The Beautiful Mystery

SIXTEEN

Inspector Beauvoir left Frère Luc to the massive book resting on his skinny knees. He’d arrived thinking the poor bastard must want company, and left realizing he’d been simply an intrusion. All the young monk really wanted was to be left alone with his book.

Jean-Guy went off in search of Frère Antoine, but paused in the Blessed Chapel to check his BlackBerry.

Sure enough, there were two messages from Annie. Both short. Responding to his email from early that morning, and a more recent one, describing her day so far. Beauvoir leaned against the cool stones of the chapel and smiled as he wrote back.

Something rude and suggestive.

He was tempted to tell her about her father’s adventures that morning, in his pajamas and bathrobe, being found by the monks on their altar. But it was too good a story to waste in an email. He’d take her to one of the terrasses not far from her home and tell her over a glass of wine.

When he’d finished his vaguely erotic message to Annie he turned right and looked in the chocolate factory. Brother Bernard was there, fishing tiny wild blueberries out of a vat of dark chocolate.

“Frère Antoine?” said Bernard, responding to the Sûreté officer’s question. “Try either the kitchen or the garden.”

“The garden?”

“Through the door at the end of the hall.” He waved a wooden spoon and dribbled chocolate on his apron. He looked like he wanted to swear and Beauvoir paused, wondering how monks cursed. Like the rest of the Québécois? Like Beauvoir himself? Did they curse the Church? Câlice! Tabernac! Hostie! The Québécois had turned religious words into dirty words.

But the monk remained silent and Beauvoir left, glancing into the gleaming stainless-steel kitchen next door. It was easy to see where some of the music money had been spent. There was no Frère Antoine. Only the aroma of a soup simmering, and bread baking. Finally Beauvoir reached the large wooden door at the very end of the corridor. And opened it.

He felt a rush of autumn air, cool and fresh. And the sunshine on his face.

He’d had no idea how much he missed the sun, until it was back. And now he took a deep breath and stepped into the garden.

The abbot’s bookcase swung open to reveal to Gamache a bright, fresh world. Of green grass and the last of the blooms, of neat shrubs and the huge maple in the middle, losing its autumn leaves. As the Chief watched, a single bright orange leaf lost its grip and wafted back and forth, gently falling to the ground.

This was a walled world. With a pretense of control, without the reality of it.

Gamache felt his foot sink into the soft grass and smelled musky autumn in the morning air. Insects buzzed and droned, almost drunk on the mid-September nectar. It was chilly, but milder than the Chief had expected. The walls, he supposed, acted as a wind barrier and a sun trap. Creating their own environment.

Gamache had asked to come into the garden not simply because he yearned for fresh air and sunshine, but because this was almost the exact moment, twenty-four hours earlier, when two other men had stood here.

Frère Mathieu and his killer.

And now the Chief Inspector of homicide and the abbot of Saint-Gilbert stood there.

Gamache looked at his watch. Just after half past eight in the morning.

When exactly had the prior’s companion known what he was going to do? Had he come into the garden, stood where the Chief now stood, with murder in mind? Had he stooped and picked up a stone, and bashed in the prior’s skull, on impulse? Or had that been his plan all along?

When was the decision made to murder?

And when did Frère Mathieu know he was about to be killed? Had been killed, in fact. It had clearly taken him a few minutes, after the blow was struck, to die. He’d crawled to the far wall. Away from the abbey. Away from the bright and warm sunshine. Into the darkness.

Was it simply instinct, as someone had suggested? An animal wanting to die alone. Or was something else at work? Had the prior one last service to perform?

To protect the yellowed page against the monks. Or the monks from the yellowed page?

“You were inspecting the new geothermal system yesterday morning at this time,” said Gamache. “Alone?”

The abbot nodded. “The morning’s a busy time in the abbey. The brothers are in the garden, or tending the animals, doing all sorts of chores. It takes near constant work to keep the abbey up.”

“Is one of your monks in charge of the physical plant?”

The abbot nodded. “Frère Raymond. He looks after the infrastructure. The plumbing and heating and electrics. That sort of thing.”

“So you met with him.”

“Well, no.” The abbot turned and started strolling slowly around the garden, and Gamache joined him.

“What do you mean, ‘no’?”

“Brother Raymond wasn’t there. He works in the garden every morning after Lauds.”

“And that’s when you chose to inspect the geothermal?” asked Gamache, perplexed. “Wouldn’t you want him there, to go over it together?”

The abbot smiled. “Have you met Brother Raymond?”

Gamache shook his head.

“Lovely man. Gentle man. An explainer.”

“A what?”

“He loves to explain how things work, and why. It doesn’t matter that he’s told me every day for fourteen years how an artesian well works, he’ll still tell me again.”

The whimsical, affectionate look remained on Dom Philippe’s face.

“Some days I’m very bad,” he confided in the Chief, “and sneak down to do my rounds when I know he won’t be there.”

The Chief smiled. He had a few agents and inspectors like that. Who literally followed him through the halls explaining the intricacies of fingerprints. He’d hidden in his office more than once, to avoid them.

“And your secretary, Brother Simon? He tried to find the prior, but when he couldn’t he went to work in the animalerie, I understand.”

“That’s right. He’s very fond of chickens.”

Gamache studied the abbot to see if he was joking, but he seemed perfectly serious.

Jean-Guy looked at the garden. It was huge. Much, much bigger than the abbot’s garden. This was clearly a vegetable garden, whose main crop seemed to be massive mushrooms.

A dozen monks, in their black robes, were kneeling down or bending over. On their heads they wore large, extravagant straw hats. With wide floppy brims. One man wearing it would look ridiculous but since all of them were it looked normal. And Beauvoir, bare-headed, became the abnormal one.

Plants were staked up, vines were trained along trellises, neat rows were being weeded by some of the mushrooms, while others gathered vegetables in baskets.

Beauvoir was reminded of his grandmother, who’d lived all her life on a farm. Short and stocky, she’d spent half her life loving the Church and the other half loathing it. When Jean-Guy had visited they’d collect little new peas together and shell them, sitting on the porch.

He now knew his grandmother must have been very busy, but she never gave that impression. Just as these monks now gave the impression of working steadily, working hard even, but working at their own pace.

Beauvoir found himself almost mesmerized by the rhythm of their movements. Standing, bowing, kneeling.

It reminded him of something. And then he had it. Had they been singing, this would be a mass.

Did this explain his grandmother’s love of her garden? As she stood, and bowed, and knelt, had it become her mass? Her devotion? Had she found in her garden the peace and solace she’d sought in the Church?

One of the monks noticed him and smiled. Motioning him over.

Their vow of silence had been lifted, but clearly it was also a choice. These men liked silence. Beauvoir was beginning to see why.

As he arrived, the monk lifted his hat in an old-fashioned greeting. Beauvoir knelt beside him.

“I’m looking for Frère Antoine,” he whispered.

The monk pointed a trowel toward the far wall then went back to work.

Picking his way along the orderly rows, past the weeding and harvesting monks, Beauvoir approached Frère Antoine. Weeding. Alone.

The soloist.

“Poor Mathieu,” said Dom Philippe. “I wonder why he was here.”

“Didn’t you invite him? You sent Frère Simon to request a meeting.”

“Yes, after the eleven o’clock mass. Not after Lauds. He was three hours early, if that’s why he came.”

“Perhaps he misunderstood.”

“You didn’t know Mathieu. He was rarely wrong. And never early.”

“Then maybe Frère Simon gave him the wrong time.”

The abbot smiled. “Simon is wrong even less of the time. Though more punctual.”

“And you, Dom Philippe? Are you ever wrong?”

“Always and perpetually. One of the perks of the position.”

Gamache smiled. He knew that perk too. But then he remembered that while Frère Simon had headed off to give the prior the message, he hadn’t found him. The message hadn’t been delivered.

So if it wasn’t to meet the abbot, then why had the prior been here? Who was he meeting?

His killer, obviously. Though equally obviously, the prior couldn’t have known that was on the agenda. So what had brought Frère Mathieu to this garden?

“Why did you want to see the prior yesterday?”

“Abbey business.”

“An argument could be made that everything is abbey business,” said Gamache. The two men continued their stroll around the garden. “But I’d rather you didn’t waste my time making that argument. I understand that you and Frère Mathieu met twice a week to discuss abbey issues. The meeting you wanted to set up yesterday was extraordinary.”

Gamache’s voice was reasonable, but firm. He was tired of this abbot, of all the monks, giving them facile answers. It was like copying someone else’s neumes. It might be easier, but it got them no closer to their goal. If their goal was the truth.

“What was so important, Dom Philippe, that it couldn’t wait until your next scheduled meeting?”

The abbot took another few steps in silence, except for the slight swish as his long black robe brushed the grass and dried leaves.

“Mathieu wanted to talk about making another recording.” The abbot was grim-faced.

“The prior wanted to talk about it?”

“I’m sorry?”

“You said Mathieu wanted to talk about it. Was the meeting his idea, or yours?”

“The topic was his idea. The timing was mine. We needed to resolve the issue before the community met again in Chapter.”

“So it wasn’t yet decided if there’d be another recording?”

“He’d decided, but I hadn’t. We’d discussed it in Chapter, but the outcome was—” The abbot searched for the right word. “Inconclusive.”

“There was no consensus?”

Dom Philippe took a few paces and slipped his hands into his sleeves. It made him look contemplative, though his face was anything but thoughtful. It was bleak. An autumn face, after all the leaves had fallen.

“I can ask others, you know,” said the Chief.

“I suspect you already have.” The abbot took a deep breath then exhaled with a puff in the early morning chill. “As with most things in the monastery, some were for it, some against.”

“You make it sound as though this was just one more issue to be resolved. But it was more than that, wasn’t it?” said Gamache. His words pressed but his tone was gentle. He didn’t want the abbot to put up his defenses. At least, not any higher than they already were. Here was a guarded man. But what was he guarding?

Gamache was determined to find out.

“The recording was changing the abbey,” the Chief pressed further, “wasn’t it?”

The abbot stopped then, and cast his eyes over the wall, to the forest beyond and a single, magnificent tree in full autumn color. It shone in the sunlight, made all the brighter for the dark evergreens surrounding it. A living stained-glass window. More magnificent, surely, than anything found in a great cathedral.

The abbot marveled at it. And he marveled at something else.

How he’d actually forgotten what Saint-Gilbert had been like just a few years ago. Before the recording. Everything now seemed measured by that. Before and after.

Saint-Gilbert-Entre-les-Loups had been poor, and getting poorer. Before the recording. The roof leaked and pots and pans were put out by hurrying monks every time it rained. The woodstoves barely gave off enough heat. They had to put extra blankets on their cots in winter and wear their robes to bed. Sometimes, on the bitterest of nights, they’d stay up. In the dining hall. Gathered around the woodstove. Feeding it logs. Drinking tea. Toasting bread.

Warmed by the stove, and by each other. Their bodies.

And sometimes, waiting for the sun to rise, they’d pray. Their voices a low rumble of plainchant. Not because some bell had tolled and told them they had to. Not because they were afraid, of the cold, or the night.

They’d prayed because it gave them pleasure. For the fun of it.

Mathieu was always beside him. And as they sang Dom Philippe would notice the slight movement of Mathieu’s hand. Privately conducting. As though the notes and words were part of him. Fused.

Dom Philippe had wanted to hold that hand. To be a part of it. To feel what Mathieu felt. But, of course, he never took Mathieu’s hand. And never would now.

That was before the recording.

Now, all that was gone. Killed. Not by a stone to Mathieu’s head. It had, in fact, been killed before that.

By that damned recording.

The abbot chose his words, even the ones he kept to himself, carefully. It was a damned recording. And he wished with all his heart it had never happened.

This large, quiet, quite frightening man from the police had asked if he was ever wrong. He’d answered glibly that he was always wrong.

What he should have said was that he was wrong many times, but one mistake overshadowed all the rest. His error had been so spectacular, so stunning it had become a permanent wrong. In indelible ink. Like the plan of the abbey. His error had soaked into the very fabric of the monastery. It now defined the abbey and had become perpetual.

What had appeared so right, so good, on so many levels, had turned into a travesty. The Gilbertines had survived the Reformation, survived the Inquisition. Survived almost four hundred years in the wilderness of Québec. But they’d finally been found. And felled.

And the weapon had been the very thing they’d wanted to protect. The Gregorian chants themselves.

Dom Philippe would die before he’d make that mistake again.

Jean-Guy Beauvoir stared at Frère Antoine.

It was like peeking into an alternate universe. The monk was thirty-eight years old. Beauvoir’s age. He was Beauvoir’s height. Beauvoir’s coloring. They even shared the same lean and athletic build.

And when he spoke, Frère Antoine’s voice had the same Québécois accent. From the same region. The streets of east end Montréal. Imperfectly hidden under layers of education and effort.

The two men stared, neither sure what to make of the other.

“Bonjour,” said Frère Antoine.

“Salut,” said Beauvoir.

The only difference was that one was a monk and the other a Sûreté officer. It was as though they’d grown up in the same home, but in different rooms.

Beauvoir could understand the other monks. Most were older. They seemed of an intellectual, contemplative nature. But this lean man?

Beauvoir felt a slight vertigo. What could possibly have led Antoine to become Frère Antoine? Why not a cop, like Beauvoir. Or a teacher. Or work for Hydro-Québec. Or a bum, or a vagrant, or a burden to society?

Beauvoir could understand the path to all those things.

But a religious? A man of his own age? From the same streets?

No one Beauvoir knew even went to church, never mind dedicated his life to it.

“I understand you’re the soloist for the choir,” said Beauvoir. He stood as tall as he could, but still felt dwarfed by Frère Antoine. It was the robes, Beauvoir decided. They were an unfair advantage. Gave the impression of height and authority.

Perhaps the Sûreté should consider it, if they ever redesigned the uniforms. He’d have to put it in the suggestion box, and sign Inspector Lacoste’s name to it.

“That’s true. I’m the soloist.”

Beauvoir was relieved this monk hadn’t called him “my son.” He wasn’t sure what he’d do if that happened, but he suspected it wouldn’t reflect well on the Sûreté.

“I also understand you were about to be replaced.”

That got a reaction, though not the one Beauvoir expected and hoped for.

Frère Antoine smiled.

“You’ve been talking to Frère Luc, I see. I’m afraid he’s mistaken.”

“He seems quite certain.”

“Frère Luc is having difficulty separating what he hopes will happen from what actually will. Expectations from reality. He’s young.”

“I don’t think he’s much younger than Christ.”

“You’re not suggesting we have the second coming in the porter’s room?”

Beauvoir, who had a tenuous hold on anything biblical, gave the point to the monk.

“Frère Luc must have misunderstood the prior,” said Frère Antoine.

“Was that an easy thing to do?”

Frère Antoine hesitated then shook his head. “No,” he admitted. “The prior was quite a definite man.”

“Then why does Frère Luc believe the prior wanted him to be the soloist?”

“I can’t explain what people believe, Inspector Beauvoir. Can you?”

“No,” admitted Beauvoir. He was looking at a man his own age, in a gown and floppy hat, head shaved, in a community of men in the woods. They’d dedicated their lives to a church most in Québec had renounced and they found meaning in singing songs in a dead language with squiggles for notes.

No, he couldn’t explain it.

But Beauvoir knew one thing, after years of kneeling beside dead bodies. It was very, very dangerous to come between a person and their beliefs.

Frère Antoine handed Beauvoir a basket. The monk bent down and searched through thick elephant ear leaves.

“Why do you think Frère Luc is the portier?” the monk asked, not looking at Beauvoir.

“Punishment? Some sort of hazing ritual?”

Frère Antoine shook his head. “Every single one of us is assigned that little room when we first arrive.”

“Why?”

“So we can leave.”

Frère Antoine picked a plump squash and put it in Beauvoir’s basket.

“Religious life is hard, Inspector. And this is the hardest. Not many can cut it.”

He made it sound like the marines of religious orders. There’s no life like it. And Beauvoir discovered a small stirring of understanding. Of attraction even. This was a tough life. And only the tough made it. The few. The proud. The monks.

“Those of us who stay at Saint-Gilbert have been called here. But that means it’s voluntary. And we have to be sure.”

“So you test each new monk?”

“We don’t test him, the test is between himself and God. And there’s no wrong answer. Just the truth. He’s given the door to guard and the key to leave.”

“Free choice?” asked Beauvoir, and saw the monk smile again.

“Might as well make use of it.”

“Has anyone ever left?”

“Lots. More leave than stay.”

“And Brother Luc? He’s been here almost a year now. When’s his test over?”

“When he decides it’s over. When he asks to be taken out of the porter’s room and comes to join the rest of us. Or he uses the key and leaves.”

Another heavy gourd landed in Beauvoir’s basket.

Frère Antoine moved down the row.

“He’s in a sort of purgatory there,” said the monk, searching among the huge leaves for more squash. “Of his own making. It must be very painful. He seems paralyzed.”

“By what?”

“You tell me, Inspector. What generally paralyzes people?”

Beauvoir knew that answer. “Fear.”

Frère Antoine nodded. “Frère Luc is gifted. By far the best voice we have here, and that’s saying something. But he’s frozen with fear.”

“Of what?”

“Of everything. Of belonging. And not belonging. He’s afraid of the sun and afraid of shadows. He’s afraid of creaks in the night and afraid of the morning dew. That’s why I know Frère Mathieu wouldn’t have chosen him to be the soloist. Because his voice, while beautiful, is full of fear. When that fear is replaced by faith he’ll be the soloist. But not before.”

Beauvoir thought about that as they inched down the row, his basket growing heavy with produce.

“But suppose the prior had chosen him? Suppose he decided most people wouldn’t hear the fear, or care. Maybe it even made the music more attractive, richer, more human. I don’t know. But suppose Frère Mathieu had chosen Luc. How would you’ve felt?”

The monk took the straw hat from his head and wiped his brow. “You think I’d care?”

Beauvoir met the stare. It really was like looking into a mirror. “I think you’d care very deeply.”

“Would you? If a man you admired, respected, revered even passed you up in favor of someone else, what would you do?”

“Is that how you felt about the prior? You revered him?”

“I did. He was a great man. He saved the monastery. And if he wanted a monkey to sing solo I’d happily plant bananas.”

Beauvoir found himself wanting to believe this man. Perhaps because he wanted to believe he’d react the same way himself.

But he had his doubts.

And Jean-Guy Beauvoir also doubted this monk. Beneath that robe, beneath that ridiculous hat, wasn’t the son of God but the son of man. And the son of man, Beauvoir knew, was capable of almost anything. If pushed. If betrayed. Especially by a man he revered.

Beauvoir knew that the root of all evil wasn’t money. No, what created and drove evil was fear. Fear of not having enough money, enough food, enough land, enough power, enough security, enough love. Fear of not getting what you want, or losing what you have.

Beauvoir watched Brother Antoine collect hidden squash. What drove a healthy, smart young man to become a monk? Was it faith or was it fear?

“Who’s leading the choir now that the prior is gone?” Gamache asked. They’d walked to the end of the garden and were wandering back. Their cheeks were red from the cold morning air.

“I’ve asked Brother Antoine to take over the choir.”

“The soloist? The one who challenged you last night?”

“The one who is by far the most accomplished musician, after Mathieu.”

“You weren’t tempted to take over?”

“I was tempted, and still am,” said the abbot with a smile. “But I passed up that fruit. Antoine is the man for the job. Not me.”

“And yet, he was one of the prior’s men.”

“What do you mean by that?” The abbot’s smile faded.

Gamache cocked his head slightly and examined his companion. “I mean that this abbey, this order, is divided. The prior’s men on one side, the abbot’s men on the other.”

“That’s preposterous,” the abbot snapped. Then snapped back into place. But it was too late. Gamache had had a glimpse of what hid beneath the face. A serpent’s tongue had lashed out, and retreated just as quickly.

“It’s the truth, mon père,” said Gamache.

“You’re mistaking dissent for dissension,” said the abbot.

“I’m not. I do know the difference. What’s happening here, and has probably been going on for quite a while, is far more than healthy disagreement. And you know it.”

The two men had stopped walking and now stared at each other.

“I don’t know what you mean, Monsieur Gamache. There’s no such creature as an abbot’s man. Or a prior’s man. Mathieu and I worked together for decades. He looked after the music, I looked after their spiritual life—”

“But weren’t they one and the same? Frère Luc described the chants as both a bridge to God and God himself.”

“Frère Luc is young and tends to simplify.”

“Frère Luc is one of the prior’s men.”

The abbot bristled. “The chants are important, but only one aspect of our spiritual lives here at Saint-Gilbert.”

“Does the split cut along those lines?” asked Gamache. His voice was calm but unrelenting. “Those for whom the music was paramount joined with the prior. Those whose faith came first joined with you?”

“There was no joining,” said the abbot, his voice raised in exasperation. Desperation, even, thought Gamache. “We’re united. We can sometimes disagree, but that’s all.”

“And did you disagree about the direction of the abbey? Did you disagree about something as fundamental as the vow of silence?”

“I lifted that.”

“Yes, but only after the prior was dead, and only to answer our questions, not to allow the monks to go into the world. Do concerts, give interviews.”

“The vow of silence will never be permanently lifted. Never.”

“Do you think the second recording’ll go ahead?” Beauvoir asked.

Now, finally, he saw a reaction in Frère Antoine. A flash of anger, then suppressed. Like the root vegetables beneath their feet. Buried, but still growing.

“I have no idea. If the prior was alive I’m sure it would have. The abbot was against it, of course. But Frère Mathieu would’ve won.”

There was no uncertainty in the monk’s voice. And Beauvoir finally had his button. It had taken him awhile to find it. He could push and insult and harangue Frère Antoine all day, and he’d remain composed, good-humored even. But mention the abbot?

Kaboom.

“Why do you say, ‘of course’? Why would the abbot be against it?”

As long as he could keep pushing the “abbot button” this monk would be off-balance. And there was a better chance something unexpected would come out of that mouth.

“Because it wasn’t under his control.”

The monk leaned closer to Beauvoir. Jean-Guy felt the force of this monk’s personality. And his physical vitality. Here was a strong man, in every way.

Why are you a monk? was really the question Beauvoir was longing to ask. But didn’t. And he knew, deep down, why not. He too was afraid. Of the answer.

“Look, the abbot decides everything within these walls. In a monastic life the abbot is all-powerful,” said Frère Antoine, his hazel eyes focused on Beauvoir. “But he let something slip through his fingers. The music. In allowing the first recording he let the music out into the world and lost control of it. The chants took on a life of their own. He’s spent the past year trying to undo all that. To contain them again.” A malicious smile appeared on that handsome face. “But he can’t. It’s God’s will. And he hates it. And he hated the prior. We all knew that.”

“Why would he hate the prior? I thought they were friends.”

“Because the prior was everything he isn’t. Brilliant, gifted, passionate. The abbot’s a dry old stick. A decent enough administrator, but no leader. He could quote the bible front and back, in English and French and Latin. But with the Gregorian chants? The center of our life here? Well, some know it and some feel it. The abbot knows the chants. The prior felt them. And that made Frère Mathieu a far more powerful man in the monastery. And the abbot knew it.”

“But it must have always been like that, why would the recording change anything?”

“Because as long as it was just us, they worked it out. Made a good team, in fact. But with the success of the recording, the power shifted. Suddenly the prior was getting recognition from the outside.”

“And with that came influence,” said Beauvoir.

“The abbot felt threatened. Then Frère Mathieu decided we should not only do another recording but go out into the world. Respond to the invitations. He felt strongly that those invitations came as much from God as from the people. It was, in essence, a literal ‘calling.’ Suppose Moses had kept the tablets? Or Jesus had remained a carpenter, privately communing with God? No. These gifts are meant to be shared. The prior wanted to share them. But the abbot didn’t.”

The words tumbled over themselves to leave Frère Antoine’s body. He couldn’t condemn Dom Philippe fast enough.

“The prior wanted the vow of silence lifted, so that we could go into the world.”

“And the abbot refused,” said Beauvoir. “Did he have much support?”

“Some of the brothers were loyal to him, more out of habit than anything. Habit and training. We’re taught to always bend our will to the abbot.”

“Then why didn’t you?”

“Because Dom Philippe would’ve destroyed Saint-Gilbert. Taken it back to the Dark Ages. He wanted nothing to change. But it was too late. The recording changed everything. It was a gift of God. But the abbot refused to see it that way. He said the recording was like the serpent in the garden, trying to lure us away, seduce us with promises of power and money.”

“Maybe he was right,” Beauvoir suggested and was rewarded with a look of fury.

“He’s a frightened old man, clinging to the past.”

Frère Antoine was leaning toward Beauvoir, practically spitting the words. Then he paused, and a perplexed look crossed his face. The monk cocked his head to one side.

Beauvoir also paused to listen.

Something was coming.

Armand Gamache looked into the sky.

Something was coming.

He and the abbot had been discussing the garden. He wanted to bring the interview back to a more conversational tone. It was like fishing. Reel in, let go. Reel in, let go. Give the suspect the impression of freedom. That they were off the hook. Then reel them in again.

It was exhausting. For everyone. But mostly, Gamache knew, for whoever was on the hook and writhing.

The abbot had clearly interpreted this shift of tone and subject as Gamache relenting.

“Why do you think Dom Clément built this garden?” the Chief had asked.

“What do people who live close together value most?”

Gamache thought about that. Was it companionship? Peace and quiet? Tolerance?

“Privacy?”

The abbot nodded. “Oui. C’est ça. Dom Clément gave himself the one thing no one else in Saint-Gilbert had. Privacy.”

“Another division,” said Gamache, and the abbot looked at him. Dom Philippe had felt the slight tug on the line and realized what he’d taken for freedom wasn’t that at all.

Gamache considered what the abbot had just said. Maybe their legendary treasure wasn’t a thing, but nothing. An empty room no one knew about. And a lock.

Privacy. And with privacy, of course, came something else.

Safety.

That was, Gamache knew, what people valued most of all.

Then he heard it.

He scanned the clear blue sky. Nothing.

But something was there. And it was getting closer.

A roar shattered the peace. It seemed to be coming from all around them, as though the sky had opened its mouth and was shrieking at them.

All the mushroom monks, and Beauvoir, looked up.

Then, as a man, they ducked.

Gamache ducked and pulled Dom Philippe down with him.

The plane zoomed overhead and was gone in an instant. But Gamache heard it bank, and turn back.

Both men stood stock-still, staring into the sky, Gamache still clasping the abbot’s robes.

“It’s coming back,” Dom Philippe shouted.

“Shit,” yelled Beauvoir, above the straining engines.

“Christ,” yelled Frère Antoine.

The straw hats had been blown from the monks’ heads and lay on the plants, breaking some of the vines.

“It’s coming back,” shouted Frère Antoine.

Beauvoir stared into the sky. It was maddening, only being able to see the patch of blue directly over their heads. They could hear the plane banking, straining, approaching. But couldn’t see it.

And then it was upon them again, even lower this time. Apparently heading straight for the bell tower.

“Oh, shit,” said Frère Antoine.

Dom Philippe grabbed at Gamache’s jacket and the two men ducked again.

“Damn.”

Gamache heard the abbot, even above the straining engines.

“They almost hit the monastery,” screamed Dom Philippe. “It’s the press. I’d hoped we’d have more time.”

Beauvoir slowly stood but remained alert, listening.

The sound grew momentarily louder, disappeared, then there was a mighty splash.

“Christ,” said Beauvoir.

“Merde,” said Frère Antoine.

The monks and Beavoir ran to the door, back into the monastery. Their floppy hats abandoned in the garden.

Damn, thought Gamache, leaving the garden with the abbot.

He’d scanned the plane as it zoomed over the garden within feet, it seemed, of their heads. At the last moment it banked to miss the bell tower.

In that moment, before it disappeared again, he’d seen an insignia on the door of the plane.

They joined the parade of monks walking quickly down the corridors, picking up more monks and more speed as they progressed through the halls, across the Blessed Chapel, and into the final corridor. Gamache could see Beauvoir just ahead, walking rapidly beside Frère Antoine.

Young Frère Luc stood in front of the locked door holding the wrought-iron key in his hand. He stared at them.

Gamache, alone among the men, knew exactly what was on the other side of that door. He’d recognized the insignia on the plane. It wasn’t the press. Nor was it curiosity seekers, come to gawk at the famous monastery, made infamous by a terrible crime.

No, this was another creature entirely.

Smelling blood.