by Louise Penny
“The one found on Frère Mathieu?” asked Francoeur. “Why talk to the abbot’s secretary about that?”
“He’s making a copy of it, by hand. I’m just going to get it.”
Beauvoir noticed that Gamache was underplaying what he wanted to speak to Frère Simon about.
“You gave him the one piece of solid evidence we have?”
That Francoeur was incredulous was obvious. What wasn’t obvious to Beauvoir was how Gamache managed to not snap back.
“I had no choice. I needed the monks’ help in figuring out what it is. Since they don’t have a photocopier, this seemed the only solution. If you have another I’d be happy to hear it, sir.”
Francoeur barely pretended at civility anymore. Beauvoir could hear his breathing from feet away. He suspected the monks, silently moving along the edges of the Blessed Chapel, could also hear the deep and ragged breaths. Like bellows, fanning Francoeur’s rage.
“Then I’ll come with you,” said the Superintendent. “To see this famous piece of paper.”
“With pleasure,” said Gamache, and pointed the way.
“Actually,” said Beauvoir, thinking quickly. It felt a bit like leaping off a cliff. “I was wondering if the Superintendent would like to come with me.”
Both men now stared at Beauvoir. And he could feel himself in free fall.
“Why?” they asked together.
“Well…” He couldn’t possibly give them the real reason. That he’d seen the murderous look in Francoeur’s eyes. And he’d seen the Chief slip his right hand into his left. And hold it softly there.
“Well,” Beauvoir repeated. “I thought the Superintendent might like a tour of the abbey, the places most people never see. And I could use his help.”
Beauvoir saw Gamache’s brows rise, ever so slightly, then lower. And Beauvoir looked away, unable to meet his Chief’s eyes.
Gamache was annoyed at Beauvoir. It happened from time to time, of course, in the high-stress, high-stakes job they had. They’d sometimes clash. But never had he seen that look on Gamache’s face.
It was annoyance, but it was more than that. The Chief knew perfectly well what Beauvoir was doing. And Gamache’s feelings about it went way beyond mere disapproval, beyond anger even. Beauvoir knew the man enough to see that.
There was something else in the Chief’s face, visible for just that instant, when he’d raised his brows.
It was fear.
TWENTY-TWO
Jean-Guy Beauvoir grabbed the rolled-up plans of the monastery off the desk in the prior’s office. As he did he glanced at Gamache, who sat in the visitor’s chair. On his lap were the coroner’s and forensic reports.
Francoeur was waiting for Beauvoir in the Blessed Chapel and he had to hurry back. But still, he paused.
Gamache put his half-moon reading glasses on, then looked at Beauvoir.
“I’m sorry if I overstepped, Chief,” said Beauvoir. “I just…”
“Yes, I know what you ‘just.’” Gamache’s voice was unyielding. Little warmth left in it. “He’s no fool, you know, Jean-Guy. Don’t treat him like that. And never treat me like that.”
“Désolé,” said Beauvoir, and meant it. When he’d offered to take the Superintendent off Gamache’s hands he never dreamed this would be the Chief’s reaction. He thought the Chief would be relieved.
“This isn’t a game,” said Gamache.
“I know it isn’t, patron.”
Chief Inspector Gamache continued to stare at Beauvoir.
“Do not engage with Superintendent Francoeur. If he taunts, don’t respond. If he pushes you, don’t push back. Just smile and keep your eye on the goal. To solve the murder. That’s all. He’s come here with some agenda, we both know that. We don’t know what it is, and I for one don’t care. All that matters is solving the crime and getting home. Right?”
“Oui,” said Beauvoir. “D’accord.”
He nodded to Gamache and left. If Francoeur had an agenda, so did Beauvoir. And it was simple. To just keep the Superintendent away from the Chief. Whatever Francoeur had in mind, it had something to do with Gamache. And Beauvoir was not going to let that happen.
“For God’s sake, be careful.”
The Chief’s final words followed Beauvoir down the corridor and into the Blessed Chapel. As did his last view of Gamache, sitting in the chair, the dossiers on his lap. A paper in his hand.
And the slight tremor of the page as a draft caught it. Except that the air was completely still.
At first Beauvoir couldn’t see the Superintendent, then he found him by the wall, reading the plaque.
“So this’s the hidden door into the Chapter House,” said Francoeur, not looking up as Beauvoir approached. “The life of Gilbert of Sempringham isn’t interesting reading I’m afraid. Do you think that’s why they hid the room behind here? Knowing any possible invader would die of boredom on this very spot?”
Now Chief Superintendent Francoeur did look up, right into Beauvoir’s eyes.
There was humor there, Beauvoir saw. And confidence.
“I’m all yours, Inspector.”
Beauvoir regarded the Chief Superintendent and wondered why the man was so friendly to him. Francoeur knew without a doubt that Beauvoir was loyal to Gamache. Was one of the Chief’s men. And while Francoeur baited and goaded and insulted the Chief, he was only extremely pleasant, charming even, to Beauvoir.
Beauvoir grew even more guarded. A frontal attack was one thing, but this slimy attempt at camaraderie was something else. Still, the longer he could keep this man away from the Chief, the better.
“The stairs are over here.” The two Sûreté men walked to the corner of the chapel, where Beauvoir opened a door. Worn stone steps led down. They were well lit and the men descended until finally they were in the basement. Beauvoir stood, not on dirt as he’d expected, but on huge slabs of slate.
The ceilings were high and vaulted.
“The Gilbertines don’t seem to do anything half-assed,” said Francoeur.
Beauvoir didn’t answer, but it was exactly what he’d been thinking. It was cooler down there, though not cold, and he suspected the temperature would stay much the same even as the seasons above changed.
Large wrought-iron candleholders were bolted to the stone, but the light came from naked bulbs strung along the walls and ceiling.
“Where to?” Francoeur asked.
Beauvoir looked this way. Then that. Not at all sure. His plan, he realized, hadn’t been thought all the way through. He’d expected to arrive in the basement and for some reason find Frère Raymond right there.
Now he felt a fool. If he’d been with Chief Inspector Gamache he’d have made a joke and they’d have gone looking for Frère Raymond together. But he wasn’t with Gamache. He was with the Chief Superintendent of the Sûreté du Québec. And Francoeur was staring at Beauvoir. He wasn’t angry. Instead he looked patient, as though working with a rookie agent who was just doing his bumbling best.
Beauvoir could have slapped that look right off his face.
Instead he smiled.
Deep breath in. Deep breath out.
He was the one who’d invited the Superintendent along, after all. He had to at least appear happy to have him. To cover his uncertainty, Beauvoir walked over to one of the stone walls and put his hand on it.
“Frère Raymond told me over lunch that the foundations are cracking,” said Beauvoir, examining the stone, as though this was the plan all along. He mentally kicked himself for not making arrangements with the monk.
“Vraiment?” asked Francoeur, though he seemed less than interested. “What does that mean?”
“It means Saint-Gilbert is collapsing. He says it’ll fall down completely within ten years.”
Now he had Francoeur’s attention. The Superintendent walked over to the wall across from Beauvoir and examined it.
“Looks fine to me,” he said.
It looked fine to Beauvoir too. No gaping cracks, n
o roots breaking through. Both men peered around. It was magnificent. Another engineering marvel by Dom Clément.
The stone walls ran under the entire monastery. It reminded Beauvoir of the Montréal metro system, only without the humming subway trains. Four cavernous corridors, like tunnels, stretched away from them. All well lit. All swept clean. Nothing out of place.
No murder weapon lying around. And no pine forest growing out of the walls.
But if Frère Raymond was to be believed, Saint-Gilbert-Entre-les-Loups was falling in on itself. And while Beauvoir had no great fondness for monks or priests or churches or abbeys, he discovered he’d be sorry if this one disappeared.
And he’d be very sorry if it disappeared while they were standing in the basement.
The sound of a door closing echoed toward them, and Francoeur started walking in that direction, not waiting to see if Beauvoir followed. As though it didn’t matter to him, so insignificant and incompetent was Inspector Beauvoir.
“Shithead,” mumbled Beauvoir.
“Sound travels down here, you know,” said Francoeur, without turning around.
Despite Gamache’s warnings. Despite his own pledges, Beauvoir had already allowed himself to be goaded. Allowed his feelings to flare.
But maybe it was a good thing, thought Beauvoir, as he slowly followed Francoeur. Maybe Gamache was wrong, and Francoeur needed to know that Beauvoir wasn’t afraid of him. Francoeur needed to know he was dealing with a grown man, not some kid out of the academy, in awe of the title of Chief Superintendent. Some kid he could manipulate.
Yes, thought Beauvoir as he walked a few steps behind the striding Superintendent, that wasn’t a mistake at all.
They arrived at a closed door. Beauvoir knocked. There was a long pause. Francoeur reached for the handle just as the door opened. Frère Raymond stood there. He looked alarmed, but on seeing them his expression changed to one of exasperation.
“Are you trying to scare me to death? You could’ve been the murderer.”
“They rarely knock,” said Beauvoir.
He turned, and had the satisfaction of seeing the Superintendent looking at Frère Raymond, completely bewildered.
Francoeur appeared not just surprised but stunned by this rough-hewn subterranean monk, who spoke with the ancient dialect. It was as though the door had opened and a monk from the first congregation, from Dom Clément’s community, had stepped out.
“Where’re you from, mon frère?” Francoeur finally asked.
And now it was Beauvoir’s turn to be surprised. As was Frère Raymond.
Chief Superintendent Francoeur had asked the question in the same broad accent as the monk’s. Beauvoir examined the Superintendent, to see if he was making fun of the monk, but he wasn’t. In fact, his expression was one of delight.
“Saint-Felix-de-Beauce,” said Frère Raymond. “You?”
“Saint-Gédéon-de-Beauce,” said Francoeur. “Just down the road.”
What followed was a rapid exchange between the men that was almost unintelligible to Beauvoir. Finally Frère Raymond turned to Beauvoir.
“This man’s grandfather and my great-uncle rebuilt the church in Saint-Ephrem after the fire.”
Frère Raymond motioned the men into the room. It too was huge. Wide and long, running the balance of the corridor. The monk gave them a tour, explaining the geothermal system, the ventilation system, the hot water system, the filtration system. The septic system. All the systems.
Beauvoir tried to remain focused, in case anything useful was said, but eventually his mind grew numb. At the end of the tour Frère Raymond walked to a cabinet and brought from it a bottle and three glasses.
“This calls for a celebration,” he said. “It’s not often I meet a neighbor. A friend of mine is a Benedictine and sends me this.” Frère Raymond handed Beauvoir the dusty bottle. “Like a slug?”
Beauvoir examined the bottle. It was B&B. Brandy and Bénédictine. Not made, fortunately, from fermented monks, though he suspected there were enough of those. But by the Benedictines themselves, from a long-secret recipe.
The three men pulled chairs around a drafting table and sat.
Frère Raymond poured. “Santé,” he said, tipping the deep amber liquid toward his rare guests.
“Santé,” Beauvoir said and brought it to his lips. He could smell it, rich and full, sweet but also medicinal. His eyes burned from the strength of it. The B&B seared his throat as he swallowed, then the alcohol exploded into his gut, and brought tears to his eyes.
And it was good.
“So, mon frère,” Superintendent Francoeur cleared his throat, then began again. His accent was back to where Beauvoir recognized it, as though the B&B had burned the ancient dialect away. “Inspector Beauvoir here has some questions.”
Beauvoir shot him an annoyed look. It was a small dig. As though he needed Francoeur to pave the way. But Beauvoir simply smiled and thanked the Superintendent. Then he unfurled the scroll and watched Frère Raymond for a reaction. But there was none, beyond the polite nodding as the monk stood and bent over the old plan of the monastery.
“Have you seen this before?” asked Beauvoir.
“Many times.” He looked into Beauvoir’s face. “I consider this an old friend.” His lean hand hovered over the vellum. “Practically memorized it when we were looking to put in the geothermal.” He turned back to the plan, an affectionate look on his face. “It’s beautiful.”
“But is it accurate?”
“Well, not these bits.” The monk pointed to the gardens. “But the rest is surprisingly precise.”
Frère Raymond sat back down and launched into an explanation of how the first monks, back in the mid-1600s, would have built the monastery. How they did measurements. How they transported rocks. How they dug.
“It would’ve taken them years and years,” said Raymond, warming to his topic. “Decades. Just to dig the basement. Imagine that.”
Beauvoir found himself fascinated. It was indeed a feat of mammoth proportions. These men had fled the Inquisition to come here. Where they were met by a climate so savage it could kill within days. They were met by bears and wolves and all sorts of strange, feral beasts. By black flies so ravenous they’d strip a newborn moose. By deer flies so persistent they’d drive a saint to insanity.
How horrible was the Inquisition, that this was better?
And instead of building some modest wooden shelter, they’d built this.
It beggared belief.
Who had that sort of discipline? That sort of patience? Monks, that was who. But maybe, with Frère Raymond, it was also bred into him. Like Beauvoir’s grandmother’s patience. With blight, and drought, and hail, and floods. With unkindness. With encroaching towns, and clever new neighbors.
Beauvoir looked over at Superintendent Francoeur, a son of the same soil as the monk, and as Beauvoir’s grandparents.
What patient plan was he working on, even now? Was it years in the making? Was he constructing it stone by stone? And what part of that plan had brought the Superintendent here?
Beauvoir knew he himself would have to be patient if he was to find out, though he was not exactly overflowing with that quality.
Frère Raymond droned on. And on.
After a while Beauvoir lost interest. Frère Raymond had the rare gift of turning a mesmerizing story into tedium. It was a sort of alchemy. Another transmutation.
Finally, as silence penetrated Beauvoir’s now numb skull, he emerged from his reverie.
“Then,” Beauvoir grasped at the last relevant thing he remembered, “the plan is accurate?”
“It’s accurate enough so that I didn’t need to draw another plan when the new system was going in. The thing with geothermal—”
“Yes, I know. Merci.” Beauvoir was damned if he was going to be provoked by one man and bored to death by another. “What I want to know is, is it possible there’s a room hidden somewhere in the abbey—”
He was interrupted by a sn
ort. “You don’t believe that old wives’ tale, do you?” asked Frère Raymond.
“It’s an old monks’ tale. One you’ve obviously heard.”
“As I’ve heard of Atlantis and Santa Claus and unicorns. But I don’t expect to find them in the abbey.”
“But you do expect to find God,” said Beauvoir.
Far from looking insulted, Frère Raymond smiled. “Believe me, Inspector, even you will find God here before you’ll find any hidden room. Or a treasure. You think we could put in a geothermal system and not have found a hidden room? You think we could put in the solar panels, electricity, running water and plumbing, and not have found it?”
“No,” said Jean-Guy. “I don’t think that’s possible. I think it would have been found.”
The meaning in his voice wasn’t lost on the monk, but instead of being defensive he simply smiled.
“Listen, my son,” said Frère Raymond, speaking slowly. Beauvoir was getting very tired of being spoken to as though he was their son. A child. “That was just a story the old monks told each other to pass the time on long winter nights. It was a bit of fun. Nothing more. There’s no hidden room. No treasure.”
Frère Raymond leaned forward, his hands together in front of him, his elbows resting on his thin knees. “What’re you really looking for?”
“The man who killed your prior.”
“Well, you won’t find him down here.”
There was a moment as the two men looked at each other, and the cool atmosphere crackled.
“I wonder if we’ll find the murder weapon down here then,” said Beauvoir.
“A rock?”
“Why do you think it was a rock?”
“Because that’s what you told us. We all understood Frère Mathieu was killed by a rock to the head.”
“Well, the coroner’s report says the weapon was more likely a length of pipe, or something like it. Do you have any?”
Frère Raymond got up and led him to a door. He switched on a light and they saw a room no larger than the monks’ cells. There was shelving on the walls, and everything was neatly arranged. Boards, nails, screws, hammers, old pieces of broken wrought iron, all the miscellanies of any household, though considerably less than most.
