just fine, thank you.”
“Fucked up, insecure, neurotic and egotistical? F.I.N.E.?”
“I think that would be the Chief Superintendent’s assessment,” Gamache smiled and they walked down the corridor toward the Blessed Chapel, and the dining hall.
“He came here to tell you that?”
“No, according to him he came to help. He also brought with him the coroner’s report and the findings of the forensics team.”
Gamache told Beauvoir what the reports said. Beauvoir listened as they walked. Then stopped and turned to Gamache in anger.
“He knew that’s what the report said, that the weapon wasn’t a rock at all, and he didn’t tell us right away? What’s he playing at?”
“I don’t know. But we need to focus on the murder, not be distracted by the Superintendent.”
“D’accord,” agreed Beauvoir, begrudgingly. “So where’s the damned murder weapon? We searched outside the wall and didn’t find anything.”
Except, he thought, wild blueberries. And they probably weren’t lethal, until dipped in dark chocolate.
“I know one thing,” said the Chief. “The report tells us something crucial.”
“What?”
“The murder of Frère Mathieu was almost certainly premeditated. If you’re in a garden you might pick up a rock in a moment of overwhelming emotion, and kill someone—”
“But not a piece of metal,” said Beauvoir, following the Chief’s thoughts. “That had to be brought with the murderer. There’s no way a pipe or a poker would just be lying around the abbot’s garden.”
Gamache nodded.
One of the monks hadn’t just lashed out at the prior, killing him in a fit of rage. It was planned.
Mens rea.
The Latin legal phrase came to Gamache.
Mens rea. A guilty mind. Intent.
One of these monks had met the prior in the garden, already armed with a metal pipe and a guilty mind. The thought and the act collided, and the result was murder.
“I can’t believe Francoeur’s staying,” said Beauvoir as they crossed the Blessed Chapel. “I’ll admit to the crime myself if it means that stupid shit’ll leave.”
Gamache stopped. They were dead in the center of the chapel.
“Be careful, Jean-Guy.” Gamache kept his voice low. “Superintendent
Francoeur’s no fool.”
“Are you kidding? As soon as he stepped off the plane he should have handed you the dossiers. But instead he ignores you, in front of everyone, and sucks up to the abbot.”
“Lower your voice,” cautioned Gamache.
Beauvoir gave a furtive glance around then spoke in an urgent whisper. “The man’s a menace.”
He glanced toward the door from the corridor, for Francoeur. Gamache turned and they resumed their walk to the dining hall.
“Look,” Beauvoir hurried to catch up to the Chief’s long strides. “He’s undermining you here. You must see that. Everyone saw what happened on the dock, and they now think Francoeur’s in charge.”
Gamache opened the door and motioned Beauvoir through to the next corridor. The aroma of fresh baked bread and soup met them. Then, with a swift glance behind him into the dimness of the Blessed Chapel, Gamache closed the door.
“He is in charge, Jean-Guy.”
“Oh, come on.”
But the laughter died on Beauvoir’s lips. The Chief was serious.
“He’s the Chief Superintendent of the Sûreté,” said Gamache. “I’m … not. He’s my boss. He’ll always be in charge.”
At the thunderous look on Beauvoir’s face Gamache smiled. “It’ll be all right.”
“I know it will, patron. After all, nothing bad ever happens when a senior Sûreté officer starts abusing his power.”
“Exactly, mon vieux,” the Chief grinned and caught Beauvoir’s eye. “Please, Jean-Guy. Stay out of it.”
Beauvoir didn’t need to ask “Out of what?” Chief Inspector Gamache’s calm brown eyes held his. There was a plea in them. Not for help, but for the opposite. To be left alone to deal with Francoeur.
Beauvoir nodded. “Oui, patron.”
But he knew he’d just lied.
TWENTY
Most of the monks were already in the dining hall by the time Gamache and Beauvoir arrived. The Chief Inspector nodded to the abbot, who sat at the head of the long table, an empty chair beside him. The abbot lifted his hand in greeting, but didn’t offer the seat. Neither did the Chief offer to join him. Both men had other agendas.
