by Louise Penny
And leaning up in the corner were lengths of piping. Beauvoir moved over there, but after a moment he turned back to Frère Raymond.
“Is this all you have?” Beauvoir asked.
“We try to reuse everything. That’s it.”
The Sûreté officer turned back to the corner. There were pipes there, all right, but none shorter than five feet, most considerably longer. The killer might have used one to pole vault over the wall, but not to actually brain the prior.
“Where could someone find another piece of pipe?” Beauvoir asked as they left the room and closed the door.
“I don’t know. It’s not the sort of thing we leave lying around.”
Beauvoir nodded. He could see that. The basement was pristine. And he knew if there was a length of pipe to be found, Frère Raymond would know about it.
He was the abbot down here. The master of this underworld. And while the abbey above seemed filled with incense and mystery, music and odd, dancing light, down here everything felt organized and clean. And constant. The temperature, the light, all unchanging.
Beauvoir liked it. There was no creativity, nothing beautiful in this netherworld. But neither was there chaos.
“The abbot says he came down yesterday morning, after Lauds, but that you weren’t here.”
“After Lauds I work in the garden. The abbot knows that.” Frère Raymond’s voice was light and friendly.
“Which garden?”
“The vegetable garden. I saw you there this morning.” He turned to Superintendent Francoeur. “And I saw you arrive. Very dramatic.”
“You were there?” asked Beauvoir. “In the garden?”
Frère Raymond nodded. “Apparently all monks look alike.”
“Did anyone see you?” Beauvoir asked.
“In the garden? Well, I didn’t talk to anyone, but I wasn’t exactly invisible.”
“So it’s possible you weren’t there?”
“No, it’s not possible. It’s possible I wasn’t seen, but I was there. What is possible is that the abbot wasn’t here. There was no one at all to see him down here.”
“He says he came to look at the geothermal system. Does that sound likely?”
“It does not.”
“Why not?”
“The abbot knows nothing about all this.” Frère Raymond waved to the mechanics. “And when I try to explain he loses interest.”
“Then you think he wasn’t here yesterday, after your prayers?”
“Yes.”
“Where do you think he was?”
The monk stood silent. They’re like rocks, thought Beauvoir. Big black rocks. Like rocks, their natural state was to be silent. And still. Speaking was unnatural to them.
Beauvoir knew of only one way to break a rock.
“You think he was in the garden, don’t you?” said Beauvoir. His voice no longer quite so friendly.
Still the monk stared.
“Not the vegetable garden, of course,” Beauvoir continued, taking a step closer to Frère Raymond, “but his own garden. The abbot’s private garden.”
Frère Raymond made no sound. Made no movement. Did not recoil as Beauvoir advanced.
“You think the abbot wasn’t alone in his garden.”
Beauvoir’s voice was rising. Filling the cavern. Bouncing off the walls. In his peripheral vision he could see the Superintendent, and thought he heard a cough. A clearing of his throat. No doubt to stop this audacious and inappropriate agent.
To correct him. To get Beauvoir to back down, back away, back off this religieux.
But Beauvoir would not. Frère Raymond, for all his gentleness, all his passion for mechanical things, for all he sounded like Beauvoir’s grandfather, was hiding something. In a convenient silence.
“You think the prior was there as well.”
Beauvoir’s words were clipped, hard. Like pelting the stone monk with pebbles. The words bounced off Frère Raymond, but they were having an effect. Beauvoir took another step forward. He was close enough now to see alarm in Frère Raymond’s eyes.
“You’ve all but led us to this conclusion,” said Beauvoir. “Have the guts to go all the way. To say what you really think.”
The only way to break a stone, Beauvoir knew, was to pound it. And keep pounding.
“Or do you just insinuate, hint, gossip?” sneered Beauvoir. “And expect braver men to do your dirty work. You’re willing to throw the abbot to the wolves, you just don’t want it on your conscience. Instead you imply, suggest. You all but wink at us. But you don’t have the guts to stand up and say what you really believe. Fucking hypocrite.”
Frère Raymond took a step back. The pebbles had turned to stones. And Beauvoir was making direct hits.
“What a pathetic excuse for a man you are,” Beauvoir continued. “Look at you. You pray and sprinkle holy water and light incense and pretend to believe in God. But you only stand up to run away. Just like the old monks ran away. They came to Québec, to hide, and you’ve come down here. Hiding in your basement. Organizing things, cleaning, tidying. Explaining. While up above the real work is happening. The messy work of finding God. The messy fucking work of finding a murderer.”
Beauvoir was so close to Frère Raymond he could smell the brandy and Bénédictine on his breath.
“You think you know who did it? Well, tell us. Say the words.” Beauvoir’s voice was rising until he was shouting into Frère Raymond’s face. “Say the words.”
Now Frère Raymond looked frightened.
“You don’t understand,” he stammered. “I’ve said too much.”
“You haven’t even begun. What do you know?”
“We’re supposed to be loyal to our abbots,” Raymond said, sliding away from Beauvoir. He turned to look at Francoeur, his voice pleading. “When we join a monastery, our loyalty isn’t to Rome or even to the local archbishop or bishop. It’s to the abbot. It’s part of our vows, our devotion.”
“Look at me,” Beauvoir demanded. “Don’t look at him. It’s me you’re answering to now.”
Frère Raymond really did look frightened, and Beauvoir wondered if this monk actually believed in God. And he wondered if Frère Raymond believed God would strike him dead for speaking. And he wondered who could be loyal to a God like that.
“I never thought it would go this far,” Frère Raymond whispered. “Who could’ve known?”
He was pleading with Beauvoir now. But for what? Understanding? Forgiveness.
He’d get neither from Beauvoir. The Inspector wanted only one thing. To solve the murder and get home, as Gamache said. Just get the fuck out of there. And away from Francoeur, who’d sat cross-legged and remotely interested throughout.
“What did you think would happen?” Beauvoir pushed.
“I thought the prior would win.”
Frère Raymond had finally cracked. And now the words tumbled out.
“I thought after some debate the abbot would come to his senses. He’d finally see that doing another recording was the right thing to do. Even without the issue of the foundations.” Frère Raymond sunk to his seat and looked stunned. “We’d already done one recording, you see. How much harm could another do? And it would save the monastery. It would save Saint-Gilbert. How could that possibly be wrong?”
He searched Beauvoir’s eyes, as though expecting to find an answer there.
There was none.
In fact, Beauvoir was unexpectedly faced with a new mystery. When Frère Raymond had cracked more than just words had come out. A whole new voice had rushed out of the monk. One without the ancient dialect.
The thick accent was gone.
He spoke now in the cultured French of scholars and diplomats. The lingua franca.
Was he finally speaking the truth? Beauvoir wondered. Did Frère Raymond want to make sure, after all this struggle, he wasn’t misunderstood? That Beauvoir would grasp each and every painful word?
But far from having the impression Frère Raymond had dropped th
e act, Beauvoir suspected the monk had just assumed one. This was the voice his grandmother had used when she spoke to the new neighbors. And the notary. And the priests.
It was not her real voice. That she kept for people she trusted.
“When did you decide to defy your abbot?” Beauvoir asked.
Frère Raymond hesitated. “I don’t understand.”
“Of course you do. When did you realize he wasn’t going to change his mind and agree to the recordings?”
“I didn’t know that.”
“But you were afraid that’s what he’d announce. In the Chapter House. That there’d be no second recording. And once the abbot pronounced, it was game over.”
“I’m not his confidant,” said Raymond. “I didn’t know what the abbot was going to do.”
“But you couldn’t risk it,” Beauvoir pushed. “You’d promised the abbot not to tell anyone else about the foundations, but you decided to break that promise. To defy the abbot.”
“I didn’t.”
“Of course you did. You hated the abbot. And you love the abbey. You know it better than anyone, don’t you? You know every stone, every inch, every chip. And every crack. You could save Saint-Gilbert. But you needed help. The abbot was a fool. Praying for a miracle that had already happened. You’d been given the means to repair the foundation. Your voices. The recordings. But the abbot wasn’t listening. So you switched your loyalty to the prior. To the one man who might save Saint-Gilbert.”
“No,” Frère Raymond insisted.
“You told the prior.”
“No.”
“How many times are you going to deny it, mon frère?” Beauvoir growled.
“I never told the prior.”
The monk was almost weeping now, and finally Beauvoir stepped back. He glanced at Superintendent Francoeur, who was looking grave. Then he looked back at Frère Raymond.
“You told the prior, hoping to save Saint-Gilbert, but instead you sent him to his death.” Beauvoir’s voice was matter-of-fact. “And now you hide down here and pretend that isn’t true.”
Beauvoir turned and picked up the old plans.
“Tell me what you believe happened in that garden, Frère Raymond.”
The monk’s lips were moving but no sound came out.
“Tell me.”
He stared at the monk, whose eyes were now closed.
“Speak,” demanded Beauvoir. Then he heard a soft murmur.
“Hail Mary, full of grace…”
Frère Raymond was praying. But for what? Beauvoir wondered. For the prior to rise up? For the cracks to close?
The monk’s eyes opened and he looked at the Inspector with such gentleness, Beauvoir almost had to steady himself against the wall. They were his grandmother’s eyes. Patient and kindly. And forgiving.
Beauvoir saw then that Frère Raymond was praying for him.
* * *
Armand Gamache slowly closed the last dossier. He’d read it twice, pausing each time over one phrase in the coroner’s report.
The victim, Frère Mathieu, had not died immediately.
Of course, they already knew that. They could see that he’d crawled away, until there was no more “away” left. And there the dying man had curled into a ball. The very shape his mother had carried. Had comforted, when he’d entered this world, naked and crying.
And yesterday, Mathieu had curled up again, to leave this world.
Yes, it had been clear to Gamache and all the other investigators, and probably the abbot and the monks who’d prayed over the body, that Frère Mathieu had taken some time to die.
But they didn’t know how long.
Until now.
Chief Inspector Gamache got up and, taking the dossier with him, he left the prior’s office.
* * *
“Inspector Beauvoir,” Superintendent Francoeur’s voice was raised, “I need to speak with you.”
Beauvoir took another few steps along the basement corridor, then turned around.
“What the fuck did you expect me to do?” he demanded. “Just let him lie? This is a murder investigation. If you don’t like how messy it gets, then get out of the way.”
“Oh, I can cope with the mess,” said Francoeur, his voice hard but steady. “I just didn’t expect you to handle it in quite that way.”
“Is that right?” said Beauvoir, his voice filled with contempt. No need to hide it now. “And how’d you expect me to handle it?”
“Like a man without balls.”
This so surprised Beauvoir he didn’t know what to say. Instead he stared as Francoeur walked past him and up the stairs.
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
Francoeur stopped, his back to Beauvoir. Then he turned. His face was serious as he examined the man in front of him.
“You don’t want to know.”
“Tell me.”
Francoeur smiled, shook his head, and continued up the stairs. After a moment Beauvoir ran after him, taking the worn stone steps two at a time until he’d caught up.
Francoeur opened the door just as Beauvoir arrived. They heard the sound of hard shoes on the stone floor of the Blessed Chapel, and saw Chief Inspector Gamache walking with purpose toward the corridor leading to the abbot’s office and garden.
Both men, as though by mutual consent, stayed quiet until the door into the hallway had closed and the sound of steps vanished.
“Tell me,” Beauvoir demanded.
“You’re supposed to be a trained investigator with the Sûreté du Québec. You figure it out.”
“Supposed to be?” Beauvoir called to the retreating back. “Supposed to be?”
The words echoed and grew and bounced back to Beauvoir without apparently ever reaching Francoeur.
TWENTY-THREE
“There you are, Chief Inspector.”
Frère Simon came around the desk, his hand out.
Gamache took it and smiled. What a difference a chicken could make.
Doo-dah, doo-dah.
Gamache sighed to himself. Of all the literally divine music here, he had to have “Camptown Races” sung by a rooster stuck in his head.
“I was about to come looking for you,” Simon continued. “I have your paper.”
Frère Simon handed the yellowed page to the Chief Inspector and smiled. A smile would never, on that face, look completely at home. But it camped comfortably there for an instant.
Once again, in repose, the abbot’s secretary slipped back to severe.
“Merci,” said Gamache. “You were able to make a copy, obviously. Have you started transcribing the neumes into musical notes?”
“Not yet. I was planning on working at it this afternoon. I might ask some of the other brothers for help, if that’s all right with you.”
“Absolument,” agreed Gamache. “The sooner the better.”
Once again Frère Simon grinned. “I think your idea of time and ours is slightly different. We deal with millennia here, but I’ll try to make it quicker than that.”
“Believe me, mon frère, you don’t want us hanging around for that long. Do you mind?” Gamache indicated a comfortable chair and the abbot’s secretary nodded.
The two men sat facing each other.
“As you worked on this,” Gamache raised the page slightly, “did you translate any of the Latin?”
Frère Simon looked uneasy. “I’m not exactly fluent, and I suspect whoever wrote it wasn’t either.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because what little I could understand is ridiculous.”
He went to the desk and returned with a notebook.
“I jotted down some thoughts as I went. Even if we manage to figure out the neumes and turn them into notes, I don’t think we can possibly sing the words.”
“So it’s not a known hymn or chant or even a prayer?” Gamache glanced at the original.
“Not unless there was a prophet or apostle in need of medication.” Frère Simon cons
ulted his notebook. “The first phrase, there,” Simon pointed to the top of the chant, “now I may be wrong but I translate it as saying, I can’t hear you. I have a banana in my ear.”
He said it so solemnly Gamache had to laugh. When he tried to suppress it, it bubbled up again. He looked down at the page, to cover up his amusement.
“What else does it say?” he asked, his voice slightly squeaky from the effort of keeping the laughter in.
“This isn’t funny, Chief Inspector.”
“No, of course not. It’s sacrilege.” But a little snort betrayed him and when he dared look at the monk again, he surprised on Frère Simon’s face a slender grin.
“Were you able to understand anything else?” asked Gamache, regaining control of himself after a mighty effort.
Frère Simon sighed and leaned forward, pointing to a line further down the page. “This you probably know.”
Dies irae.
Gamache nodded. He no longer felt like laughing and all the doo-dahs had gone away. “Yes, I had noticed that. Day of wrath. It’s the one Latin phrase I recognize in this. The abbot and I talked about it.”
“And what did he say?”
“He also thought the words were nonsense. He seemed as perplexed as you.”
“Did he have a theory?”
“No particular one. But he found it odd, as do I, that while there is clearly in here a dies irae, a day of wrath, there’s no accompanying dies illa.”
“Day of mourning. Yes, that struck me too. Even more strongly than the banana.”
Gamache smiled again, but only briefly. “What do you think it means?”
“I think whoever wrote this did it as a joke,” said Frère Simon. “He just tossed all sorts of Latin into it.”
“But why not use more phrases or words from chants? Why is ‘day of wrath’ the only phrase from a prayer?”
Frère Simon shrugged. “I wish I knew. Maybe he was angry. Maybe that’s what this is. A mockery. He wants to show his rage, and actually declares it. Dies irae. And then throws in all sorts of ridiculous Latin words and phrases, so that it looks like a chant, looks like something we’d sing to God.”
“But is actually an insult,” said Gamache, and Frère Simon nodded.
